Welcome Back, Mr. Nightcrawler

Status
Not open for further replies.
AHH! the great zombie war has arrived! load up the guns and head for the mountains!


awesome work nightcrawler, im reading all your older stuff now. im captivated to say the least
 
Fish Sticks

"Dead Six?" Jeff asked me. "Isn't that a little corny?"

"As corny as a Magic Corn booth. But the whole damned thing was so surreal that it seemed to fit."

"I guess you're right. So, after they picked you up...wait, did you say 'magic corn'?"

"I'll get to that later. Anyway..."

They took me on a tour through the city, or at least, it seemed that way. Doha, for a Middle Eastern city, is vibrant and crowded, and I heard Dave cursing aloud as we repeatedly got stuck in traffic at roundabouts. I was tired, but was too nervous to let myself fall asleep.

The Landcruiser wound through the city, and I lost track of all of the turns we'd made. Finally, we travelled down a narror street in what looked like the old part of the city. We pulled up to the gate of a walled compound, and Dave pressed a button on a garage door opener. The gate opened, and we drove in.

Now, almost all residential areas of Doha are divided up into walled compounds. You buy a patch of land, put a wall around it, and build a bunch of identical town-houses in it. Pretty standard for the Middle East, I'm given to understand.

What was weird about this place was the height of the walls, more than fifteen feet, and how nice the villas inside were. It seemed like an odd part of town to build such a compound in. But Doha was an interesting city like that, as I'd come to learn.

They compound was pretty straightforward. One wide road with a row of villas on each side. They stopped in front of the farthest one down on the right, number nineteen, and Gordon handed me a key.

"This is your place, kid. It's all furnished. You've got one bedroom, a small living room, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Go on in and get some sleep. We'll come get you tomorrow evening. Do not try to leave the compound. Your things from the States have been delivered already."

"Uh...okay. Sure. Um, bye." I got out of the vehicle, and let myself in to my new home. The place was pretty nice. High ceilings, brick, concrete, and stucco construction. There was a couch and a decently-sized television in the living room, and a bed, dresser, and wardrobe in the bedroom. The refridgerator was stocked with relatively familiar foods (though I was suprised to see the milk was produced in Saudi Arabia. Where in the hell do they have dairy farms in Saudi Arabia?), and my big container full of stuff was waiting for me in the middle of the living room. I dragged it into the bedroom, broke the seal, and opened it.

All of my items were in there. FAL carbine, with fifty magazines, emergency replacement parts, check. Colt Government Model, twenty magazines, replacement parts, check. Smith and Wesson Six-Two-Nine revolver, check. S&W 640 and 642 snubbies, check. H&K UMP-45 submachine gun, check. Suppressors for the Colt and the UMP. Six hundred rounds of .44 Magnum ammo, various types. One thousand rounds of .45ACP, two hundred and thirty grain, plus-P hollow points. Four hundred rounds of .308, one hundred and fifty-five grain Hornady TAP, check. Several hundred rounds of .38 +P and .357 Magnum ammo. Various load bearing gear, holsters, optics, etc.

Good to go, I thought. Though they'd told me that for a lot of operations, I'd be carrying "local" or third party weapons. AKs, mostly, I thought to myself.

After organizing my things, I loaded the .357 snubby, and stepped into the bathroom. I took a long, hot shower, stuck the snubby under my pillow, and crawled into bed. Local time was about three in the morning, and I'd had a long and surreal day. (It'd been almost ten hours since I'd left Amsterdam.)

It was about two in the afternoon when I woke up. I dressed myself in some khaki cargo pants, a white t-shirt, and a short-sleeved, khaki button down shirt, which I left un-tucked and un-buttoned. This allowed me to conceal the .357 snubby with my small-of-the-back holster.

I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Finding a two-point-two-five liter bottle of Pepsi, I poured myself a cup, put on my sunglasses, and stepped outside.

You know how when you cook fish sticks, and you open the oven to turn them over, you get that hot blast of air in the face because it's like four hundred and fifty degrees in there? Yeah. Opening my front door was prettymuch like that.

