Nightcrawler
Member
NOTE: The following is entirely fictional. It in no way conveys myself or life at my university. I do not, in fact, sell ex-Soviet military hardware out of my dorm room. (How much hardware do you think I could store in a 12x12 room?) So you ATF...uh, BATF, I mean, BATFE guys just chill out. Oh, and you NSA guys? Yeah, the FBI says you're a bunch of purse-carrying nancy-boys that collect Beanie Babies. I'm just sayin'...the FBI was totally dissing you guys. /NOTE
It was a typically quiet eveing in my dorm here at the University. The snow was lightly falling outside my window, and the well-lit halls were deserted, as everyone was sleeping (many were sleeping off a hangover, but I digress). Must've been about two in the morning.
So there I am, watching TV. My TV is actually the 21" monitor of my big computer system, and I'm watching Adult Swim. On my laptop, I'm surfing the internet, visiting such favorite sites as Mad Ogre and Penny Arcade.
Suddenly, I hear a knock on my door. Odd, given the late hour. I mute the TV and get up. Looking through my peephole, I see a greasy mane of brown hair, barely visible. The person outside my door is obviously short, and badly needs some medicated shampoo.
Rolling my eyes, I open the door.
"What the hell do you want, Benny? It's two o' clock in the frickin' morning." I look down at him, and realize he's pointing a pistol at me. A 9mm Springfield 1911, to be specific.
My friends, you wouldn't believe the rock-steady grip this skilled operator had on his piece. His finger was on the trigger, and the safety was off, but his hand was shaking so badly that even at arm's length there was about a 50/50 chance that he'd have hit me at all.
Noticing that the hammer is down, I roll my eyes again. Now folks, what comes next may seem harsh, but...I'm a forgiving person, I really am, I just don't like having guns pointed in my face.
With my left hand, I grab the pistol, and shove it in the air. With my right arm, I elbow him in the face as hard as I can. He falls onto his butt, a trickle of blood dripping from his nose, and the pistol remains in my hand.
I shift the pistol into a firing grip in my left hand, and rack the slide with my right.
"You forgot to chamber a round you idiot!" I snarl, holding the weapon on him. "Now get in here!" Benny gets up shakily, and slowly moves towards my door like an abused dog. I grab him by his collar and pull him inside. I pop my head into the hallway for a quick look....*whew*...nobody saw. I close the door and turn to face my would-be assassin.
Benny is standing there, eyes downcast, shuffling nervously as I safety the pistol, but keep it in my hand.
"Okay, Benny," I say in the most scolding tone I can muster, "what the hell is this all about?"
"L-listen, Mike...It..it's nothing personal. Just business, you know?"
"Just business. Who put you up to this??"
"I...I can't tell you. They'll kill me."
"Benny, if you don't tell me you're not going to be entirely happy with what I'm going to do to you, either."
"You'd shoot me with my own gun?" I look down at the stainless Springfield in my hand. It was in desperate need of a cleaning.
"No, Benny, I wouldn't shoot you with your own gun." I place the pistol down on my desk.
"Firing this gun in here would draw a lot of attention to me." I reach under the desk, to the holster mounted under there, and pull out an integrally suppressed Ruger Mk. II. I turn and point the pistol between Benny's beady eyes, the muzzle about an inch from his misshapen head.
"I'd shoot you with this one." I swear to God, folks, the little worm peed himself, right there. All over my nice carpet and everything. My icy demeanor fell apart at that point.
"Damn it Benny! I just washed that rug! Move, get into the bathroom!" I push Benny through the bathroom door, and heard him into the shower. He leaves a trail of urine behind him. I turn on the shower so my suitemate, with whom I share the bathroom, can't hear our conversation. Benny just stands there, looking like a puppy that I had just smacked with a rolled-up newspaper, with hot water pouring all over him.
I sigh a heavy sigh. Why the heck does this stuff always happen to me?
"Okay, Benny, talk to me. What's going on? You're no assassin. You're not lethal. At best, you're annoying."
"Okay, look...these guys come up to me, right? Chinese, I think. Real bad guys. Want to move in the area. They hit me up for information. I tell 'em that this area already has a distributor, and that the market on Russian military hardware is already cornered. They send me to kill you, as a warning, or something."
"And so you went through with it??"
"They...they said if I didn't kill you, they'd kill you, and me too. And if I did kill you, they'd pay me..."
"How much, Benny?"
"Um..."
"How MUCH, Benny??"
"Four hundred dollars," he says, sheepishly. "And Packers tickets." That's right, folks. The bounty on my head was four hundred dollars and tickets to the damned Green Bay Packers. You have no idea how deeply that offended me.
Benny's betrayal, on the other hand, was no suprise. It wasn't even a "betrayal" per-say, since I've never trusted the little stinker as far as I could throw him. He has his uses, though, and is generally harmless. But, he was in over his head on this one.
"Benny, listen to me. If the Triads are moving into the U.P., we've got trouble on our hands. They're going to be pretty ticked that you didn't kill me, too, so I suggest you leave town."
For once in his life, Benny listens to me. I tell him to go home, and that I'll send him some plane tickets. He tells me he'll go live in Iowa with his mother, that he'll move back into her basement. I tell him to get a job while he's out there.
