So There I Was Again (Also Not Very Serious)

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Were you playing Skunkabilly Records' The Digital Redneck? C'mon you gotta plug me somewhere this is my shot at being famous!!!
 
haha, Nightcrawler, I like how apropos your signature is. I can't unread it, and now I need more. I started reading this thread, looked at the timestamp on the first post, and thought to myself: "self, this thread looks good. Damn good. And judging by these timestamps, this work has a strong chance of already being done. I say read it instead of doing your laundry." 30 minutes later, and here I am, eagerly awaiting the next installment.

p.s.; I like your writing style, especially the use of the hyper-links. Most importantly, you don't come off like the new Tom Clancy stuff (i.e., like bad porn for c.s. kiddies).
 
p.s.; I like your writing style, especially the use of the hyper-links. Most importantly, you don't come off like the new Tom Clancy stuff (i.e., like bad porn for c.s. kiddies).
Click to expand...

Oh yes. You won't see my character carrying an M4 carbine with the rail interface handguards, vertical foregrip, laser sight, and flashlight. Ain't gonna happen. :D
 
ARRRRGGGGGG!!!!!!!! When I see that Nightcrawler has added a new post to this thread it's supposed to mean another chapter in the story. *cracks whip* Less chatting, more writing!!!!!


:D
 
I wouldn't dream of highjacking your very interesting thread, but this might interest you . . .
- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Ol' Guy: Excuse me.

Young Feller: No prob. Hey, watch it.

OG: Slippery, huh? I'm not used to all this ice.

YF: Yeah. You're not from around here, are you?

OG: Nope. And I'm pretty near froze to death.

YF: You sound like a friend of mine from Tulsa. You from Oklahoma?

OG: Fairly close. Looky here, ‘Crawler, you want a cup of coffee?

YF: No thanks, I . . . What did you call me?

OG: It's short for Nightcrawler, your handle on THR. You know what it means.

YF: Uh, you got the wrong -- --

OG: Not really, no. I know who you are, and I need a couple of minutes of your time, okay? There's no hassle, just a few friendly words.

YF: Ummm. Well, you have me curious, and I could use a hot chocolate, but I only have a few minutes.

- - - - - - - - -
OG: Okay, that's better. Yep, I know you're curious. So here's the deal. I'm just passing through, and an associate asked me to drop a word to you. --- The short version is this: You've got a lot of people interested in your little serial story on The High Road. I've read it myself, and you show some promise.

YF: Well, thanks. I'm having a lot of fun with - -

OG: Yeah, right. Here's the thing. Two things, really. You got some of my colleagues, I mean, grown up men and women, interested in your ongoing saga. A couple of ‘em are in positions where they could hit the M.O. computer with a set of circumstances. And guess what they found?

YF: Uh, no, hey, look . . .

OG: Hush up for a minute, lad. This writing thing is a pretty good hobby. And, you've probably read some books or articles that advise the budding author, "Write about what you know," correct? Well, you're sticking just a little too close to home. You need to get out of one or the other- - True life writing or illegal arms dealing. See, you thinly veiled allusions to your "work your way through college" enterprise have given you away. Two different federal agencies are looking at you.

You may think you have some protection by dealing with some gun nuts in your local Customs and ATF offices, but you don't. In fact, some of the fuddy-duddy higher ups frown at their tolerance of guys like you. Yeah, they know you aren't as big as your character in the story, but you're up on the screen, amigo. So they got a team in from the Richmond office, and, Bingo! You're on candid camera.

YF: Hey, it's all a joke, man. Nothing serious, I mean - -

OG: Well, this is serious, so listen up. What you do with this is up to you. What you have going for you is that, as long as you keep some people interested in your story, they'll probably hold off on busting up your little gun running operation. But - - - You're writing about "winding it down," and ending the story soon. Bad idea.

YF: What do you mean? This story thing is taking a lot of my time. I really AM a student, you know?