Each villa had a sort of porch, with an overhang to shade you from the sun. I looked out and observed my surroundings, sipping ice cold Pepsi as I did so. The smell was...unique. Dusty, mainly, with odd, dirty city smells mixed in. I could hear the usual city sounds as well. Cars going by, planes flying over, the usual. The sky was the bluest I'd ever seen, the sun more intense and merciless than I'd ever felt. The buildings in the compound where all white and tan stucco and brick. I guessed they didn't have much else to build with over there.

I looked up and down the compound. There didn't seem to be anyone else around, and no vehicles were parked inside. I wasn't suprised. I can see how people wouldn't want to hang out outside on a day like this. It had to be almost a hundred and twenty degrees outside.

That's when I saw her. She was sitting in a lawn chair on the porch of the villa directly to my left. She was wearing short cutt-offs and a halter top, and was reading some European women's magazine. She looked up over her magazine at me, through sunglasses, and smiled.

"Hey there. You must be knew. My name's Sarah." I walked towards the waist-high wall that separated her porch from mine.

"M...my name is Michael...Mike! Whichever," I stammered awkwardly. "Yeah, I just got in last night. How long have you been here?"

"About a week."

"They said they'd come get me tonight."

"Who, Gordon? They tell everybody that. They told me that a week ago when I got here. I don't think they've got it together."

"Do you know what this is all about? Dead 6, I mean."

"SHHHH!!" she hissed at me. "Don't ever say that name outside or in public, or over the phone. Okay? Didn't they tell you that?"

"They didn't tell me anything," I replied sheepishly.

"Figures. Gordon didn't pick me up, but I met him when he dropped some other guys off. The old man picked me up, and he told me more than most get told, I guess."

"The old man?"

"Don't know his name. He's the boss, though. Seems nice enough."

"So what are we supposed to be doing here?"

"I guess they're going to train us up on your jobs. What's your specialty?"

"Uh...shooting, I guess."

"Oh, I see," she said. "I can forge documents. IDs, passports, letterheads, you name it. They stocked my villa with equipment to practice with!"

"How'd you end up here?"

"It was either this or prison," she said, shrugging. "How about you?"

"That's kind of a long story," I said.


TO BE CONTINUED...
 
Last edited:
Like others, I had to get near the end of part 1 before i realized it was "fiction". Of course, reality has a strong element of fiction in it, so...

Nice one. Was just what I was looking for this afternoon as I surfed THR's new posts during a lunch break at work with wine (yes, I'm sole owner of a business that doesn't open for another few hours, so I get wine with my lunch at work ... :neener: )

Look forward to reading more soon...

Nem
 
My wife and I are itching to read the next installment...very entertaining read Nightcrawler!

Keep up the good work!
 
The thing I love about this place is there are so many damnably interesting things to read here. Manna from heaven! Please continue!:)
 
This one might actually end up being a bit longer than the first one. I've got two stories to tell this time. Where my character was and where he's going. It just came to me in a flash of inspiration. I'm glad; I was beginning to fear I'd lost my creativity!

Hmm, seems few of you remember the original "So There I Was..." story. Written as a parody of sorts. :D
 
That's when I saw her. She was sitting in a lawn chair on the porch of the villa directly to my left. She was wearing short cutt-offs and a halter top,

For the new folks...
You know how when are "almost" at the top of the Roller Coaster, and can see only part of what is on the other side heading back down with all the twists and turns?

Make sure the safey strap is tight and HOLD ON ! :D
 
you should compile all this stuff into one book or a word file so i can print it out and read it like a book. Old and new stuff. Me gusta mucho.
 
I never thought there could be a better story from you than "So there I was... (not very serious at all)". I laughed my ass of over that one! :) That one was genious!

But this is taking so many twists and turns, like a Casablanca movie sub-plot.

I LOVE IT!!!!! :) :) :)
 
Damn, I didn't see your link to that thread earlier tonite. I had to search for it, but I just typed "press check Glock" and it came up #1.

Yes, I remember that story well. In fact, didn't it inspire some LEOs to lend some similar stories in separate threads? Wasn't there some guy writing about using a tazer in his jail, only on himself? And a few others in a similar vein? Some LEO near retirement and fu**ing up all over the place or another guy in a Roccoe Scooter?

It was good stuff, but you were the originator~
 
Cruel Tutelage

"So she was hot?" Jeff asked me.

"Smoldering. Almost painful to look at," I replied, grinning. "The kind of girl that usually doesn't talk to me."

