A Head of the Game 4

Check this shit out. I delegated today. Me, the Great and Devious One. It involved less voting in a Congressional Congress than I imagined it would. I can be surprisingly good at working with others…hey, I’m part of the surprised crowd on that one…but I generally don’t just sit around and have people do things I’m supposed to be taking care of. Put it down as another reason I doubt I’d fit into the conventional workforce. That, and the murder. I suppose I could work for a slaughterhouse, but I’d get fired fairly soon after tying up whoever is supervising me, covering them in emulsified grass, and hanging them in the middle of a herd of bloodthirsty cows with teeth ground to points. Evil bastards, those cows. I hear there’s a country out there where they’ve taken over so thoroughly that people refuse to eat beef or even give them a gentle nudge when they’re just standing in the middle of the road. They practically worship them.

Then again, you can hardly expect a cow to join the regular workforce either. Do you know why cows can’t be waitresses? Because of all the tipping.

Oh sure, you could ride a cow, but I’d prefer to not have a cow. Instead, I have a car. I nicknamed it Black Sunshine because that’s cool as Inuit shit and it’s also a song I like.

I had Carl and Moai go take care of getting it once I finished making them a copy of a special grenade to open it up. It seemed handy seeing as it had been nabbed by the police. It hasn’t been officially linked to me, actually, or they’d have long since torn it apart. It was just parked in the wrong place when the heroes came after a base I was in and the police figured they might as well grab it while they were in the neighborhood.

My thinking was that they should be fine left to such a task. Meanwhile, I was off to go see what I could see. I figured on the rehab place. Believe it or not, he was still going there. In fact, he canceled all appointments that would have taken him off the grounds. Dame may have thought she was being clever when she convinced him to ditch his phone, but I’m all up in his emails like a binary secret agent. A super spyware. Agent Double 0-111. There’s only 10 kinds of people in the world, and 1 of them is going to get that joke.

First thing I noticed as I trudged closer was the beefed up security. It was total bull. It would have been tough to tell perhaps, but there were two doormen now, and they were different from the helper they had out there before. Bulkier. Some of the bulk was muscle. Some of it was weaponry. I bet they had some cameras out and about too. They can afford to keep things lax until actual threats are made.

As if that wasn’t enough, they also had a couple of patrol units sitting out in the street. The best police protection money can buy: bored cops babysitting the rich and famous. I can understand the lack of attention to the big Rube Goldberg contraption, especially one that was all about insulting someone.

I stopped by one of them, just a random, bundled up man, and pointed up at the soot on the exterior walls of that same building. “Hey, officer, I noticed it looks like there’s been a fire, and then you guys and the toughguys by that one building…did I just wander into a bad part of town?”

“Huh. Nah, son. Somebody’s been pulling some pranks around here recently,” the officer, an older fellow with a thick brown mustache that covered his upper lip, said to me. I wondered if he was anywhere near retiring.

“That’s one hell of a prank. Did they light something on fire?”

“Something like that. Part of it blew up and people around here panicked. You’d think they never saw fireworks before. The only dangerous part of any of it was a piano that tried to fall on someone.” He nodded toward the corner where I rigged the piano.

“Oh, ok. So they think whoever did it is going to come back then.”

He snorted at that. “I think we’ll be able to tell if someone is walking around packing a piano in their trousers.”

We shared a chuckle. “Easy, officer, the baby grand in my pants is all natural wood.” The chuckle turned to laughter. In my experience, penis jokes are great for breaking the ice, usually with a few hard thrusts. As an added bonus, the ice can help you with the soreness you experience from sinking your Titanic into an iceberg.

I continued on my merry way along the sidewalk to pass in front of the clinic, receiving a glare from the doormen in the process. Sure, they had shades on, but they were professional glarers, and that means I could tell I was being glared at through the glasses. I had one hand in my pocket as I turned and waved at them with the other when I was right in front.

Via the rear cameras, I caught a car passing by, but slowing down. The man in the passenger seat lifted something. I dropped to the ground for cover. Whatever automatic they had was roaring thunder as the passenger emptied a long clip into the front of the building. The doors stopped some rounds, some exterior lights were wrecked, and I think a camera was hit in the process, but no real damage was done. Even the doormen got out of it safely. They’d gone prone too.

Now that the firing was done, they pulled out that bulky stuff I mentioned earlier. No, not the muscles. Who throws muscles at a car? Nope, they had a pair of Tesla rifles. They fired a few shots at the car as the driver gunned it and hauled ass out of there, but otherwise maintained position at the entrance.

The police cruisers raced after the escaping assassins.

I stood up and went to brush myself off.

“Geez, man, everybody alright?” asked one of the door guards. “What about you?” he pointed to me. “Did they get you any? Come here.”

How nice, offering to help me. They were going to send me inside to get checked out real quick, figuring I wasn’t a threat. Their kindness didn’t prompt me to say anything about the line of cars now approaching along the street behind them while their attention was turned toward me.

They only found out something was wrong when I hit the dirt again. The lead cars opened fire, with three shooters per car pouring buckshot and bullets from shotguns and M960s. One of the guards went down instantly under the withering fire. The other got a couple shots off while his body armor lasted, but it didn’t take very long for him to drop either. I put them to good use by piling up their bodies around me to serve as a makeshift castle.