OG: Well, you better learn to manage your time, Crawler. Keep the story going. For at least a couple of months AFTER you get completely out of the, uh, informal Title II gun business. Keep your fans too interested to want to let you get busted, huh? Like I said, I was headed near here on other business, and one of your fans asked me to drop a bug in your ear. She can't afford to be seen talking to you. And, like I say, I'm a stranger hereabouts.

YF: But, but - - -

OG:Humm? No, ma'am. No more coffee for me. More cocoa, Craw, uh, pal? No thanks, then. Okay, I need to go. You do your deal however you want, okay? But, I'd figure on drawing this story of yours our a while. Maybe segue into another adventure or two. It ought to me good for four, five months, don't you think?

YF: Look, how do I know - - - I mean, you SOUND good, but, I can'tjust, uh . . . .

OG: Look, son - - I've lost Louis L'Amour, and Robert Heinlein, and John D. McDonald before. I mean, authors I REALLY cared about. I'm just passing a message, okay.

YF: Well, I'd better give this some thought.

OG: Whatever. Oh, yes. My friend of a friend says to tell you: Don't go back to The Blue Box stash. The locals are watching it. Whatever that means. Okay? Adios.
 
:uhoh:

I believe I'm being threatened. By a moderator.

*burdened sigh*

FINE. I'll put off my push-ups and sit-ups until later; I do my best writing this time of day anyway.

Tell you all what. Lemme run down to the pop machine, get another Cherry Pepsi, then I'll come back up here and start writing. Okay? Might take an hour or more to finish.
 
Nightcrawler,
I can see where you might interpret Johnny's post as somewhat threatening... but I REALLY think it was a Bona Fide warning that Others are watching you and that you have friends and supporters here on THR who can provide protection...as long as we continue to receive regular doses of this darn story to which you have addicted us. {Awkward grammar, please forgive}
And "Cherry Pepsi"? Thank Goddess your taste in firearms is better than your taste in carbonated beverages.

Holly
 
Part Twelve

"BARBARA-AANN-NNN-NNN...TA-AAKE MY HA-A-AND....OH BARBARA A-A-ANNNN...you got me rockin' and a rollin', rollin' and reelin' Barbara Ann Ba-Ba-, Ba-Barbara Ann!"

Singing along quite loudly with the radio, I belted out the lyrics to this old song as I pulled my car in front of the warehouse. I pressed the door open button, and the large garage door slid upward. Corwin, who was right behind me in the tractor-trailer, carefully turned the truck around.

With the truck beeping loudly, I guided him with hand signals as he backed the into the warehouse. I got back into my car and drove it in as well, parking it just inside the door. The shipping container that held the entrance to my bunker was against the far wall, so there was plenty of room for the truck and my car.

Needless to say, I was in a good mood. Giddy, in fact. I hopped up and down with excitement, the hood of my winter poncho flapping as I jumped. It had been one hell of a night. Despite million to one odds, I had recovered the illusive truck that had been the cause of my recent headaches. In the process I proved that French was behind the theft of the truck, and I had taken down a bunch of rogue agents without using firearms.

They're probably waking up right about now, I thought to myself, almost giggling. I wished desperately that I could've seen the look on Frenchy's face when he realized his truck was gone.

Or should I say, my truck. As you can imagine, I was feeling quite full of myself at this point. But still, something was bothering me. There had been a USGI chemical alarm set up in the garage, and all of French's men had gas masks. This sobering thought served to quell my glee quite a bit.

"Corwin," I said as he climbed down from the driver's seat of the truck. "You know what I think?"

"You think there're chemical weapons in there."

"You damn right that's what I think." It bothered me. How in the hell had the Luminous Path gotten their hands on chemical weapons? What were they doing with them? Where were they going with them? Still, I had to be sure.

It was at this time that Ling came up from the bunker, looking ravishing, as usual. Her eyes grew wide and she seemed almost in shock. After all, this stupid truck had caused her as much trouble as it had me. (Well, almost.) She approached the parked rig in obvious disbelief, running her small hand along the cool metal of the trailer as she walked towards the front.

"I...you..." she stammered. "I don't believe it. You're amazing."