"So what happened?"

"Well..."

A few days later, Gordon and SFC Dave finally did show up. They gathered most of us new guys together, and drove us out to a secluded compound way out in the desert. We were to bring none of our own gear, only a few changes of working clothes and various sundries. Fortunately for me, they didn't search us. I smuggled my S&W 642 snubby along with me, and ten rounds of ammo. I didn't trust these people.

They dropped us off in a small barracks. There were twelve of us in that group, from varied backgrounds. It was apparent that this training was just for the trigger-pullers, as Sarah and the other support types weren't there.

We were assigned partners. My partner was an interesting fellow named Tailor. He was...well, he's hard to describe. Chain-smoking, irritable, foul-mouthed, cocky, looked and talked like Zorg from the movie The Fifth Element (but with less hair). Despite being nearly polar opposites, we became good friends. But hardship brings people together like that.

"What hardship?" Jeff asked me.

"Oh, there was plenty. It started there, though. Ever see the Kill Bill movies? There's a chapter in the second one called The Cruel Tutelage of Pai Mei, or something like that."

"So you learned kung foo?"

"I think it was more of a blended fighting style, based on the stuff the Special Forces use. But instead of Pai Mei, we got a man they referred to simply as The Instructor..."

"FASTER!" The Instructor screamed at me. I was doing the pushups as fast as I could. I was exhausted, and my arms were about to give out on me. I could tell. I hadn't done pushups since I'd gotten out of the Guards. I was out of shape something awful.

The Instructor kicked me in the stomach, knocking me out of the leaning rest position onto my back.

"You disgust me, Forty-Seven." Forty-seven was the number they had given me. We each got one, and we were never referred to by our names. Tailor was number forty-six.

"Look at you," he said, as I clutched stomach, gasping for breath. "You're fat. Weak. Out of shape. Pathetic." He walked towards me, and went to kick me again. As he approached, I felt myself grow suddenly calm, like I wasn't really there. Like playing a first-person shooter. I had missed this feeling. Before his foot connected, I rolled out of the way and was up on my feet.

The Instructor laughed.

"Movin' fast now, ain'tcha, boy?" He approached me, and I felt my muscles tense up. He stepped in front of me, and leaned in really close, the way drill sergeants like to do. I didn't say anything.

"Look at you, boy", he said, a cruel grin splitting his face. "I think you got some fire in yer belly. You think you can take me?" I didn't reply. I just matched his intense gaze, staring into his right eye. The left side of his face was broken by a long scar that went from above his eyebrow down his cheek, and he was apparently blind in his left eye. There was no color in his left eye, either, making his gaze very unsettling.

"Nothing to say, boy?" I looked behind him to his left. Tailor was there, looking at me, the expression on his face asking me if I wanted help. To his right, I saw Gordon approaching.

"How's it going?" Gordon asked casually, lighting a cigarette. He wore dark sunglasses and seemed disinterested.

"Pathetic bunch," The Instructor replied, still looking at me. "Bunch of frightened children." The Instructor extended his arm, and a massive hand clamped around my throat. He grinned, and I'd had enough.

My left hand reached down as my left leg came up. I retrieved the snubby from the small holster on my left ankle, and in a flash the revolver was pointed at his chest. I didn't bring it up to eye level; at contact distance I didn't need to. His grip tightened, and I fired twice.

The Instructor staggered back, releasing me. I collapsed to my knees, and began to bring the gun back up to eye level. The next thing I knew The Instructor had wheeled around in a sort of roundhouse kick. His right boot connected with the right side of my head, sending me, my gun, and my glasses flying. Everything went black.

When I came around, I was on my back in the sand. Four men, sporting the whole "contractor" look (5.11 khaki pants and vests, M4 carbines, Wiley-X sunglasses, severe expressions) loomed over me, weapons trained on me. My snubby was nowhere to be found, and without my glasses, things were a touch blurry. Behind them, the other students had gathered in a semicircle, shocked expressions on their faces.

I thought I was dead, to be quite honest.

"Try not to kill them," I heard Gordon say as he walked away. "We've only go so many."

"Stand down," I heard The Instructor say. The four men backed off, and he was standing over me. His khaki shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a thin body armor vest, with two dents in it. He dropped two small objects in the sand next to my head. I looked over at them, and recognized them to be mushroomed Golden Saber hollow points.