I hurry Benny out the door, since he's dripping on my carpet. While I'm carrying my throw rug down to the washing machine (since it reeks of pee), I contemplate the situation. I'm thinking I'm going to need help on this one. When I get back up to my room, I pick up the phone and dial a friend of mine.
TO BE CONTINUED! (Maybe...)
(Yes, it's late, I'm overtired, and terribly bored...LOL)
It was a typically quiet eveing in my dorm here at the University. The snow was lightly falling outside my window, and the well-lit halls were deserted, as everyone was sleeping (many were sleeping off a hangover, but I digress). Must've been about two in the morning.
So there I am, watching TV. My TV is actually the 21" monitor of my big computer system, and I'm watching Adult Swim. On my laptop, I'm surfing the internet, visiting such favorite sites as Mad Ogre and Penny Arcade.
Suddenly, I hear a knock on my door. Odd, given the late hour. I mute the TV and get up. Looking through my peephole, I see a greasy mane of brown hair, barely visible. The person outside my door is obviously short, and badly needs some medicated shampoo.
Rolling my eyes, I open the door.
"What the hell do you want, Benny? It's two o' clock in the frickin' morning." I look down at him, and realize he's pointing a pistol at me. A 9mm Springfield 1911, to be specific.
My friends, you wouldn't believe the rock-steady grip this skilled operator had on his piece. His finger was on the trigger, and the safety was off, but his hand was shaking so badly that even at arm's length there was about a 50/50 chance that he'd have hit me at all.
Noticing that the hammer is down, I roll my eyes again. Now folks, what comes next may seem harsh, but...I'm a forgiving person, I really am, I just don't like having guns pointed in my face.
With my left hand, I grab the pistol, and shove it in the air. With my right arm, I elbow him in the face as hard as I can. He falls onto his butt, a trickle of blood dripping from his nose, and the pistol remains in my hand.
I shift the pistol into a firing grip in my left hand, and rack the slide with my right.
"You forgot to chamber a round you idiot!" I snarl, holding the weapon on him. "Now get in here!" Benny gets up shakily, and slowly moves towards my door like an abused dog. I grab him by his collar and pull him inside. I pop my head into the hallway for a quick look....*whew*...nobody saw. I close the door and turn to face my would-be assassin.
Benny is standing there, eyes downcast, shuffling nervously as I safety the pistol, but keep it in my hand.
"Okay, Benny," I say in the most scolding tone I can muster, "what the hell is this all about?"
"L-listen, Mike...It..it's nothing personal. Just business, you know?"
"Just business. Who put you up to this??"
"I...I can't tell you. They'll kill me."
"Benny, if you don't tell me you're not going to be entirely happy with what I'm going to do to you, either."
"You'd shoot me with my own gun?" I look down at the stainless Springfield in my hand. It was in desperate need of a cleaning.
"No, Benny, I wouldn't shoot you with your own gun." I place the pistol down on my desk.
"Firing this gun in here would draw a lot of attention to me." I reach under the desk, to the holster mounted under there, and pull out an integrally suppressed Ruger Mk. II. I turn and point the pistol between Benny's beady eyes, the muzzle about an inch from his misshapen head.
"I'd shoot you with this one." I swear to God, folks, the little worm peed himself, right there. All over my nice carpet and everything. My icy demeanor fell apart at that point.
"Damn it Benny! I just washed that rug! Move, get into the bathroom!" I push Benny through the bathroom door, and heard him into the shower. He leaves a trail of urine behind him. I turn on the shower so my suitemate, with whom I share the bathroom, can't hear our conversation. Benny just stands there, looking like a puppy that I had just smacked with a rolled-up newspaper, with hot water pouring all over him.
I sigh a heavy sigh. Why the heck does this stuff always happen to me?
"Okay, Benny, talk to me. What's going on? You're no assassin. You're not lethal. At best, you're annoying."
"Okay, look...these guys come up to me, right? Chinese, I think. Real bad guys. Want to move in the area. They hit me up for information. I tell 'em that this area already has a distributor, and that the market on Russian military hardware is already cornered. They send me to kill you, as a warning, or something."
"And so you went through with it??"
"They...they said if I didn't kill you, they'd kill you, and me too. And if I did kill you, they'd pay me..."
"How much, Benny?"
"Um..."
"How MUCH, Benny??"
"Four hundred dollars," he says, sheepishly. "And Packers tickets." That's right, folks. The bounty on my head was four hundred dollars and tickets to the damned Green Bay Packers. You have no idea how deeply that offended me.
Benny's betrayal, on the other hand, was no suprise. It wasn't even a "betrayal" per-say, since I've never trusted the little stinker as far as I could throw him. He has his uses, though, and is generally harmless. But, he was in over his head on this one.
"Benny, listen to me. If the Triads are moving into the U.P., we've got trouble on our hands. They're going to be pretty ticked that you didn't kill me, too, so I suggest you leave town."
For once in his life, Benny listens to me. I tell him to go home, and that I'll send him some plane tickets. He tells me he'll go live in Iowa with his mother, that he'll move back into her basement. I tell him to get a job while he's out there.
I hurry Benny out the door, since he's dripping on my carpet. While I'm carrying my throw rug down to the washing machine (since it reeks of pee), I contemplate the situation. I'm thinking I'm going to need help on this one. When I get back up to my room, I pick up the phone and dial a friend of mine.
TO BE CONTINUED! (Maybe...)
(Yes, it's late, I'm overtired, and terribly bored...LOL)
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