"I do try," I said, grinning, trying to play it cool. Oh, and don't worry, folks, even if she was trying planning on setting me up, she wasn't going to call anybody. Before I left her alone in my bunker, I relieved her of her cell phone. Furthermore, I had the place set up with bug-busting equipment that I ordered from some pretty cool catalogs I got in the mail. My safehouse was pretty secure, and it had been under survelliance by friends of mine. Ling hadn't left, and no one had entered. So I wasn't expecting company, which was good, because I had business to attend to.

"You wanna crack this sucker open?" I asked of Corwin.

"Sure, what the hell."

"Might be nerve gas or something in there." He just shrugged and lit up a cigarette.

"You plannin' on livin' forever?" He asked me. I laughed out loud.

"Nerve gas?" Ling asked. "I don't understand."

"Might as well tell ya," I said. "I think there're some kind of dangerous chemicals in there. The place we snagged it from had a chemical alarm, and the guys had gas masks."

"Who were they?" She asked.

"Feds, I think. At least, my old pal Agent French was there. Don't know if the others were ATF agents, or if they're just goons he hired."

"And it was these people that attacked the Luminous Path convoy so efficiently?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Whoever hit the convoy knew their stuff. French's guys didn't seem to be that on the ball, so who knows? Maybe he hired some mercenaries or something. Seems to me he'd want to keep such an illegal operation as in-house as possible. He'll swing for this if the FBI finds out about it."

"Pigs," she said, venom in her voice. Her green eyes narrowed, and that coldness that I found when I first met her returned to them. "They cost me everything." I gave her a sidelong glance, but tried to remain on-task.

"Ling," I said finally, "You might want to go into the bunker for this. It's protected from chemicals. When we open the truck this stuff might spray out or something."

"I'm staying here," she said, arms folded across her chest. I was going to argue with her, but decided against it. Besides, I had more than enough hazmat suits to go around. Picked 'em up cheap, made in Russia, top quality.

A short while later, the three of us were suited up in the Russian hazmat suits. Each was olive drab in color, with a clear plastic face shield, and an air tank that provided oxygen. Corwin fitted a welder's mask over his and, with the help of a ladder, got to work at torch-cutting the doors of the trailer open. They had been welded shut pretty well.

It was a slow, arduous process. It might've gone faster, but we were both nervous. Nobody wants to get hosed down with a blister agent, you know? Now yes, I knew that the trailer wasn't air tight, and if there were chemicals in there, and if they were leaking, they'd have been pouring out of the trailer for awhile now. But still, I'm never one to screw around when there's nerve gas involved.

Finally, though, the cutting was finished. We put the ladder aside, and stepped back. I swallowed hard and opened the trailer doors.

"What the hell is that?" Corwin asked.

"Boxes," I said, noting the stack of wooden crates in front of me, that went from the floor to the ceiling of the trailer.

"Gee....really?" Corwin said, sacrasm dripping from his voice. "What's IN the boxes?"

"The hell should I know!" I then noticed that there were Chinese characters on the sides of the crates.

"Ling, what does this say?" I asked, pointing to the lettering.

"Spoons," she said flatly.

"What?"

"Spoons, Michael. It says it's a box of spoons."

"It can't be spoons."

"It says it's spoons!"

"Okay, okay," Corwin interrupted. "Let's pull one down and open it." So, we pulled heavy crate down, as he suggested, and let it rest on the floor. Still in our hazmat suits, we stood anxiously as Corwin opened the crate with a crowbar. He dropped the lid onto the concrete floor, and we all leaned forward, peering inside.

There, packed in straw, were hundreds of stainless steel spoons. I about died.

"This can't be right," I said.

"I don't understand," Ling said.

"Maybe this is just for show," Corwin said finally. "In case they got searched. Maybe we need to take these crates out and see what's behind them."

So, still in the hot, uncomfortable hazmat suits, Corwin and I set to the arduous task of unloading the heavy crates of spoons. There were no less than four layers of crates, stacked floor to ceiling, but we cleared enough of them that we could get by. Carrying heavy boxes in hazmat suits isn't fun, by the way.