"That was ballsy, kid," he said, smiling. He extended his hand downward. I hesitated for a moment, then took it. he helped me up. My head and jaw were aching. He stood me up, and clapped me on the shoulder. Holding his left hand high, he turned to the other students. I saw that in his left hand, he held my snubby.

"Did you all see what happened here today? This man brought a weapon to my training class, after we told you NOT TO BRING ANYTHING! I can't believe this. You know what I can't believe? That out of all of you, out of so many supposed badasses, self-proclaimed criminals, and wannabe gunslingers, that this college boy is the only one that thought to bring a damned gun! What the hell is wrong with you people? Yer all here against yer will, are getting led around without knowin' what's goin' on, and are here gettin' screamed at and abused. And none of you think to pack? Just because somebody told you you shouldn't? You are all PATHETIC. I'm here to change that, though. When I get through with you all, you'll be able to smuggle a gun anywhere, and know how to make do without one. You'll be able to get in and out of situations that you can't dream of right now. You need to take this training to heart, boys. If you fail, you don't wash out. We don't send you home. We still send you into the field, and you get killed. And you know what? Yer momma don't even get a flag. So I suggest you all pay attention from here on out."

"Instructor..." I heard Tailor say. I was still bewildered.

"What do you want, Forty-Six?" he asked, examining my revolver and not looking at him. Tailor didn't respond. A couple seconds later, The Instructor looked over at him, and smiled.

In his outstretched right arm, he held a small Bersa .380 (not in a firing grip).

"Both of you head back to the barracks, get cleaned up, and hit the chow hall. Get a good night's sleep tonight. Here's yer glasses and yer gun, kid." He handed me back my things.

"The rest of you, head over to the track and start runnin'. I'll tell you when to stop." Tailor and I looked at each other, both grinning. Blood trickled from my right nostril.

"Niiiice," Tailor said, chuckling. He pronounced it 'noice'. He kind of talked funny like that. We both reholstered our weapons and headed back to the barracks.

"Holy crap," Jeff said.

"Like I said, bro, it was surreal," I said, sipping Dr. Pepper. "Nearly three months they kept us there. PT. Shooting. Running. Tradecraft. How to get in and out of sticky situations. We learned some basic Arabic. It was like a mix of boot camp, spy training, and SERE school, condensed into three months."

"Sounds pretty cool."

"I hated every minute of it. Lucky if you got six hours of sleep a night, usually four or five. Few guys got hurt, and were taken away. Don't know what happened to them. Towards the end, we finally got briefed on our mission, what we were going to be doing there, the whole nine yards."

"What was the mission?"

"Well, Qatar was sort of a Switzerland for the terrorists. They didn't do any attacks there, and the Qatari government left them alone. The US government couldn't convince the Qatari Amir to take a proactive stance against them, so the US came up with a deniable plan to deal with these guys. Qatar was in many ways their home base. Safer for them than Saudi or Kuwait. They banked there, held fundraisers there, lived there, had their families there, recruited there. It was their backyard. Our mission was to take the war to their doorstep. It was their turn to be afraid."


TO BE CONTINUED...
 
Last edited:
Hey, 'Crawler, you by any chance need an editor? I used to be a journalist once upon a long time ago, in a galaxy far far away ;) and a former life...

BTW, if you need an aircraft expert, or research on armor (tanks) or shipping (big floating hunks of metal, not UPS/FedEx), our resident Crotalus atrox maritimus would be happy to lend a coil or two, especially since my membership card at the local air museum was actually issued before my birth certificate...

Very entertaining. I think you could make a novel outta all this. Someday, though, you gotta go back and finish Part Two... *coiling, with fangs out on casual display*

If your alter-ego ever ends up in Seattle, give the ol' Northwestern Diamondback a shout. (Psych profile and personnel file on request.)

Edit to add: Like your writing style. Two coils up!
Re-edited for clarification
 
Anybody know a good artist? I'd like to have some "promotional artwork" made up.

I've got one brother who makes surrealist sculpture, and another brother who does cartoons. I don't think either one would illustrate or promote your mini-novels very well...
 
Status
Not open for further replies.
Back
Top