The Interim Adventure, Part One (Or, Episode IV.V)
When last we left off in our little narrative, I had been explaining how it had come to pass that, by the beginning of the Christmas Vacation I had been "computerless, hairless, and aching, both physically and emotionally."
I wound up inadvertantly giving you a history of the nefarious Umbrella Corporation, as well as the details surrounding our acquisition of the wacky Ninja Pirate Incorporated.
However, I only partially covered the full extent of my reasons for being in such a spiritual/creative slump.
And so here is the gratuitous continuation of our adventures and my misfortune, taking place in the time between the Roastgivings Day and Christmas vacations.
Details are a tad sketchy, but I seem to recall that there was . . .
Crisp, frozen air stung Richard’s nostrils as he bounded up the snowy slope toward the peak of Mt. Skinner. He leapt onto a broad, flat rock which protruded out of the mountainside, and looked around.
The sharp winter sun glared off the glittering, freshly fallen snow, a dazzling white blanket stretching as far as the eye could see. Grey trunks, oak, birch, ash, and maple, stood in still dark contrast to the powdery quilt. The branches of the trees clutched the bright blue sky with gnarled fingers. The deep green of conifer needles added a fourth distinct color to the scene, while, here and there, the golden leaves of beach tress shivered in the wind, stubbornly still clinging to their limbs.
Richard smiled and felt at peace with his surroundings. He knew now the wild, free abandon which only the beasts of the forest possessed.
Richard was unlike other boys his age; he was very much like those beasts of the forest.
He had been a werewolf for several weeks now, and he had grown adjusted to his new form.
Some aged werewolves, with decades of practice, could transform themselves into their wolf form at any time, day or night. Richard lacked their experience and diligence, but he had a decided advantage: he was a voracious reader.
For days after he had contracted his unique lycanthropic virus, he pored over volumes of ancient lore. Studying occult writings, exploring long into the night at the vast Mt. Holyoke College library. Eventually he gleaned the knowledge of how to stimulate transformation.
Thus, here he stood, in shimmering daylight, in his full wolf-form. His thick, golden-brown coat shone in the sunlight and his pale yellow eyes peered peacefully at his surroundings.
Suddenly, his mind snapped back to the urgency of his situation as a laser blast glanced off the rock beneath his clawed hind paws.
His ears perked up, his eyes narrowed, and he growled urgently to the person behind him.
"Sam, hurry it up! We’ve been spotted!"
His brother clambered up the icy hillside, breathing heavily.
"Why didn’t we use the road?" he asked as he reached Richard.
"Too obvious, we woulda been spotted."
"You’re a 400 pound golden brown monster standing on a rock against a white background. Kinda hard to miss, no matter what the route."
A second and third laser blast flew past the brothers.
"See what I mean?"
Richard ignored his brother’s logic and tore off up the mountainside. He reached the small gun turret carefully hidden amongst some pines and dove inside.
Sam, making his way up the hill, still shaking his head at his brother’s pig-headed bravado, heard the screams of the guards inside the small outpost as Richard dispatched bloody violence left and right.
As Sam came up to the turret, Richard finished and popped up, a bone sticking out of his slavering mouth.
Sam was shocked.
"Rich . . . you didn’t . . ."
Richard looked down at the bone, glanced nervously around, then swallowed it.
"No, I didn’t kill anyone," he explained. "They had a bucket of KFC in there."
He held out a striped cardboard container full of deep-fried chicken parts.
"Want some?"
Sam declined the proffered meat.
"Suit yerself," said Rich. Then he turned grinning to the bucket, "More for me!"
And he resumed crunching the chicken to bits.
Sam, unable to watch his brother’s horrific eating habits, continued up the hill. He could see the large block of the Summit House from here, its broad blue decks swarming with guards, and thought back on the lunacy that had led them here.
Several weeks ago, Sam and his brother had uncovered a dastardly plot to take over the world by the nefarious Umbrella Corporation. They had gathered their friends and led a daring attack against the Corporation’s local headquarters. Over the course of multiple battles, they had acquired Ninja Pirate Incorporated, a subsidiary of Umbrella, and found an ally in their longtime foe, The Captain Huzuki-bot 3500. It was during the final assault that Richard, and his friend Stephen Konefal, had been infected with the werewolf virus. Their comrades Tony Celi and Amy McMenamin had likewise contracted a virus, vampirism.
Through the course of their adventures, the heroes had come to realize that the maniac behind Umbrellas plot was not the CEO, one Doctor Thaddeus Trans, but rather a 19 year old insurgent vice-president named Silas Blake. It was later revealed that Silas was a combined clone (or combone) of friends Amy, Andrew, Steve, Richard, and Tony.
This led to Richard’s unavoidable comment in a later conference.
"If I had had sex with him, would that be homosexual activity, incest, or masturbation?"
"Well, as he was combined clone, I imagine it’d be like having sex with a group of your friends," Dan had said..
"But I’ve done that." Rich had replied.
Amy, Tony, Steve, and Andrew had blushed nervously.
The Umbrella Corporation had been stopped, but the traitorous mastermind behind the scheme had escaped, and, what is worse, exacted a terrible revenge against Richard for ruining his plans.
Using state of the art bio-electrical technology, Silas had fashioned a computer virus in his image and with it infected the Sugrue brothers’ PC. Richard shut the machine down, but the cyber-madman was still contained within. Now Los Bros. Sugrue were trying to solve the problem.
They had been told by Cap’n Huzuki-bot that the Umbrella Corporation’s local satellite and power station was located at the Summit House of Mount Skinner.
"In a museum at a state park?" Richard had asked incredulously.
"Aye, me boyo," replied the Cap’n. "They got their claws inter every level a government. It’s at the Summit House aright. An’ if Silas hacked inter yer ‘puter, chances are he had to relay the signal past there. Get there, destroy the satellite, and Silas’ virus will lose power and die."
Richard scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"That almost kinda makes sense! We’ll do it!"
And so here they were, climbing the frozen mountainside on what will probably amount to a fool’s errand and might get them killed. Sam sighed. There was just no reasoning with his brother once he had decided on a course of action.
"Hey, Sally-pop," Richard said, bounding like a puppy through the snow to his brother. "Looks like we’re almost there." His bushy tail wagged furiously.
"Settle down, ass," said Sam, "we still have plenty of guards and laser cannons to get by."
The two brothers turned anxious glances at the hill ahead of them. Dotted with granite outcroppings and slender, gnarled trees, it tumbled down to meet them over a distance of roughly two hundred feet. The top of the hill leveled off to a broad plateau, on which stood the Summit House, a sturdy, white structure with an expansive front deck stretching over the edge of the mountaintop, supported by heavy timer beams. The building itself looked like a misshapen layer cake, with its ideally concentric segments now shifted off kilter. On the third and top level of the great house sat the satellite, craning its large, saucer face to the bright, blue, cloudless sky above.
"That’s what we’re after, I reckon," said Sam. "Now I’m sure there are plenty of dangerous security features in place, so we’ll need to—"
"Let’s go!" Rich growled, interrupting Sam, and charged up the hill on all fours.
"Rich, no!" Sam yelled, but it was too late. His brother was already a third of the way to the summit.
Motion sensors on the trees activated the defenses of the complex. To Richard’s left and right the entire distance of the hill, laser cannons sprang up from behind the rocks and trained their sights on him.
"Whoops."
It was all Richard had time to say before the guns opened fire.
Sam cursed under his breath and drew two laser pistols from hip holsters on his combat belt. He began firing at the cannons.
Richard was dodging the laser blasts as fast as he could, barely missing the deadly focused light beams zipping past him. He continued his mad run up the rocky hillside. Suddenly a blast caught him in the arm. He was going at full tilt and the abrupt hit caused him to trip and fall, skidding and rolling, up the hill.
Sam yelled to his brother and redoubled his efforts, firing lasers at every automated cannon in sight. Unfortunately, they were plated with thick armor and Sam’s shots ricocheted harmlessly off. He needed to find a weak spot. Dashing forward he leaped behind a cannon and fired at its exposed base. His shot destroyed the gun’s hydraulic supports and it crumpled useless to the ground. He popped up from behind that cannon’s rocky shield and fired a second shot directly into the eye of another gun. That cannon exploded from within in a shower of sparks and a burst of flame. The majority of the remaining cannons turned their attention to Sam, who leaped behind a rock as the laser blasts began to seek him.
Richard staggered to his feet as darts of light flew through the air around him like angry neon hornets.
He glanced down the stretch of hillside to see his brother, bravely keeping up the fire fight against a dozen cannons. He searched for some sort of weapon. Next to him was a slender tree. He closed his gnarled claws around its trunk and began to pull. Muscles bulged out through his thick hide like boulders, surrounded by sinews as thick as vines. He gave a bellow of rage and with an ungodly display of animal savagery, uprooted the tree from the rocky earth.
Hefting the tree in his fore paws, he charged down the hill, swinging left and right. The cannons did not even have time to turn and refocus their sights before he knocked them out of their hydraulic bases and sent them flying, crashing into the woods.
Sam fired off several more keen shots, and, within a few minutes, the battle had ended. Mechanical debris lay strewn about the hillside. Chunks of metal, cables, and still-sparking wires. Richard dropped the tree wearily and waited for his brother to join him. Then, together, the brothers Sugrue strode up to the plateau.
Just as they were ascending the stone steps to the final level ground at the peak of the mountain, twin doors opened in front of them at the foot of the stairway to the Summit House deck. Though thick metal, they reminded Richard of the entrance to the home of a trap door spider. In a wave, guards began to pour out through the gaping apature. They were unarmed and their clothes were ripped and soiled. Richard barely had time to notice this as they rushed at him, moving at an eerily fast pace and with a strange shambling gait.
