You know, I’m not normally one to judge a person’s taste in interior decorating so long as it doesn’t involve the phrase “blinding amounts of pink” but I’m personally not the type to just keep skulls lying around. Unlike chunks of metal, discarded casings, and flamethrowers, I’m just not much of a skull person. Well, maybe around November 1st and 2nd sometimes, but that’s just me having a fun time sleeping on a grave somewhere.
At first I was excited to hear about a special day called “The Day of the Dead” but I was faced with disappointment. No zombies in sight. I tried everything I could think of to get them to come after me, save for sex. I had a dress on and kept insisting my name was Barbara. I drank and played heavy metal. I even tried to call up a nearby military base, but they just hung up on me. On the plus side, that did finally cause some relentless pale white creatures in suits to shamble after me brainlessly. They’re called FBI agents.
Now, onto the show.
I had been busy in the days after that meeting. There were details to be worked out, like tracking him. A lojack was unnecessary; if I got close enough to put a tracker on him, I was close enough to rip his head off and go running back to the TV with it. As it happens, a young up-and-comer like him likes to make generous use of technology. It’s a step in the right directions for you humans, but for me, a proud homo machina, it’s also a step into my own personal domain.
You humans. You rely so much on the digital reality, and yet you put so few defenses in place. This isn’t the first time I’ve hacked into a phone, though it certainly helped that I got there through his email. All the creativity of the human race out there and you can’t come up with better passwords than God, Sex, Love, Porsche, Ferrari, 123456, or Password? A simple dictionary crack bulked up with a couple lists of most common passwords got me in. Come on, I know y’all can do better than that. Make a word up, like Squishnooglbbun, or just throw a bunch of words together in a random order that in no way provides psychological insight, like MotherBunnyCorkscrewOedipus.
Not much to see there, I suppose. The usual, messages from Facebook saying he had messages on Facebook. Sympathy emails. Bikini pictures sent from his girlfriend’s phone. Girls asking for dates. A girl thanking him for a lovely time the other night after they met at the art gallery. The security report mentioning they had blocked one hundred and seventy-three “hostile or malicious emails” since their last update six hours ago, now that was interesting. He’s got his cyber protection through the Pinkertons.
You can have all the protection you want and it doesn’t matter if someone knows the right words to penetrate your most intimate of connections with the world. In this case, I got his schedule, you dirty, dirty readers! And, from there, I had potential times to strike.
First, however, I needed to see the clinic in person. Get a sense of what I’d need to drop on it to take it all out.
The rehab complex was a bright, cheerful place, full of smiling happy people. I’m going to tell you right now, it’s not surviving all this intact. Smug sons of bitches. If I’d known where this place was, I’d have fried it back when I had the Heatflasher on top of the Empyre State Building. They called it the Limbaugh Betterment Clinic. If you took a microscope to the sign out front, you’d even see the part that mentioned drugs and alcohol.
Yep, when you’re rich and famous, this is one of the places they send you. Indoor pools, Jacuzzis, state of the art gyms with personal coaches, entertainment areas, massage therapist, sauna, indoor movie theater, full service kitchen with room service, personal dog walkers, valet parking, security, helipad, and all sorts of other things that most people don’t get when they’re busted drunk driving. I got a good view of the rear door and side doors to the place too, though I suspect the target was disappointed to find they couldn’t do the horse riding right here. Just from my stumbling around while pretending to be a drunk hobo, however, I overheard a man asking someone to bring his car around so he could visit the off-site yacht club.
The doorman saw me and called in security via lapel mic. Next came the part of a job that I like least. The casualties. Specifically, not leaving any so I don’t miss my shot at the real big money dead person. The nerve of those guys, running around and chasing a blind, deaf, and mute former Vietnam vet that had a rare anti-aging condition!
Still, I did get a chance to put my plan into action. Moai was a lifesaver on that one. Well, not a saver of life, so much as the exact opposite. He helped me with the rope and the pulley and lifting the piano, and he did it all while fashionably dressed in a powdered wig. He prefers to wear the pukao when we’re not in the middle of something, obviously, though I was wearing the rasta hat and dreads he got me.
It was a simple, delicate plan with many moving parts and pieces.
I picked a time to set everything up when he was out on another date with the art gallery chick.
The ass stain of humanity was driving himself back to rehab, letting a girl know that he’d meet up with her later but he was busy at the moment. I tracked him using the phone’s GPS and, when he got close, sent the signal to Moai. Like all great signals, it involved mimicking an animal noise. By the way, I found a great video to practice this involving howler monkeys mating.