The procession drove by like that for ten cars, just unloading on the Limbaugh Clinic. They had friggin bricks dropping off these two columns up front, and I’m still a little amazed the doors and window to the place were sustaining that fire. One of them must have had something a little stronger, though, because around the eighth car, shots began to plow on through. Problem was, the folks inside had a heavy metal security fence drop behind the doors and windows at that.

“Can you guys shoot any louder?! I can still hear myself shit my own pants!” I didn’t, by the way. I swear, that was just my natural cream filling.

It finally seemed to be about over when the tenth car decided to stop and a pair of men got out with what appeared to be old guns called BARs, but new ones. That BAR business stands for Browning Automatic Rifle, and it’s a machine gun that can be fired accurately from the standing position.

I tried to reason with them. “Your princess is in another castle!” I called out to them from the safety of my fort made of dead muscular guys with body armor. I considered throwing up a white flag, but the only pieces of white material around belonged in the pants of the late guards, and they weren’t very white anymore.

These magnificent gun nuts got cracking; they emptied those things on the place and put some holes in the armor that blocked the doors. By the time they finished, they had earned the attention of the ECPD, and the right to what I can only imagine was an awesome high speed chase. As said chase began, though, I pushed aside my dead body castle to shake my fist and yell after them, “And stay out!”

The place was locked down and the police were just about to swarm all over it, like white on rice. Like pedophiles on a pageant. Like a pitbull on a pant leg. I could take them, but for a Tweet I spotted. I’m spying on the guy’s Twitter account too. All that work to get into his email and it’s his own lack of discretion that gives him away. “Hav to help Stace find one dress in the whole city she doesnt already own for this weekend Kill me plz #fml”

I intend to give him a hand with that. I could have even gone hunting along some good shopping areas, but why would I end his suffering so soon?

In fact, this whole setback today gave me an idea for how to take him out. It was a simple leap. When I got back, I was going to tell the boys about it, but they distracted me upon arrival with my car being parked inside the lair. A beautiful, gleaming 1951 Hudson Hornet, or at least that’s how it started out. I’ve made a few modifications. Little things. Weapons, computers, a mini bar, quesadilla maker, so on and so forth. Things you need in a car as a supervillain, like a cool paint scheme consisting of jet black with orange trim. I gave my Black Sunshine a big ole hug. I missed that thing. I’ll have to start using it as openly as I do anything else, now I suppose. Hell, it’s ready for it. You can tell that by the license plate, CTUL US16.

“Boss, do you two need some alone time?”

“Maybe in a little bit when we’ve put on some sexy music and chilled some Thunderbird. Got to do this right. Speaking of doing things right, I have a plan!”

“Uh oh…” Carl said. Moai, meanwhile, headed off to a corner to get out of his oversized racing helmet and this jumpsuit he was wearing covered with logos.

“Hey, you’ll need to hear all this too, Moai,” I called after him.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to find him there, dressed in a lab coat with a hunch back under it. “You make a good Igor, Moai.”

“Now, then, my plan, that I believe will probably work… a plot so clever, it will ensure none of these other headhunters steal my kill… a scheme so genius it is INgenious… my plan that shall keep this shiteater himself from fleeing like a Jehovah’s Witness from a kidney transplant and tattoo parlor… my amazing, one-of-a-kind plan to get ahead of the game is-!” Moai thumped me on the side of my head. I gave him the finger as I hit the hologram, suddenly appearing as my teenaged target. “Identity theft!”

Carl reached out to lay a hand on Moai’s shoulder. “I think you hit him too hard this time,” he said with a rueful shake of his head.

“Also,…” I made the clothes on my hologram disappear, “…Public nudity!”

The screams died down eventually.



5 thoughts on “A Head of the Game 4

  1. Pingback: A Head of the Game 3 | World Domination in Retrospect

  2. farmerbob1

    Do you know how hard it is going to be for me to write my next chapter after blitzing your archives, PG? Worth it though, even if that means I can’t write about Bob and Frank for a couple days.

    1. Psycho Gecko Post author

      Always glad to entertain, though I don’t know how I’m messing with your writing. Maybe you’re worried about a little bit of Gecko rubbing off on you? Mind out of the gutter! I think I’ve noticed such an effect over at Legion of Nothing, actually.

      I really need to return the favor and read through others in the Lair. Might start with that person who was all excited to be over at Web Fiction Guide and I might as well review the shit out of it. Trust me, you want to be careful where I put two thumbs up.

  3. Pingback: A Head of the Game 5 | World Domination in Retrospect

  4. Eli g

    Am re reading the archives, and spontaneously decided to google ctulus16, while typing it in, catallus 16 popped up, and seemed promising, i clicked it, the wikipedia article that is, and i finally understand what pedicabo et vos irrumabo actually means…. google translate doesnt even begin to convey what it actually says, though this explains a lot about you gecko, i am unsure if youve seen what the explanation of the poem is trying to convey on wikipedia, but it suits you to a tee, though whether its a golf or a shirt i dont know,


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