Sam quickly reset his laser pistol to stun and fired into the oncoming ranks. His shots struck several soldiers, but they refused to go down. The guards kept coming. Richard picked one up and threw him onto the rocks. His leg snapped underneath him with a sickening crunch and for a second he was still. Then he stirred, rose up on his legs, one of them bending at an odd angle, and ran forward.
"What the hell is with these guys!?" Rich yelled as the guards swarmed over him, clawing and striking feverishly.
"I don’t kn–oh, my God!" Sam cried.
He had torn the mask off of one of the soldiers in the struggle. The face underneath was a sickly pale green. The eyes were milky white with small red pupils which darted back and forth restlessly. The mouth was full of jagged yellowed teeth, which snapped up and down voraciously.
"Rich, I know why they won’t stop!"
"Why is that?" Rich asked, heaving the flailing bodies of several guards off of him.
"They’re zombies!"
Silas Blake, the rebellious former head of Umbrella had done away with zombie guards the moment he assumed control. Now that he had left it seemed the Umbrella Corporation had returned to their trademark security force. Old habits died hard. So did zombies.
They had apparently infected all of Silas’ mercenary soldiers with the destructive "T" virus, turning them into mindless, flesh-eating ghouls.
Richard smiled and laughed, an eerie howl.
"What the hell is so funny?" Sam asked his brother impatiently as the two fought the onslaught of undead enemies.
"Well," said Rich, "Now that they’re dead, I can’t kill them again, can I?"
With another laugh he ripped the head off the zombie closest to him and threw it off the side of the plateau.
Richard had given strict instructions in past battles that his friends were not allowed to kill human enemies. Now that he was facing an army of zombies he could finally release the bestial savagery pent up under his shaggy coat.
"Go knock out the dish!" Richard yelled to his brother. "I’ll take care a these guys!"
Sam turned and ran up the steps to the decks, pausing for one last look at his feral brother, a furry engine of destruction, reducing the zombies to piles of severed limbs as he whirled through their ranks like the Tasmanian Devil from the Warner Bros cartoons.
Sam dashed across the decks, his steps sounding hollow and frenzied on the wooden planks, and made it to the huge, red double doors which closed off the entrance to the museum. He tried to open them, cursed under his breath finding them locked, and stepped back. He fired his pistol at the heavy door knob and smiled in satisfaction as it melted into a puddle of glowing molten brass. He kicked the oak doors open and stepped inside as the clamor subsided.
Dust motes swirled lazily through the air, caught glittering in the shafts of light from the high windows. This portion of the park was closed for the winter and a dead stillness had overcome the place. Relics and pictures stood mute and motionless.
Sam shivered.
He took a deep breath and ran for the staircase at the corner of the large lobby and began his ascent to the roof.
Past the first level. A meeting room. A craft room. A room full of old furniture.
Second level. Here he had to cross the floor to get to the final staircase and rooftop access. He started slowly, very aware of the creaking floorboards. Each step he took seemed to shriek in alarm.
He passed a room full of mannequins and shivered again. Their lifeless eyes seemed fixed on him. Wooden hands clutching at him. He turned to look at the other end of the hall upon hearing a rustle behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw the mannequins move. He readied his pistol.
Suddenly, a zombie tore out of the mannequin room, clawing wildly at his face. It got within a foot of Sam before he raised his gun and blasted its head off.
Too close, he thought.
He ran now, making it to the steps and taking them two at a time. He burst out the door and onto the top deck, a small rooftop area closed off by a wooden railing. He turned to look behind him at the final level of the old Summit House. Grey clouds had come quickly out of the west and were blotting out the Sun. The wind had picked up considerably. On a flagpole, the Umbrella Corporation flag flapped erratically in the strong breeze. Next to the flag pole was the target he sought: The satellite dish.
"Rich oughta be doin’ this . . ." he muttered, holstering his pistol and climbing up the side of the building to the roof, "he’s the one with all the roofin’ experience . . ."
Back on the ground Richard was finishing up what was left of the undead horde. He was crouched over the twitching remains of a zombie when the helicopters appeared. Shining black and somberly dangerous they came, whirring out of the blue sky. The thrum of their approach became deafening as they hovered over the sprawling, snowy lawns of the Summit House.
Then sliding doors opened on the sides of the crafts and soldiers in assorted fatigues and BTU’s began to ropell to the ground. They were a rag tag bunch, and there was a great variety not only in their clothes, a strange mixture of hunting flannels and jeans and army fatigues, but also their heights and builds. Some where ponderously fat, others lean, some short, some tall, some built like linebackers. They all carried an arsenal of weapons. Guns, knives, grenades, and clubs of every description were slung about their bodies. Some had eyepatches, others sunglasses. Some wore helmets and others baseball caps, while still others bandannas. They were a motley and grizzled bunch, but dangerous-looking to a man.
Once they had reached the ground, they formed loose ranks and readied their weapons.
Richard looked back at the lead copter. Through the sliding door peeked the mouth of a gigantic gattling gun. Behind the gun was the man Richard knew immediately as the leader of this frightening rabble. He was a very short and rotund. His oddly shaped head was balding, but he tried to compensate by growing his greasy brown hair longer in the back, so that it brushed the shoulder blades of his broad back. His face was leathery and peppered with the shadow of a beard. His green eyes held a mad gleam in them, and, when they landed on Richard, his thin lips split into a wide grin full of crooked teeth.
"Ah-ten-shone!" the diminutive villain cried into a bullhorn. "I am Phillipe Abattoir, bounty huntair and mercenary. Zeese are my men. We have come to collect the werewolf. Come quietly, si vous plez. Things need no get . . . ugly."
"They can’t get any more than they are now, you freaky little warthog!" Rich taunted up at him.
The werewolf had finally let loose his bestial fury and was not in a clear frame of mind. The excitement of the slaughter had emboldened him and he felt no fear. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have noticed the troops slowly closing in around him, and detected the slight movement of the trollish bounty hunter’s thick index finger as it closed around the gattling gun’s trigger.
"Ah, you one brave dawgy, yeah," Abattoir said approvingly, partially to himself. "But, you no very smart, mon jou."
And with that he fired the massive weapon in front of him. The multi-barreled gun spun rapidly, barking out gusts of smoke and flame. Empty shells poured down like rain, landing with muffled sizzles in the thick snow.
Trans had specifically asked that the fugitives be brought in alive, and, as such, the bullets were not silver. This was fortunate for Richard, for the first barrage pounded into him like a wave of super-powered hornets. His thick hide pierced, his flesh in tatters, he was thrown backward into a snow bank as if struck by the fist of a giant. The blood from Richard’s countless wounds gushed out of his broken body, staining the pure white powder a deep and unsettling crimson.
Abattoir released the trigger and the gun barrels slowed to a smoking halt with a high, monotone shriek. His crew of mercenaries closed purposefully in, weapons at the ready.
The huge, shaggy form in front of them was unmoving and they lowered their defenses slightly. They did not notice that the red pool was no longer spreading and many of the holes in the beast’s skin were slowly closing up.
Richard, mad with pain, forced himself to lie still. He could hear the shallow, uneasy breathing of the men surrounding him; he could smell their sour, coppery scent and feel the earth reverberate beneath him from the advance of their thick boots. He waited.
Up on the roof-top, Sam had located the massive satellite dish. As wide in circumference as a small car, it craned it’s saucer face at the bright, blue sky. He set about immediately placing plastic explosive and charges around the base of the structure. He had taken cover behind a gable and was about to trigger the bombs when he heard the gattling gun fire and the sickening thud the bullets made as they collided with his brother. He raced to the edge of the roof and stared in horror at the gruesome scene in front of him.
His brother lay on a patch of trampled, reddened snow, big and still and broken. For a few painful minutes, Sam couldn’t decide what to do. His mind was racing. He wanted more than anything to leap from the roof and help his brother. However, he soon accepted the knowledge that Richard would want the mission finished above all else, and trotted back to his position behind the gable. Sam closed his eyes tight and detonated the bombs.
In a quick succession, around the broad base of the satellite, the charges came to life in bursts of orange flame and thunderous booms. The steel skeleton of the great dish creaked and bent, struggling to remain standing, but finally surrendered to the destruction and, snapping into flaming chunks, toppled off the edge of the roof in an amorphous heap.
Below, the ragged mercenaries gathered around Richard paused and gazed, surprised, at the fiery spectacle. Richard sprung up as soon as they presented their backs and quickly knocked several of the brutes senseless. He brought his claws shredding across the scalp of one, and lacerated the bottom of a second. He had about fought his way through to make a break for freedom when a tranquilizer dart struck him in the neck. It was followed by four others. The gleaming, three-inch-long tips of the projectiles were silver, and pierced his thick hide. Richard barely noticed the agonizing burns the metal caused him as the drugs sped through his blood stream. He looked around dazedly, his breath coming in short, deep grunts. Steam belched forth from his frothing mouth. He tripped drunkenly around in lazy circles for a moment, and then collapsed.
Phillipe Abattoir trotted into view, a rifle in his hand.
"You buncha idiotes!" the bristling Cajun growled, "I geeve you the one simple assignmon, an’ you bungle it, yeah?!"
He turned his attention to the werewolf at his feet. Richard’s unsettling yellow eyes made the other mercenaries turn away, but Abattoir gazed directly into them, matching the beast’s boiling fury with maddening confidence.
"You come up all the way here to blow up a satellite?" he asked.