Flashlight in hand, I found that the forward part of the trailer was indeed not loaded with crates of spoons. I squeezed between the crates and the wall of the trailer, making my way to the more open area in the beyond. There, I spotted something shiny, glinting in the darkness.

Against the front of the trailer, in a neat row, and fastened down, were four large, stainless steel canisters, that looked verymuch like big beer kegs, each about the size of a fifty-five gallon drum.

My heart in my throat, I crouched down and examined the canisters with my flashlight. There was some small print on each one of them, which identified the contents. What I read scared the hell out of me.

SARIN (GB) (isopropyl methylphosphonofluoridate)
VX (O-ethyl S-diisopropylaminomethyl methlphosphonothiolate)
Cyanogen Chloride
Ethyldichloroarsine (ED)

"Jesus..." I said quietly. I stood up, eyes wide, my heart pounding. Four canisters. Two nerve agents, a blood agent, and a blister agent. Chemical weapons, and each one stamped "PROPERTY OF US ARMY".

I made my way out the back of the trailer, where Corwin and Ling were waiting for me.

"What is it?" He asked me, seeing the expression on my face.

"Corwin, we have a problem," I said flatly.

TO BE CONTINUED...
 
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It's up...don't hurt me...

Okay, part twelve.

I suspect something unpleasant will happen to me if I stop writing. Nonetheless, later this afternoon I'm leaving for Toronto, and won't be back until the wee hours of monday morning.

At least my school gets to be the United States this year at the conference. Nothing more frustrating then watching ultra-left-wing University of Toronto college students try to argue about American foreign policy. They're all too passive-agressive to properly represent the United States, it seems.

More next week guys. Thanks for all of the support! My ego has swelled to once, twice, thrice it's original size! :D
 
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Nightcrawler,
Thanks for the fix. At least with you we don't have a prolonged waiting period like Stephen Hunter or Matt Bracken put us through between installments exhibiting their talent.
Take care and have fun in Toronto, if possible.
Holly.
 
Nightcrawler, you've got talent.

I love to write too, but I can never decide where to take the story... You don't have that problem.

Have fun in Canadia, eh? :D

Wes
 
update from Toronto

Toronto is a beautiful city, and I'm having a good time. Quite a bit of thinly-veiled animosity for Americans coming from many University of Toronto students, but the majority that I"ve met seem very nice, if somewhat, erm, socialist.

Nice place to visit, wouldn't want to live here.
 
My first year at the conference in Toronto (NAMUN), we Americans our Canadian hosts got along famously, and I made a lot of friends.

Last year, the tone was very different. The Iraq War was looming, and many of the Canadian students (being young college students, on a liberal campus, in a liberal city, in Canada, you can imagine their political leanings) seemed anxious to tear Americans down. One of them actually admitted to us that we had broken his perceived stereotypes of all Americans as arrogant overconsuming whatevers. NAMUN invited a keynote speaker for the dinner that literally bashed the United States for 40 minutes; some of us from the American schools walked out, most of us just sat silently when we were expected to clap. The Canadians gave him a standing ovation.

This year, the tensions seem to have defused a lot, and once again I made new friends. There was some international friendly ribbing both ways, but nothing serious. One of the keynote speakers (a representative from OXFAM Canada) opined that the UN should be turned into a supra-national government with its own army.

I wrote an article for the NAMUN confernece paper about why that would be a very bad idea. See, I was assigned to the US delegation. (Our school got the US, Japan, Peru, Kenya, and Australia), and that'd be against US policy. So, as per our instructions, I wrote an article with the appropriate national media spin on it, which conveniently enough reflected my own beliefs.

It's interesting. I greatly dislike the real United Nations, but model UN is a lot of fun. It's interesting to go up to Canada and get the opinions of different people, almost all of them political science students like myself.

Hell, I actually hit it off with the lovely young woman representing Yugoslavia (historical), much to my suprise. My...erm, flirting skills are a bit rusty, but it was a good time. Alas! It's not meant to be. We're just from different worlds. LOL

Anyways, it's 4:00AM and I just got back to the dorm. I've been up since 7:30 yesterday morning and I'm beat. So, I'm hitting the hay.

Should be a story update tomorrow.
 
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