Tag Archives: Screwhaul

The Many Deaths of Holdout

Transcript:

“Alright, let’s have a word here, gentlemen, while we have time. I’d just like you folks to get a sense of me and the kind of man I am. I just want you all to know that this is going to hurt you a lot more than it’s going to hurt me.”

*Muffled mumbling*

“You might be wondering why I called you all here together to day. If you are, I’m doing the world a favor by keeping you from having children. Don’t bother struggling. You aren’t going to be able to break free of that adhesive. It’s amazing the things you can do with peanut butter. Now, if anyone here feels they have been unfairly beaten over the head with a bat and restrained, I am willing to field some questions. Give you a few last words. Now, who wants their gag off first? You there, with the broken nose.”

“You better let me go or so help me God I’ll-“

“Shut the hell up, that’s what you’ll do. Next!”

“Please, man, you don’t have to do this,” “Why?” “come on, it’s… it- it, it’s Dave’s birthday!”

“Oh is that true? Shut the facehole! There.” *Footsteps* “You’re Dave? Happy Birthday Dave. You know, birthdays are a happy time for some, usually youngsters, or young’uns to use the vernacular. Not to be confused with onions, which, unlike teenagers, make you cry when you cut them. What I find when I think about a birthday is that it’s this one day where you have to admit you’re older. That, or a good time for your wife to go ‘Sure, why not stick it in my ass?’ Which I don’t have to tell you is rhetorical question. Do you have a wife?”

*Muffled affirmation*

“Oh yeah, good to know. The other thing about birthdays is that people contemplate mortality on their birthday. You’re lucky. You get a consultation with an expert in mortality. Um, by the way here pal. Hey, cut that out, what am I going to do, squeeze your shoulders until you die? Anyway, I wanted to ask you something, man to man, buddy to buddy. It’s a delicate subject, but…how long after you die can I start nailing your wife?”

*Muffled yelling*

“I take it you don’t approve of my plans to bend her over your washing machine while she’s got whipped cream on her knees and a cucumber shoved up her tailpipe. That’s what women have, right, tailpipes?”

*Banging of a human head on a metal wall accompanied by frantic noises of struggle*

“I’ll take that as an ‘Over my dead body’ so, you know it’s not really specific after today. I’ll be more subtle about it and see if it grows in her, on her, I meant on her.”

*More gagged screaming*

“Hell, you’ve all been spreading rumors about me. Maybe I ought to just whip it out here and go to town. What’s that? You look like you have something to say. Here, let me get that.”

“You aren’t going to rape us are you? Please, don’t-“

*Something fleshy slams against metal.*

“IT IS TOO LATE TO ‘PLEASE’ ME! Frankly I’m offended you think this can all be avoided by a bunch of guys in a van pleasing me. If you wanted to say please, it should have been ‘Please, sir, can we shut up really hard rather than blab to everyone around about you looking like you were banging a teen sidekick with a nice ass that you were killing. Killing the sidekick, that is, not the sweet, sweet ass.’ But you didn’t. You who work in the business of moving secret equipment for known criminals to secret lairs didn’t keep a secret. This can only mean one thing.”

*Paper crinkling*

“Now, let’s put your thought processes down on paper, shall we? ‘Dear friends, loved ones, and Dave’s soon-to-be-wheelchair-bound-from-excessive-fucking wife.’ Calm down Dave! ‘We, the bodies you are about to find, have grown weary of this life. There is only so many great works of literature you can read, so many impressive artworks to contemplate, so many vampire killer stories of dead presidents you can snub for the Oscars, and so many things you can shove up your ass and enjoy the funny feelings. Not for you, Dave’s wife, but for everyone else. We have reached our limit on all of these things and more. Now that we have lived life to its fullest, we have taken it on ourselves to commit suicide. Suicide by Gecko. To this end, we have spread some COMPLETELY false rumors about him and a certain teen sidekick. We would ask that you disregard those rumors. We also ask that you remember us not as the assholes we were, but as the full blown raging assholes we secretly were online. P.S. Dave’s wife, medically speaking, it’s healthier to do it up the butt.’”