Richard glared.
"You din even blow up the right one, yeah."
Uncertainty spilled into Richard’s flaming eyes. He was unable to move a single muscle, or even speak, but the haunting yellow orbs expressed wells of emotion.
"Tha’ beeg one was just for show. Dere’s a liller one tha’ broadcasts all Umbrella’s signals."
Richard lost all hope.
However, seconds after Abattoir had uttered those words, a laser blast flew from the roof and grazed his cheek.
Abattoir whirled around, his face a livid red.
"You fools!" he shouted to his men. "He not alone!"
He pointed to six especially rugged and violent-looking thugs.
"You stay here, yeah. I go with the rest and fine tha’ second lil’ twerp." And, with a hand held against his bleeding cheek, he jogged off, followed by a mass of bounty hunters.
Richard lay prone on the snow, which was melting under the heat of his shaggy form. He gazed up at the fiends guarding him.
Suddenly his side erupted in pain.
One of the mercenaries, a large, disgruntled-looking bald one with a styled black goatee, was kicking him in the ribs.
"How do you like that, you stupid dog?" the brute sneered.
Unlike most of the other gang, who were Cajun, like their odious boss, this one spoke with a smooth Russian accent. His kicks, though powerful, were awkward and restrained. Richard realized why. This was the thug whom Richard had sliced across the backside with his claws.
"You think you can hurt me like that without retribution?"
He drew a nickel-plate .45 caliber pistol from a side holster and aimed it at Richard’s great, golden head.
"First I keel you. Then I keel your little brothar."
The goon with the bleeding scalp urged Baldy on in eager Russian. A hot-tempered comrade, thought Richard hopelessly.
On the roof, Sam was viewing the proceedings with growing dismay. He had to help his brother. They were going to kill him this time. Without even thinking, Sam ran over to a small satellite, hardly noticeable at the corner of the roof. He gripped the contraption and gave a mighty pull upward. Sinews stood out like cables on his powerful frame. His face flushed from exertion, his eyes bulging at the strain. A painful cry welled up in his taught throat, releasing itself slowly as the satellite came free from the roof, bolts snapping and popping around its base.
Sam carried the cumbersome dish to the edge of the roof and peered down.
Richard looked into the barrel of the gun. He discovered that movement was returning slowly to his limbs.
Sam heaved the satellite dish off of the roof, and then leaped off himself. Both he and the awkward metal structure seemed to hang in mid air for a moment, and then they plummeted to earth. The dish landed squarely on top of Baldy, crushing his shiny head and killing him instantly. His thick finger closed around the trigger of the gun as his skull caved in, and two rounds fired off into the surrounding snow.
Sam landed squarely on the other Russian, who’s shoulder blade shattered under the boy’s impact, giving the impression that he was most likely trampled to death by a "huge friggin’ gouy." Sam was on his feet quickly. He picked up the broken saucer which had detached itself from the rest of the satellite on contact with Baldy. He furiously clubbed to death the poor thug he had landed on before turning his attention to the four other mercenaries.
They rushed forward.
Sam knocked the first one out with two solid punches, and felled the second one with a scissoring trip. Richard had regained some movement by now and managed to bite the other two on the Achilles tendons. They collapsed amid screams of pain and lay bleeding on the ground.
Sam helped his brother to his hind paws. The two boys embraced feverishly, glad to be alive.
A bullet tore past Richard’s head. The brothers looked around to see Abattoir and the rest of his mob charging around the corner of the Summit House, weapons blazing.
Without a word the two Sugrues took off down the icy path toward the base of the mountain.
The two boys raced, tearing frantically down the dangerous slopes. Sam’s boots crunched the snow erratically, and Richard’s claws skittered across the glare ice. Pine bows, laden with white frosting, snapped at them aggressively as they hurtled past. Their breath came in panicked gasps of steam. Richard managed a look behind them. Abattoir and his men, though fairing no better on the icy hills, were gaining.
Richard and Sam had long since deserted the path. They ran without regard for any direction save one: down. Racing, frenzied, breathless, they half-ran, half-tumbled in the direction of the mountain’s base, their car, and the only means of escape. Bullets whizzed past them, angry insects. Richard stumbled to the left just in time to dodge a shotgun blast which tore a gaping hole in a tree.
Finally, the two boys came to the edge of a precipice. They had run themselves to a dead end. Below them stretched an icy slope, crowded with trees, stumps, and jutting rocks.
Richard glanced behind him.
Abattoir and his men were almost upon them.
"Looks like here’s where we make our final stand," he told his brother grimly.
Sam looked down the hill thoughtfully.
"Not necessarily . . ." he said.
And with that, the plucky hero dove off the edge and hit the icy slope moving at a good clip. He slid crazily down the frozen hill, flying over bumps at breakneck speed.
Sam managed to gain some control over his wild descent, narrowly dodging rocks and fallen trees. Soon, however, he realized this route was far too dangerous. His hands groped desperately for anything to stop himself. Luckily, one hand closed over a thick tree root and he was jerked to a stop halfway down the slope.
"Rich, find another way!" he yelled to his brother. "This is too dangerous!"
But Richard had no desire to face the oncoming horde alone, and, moreover, was tempted by the obvious thrill the slide promised.
"No time for that!" he yelled back to Sam. And with that, launched himself off the edge of the precipice.
From the moment Richard’s furry behind touched the icy hillside he began to pick up speed. He went rushing, slipping, skidding down the steep slope like the greasiest of lightning. Unfortunately, he lacked his brother’s control.
He was over a quarter of the way down when Sam realized what was going to happen.
"Rich, you need to stop!" Sam yelled.
But Richard was at the mercy of the sheer, glare ice.
Both boys shut their eyes tight before the collision.
Richard careened into Sam at an ungodly rate of speed. All 400 hundred pounds of his furry bulk snapped Sam’s tree root and sent the poor hero rolling, tumbling, crashing down the hill. Richard himself hit a large rocky projection and splintered the bones in his right leg. With a howl of pain he flipped forward and began to speed down the slope on his stomach.
Snow flew into the air in gusts as the boys rocketed down the hill, leaving broken trees and unearthed rocks in their wake.
Finally they reached the end.
The land curved up at the last minute, providing them with a spectacular jump. The brothers blasted out into empty air in a magnificent arch, and came crashing painfully down to earth, landing on the blacktop of the mountain road, unconscious. They were fifty feet from the Halfway House.
Richard was the first to wake up. He was still in his werewolf form. He staggered to his hind paws and looked groggily around him.
A smile played around his lupine mouth.
They had made it.
He roused his brother Sam, who, aching and battered, glared angrily at him.
"You jerk . . ." Sam said in a pained manner, holding his side. "I could’ve been killed."
"Well you weren’t, and now we’re safe." Richard said, still smiling.
The smile faded quickly from his monstrous face at the sound of approaching choppers.
"Damnit, no!" Richard barked.
"So we run again," said Sam, limping toward the path.
"No, we’d never make it. You run again."
Sam turned slowly. "What?"
"You run again. I’ll stay here and hold them off."
Sam began to protest, but Richard trampled over him.
"I’ll follow after you in a few minutes. I need to give you a running start. If I’m not at the Falcon by the time you get there, pilot her home and warn Tony, Amy, and Steve. Trans must be after them as well."
"Rich I can’t–"
"Go!" Richard roared.
Sam saw that there was no point in arguing. He hobbled to the steps and vanished down the snowy trail.
Richard stood in unflinching defiance as the copters landed. Their propeller blades forcing the snow up in towering swirls and buffeting the beast’s thick hair flat against his muscular body.
Abattoir hopped out of the lead craft and was soon followed by a score of rugged goons.
The diminutive Cajun smiled.
"Take ‘im, yeeah."
The mob advanced in a rush, firing darts, nets, and bolas. Richard dodged most of the projectiles, but a whirling bola latched onto his forepaws. Another wrapped around his hindpaws. Finally a weighted net enveloped him and brought him to the ground. The thugs wasted no time and began to beat Richard immediately. Clubs, boots, fists, and the butts of their assorted rifles rained down upon him. He forced his mind away from the pain. Slowly he brought his hands up to his strong jaws. In a wink he had gnawed through the thick bonds. He tore at the bola around his ankles, reducing the tough ropes to shreds with his claws. Then he staggered up, under the weight of twenty men, and hurled his foes off of him. He burst from the net with a deafening roar.
The soldiers stumbled backward in fear.
Richard raised his claws to the heavens and shook them madly. Then he hunched over, spread his arms wide, and growled a rumbling challenge to the huddled masses.
"Come get some!"
He let loose another staggering roar and charged.
He was in amongst the enemy like lion amongst a pack of frightened dogs.
He lashed out in all directions with sweeps of his massive paws, sending Abattoir's men flying, flailing into the surrounding woods.
Soon the mob was running for the cover of the helicopters.
Richard laughed.
"So you’re Trans’ elite hunters?"
Abattoir walked forward.
"You wanna fight, doggy? I fight you."
"You?" Richard asked, incredulous.
"Yeeah, me. But I gair-on-tee you be bitin’ off more’n you can chew with this here Cajun."
The combatants slowly circled each other, Richard’s yellow eyes locked with Abattoir’s pale green ones.
The werewolf was the first to attack. With a snarl he came at the small bounty hunter.
Abattoir moved with astounding agility and poise. He dodged to one side, then the other, easily avoiding the beast’s attacks. He pulled out a long silver Bowie knife, which was more like a sword in his hands. Faster than Richard could see, Abattoir sliced him three times; deep cuts, which bled and did not heal. His flesh sizzled from contact with the silver.