Moai pretended to be a special delivery by sticking a note to himself and throwing himself out of a truck. Someone must have told him how I tried to get into the White House that one time. He got real close to the door, too. Too close to open it up. Meanwhile, the truck’s wheel was weighted to send it smacking into the side alley on the right side of the clinic, where I didn’t want the target to go.
Our idiot friend got out and his date switched places to drive as he tried to head up to his room. Unfortunately, not even the doorman could get my henchman out of the way enough to let him in.
He had to go around, and I put my plan into motion as soon as he did so. I hefted a launcher to my shoulder. I squeezed the trigger, setting off the mini-guillotine that took off the chicken grenade’s head, and it immediately launched the rubber chicken catapult-style. I considered having it yank the head off my chicken instead, but I didn’t want anything tugging that hard on my cock. Also, it would have thrown my aim off way too much. I call it the Clucker Chucker.
The headless chicken soared majestically through the air like a whale in parachute pants to land in a trashcan that had been turned on its side. It knocked a stick out of the way as it did so, causing a lid to fall down and cover that hole.
The top of the trash can had been welded to the base of a miniature cannon. Most of the explosion’s force was channeled by the metal up into the rear of the cannon, firing a hot wheel of cheese into the air to smack against the corner of a building, smacking a button wired to a cage just inside the window. This cage then unleashed a horde of hungry rats who…actually, never mind.
That’s where the plan started to go wrong, as the hungry rats were all replaced by a couple of very full rats and assorted rat bones. Luckily, a bird spotted the nice plump rats that waddled out of the window onto the ledge and came in for a meal. The wind from the wings of this lovely raptor caused the dominoes on a nearby plank to start falling in a line down a zigzagging scaffold to a perfectly balanced ball that had wound up falling off the side of the whole mess earlier. Luckily, the last domino fell down the slide I had set up in place of the ball.
We had lubed that slide up pretty well. Otherwise, the spiraling would have probably had too much friction for the domino. It didn’t have nearly the momentum expected of it when it hit the pair of scissors at the end and pushed them slightly against a piece of string holding up a bowling ball, but it turned out we chose string that was too delicate anyway and it cut enough of the length for the ball’s weight to break the rest. The ball plunged lower, knocking on a lever as it landed on a drain pipe that was just part of the building. I didn’t care about the bowling ball after that. Seriously, fuck that ball.
The lever turned on the most subtle part of my plan to date: a large flashing neon sign that called out to my target. “Look up here, fuck-headed dickface!” English is such a beautiful language, isn’t it? The target had been walking towards the side door, but he stopped to look up at the sign. He even stepped back, better into the position I wanted him in, to try and read it clearly.
The sign heated up enough to light a fuse. At the end, the fuse wound up a piton in the building and directly to a finely-wound rope of made of firecrackers that then was looped around the end of another length of rope. This section stretched up through a pulley and back down to a piano hanging over the entrance to the side alley that went to the door on that side.
Unfortunately, the fuse didn’t make it. Some birds must have pecked it or it was too damn cold and window, or something. Instead, the drain pipe was filled with a little too much weight thanks to the snow and my valiant bowling ball, who has always been a close friend and ally. A section broke off and fell against the firecrackers, snapping them and sending the piano down right on the spot it needed to go. Come to papa, come to papa, bring me the money shot you glorious piano bitch…!
Unfortunately, a bundled-up shape dove and carried him out of the way.
Fucking bullshit stabbed up my dick!
It was his date, the one who should have been driving off. I stood up and zoomed in to watch her help him up quickly. My ID program was not set to any sort of high priority, but it picked out who the fucker’s savior was due to prior interactions. I couldn’t see the hair either, but the dead giveaways were the eyes and lips. Dame, at least in her civilian guise, shoved him into her car as I shoved another chicken into the Clucker Chucker. First she steals the art I stole from me, then she helps the heroes, now she even steals the person I’m trying to kill?! Uh uh, no way, José.
I led the target and fired, but she hit some nitrous or something and got out of there, leaving the chicken to explode as its arc crossed the road.
The good news is, now I have her email address. I don’t know what Dame’s angle is in all this, but she and I are going to have a talk real soon about how rude it is to protect someone else’s payday. I just have to do it without hurting her. Maybe I can break out the thong and body oil again for this one.