“Now that that’s out of the way, I would like to show you men this. To the naked eye, this appears to be a banana. Those of you who served in the military had to learn how to defend yourself from one of these in basic hand to hand. What makes this one different is, you guessed it, an incendiary device. Smart crowd. I’m just going to leave this here, and when I push this little button on the device in my hand, your bananas are going to fry.”

*Struggling, rustling, and gagged pleas for help*

“Huh…any of the rest of y’all see that motorcycle back there? That guy there looks familiar. Here, I’ll tell you guys what. I’m going to leave Mr. Banana back here with you guys. You take good care of it. And I’m going to hop in the driver’s seat and take a little drive over Holdout. I don’t know how he keeps surviving, but I know I have a moving van here. As we all well know, vans are dangerous to underage people.”

*Engine starts up and radio turns on. Psycho Gecko sings along*

“There’s a path running under the city, where the stones and the hills divide. There’s a path we can walk through the loss and the pity…good song, you don’t usually hear these guys on the radio. Appropriate band for the occasion, Dave! Alright, chums up, let’s do this, Leerooooooooy-!”

*Squealing tires*

*Transcript Ends*

Took care of that damn Holdout. Again. A truck to the face ought to finish what the potty rocket apparently didn’t. Either he was following me or he tracked the license plate number of the moving van. Now I know how curiosity felt.

Oh, and the Screwhaul guys are taken care of. I’m thinking of going to Dave’s funeral and comforting his widow, but we’ll see if I’m going to be busy killing Holdout again.

 

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The Death of Holdout

Nope, didn’t get credit for disabling the ship and saving the day. Boohoo, cry me a river, heroes save the day, parades all around. I didn’t even get to keep my transport ship. They towed it. Something about being double parked on top of a building.

What have I been doing in the meantime? Some business in the Vatican, dealing with the Pope. Nothing for y’all to worry about, as the story will be old news soon enough. Just some useless pop culture drivel associated with a situation that last happened a few hundred years ago. Also means there’s no use telling it later because, hey, who the hell’s going to remember it later to give a crap?

Instead of leaving whoever is reading this a little behind on the timeline, I’m just going to catch you up. Let’s see. Built a new eye. The nanites regrew my hand and that part of my leg. Still haven’t broken in the hand though. Trying to take the relationship slow with this one.

Anyway, I’ve been working on my rocket again.

That’s not completely honest. Work on the rocket has stalled right now because I am changing lairs. Now, I don’t have any dedicated minions of my own, but I know a few good movers. That’s right, villains have movers. They charge extra too. They’re transporting dangerous or illicit objects. If they get caught, or decide to turn them in, or push a wrong button, something bad might happen. They could be vaporized, arrested, maybe even have their skin turned hot pink. Not that I have anything against pink people. Just don’t call them the P word. You know which one.

Why do I have to move? A sidekick found me. Holdout is what he calls himself. His boss, Sixgun, has a Lone Ranger vibe to him. That doesn’t explain why Holdout’s tights are shorter than shorts. It’s an…interesting…image when combined with the cowboy hat and full face mask. Not judging here. Who am I to talk about how hard it is to resist the charms of a young teen in skin tight short shorts and cowboy boots.

I’m resisting them just fine, though, don’t you think otherwise. I have him tied up and covered with oil. Wait, let me explain. The idiot actually recognized me while I was out and followed me back to my lair. I work hard to change my face every once in awhile just to keep this kind of thing from happening. Fuck if I know how he figured it out.

So, my “lair”…yeah. Hoo boy.

It’s more like one of the shops at a strip mall. I don’t do a lot of security because this thing rarely happens. It happened this time, though. What little security I do have proved more than adequate to capture Holdout once I saw him on the cameras. Yep, I bonked him on the head with a baseball bat when he walked in the door. But it’s fancy security. This time the bat was aluminum.