Abattoir leaped backward and stood staring at Richard. He wasn’t even breathing heavily.
Richard ran forward again, his large jaws snapping, threatening to bite the Cajun in half.
Abattoir waited until Richard had lowered his great head enough, and then jumped into the air and landed on the beast’s snout. Gripping the hilt of his massive knife, he dealt Richard five stunning blows to the face, and then leaped off again.
Once again Richard staggered upright. The combatants faced each other.
This time Abattoir rushed in. Dodging right between Richard’s legs, he popped up behind him and plunged his blade deep into the soft flesh behind Richard’s knee.
Richard collapsed with a yelp and lay gasping, shallow breaths which seemed to require much effort.
Abattoir produced a stained and abused handkerchief and dabbed at some beads of sweat on his forehead.
"Well, you ‘bou ready to come in, doggy?" he asked.
"You may have caught me but you’ll never catch my friends. Umbrella will never be rid of us."
"Au contraire, mon ami," chuckled Abattoir. "I already caught you friends. Th’udder werewolf an’ the lady vampah. I goin’ after the ‘Talian one nex."
"You liar!"
"No, I no liar. They put up good fights, bo’ dem, but ah catch ‘em, jus’ lahk I caught you."
All this time Abattoir had been moving steadily closer. Richard lay still.
"I’m takin’ you to the Umbrella home base for ‘re-education.’ You gonna be a good lil’ lap dog, yeeah."
Richard waited until Abattoir was close enough, then he sprang up and clawed the bounty hunter across the chest. One, two, three slashes. The Cajun’s innards spilled out onto the frozen ground, steaming like hot soup. Amazingly, the little man refused to fall. He sliced at Richard with his Bowie knife. Richard knocked his knife hand aside and clutched his enemy to him in a deadly embrace. He heard Abattoir grunt in pain as he tightened his powerful arms around the man’s body.
"Help me, you idiotes!" screamed a panicking Abattoir to his men. They rushed forward and began clubbing Richard into unconsciousness. As the darkness closed in over him, Richard could hear the satisfying sound of Abattoir’s ribs cracking, his vertebrae popping, as he crushed the life from him.
Sam did as his brother said. When he reached the hulking maroon vehicle dubbed affectionately as The Millennium Falcon, and saw that his brother was not there, he immediately piloted the craft home.
His door was open and he was leaping out of the car before it had even come to a stop in the driveway.
He dashed into the house and headed straight for the phone. Ripping the receiver out of it’s cradle, he dialed the number of the only person he knew would help and understand.
The phone rang for what seemed to Sam an eternity before a sultry female voice responded.
"Ninja Pirate Incorporated, offices of Most Exalted Tony Celi, CEO. How may I help you?"
It was Veronica, Tony’s seductive secretary.
"Hello Veronica," said Sam breathlessly. "It’s me."
"Oh, how delicious to hear from you, Sam." Veronica replied, more risque than normal at the sound of the boy’s voice, for she was fond of him. "How are you?"
"Not too good, Ver. Truth is I really need to talk to Tony right now."
"Oh, I’m sorry, Sam. He’s out on business now. He’s expected back . . ." Veronica paused to check her calendar, "in about three weeks."
"Three goddamn weeks? What the fuck is goin’ on in that goddamn fuckin’ Jew-place?!" Sam hollered.
"Oh my, such language. Naughty boy. The earpiece of the receiver just turned blue," Veronica chided him flirtatiously. She was well used to Sam’s inflammatory remarks.
"Well what am I supposed to do? Richard’s been captured and is probably right now being tortured in the deepest dungeons of some haunted castle."
"Oh, that pervert?" Grace said flatly, for a moment dropping her alluring voice. She hadn’t liked Rich since he showed up to work and asked her matter-of-factly for a handjob. It was the first thing she had ever heard him say. "After seeing the way he acts around here I’m glad he’s gotten himself captured. Good riddance, I say. I’m not helpin’ you rescue him. Why, to tell the truth, I hope he---"
"Fine!" Sam reigned the conversation in. "But keep in mind that without him you’d be working for that maniac Silas Blake right now. You may not like Rich, but do this for me? Now, I realize I can’t talk directly to Tony, but I need you to send him a message by robo-pigeon."
Veronica agreed and began to dictate.
When she had finished she was doubtful of the telegram’s mixed contents, but she dutifully sent it out to Tony’s last known location by special NP Inc messenger.
Sam was not done, however.
"Now, Ver, patch me through to the Captain."
"Oooh. Be careful. Don’t try to take on Umbrella all by yourself, Big Boy."
Again, Veronica did as Sam asked.
Sam waited patiently until he heard a slightly mechanical voice boom over the other end.
"Koneechiwah. How ah may I be of service?"
It was the former CEO of NP Inc, The Undead Cap’n Huzuki-bot 3500, currently sporting his ninja accent.
"Cap’n, this is Sam. We’ve got a problem."
"Ah so. Well, young one, tell me what you know."
"Cap’n, Richard was captured."
"Oro!?" asked the metal beast with alarm.
"He and I went to disable the satellite dish at Skinner and we were ambushed. Some little Cajun bastard. He and his men were closing in on Rich and me, and he told me to get to the car. Goddamnit I shoulda stayed. I coulda helped him!" Sam was in tears now.
"There, there. If you had stayed you both would have been captured and his saclifice would have been in vain. Did you disable the dish?"
"Yes, both of them." Sam paused as the realization hit him. "Oh! Silas is gone! I never thought of that till now. Let me turn on the computer and see . . ."
Sam activated the CrimeFighter, the Sugrue Brother’s home PC.
The screen was blank.
Sam’s heart leaped in his chest.
Then, very subtly, a muted clicking sound was heard. As of someone gently rapping their Italian shoes on polished tile.
The noise grew louder. It sounded to Sam as if the person in question were right behind him.
All of a sudden, a figure hove into view on the screen. He was dressed in a shimmering white suit, complete with Panama hat and cane. It was Silas Blake.
"Surprised to see me, Chubby?" He asked, a devilish smile on his handsome face.
"You?" stammered Sam. "But we knocked out both dishes."
"Good for you. Quiet a blow for Umbrella, I’d imagine. Unfortunately it didn’t affect me in the least. I used a different network to hack in here."
Sam was speechless.
"Seems as if, for the time being, you’re stuck with m—"
Sam had turned the PC off in disgust. He slumped back in his chair.
The Cap’n’s voice broke through his reverie.
"Tell me all. Is the menace gone, like a passing wind?"
"No . . . he remains," Sam managed to say. "Like snow on a mountain peak. This makes the whole thing so much worse, Cap! Richard and I went up there for nothing."
"You did not. In rearity, you rearned much. Do not despair."
"What can we do?"
"I will head out myself with a few battalions of NP Inc armored droids, as well as some of our best field agents. We’ll discover Richard’s location and rescue him. But what of your other friends? Surely Trans will be after them as well."
"Tony will hopefully be handling that."
"Good."
Sam paused, indecisive. "Cap’n, what should I do?"
"You, Sam, should stay there and tly to lesovle your computer puh-lob-buh-lem."
Sam was used to the awkward English, so laden with the Japanese accent.
"Can do, Cap’n."
"Good."
"Cap’n."
"Yes, Sam?"
"When you find out where Rich is, let me know. I want to personally be there to rescue him."
"Very well, Sam."
They hung up their phones and went about their separate duties.
Will Sam and the Cap'n save Rich in time?
Will Umbrella finally dispose of their hated foes?
Will Tony actually receive the message through robo-pigeon?
What the hell is a robo-pigeon?
Will Silas Blake ever be defeated?
Will Veronica finally give Rich that hand-job?
Most of these questions will not be answered next time, in another installment of The Interim Adventure!
I wound up inadvertantly giving you a history of the nefarious Umbrella Corporation, as well as the details surrounding our acquisition of the wacky Ninja Pirate Incorporated.
However, I only partially covered the full extent of my reasons for being in such a spiritual/creative slump.
And so here is the gratuitous continuation of our adventures and my misfortune, taking place in the time between the Roastgivings Day and Christmas vacations.
Details are a tad sketchy, but I seem to recall that there was . . .
Crisp, frozen air stung Richard’s nostrils as he bounded up the snowy slope toward the peak of Mt. Skinner. He leapt onto a broad, flat rock which protruded out of the mountainside, and looked around.
The sharp winter sun glared off the glittering, freshly fallen snow, a dazzling white blanket stretching as far as the eye could see. Grey trunks, oak, birch, ash, and maple, stood in still dark contrast to the powdery quilt. The branches of the trees clutched the bright blue sky with gnarled fingers. The deep green of conifer needles added a fourth distinct color to the scene, while, here and there, the golden leaves of beach tress shivered in the wind, stubbornly still clinging to their limbs.
Richard smiled and felt at peace with his surroundings. He knew now the wild, free abandon which only the beasts of the forest possessed.
Richard was unlike other boys his age; he was very much like those beasts of the forest.
He had been a werewolf for several weeks now, and he had grown adjusted to his new form.
Some aged werewolves, with decades of practice, could transform themselves into their wolf form at any time, day or night. Richard lacked their experience and diligence, but he had a decided advantage: he was a voracious reader.
For days after he had contracted his unique lycanthropic virus, he pored over volumes of ancient lore. Studying occult writings, exploring long into the night at the vast Mt. Holyoke College library. Eventually he gleaned the knowledge of how to stimulate transformation.
Thus, here he stood, in shimmering daylight, in his full wolf-form. His thick, golden-brown coat shone in the sunlight and his pale yellow eyes peered peacefully at his surroundings.
Suddenly, his mind snapped back to the urgency of his situation as a laser blast glanced off the rock beneath his clawed hind paws.
His ears perked up, his eyes narrowed, and he growled urgently to the person behind him.
"Sam, hurry it up! We’ve been spotted!"
His brother clambered up the icy hillside, breathing heavily.
"Why didn’t we use the road?" he asked as he reached Richard.
"Too obvious, we woulda been spotted."
"You’re a 400 pound golden brown monster standing on a rock against a white background. Kinda hard to miss, no matter what the route."
A second and third laser blast flew past the brothers.
"See what I mean?"
Richard ignored his brother’s logic and tore off up the mountainside. He reached the small gun turret carefully hidden amongst some pines and dove inside.
Sam, making his way up the hill, still shaking his head at his brother’s pig-headed bravado, heard the screams of the guards inside the small outpost as Richard dispatched bloody violence left and right.
As Sam came up to the turret, Richard finished and popped up, a bone sticking out of his slavering mouth.
Sam was shocked.
"Rich . . . you didn’t . . ."
Richard looked down at the bone, glanced nervously around, then swallowed it.
"No, I didn’t kill anyone," he explained. "They had a bucket of KFC in there."
He held out a striped cardboard container full of deep-fried chicken parts.
"Want some?"
Sam declined the proffered meat.
"Suit yerself," said Rich. Then he turned grinning to the bucket, "More for me!"
And he resumed crunching the chicken to bits.
Sam, unable to watch his brother’s horrific eating habits, continued up the hill. He could see the large block of the Summit House from here, its broad blue decks swarming with guards, and thought back on the lunacy that had led them here.
Several weeks ago, Sam and his brother had uncovered a dastardly plot to take over the world by the nefarious Umbrella Corporation. They had gathered their friends and led a daring attack against the Corporation’s local headquarters. Over the course of multiple battles, they had acquired Ninja Pirate Incorporated, a subsidiary of Umbrella, and found an ally in their longtime foe, The Captain Huzuki-bot 3500. It was during the final assault that Richard, and his friend Stephen Konefal, had been infected with the werewolf virus. Their comrades Tony Celi and Amy McMenamin had likewise contracted a virus, vampirism.
Through the course of their adventures, the heroes had come to realize that the maniac behind Umbrellas plot was not the CEO, one Doctor Thaddeus Trans, but rather a 19 year old insurgent vice-president named Silas Blake. It was later revealed that Silas was a combined clone (or combone) of friends Amy, Andrew, Steve, Richard, and Tony.
This led to Richard’s unavoidable comment in a later conference.
"If I had had sex with him, would that be homosexual activity, incest, or masturbation?"
"Well, as he was combined clone, I imagine it’d be like having sex with a group of your friends," Dan had said..
"But I’ve done that." Rich had replied.
Amy, Tony, Steve, and Andrew had blushed nervously.
The Umbrella Corporation had been stopped, but the traitorous mastermind behind the scheme had escaped, and, what is worse, exacted a terrible revenge against Richard for ruining his plans.
Using state of the art bio-electrical technology, Silas had fashioned a computer virus in his image and with it infected the Sugrue brothers’ PC. Richard shut the machine down, but the cyber-madman was still contained within. Now Los Bros. Sugrue were trying to solve the problem.
They had been told by Cap’n Huzuki-bot that the Umbrella Corporation’s local satellite and power station was located at the Summit House of Mount Skinner.
"In a museum at a state park?" Richard had asked incredulously.
"Aye, me boyo," replied the Cap’n. "They got their claws inter every level a government. It’s at the Summit House aright. An’ if Silas hacked inter yer ‘puter, chances are he had to relay the signal past there. Get there, destroy the satellite, and Silas’ virus will lose power and die."
Richard scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"That almost kinda makes sense! We’ll do it!"
And so here they were, climbing the frozen mountainside on what will probably amount to a fool’s errand and might get them killed. Sam sighed. There was just no reasoning with his brother once he had decided on a course of action.
"Hey, Sally-pop," Richard said, bounding like a puppy through the snow to his brother. "Looks like we’re almost there." His bushy tail wagged furiously.
"Settle down, ass," said Sam, "we still have plenty of guards and laser cannons to get by."
The two brothers turned anxious glances at the hill ahead of them. Dotted with granite outcroppings and slender, gnarled trees, it tumbled down to meet them over a distance of roughly two hundred feet. The top of the hill leveled off to a broad plateau, on which stood the Summit House, a sturdy, white structure with an expansive front deck stretching over the edge of the mountaintop, supported by heavy timer beams. The building itself looked like a misshapen layer cake, with its ideally concentric segments now shifted off kilter. On the third and top level of the great house sat the satellite, craning its large, saucer face to the bright, blue, cloudless sky above.
"That’s what we’re after, I reckon," said Sam. "Now I’m sure there are plenty of dangerous security features in place, so we’ll need to—"
"Let’s go!" Rich growled, interrupting Sam, and charged up the hill on all fours.
"Rich, no!" Sam yelled, but it was too late. His brother was already a third of the way to the summit.
Motion sensors on the trees activated the defenses of the complex. To Richard’s left and right the entire distance of the hill, laser cannons sprang up from behind the rocks and trained their sights on him.
"Whoops."
It was all Richard had time to say before the guns opened fire.
Sam cursed under his breath and drew two laser pistols from hip holsters on his combat belt. He began firing at the cannons.
Richard was dodging the laser blasts as fast as he could, barely missing the deadly focused light beams zipping past him. He continued his mad run up the rocky hillside. Suddenly a blast caught him in the arm. He was going at full tilt and the abrupt hit caused him to trip and fall, skidding and rolling, up the hill.
Sam yelled to his brother and redoubled his efforts, firing lasers at every automated cannon in sight. Unfortunately, they were plated with thick armor and Sam’s shots ricocheted harmlessly off. He needed to find a weak spot. Dashing forward he leaped behind a cannon and fired at its exposed base. His shot destroyed the gun’s hydraulic supports and it crumpled useless to the ground. He popped up from behind that cannon’s rocky shield and fired a second shot directly into the eye of another gun. That cannon exploded from within in a shower of sparks and a burst of flame. The majority of the remaining cannons turned their attention to Sam, who leaped behind a rock as the laser blasts began to seek him.
Richard staggered to his feet as darts of light flew through the air around him like angry neon hornets.
He glanced down the stretch of hillside to see his brother, bravely keeping up the fire fight against a dozen cannons. He searched for some sort of weapon. Next to him was a slender tree. He closed his gnarled claws around its trunk and began to pull. Muscles bulged out through his thick hide like boulders, surrounded by sinews as thick as vines. He gave a bellow of rage and with an ungodly display of animal savagery, uprooted the tree from the rocky earth.
Hefting the tree in his fore paws, he charged down the hill, swinging left and right. The cannons did not even have time to turn and refocus their sights before he knocked them out of their hydraulic bases and sent them flying, crashing into the woods.
Sam fired off several more keen shots, and, within a few minutes, the battle had ended. Mechanical debris lay strewn about the hillside. Chunks of metal, cables, and still-sparking wires. Richard dropped the tree wearily and waited for his brother to join him. Then, together, the brothers Sugrue strode up to the plateau.
Just as they were ascending the stone steps to the final level ground at the peak of the mountain, twin doors opened in front of them at the foot of the stairway to the Summit House deck. Though thick metal, they reminded Richard of the entrance to the home of a trap door spider. In a wave, guards began to pour out through the gaping apature. They were unarmed and their clothes were ripped and soiled. Richard barely had time to notice this as they rushed at him, moving at an eerily fast pace and with a strange shambling gait.
Sam quickly reset his laser pistol to stun and fired into the oncoming ranks. His shots struck several soldiers, but they refused to go down. The guards kept coming. Richard picked one up and threw him onto the rocks. His leg snapped underneath him with a sickening crunch and for a second he was still. Then he stirred, rose up on his legs, one of them bending at an odd angle, and ran forward.
"What the hell is with these guys!?" Rich yelled as the guards swarmed over him, clawing and striking feverishly.
"I don’t kn–oh, my God!" Sam cried.
He had torn the mask off of one of the soldiers in the struggle. The face underneath was a sickly pale green. The eyes were milky white with small red pupils which darted back and forth restlessly. The mouth was full of jagged yellowed teeth, which snapped up and down voraciously.
"Rich, I know why they won’t stop!"
"Why is that?" Rich asked, heaving the flailing bodies of several guards off of him.
"They’re zombies!"
Silas Blake, the rebellious former head of Umbrella had done away with zombie guards the moment he assumed control. Now that he had left it seemed the Umbrella Corporation had returned to their trademark security force. Old habits died hard. So did zombies.
They had apparently infected all of Silas’ mercenary soldiers with the destructive "T" virus, turning them into mindless, flesh-eating ghouls.
Richard smiled and laughed, an eerie howl.
"What the hell is so funny?" Sam asked his brother impatiently as the two fought the onslaught of undead enemies.
"Well," said Rich, "Now that they’re dead, I can’t kill them again, can I?"
With another laugh he ripped the head off the zombie closest to him and threw it off the side of the plateau.
Richard had given strict instructions in past battles that his friends were not allowed to kill human enemies. Now that he was facing an army of zombies he could finally release the bestial savagery pent up under his shaggy coat.
"Go knock out the dish!" Richard yelled to his brother. "I’ll take care a these guys!"
Sam turned and ran up the steps to the decks, pausing for one last look at his feral brother, a furry engine of destruction, reducing the zombies to piles of severed limbs as he whirled through their ranks like the Tasmanian Devil from the Warner Bros cartoons.