Doesn’t sound too threatening, right? You’re forgetting that heroes always find out who has their sidekick. That’s one reason I never kidnap them. Kid might have a tracking gizmo on him, or checked in along the way, or someone else saw the boy wonder in booty shorts.

Right, I got sidetracked away from the oil. I called the movers as soon as I could, so they took most of the stuff already, but I got the idea to have some fun with the kid. But not that kind of fun, dammit. I’m not sexing up the sidekick.

This is just torture. Or I’m trying to make it torture. Most of the stuff is gone, though, so I’m not exactly working with a car battery or paint thinner here. All I’ve got is a few things left from the kitchenette, so I can’t even get any penetration on this kid.

For fuck’s sake, I hate teen sidekicks already, especially talking about them.

Ok, I’m back. Just smacked him in the nose with a spoon. It was very satisfying. Bam, there we go again. You know, I think I heard some guy used nothing but spoons to kill a guy. I don’t have the time for that. Trust me, it takes a long time to carve a heart out that way. That’s why the Aztecs never had spoons, you know. The closest they ever had to them were obsidian utensils that were somewhat rounded, but with sharpened points on them. They called these fearsome weapons “sporqueatualpoctli” and they were the bane of Spanish conquistadors.

Or it would have been, but the Spanish are notorious for having food that does not require the use of utensils. The Aztec warriors greatly feared the coming of a conquistador mess wagon, whose dinner bell struck fear into their hearts. Their sporks were useless against such cuisine. To this day, the heart-craving Aztecs are kept out of the United States by a chain of restaurants that utilize the fear-inducing warning of a conquistador chuck wagon.

In your universe, I believe they’re called Taco Bell.

The only sporqueatualpoctlis I have are made of plastic, though, and they just broke when I tried to stab Holdout in the head with them. I may have drawn blood. Or ketchup. I’m not tasting to find out. The last thing we need after me oiling him up is putting my lips on him.

Alright, so let’s check the fridge. You know, I like bratwurst. Good stuff, especially the ones with some cheese in them. The only problem is you feel like you’re going to be sick a little bit after you eat them. They’re the only thing I eat mustard on, so don’t feel bad when I tell you I poured mustard in the kid’s eyes and rubbed it in. Not too much of an effect. Pow, frozen salami to the head!

Aaaand he’s out. I told the guys at the deli that I needed Genoa salami, not hard salami.

This is almost turning into more work than it’s worth. I don’t usually use guns, but I’m thinking I might need to ask the movers for one of theirs. It’s just disappointing, you know? I had a very simple dream of executing an annoying sidekick and getting away with it. But now the getting away with it part is messing with the execution. What kind of a world are we in when you just can’t slay a person with whatever you have in your refrigerator?

Lightbulb!
Ok, you’ll be glad to know that I’m getting out of here. Mission accomplished. I threw the fridge on him. Now, that didn’t actually kill him the first time. Not the second time, third time, fourth time, or the fifth of vodka. So I wound up sticking his head in the ice storage, shoving marshmallows in his mouth, and gave him the biggest wedgie until the struggling stopped.

That’s when I heard someone say “What the fuck?!” and found the movers had returned.

I tried to tell them it wasn’t what it looked like. “No, it’s ok, I’m trying to make him choke! You can’t see it, but I’ve shoved something in his mouth.”

Needless to say, they got the wrong idea, but when they wiped the horrified expressions off their faces they were able to finish their job and take the refrigerator. Then I activated the device I built in under the sink. By the way, if anyone is ever in an old store, warehouse, or apartment that I may have stayed in and finds some weird machinery under the sink that they don’t recognize, you might want to carefully remove it, take it to the backyard or an empty lot or even a lonely desert somewhere, and set it off in a controlled and safe demolition. If the resulting mushroom cloud is blue, then you’ll know it was really one of mine. Or tie it to the tail of a cat, I don’t care.

No, no, no, that’s wrong. Strap it to a Chihuahua. Yap yap yap ba-BOOM! Woosh!

All in all, I’ve had better torture sessions where I was the victim.

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