Sam dashed across the decks, his steps sounding hollow and frenzied on the wooden planks, and made it to the huge, red double doors which closed off the entrance to the museum. He tried to open them, cursed under his breath finding them locked, and stepped back. He fired his pistol at the heavy door knob and smiled in satisfaction as it melted into a puddle of glowing molten brass. He kicked the oak doors open and stepped inside as the clamor subsided.
Dust motes swirled lazily through the air, caught glittering in the shafts of light from the high windows. This portion of the park was closed for the winter and a dead stillness had overcome the place. Relics and pictures stood mute and motionless.
Sam shivered.
He took a deep breath and ran for the staircase at the corner of the large lobby and began his ascent to the roof.
Past the first level. A meeting room. A craft room. A room full of old furniture.
Second level. Here he had to cross the floor to get to the final staircase and rooftop access. He started slowly, very aware of the creaking floorboards. Each step he took seemed to shriek in alarm.
He passed a room full of mannequins and shivered again. Their lifeless eyes seemed fixed on him. Wooden hands clutching at him. He turned to look at the other end of the hall upon hearing a rustle behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw the mannequins move. He readied his pistol.
Suddenly, a zombie tore out of the mannequin room, clawing wildly at his face. It got within a foot of Sam before he raised his gun and blasted its head off.
Too close, he thought.
He ran now, making it to the steps and taking them two at a time. He burst out the door and onto the top deck, a small rooftop area closed off by a wooden railing. He turned to look behind him at the final level of the old Summit House. Grey clouds had come quickly out of the west and were blotting out the Sun. The wind had picked up considerably. On a flagpole, the Umbrella Corporation flag flapped erratically in the strong breeze. Next to the flag pole was the target he sought: The satellite dish.
"Rich oughta be doin’ this . . ." he muttered, holstering his pistol and climbing up the side of the building to the roof, "he’s the one with all the roofin’ experience . . ."
Back on the ground Richard was finishing up what was left of the undead horde. He was crouched over the twitching remains of a zombie when the helicopters appeared. Shining black and somberly dangerous they came, whirring out of the blue sky. The thrum of their approach became deafening as they hovered over the sprawling, snowy lawns of the Summit House.
Then sliding doors opened on the sides of the crafts and soldiers in assorted fatigues and BTU’s began to ropell to the ground. They were a rag tag bunch, and there was a great variety not only in their clothes, a strange mixture of hunting flannels and jeans and army fatigues, but also their heights and builds. Some where ponderously fat, others lean, some short, some tall, some built like linebackers. They all carried an arsenal of weapons. Guns, knives, grenades, and clubs of every description were slung about their bodies. Some had eyepatches, others sunglasses. Some wore helmets and others baseball caps, while still others bandannas. They were a motley and grizzled bunch, but dangerous-looking to a man.
Once they had reached the ground, they formed loose ranks and readied their weapons.
Richard looked back at the lead copter. Through the sliding door peeked the mouth of a gigantic gattling gun. Behind the gun was the man Richard knew immediately as the leader of this frightening rabble. He was a very short and rotund. His oddly shaped head was balding, but he tried to compensate by growing his greasy brown hair longer in the back, so that it brushed the shoulder blades of his broad back. His face was leathery and peppered with the shadow of a beard. His green eyes held a mad gleam in them, and, when they landed on Richard, his thin lips split into a wide grin full of crooked teeth.
"Ah-ten-shone!" the diminutive villain cried into a bullhorn. "I am Phillipe Abattoir, bounty huntair and mercenary. Zeese are my men. We have come to collect the werewolf. Come quietly, si vous plez. Things need no get . . . ugly."
"They can’t get any more than they are now, you freaky little warthog!" Rich taunted up at him.
The werewolf had finally let loose his bestial fury and was not in a clear frame of mind. The excitement of the slaughter had emboldened him and he felt no fear. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have noticed the troops slowly closing in around him, and detected the slight movement of the trollish bounty hunter’s thick index finger as it closed around the gattling gun’s trigger.
"Ah, you one brave dawgy, yeah," Abattoir said approvingly, partially to himself. "But, you no very smart, mon jou."
And with that he fired the massive weapon in front of him. The multi-barreled gun spun rapidly, barking out gusts of smoke and flame. Empty shells poured down like rain, landing with muffled sizzles in the thick snow.
Trans had specifically asked that the fugitives be brought in alive, and, as such, the bullets were not silver. This was fortunate for Richard, for the first barrage pounded into him like a wave of super-powered hornets. His thick hide pierced, his flesh in tatters, he was thrown backward into a snow bank as if struck by the fist of a giant. The blood from Richard’s countless wounds gushed out of his broken body, staining the pure white powder a deep and unsettling crimson.
Abattoir released the trigger and the gun barrels slowed to a smoking halt with a high, monotone shriek. His crew of mercenaries closed purposefully in, weapons at the ready.
The huge, shaggy form in front of them was unmoving and they lowered their defenses slightly. They did not notice that the red pool was no longer spreading and many of the holes in the beast’s skin were slowly closing up.
Richard, mad with pain, forced himself to lie still. He could hear the shallow, uneasy breathing of the men surrounding him; he could smell their sour, coppery scent and feel the earth reverberate beneath him from the advance of their thick boots. He waited.
Up on the roof-top, Sam had located the massive satellite dish. As wide in circumference as a small car, it craned it’s saucer face at the bright, blue sky. He set about immediately placing plastic explosive and charges around the base of the structure. He had taken cover behind a gable and was about to trigger the bombs when he heard the gattling gun fire and the sickening thud the bullets made as they collided with his brother. He raced to the edge of the roof and stared in horror at the gruesome scene in front of him.
His brother lay on a patch of trampled, reddened snow, big and still and broken. For a few painful minutes, Sam couldn’t decide what to do. His mind was racing. He wanted more than anything to leap from the roof and help his brother. However, he soon accepted the knowledge that Richard would want the mission finished above all else, and trotted back to his position behind the gable. Sam closed his eyes tight and detonated the bombs.
In a quick succession, around the broad base of the satellite, the charges came to life in bursts of orange flame and thunderous booms. The steel skeleton of the great dish creaked and bent, struggling to remain standing, but finally surrendered to the destruction and, snapping into flaming chunks, toppled off the edge of the roof in an amorphous heap.
Below, the ragged mercenaries gathered around Richard paused and gazed, surprised, at the fiery spectacle. Richard sprung up as soon as they presented their backs and quickly knocked several of the brutes senseless. He brought his claws shredding across the scalp of one, and lacerated the bottom of a second. He had about fought his way through to make a break for freedom when a tranquilizer dart struck him in the neck. It was followed by four others. The gleaming, three-inch-long tips of the projectiles were silver, and pierced his thick hide. Richard barely noticed the agonizing burns the metal caused him as the drugs sped through his blood stream. He looked around dazedly, his breath coming in short, deep grunts. Steam belched forth from his frothing mouth. He tripped drunkenly around in lazy circles for a moment, and then collapsed.
Phillipe Abattoir trotted into view, a rifle in his hand.
"You buncha idiotes!" the bristling Cajun growled, "I geeve you the one simple assignmon, an’ you bungle it, yeah?!"
He turned his attention to the werewolf at his feet. Richard’s unsettling yellow eyes made the other mercenaries turn away, but Abattoir gazed directly into them, matching the beast’s boiling fury with maddening confidence.
"You come up all the way here to blow up a satellite?" he asked.
Richard glared.
"You din even blow up the right one, yeah."
Uncertainty spilled into Richard’s flaming eyes. He was unable to move a single muscle, or even speak, but the haunting yellow orbs expressed wells of emotion.
"Tha’ beeg one was just for show. Dere’s a liller one tha’ broadcasts all Umbrella’s signals."
Richard lost all hope.
However, seconds after Abattoir had uttered those words, a laser blast flew from the roof and grazed his cheek.
Abattoir whirled around, his face a livid red.
"You fools!" he shouted to his men. "He not alone!"
He pointed to six especially rugged and violent-looking thugs.
"You stay here, yeah. I go with the rest and fine tha’ second lil’ twerp." And, with a hand held against his bleeding cheek, he jogged off, followed by a mass of bounty hunters.
Richard lay prone on the snow, which was melting under the heat of his shaggy form. He gazed up at the fiends guarding him.
Suddenly his side erupted in pain.
One of the mercenaries, a large, disgruntled-looking bald one with a styled black goatee, was kicking him in the ribs.
"How do you like that, you stupid dog?" the brute sneered.
Unlike most of the other gang, who were Cajun, like their odious boss, this one spoke with a smooth Russian accent. His kicks, though powerful, were awkward and restrained. Richard realized why. This was the thug whom Richard had sliced across the backside with his claws.
"You think you can hurt me like that without retribution?"
He drew a nickel-plate .45 caliber pistol from a side holster and aimed it at Richard’s great, golden head.
"First I keel you. Then I keel your little brothar."
The goon with the bleeding scalp urged Baldy on in eager Russian. A hot-tempered comrade, thought Richard hopelessly.
On the roof, Sam was viewing the proceedings with growing dismay. He had to help his brother. They were going to kill him this time. Without even thinking, Sam ran over to a small satellite, hardly noticeable at the corner of the roof. He gripped the contraption and gave a mighty pull upward. Sinews stood out like cables on his powerful frame. His face flushed from exertion, his eyes bulging at the strain. A painful cry welled up in his taught throat, releasing itself slowly as the satellite came free from the roof, bolts snapping and popping around its base.
Sam carried the cumbersome dish to the edge of the roof and peered down.
Richard looked into the barrel of the gun. He discovered that movement was returning slowly to his limbs.
Sam heaved the satellite dish off of the roof, and then leaped off himself. Both he and the awkward metal structure seemed to hang in mid air for a moment, and then they plummeted to earth. The dish landed squarely on top of Baldy, crushing his shiny head and killing him instantly. His thick finger closed around the trigger of the gun as his skull caved in, and two rounds fired off into the surrounding snow.
Sam landed squarely on the other Russian, who’s shoulder blade shattered under the boy’s impact, giving the impression that he was most likely trampled to death by a "huge friggin’ gouy." Sam was on his feet quickly. He picked up the broken saucer which had detached itself from the rest of the satellite on contact with Baldy. He furiously clubbed to death the poor thug he had landed on before turning his attention to the four other mercenaries.
They rushed forward.
Sam knocked the first one out with two solid punches, and felled the second one with a scissoring trip. Richard had regained some movement by now and managed to bite the other two on the Achilles tendons. They collapsed amid screams of pain and lay bleeding on the ground.
Sam helped his brother to his hind paws. The two boys embraced feverishly, glad to be alive.
A bullet tore past Richard’s head. The brothers looked around to see Abattoir and the rest of his mob charging around the corner of the Summit House, weapons blazing.
Without a word the two Sugrues took off down the icy path toward the base of the mountain.
The two boys raced, tearing frantically down the dangerous slopes. Sam’s boots crunched the snow erratically, and Richard’s claws skittered across the glare ice. Pine bows, laden with white frosting, snapped at them aggressively as they hurtled past. Their breath came in panicked gasps of steam. Richard managed a look behind them. Abattoir and his men, though fairing no better on the icy hills, were gaining.
Richard and Sam had long since deserted the path. They ran without regard for any direction save one: down. Racing, frenzied, breathless, they half-ran, half-tumbled in the direction of the mountain’s base, their car, and the only means of escape. Bullets whizzed past them, angry insects. Richard stumbled to the left just in time to dodge a shotgun blast which tore a gaping hole in a tree.
Finally, the two boys came to the edge of a precipice. They had run themselves to a dead end. Below them stretched an icy slope, crowded with trees, stumps, and jutting rocks.
Richard glanced behind him.
Abattoir and his men were almost upon them.
"Looks like here’s where we make our final stand," he told his brother grimly.
Sam looked down the hill thoughtfully.
"Not necessarily . . ." he said.
And with that, the plucky hero dove off the edge and hit the icy slope moving at a good clip. He slid crazily down the frozen hill, flying over bumps at breakneck speed.
Sam managed to gain some control over his wild descent, narrowly dodging rocks and fallen trees. Soon, however, he realized this route was far too dangerous. His hands groped desperately for anything to stop himself. Luckily, one hand closed over a thick tree root and he was jerked to a stop halfway down the slope.
"Rich, find another way!" he yelled to his brother. "This is too dangerous!"
But Richard had no desire to face the oncoming horde alone, and, moreover, was tempted by the obvious thrill the slide promised.
"No time for that!" he yelled back to Sam. And with that, launched himself off the edge of the precipice.
From the moment Richard’s furry behind touched the icy hillside he began to pick up speed. He went rushing, slipping, skidding down the steep slope like the greasiest of lightning. Unfortunately, he lacked his brother’s control.
He was over a quarter of the way down when Sam realized what was going to happen.
"Rich, you need to stop!" Sam yelled.
But Richard was at the mercy of the sheer, glare ice.
Both boys shut their eyes tight before the collision.
Richard careened into Sam at an ungodly rate of speed. All 400 hundred pounds of his furry bulk snapped Sam’s tree root and sent the poor hero rolling, tumbling, crashing down the hill. Richard himself hit a large rocky projection and splintered the bones in his right leg. With a howl of pain he flipped forward and began to speed down the slope on his stomach.
Snow flew into the air in gusts as the boys rocketed down the hill, leaving broken trees and unearthed rocks in their wake.
Finally they reached the end.
The land curved up at the last minute, providing them with a spectacular jump. The brothers blasted out into empty air in a magnificent arch, and came crashing painfully down to earth, landing on the blacktop of the mountain road, unconscious. They were fifty feet from the Halfway House.
Richard was the first to wake up. He was still in his werewolf form. He staggered to his hind paws and looked groggily around him.
A smile played around his lupine mouth.
They had made it.
He roused his brother Sam, who, aching and battered, glared angrily at him.
"You jerk . . ." Sam said in a pained manner, holding his side. "I could’ve been killed."
"Well you weren’t, and now we’re safe." Richard said, still smiling.
The smile faded quickly from his monstrous face at the sound of approaching choppers.
"Damnit, no!" Richard barked.
"So we run again," said Sam, limping toward the path.
"No, we’d never make it. You run again."
Sam turned slowly. "What?"
"You run again. I’ll stay here and hold them off."
Sam began to protest, but Richard trampled over him.
"I’ll follow after you in a few minutes. I need to give you a running start. If I’m not at the Falcon by the time you get there, pilot her home and warn Tony, Amy, and Steve. Trans must be after them as well."
"Rich I can’t–"
"Go!" Richard roared.
Sam saw that there was no point in arguing. He hobbled to the steps and vanished down the snowy trail.
Richard stood in unflinching defiance as the copters landed. Their propeller blades forcing the snow up in towering swirls and buffeting the beast’s thick hair flat against his muscular body.
Abattoir hopped out of the lead craft and was soon followed by a score of rugged goons.
The diminutive Cajun smiled.
"Take ‘im, yeeah."
The mob advanced in a rush, firing darts, nets, and bolas. Richard dodged most of the projectiles, but a whirling bola latched onto his forepaws. Another wrapped around his hindpaws. Finally a weighted net enveloped him and brought him to the ground. The thugs wasted no time and began to beat Richard immediately. Clubs, boots, fists, and the butts of their assorted rifles rained down upon him. He forced his mind away from the pain. Slowly he brought his hands up to his strong jaws. In a wink he had gnawed through the thick bonds. He tore at the bola around his ankles, reducing the tough ropes to shreds with his claws. Then he staggered up, under the weight of twenty men, and hurled his foes off of him. He burst from the net with a deafening roar.
The soldiers stumbled backward in fear.
Richard raised his claws to the heavens and shook them madly. Then he hunched over, spread his arms wide, and growled a rumbling challenge to the huddled masses.
"Come get some!"
He let loose another staggering roar and charged.
He was in amongst the enemy like lion amongst a pack of frightened dogs.
He lashed out in all directions with sweeps of his massive paws, sending Abattoir's men flying, flailing into the surrounding woods.
Soon the mob was running for the cover of the helicopters.
Richard laughed.
"So you’re Trans’ elite hunters?"
Abattoir walked forward.
"You wanna fight, doggy? I fight you."
"You?" Richard asked, incredulous.
"Yeeah, me. But I gair-on-tee you be bitin’ off more’n you can chew with this here Cajun."
The combatants slowly circled each other, Richard’s yellow eyes locked with Abattoir’s pale green ones.
The werewolf was the first to attack. With a snarl he came at the small bounty hunter.
Abattoir moved with astounding agility and poise. He dodged to one side, then the other, easily avoiding the beast’s attacks. He pulled out a long silver Bowie knife, which was more like a sword in his hands. Faster than Richard could see, Abattoir sliced him three times; deep cuts, which bled and did not heal. His flesh sizzled from contact with the silver.
Abattoir leaped backward and stood staring at Richard. He wasn’t even breathing heavily.
Richard ran forward again, his large jaws snapping, threatening to bite the Cajun in half.
Abattoir waited until Richard had lowered his great head enough, and then jumped into the air and landed on the beast’s snout. Gripping the hilt of his massive knife, he dealt Richard five stunning blows to the face, and then leaped off again.
Once again Richard staggered upright. The combatants faced each other.
This time Abattoir rushed in. Dodging right between Richard’s legs, he popped up behind him and plunged his blade deep into the soft flesh behind Richard’s knee.
Richard collapsed with a yelp and lay gasping, shallow breaths which seemed to require much effort.
Abattoir produced a stained and abused handkerchief and dabbed at some beads of sweat on his forehead.
"Well, you ‘bou ready to come in, doggy?" he asked.
"You may have caught me but you’ll never catch my friends. Umbrella will never be rid of us."
"Au contraire, mon ami," chuckled Abattoir. "I already caught you friends. Th’udder werewolf an’ the lady vampah. I goin’ after the ‘Talian one nex."
"You liar!"
"No, I no liar. They put up good fights, bo’ dem, but ah catch ‘em, jus’ lahk I caught you."
All this time Abattoir had been moving steadily closer. Richard lay still.
"I’m takin’ you to the Umbrella home base for ‘re-education.’ You gonna be a good lil’ lap dog, yeeah."
Richard waited until Abattoir was close enough, then he sprang up and clawed the bounty hunter across the chest. One, two, three slashes. The Cajun’s innards spilled out onto the frozen ground, steaming like hot soup. Amazingly, the little man refused to fall. He sliced at Richard with his Bowie knife. Richard knocked his knife hand aside and clutched his enemy to him in a deadly embrace. He heard Abattoir grunt in pain as he tightened his powerful arms around the man’s body.
"Help me, you idiotes!" screamed a panicking Abattoir to his men. They rushed forward and began clubbing Richard into unconsciousness. As the darkness closed in over him, Richard could hear the satisfying sound of Abattoir’s ribs cracking, his vertebrae popping, as he crushed the life from him.
Sam did as his brother said. When he reached the hulking maroon vehicle dubbed affectionately as The Millennium Falcon, and saw that his brother was not there, he immediately piloted the craft home.
His door was open and he was leaping out of the car before it had even come to a stop in the driveway.
He dashed into the house and headed straight for the phone. Ripping the receiver out of it’s cradle, he dialed the number of the only person he knew would help and understand.
The phone rang for what seemed to Sam an eternity before a sultry female voice responded.
"Ninja Pirate Incorporated, offices of Most Exalted Tony Celi, CEO. How may I help you?"
It was Veronica, Tony’s seductive secretary.
"Hello Veronica," said Sam breathlessly. "It’s me."
"Oh, how delicious to hear from you, Sam." Veronica replied, more risque than normal at the sound of the boy’s voice, for she was fond of him. "How are you?"
"Not too good, Ver. Truth is I really need to talk to Tony right now."
"Oh, I’m sorry, Sam. He’s out on business now. He’s expected back . . ." Veronica paused to check her calendar, "in about three weeks."
"Three goddamn weeks? What the fuck is goin’ on in that goddamn fuckin’ Jew-place?!" Sam hollered.
"Oh my, such language. Naughty boy. The earpiece of the receiver just turned blue," Veronica chided him flirtatiously. She was well used to Sam’s inflammatory remarks.
"Well what am I supposed to do? Richard’s been captured and is probably right now being tortured in the deepest dungeons of some haunted castle."
"Oh, that pervert?" Grace said flatly, for a moment dropping her alluring voice. She hadn’t liked Rich since he showed up to work and asked her matter-of-factly for a handjob. It was the first thing she had ever heard him say. "After seeing the way he acts around here I’m glad he’s gotten himself captured. Good riddance, I say. I’m not helpin’ you rescue him. Why, to tell the truth, I hope he---"
"Fine!" Sam reigned the conversation in. "But keep in mind that without him you’d be working for that maniac Silas Blake right now. You may not like Rich, but do this for me? Now, I realize I can’t talk directly to Tony, but I need you to send him a message by robo-pigeon."
Veronica agreed and began to dictate.
When she had finished she was doubtful of the telegram’s mixed contents, but she dutifully sent it out to Tony’s last known location by special NP Inc messenger.
Sam was not done, however.
"Now, Ver, patch me through to the Captain."
"Oooh. Be careful. Don’t try to take on Umbrella all by yourself, Big Boy."
Again, Veronica did as Sam asked.
Sam waited patiently until he heard a slightly mechanical voice boom over the other end.
"Koneechiwah. How ah may I be of service?"
It was the former CEO of NP Inc, The Undead Cap’n Huzuki-bot 3500, currently sporting his ninja accent.
"Cap’n, this is Sam. We’ve got a problem."
"Ah so. Well, young one, tell me what you know."
"Cap’n, Richard was captured."
"Oro!?" asked the metal beast with alarm.
"He and I went to disable the satellite dish at Skinner and we were ambushed. Some little Cajun bastard. He and his men were closing in on Rich and me, and he told me to get to the car. Goddamnit I shoulda stayed. I coulda helped him!" Sam was in tears now.
"There, there. If you had stayed you both would have been captured and his saclifice would have been in vain. Did you disable the dish?"
"Yes, both of them." Sam paused as the realization hit him. "Oh! Silas is gone! I never thought of that till now. Let me turn on the computer and see . . ."
Sam activated the CrimeFighter, the Sugrue Brother’s home PC.
The screen was blank.
Sam’s heart leaped in his chest.
Then, very subtly, a muted clicking sound was heard. As of someone gently rapping their Italian shoes on polished tile.
The noise grew louder. It sounded to Sam as if the person in question were right behind him.
All of a sudden, a figure hove into view on the screen. He was dressed in a shimmering white suit, complete with Panama hat and cane. It was Silas Blake.
"Surprised to see me, Chubby?" He asked, a devilish smile on his handsome face.
"You?" stammered Sam. "But we knocked out both dishes."
"Good for you. Quiet a blow for Umbrella, I’d imagine. Unfortunately it didn’t affect me in the least. I used a different network to hack in here."
Sam was speechless.
"Seems as if, for the time being, you’re stuck with m—"
Sam had turned the PC off in disgust. He slumped back in his chair.
The Cap’n’s voice broke through his reverie.
"Tell me all. Is the menace gone, like a passing wind?"
"No . . . he remains," Sam managed to say. "Like snow on a mountain peak. This makes the whole thing so much worse, Cap! Richard and I went up there for nothing."
"You did not. In rearity, you rearned much. Do not despair."
"What can we do?"
"I will head out myself with a few battalions of NP Inc armored droids, as well as some of our best field agents. We’ll discover Richard’s location and rescue him. But what of your other friends? Surely Trans will be after them as well."
"Tony will hopefully be handling that."
"Good."
Sam paused, indecisive. "Cap’n, what should I do?"
"You, Sam, should stay there and tly to lesovle your computer puh-lob-buh-lem."
Sam was used to the awkward English, so laden with the Japanese accent.
"Can do, Cap’n."
"Good."
"Cap’n."
"Yes, Sam?"
"When you find out where Rich is, let me know. I want to personally be there to rescue him."
"Very well, Sam."
They hung up their phones and went about their separate duties.
Will Sam and the Cap'n save Rich in time?
Will Umbrella finally dispose of their hated foes?
Will Tony actually receive the message through robo-pigeon?
What the hell is a robo-pigeon?
Will Silas Blake ever be defeated?
Will Veronica finally give Rich that hand-job?
Most of these questions will not be answered next time, in another installment of The Interim Adventure!
12 Comments:
Very very nice.
Do you accept speeling corrections?
By
Sled, at 11:27 AM
Because you're a perfectionist, some typos:
"He past a room full of mannequins and shivered again." (passed)
"There goddamn weeks? What the fuck is goin’ on in that goddamn fuckin’ Jew-place?!" (Three)
That said, AMAZING! The Captain's ninja accent made me laugh out loud. As usual, the whole piece was incredibly well-written and engaging. You put me to shame.
On a side-note, you're pretty inconsistent with that whole "no killing human opponents" thing. I guess bounty hunters aren't people.
Excellent read. I have to go kick a woman off the roof now.
By
Zoopers, at 12:50 AM
First off, maybe human Rich doesn't like to kill humans, but werewolf Rich has trouble controlling himself.
Second, how do you know Abattoir is dead?
Thanks for the praise, I wish I deserved it.
All in all, not in any way my favorite piece, but it helps move along the plot as well as add to character development.
The next one will be very Tony-centric.
By the way, any thoughts on what you're out on business doing? I hadn't thought that far ahead.
-Rich
By
Richard Joseph, at 11:59 AM
And yes, Eddy, I'd love some spelling corrections.
By
Richard Joseph, at 11:59 AM
Heh, I wasn't referring to Abbatoir. I'm pretty sure some nameless non-zombies got hacked up in between there.
What would I be off doing? Securing new weapons, perhaps? Building relations with various ninja clans and pirate crews? Scouting out foreign locations for additional corporate bases? Searching for the choas emeralds? The possibilities are endless, I would say.
By
Zoopers, at 3:25 PM
Hmm . . .
Did they?
Oh, no, you know what it was?
You remember the movie Boondock Saints, right?
Did you pick up on the parody I threw in there?
The whole Sam jumps off the roof with a satellite dish scene? He lands on the bald Russian guy who got his ass hacked up?
It's like the scene in Boondock Saints in which the Russian mob enforcers are about to shoot Norman Reedus and Sean Patrick Flannery leaps off the roof with the toilet.
Only problem is, they die in Boondock Saints. So they died here, too.
I don't know why I tossed that in there. None of my readers would pick up on it, anyway.
Other than that, nobody expressly dies.
I will take your suggestions into account, for they are plentiful and good.
The way it was supposed to go was that the business you were on was saving Steve and Amy (which you'll do), but then I realized Sam's telegram is about saving Steve and Amy, and so you needed something else to be away doing.
I'll figure it out.
-Rich
By
Richard Joseph, at 5:31 PM
You say call you, but you never answer!
How about you call me? 413 303 9313
By
Sled, at 12:43 AM
Nah, I gave up on calling Amy months ago, when I realized she never called back.
Well, that's not quite true.
Once to ask for a ride, and once to ask if Andrew had ever done Ecstasy.
Truly, the only person I bother to call anymore is Catilin.
By
Richard Joseph, at 12:14 PM
Aha! I should have picked up on the reference, as I love that movie dearly. Alas.
I think you called me a couple times. I return phone calls. Unless it's my parents. They get mad at me.
By
Zoopers, at 6:00 PM
heehee
http://www.thebestpageintheuniverse.net/c.cgi?u=banish
Love from Europe,
Pawel
By
Anonymous, at 9:12 AM
FUCK YES.
Wait, are you sure you want to part with that stuff?
By
Zoopers, at 1:34 PM
Maddox can be funny.
Thanks for the link, Pawel.
Keep in mind, very little of those terms actually apply to this blog, or any of the others in our social circles.
He's angry mostly at the fact that bloggers who cover news events are slowly becoming considered serious journalists. I agree with him, there.
Also, it's ironic he rages against blogs as a whole so much, as his site is very close to a blog itself.
But, all in all a funny addition to the comment section.
(Just don't think you were making any statement posting that link; it doesn't apply.)
Get back soon, we have catchin up to do and parties at Tony's to attend.
-Rich
By
Richard Joseph, at 4:18 PM
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