MEGADOOM IV:
Saving Private Blasto
John Carmack and that other guy made Doom, not me. But I did stay at a Motel 6 last night. They kept the light on for me and it kept the demons of hell away. True story.
And oh yeah, this story contains graphic depictions of violence, blood, gore, and also contains excessive swearing.
And oh yeah again, feedback is greatly appreciated. And read some of my other stories. They're just grand.
XXX
U.S.S. Conscientious Objector in orbit above Earth
23:46 hours
Fleet Admiral Cartwright slammed his fist against his desk. How the hell many times was this going to happen? It really pissed him off how this always seemed to happen. How His Royal Self the Prince of Darkness always seemed to become, despite their "peace talks," His Royal Wanker-Self the Prince of Wanking-in-the-Darkness.
"Another team gone? How in fuck's name does that happen?" he growled towards his guest, the esteemed Admiral Hardingsfoyle.
Hardingsfoyle just shrugged, unable to produce what he thought would be an appropriate answer.
Cartwright slammed his fist down again. The Prince of Darkness was always getting on his nerves. First, he had invaded Mars station for no reason. Cartwright had wanted to give His Royal Highness the benefit of the doubt. Sure, he had heard things about how terribly evil he was, but he didn't want to assume. But after the Mars Station Incident years back, he realized just how much that unholy wanker was just a jerk.
After that little "misunderstanding", as Wank-Master General had called it, the United States of Earth had slapped some tough sanctions on Hell. They found the cure for immortality, and made everyone drink an elixir of invincibility, and thus Maestro downstairs didn't get no fresh souls, boo-hoo, the son-of-bitch had it coming.
And now he had kidnapped a patrol detail that was making the rounds of Mars Station. Once again, that fucker had overstepped his bounds. There were two privates-first-class that were on patrol, and one of them, Irving Crinkleberry, was killed in the ensuing action. The other private, Christopher Blasto, was taken a prisoner by several very nasty hellspawn.
"Goddamn him," Cartwright muttered.
"That'd be a redundant action," Hardingsfoyle informed him. "After all, he is in--"
"Shut up, I know, I was venting my frustrations." Cartwright sighed and eased himself into a comfy black leather chair behind his desk. "Well shit," he continued, "unless something is done, this is going to mean full-scale war between Earth and Hell, and we all know where that'll lead: conscription. Which I ain't got a problem with, except for that means college enrollment will go up, which will lead to more educated kids. Bah, if there's one thing I can't stand, it's educated kids."
"But, sir," Hardingsfoyle began timidly, "if the whole human race is invincible, in theory we'd only need an old woman armed with a butter knife to win."
"But sir, Hardingsfoyle, therein lies the rub. We're only invincible and immortal so long as we stay on Earth. Once we leave this good land, we become… mortal."
"So… let's not leave Earth?"
"But what if he takes Mars Station?" Cartwright demanded.
Hardingsfoyle looked shyly around. "Well, suppose we could just concede him the station and call it good?" He cringed when Cartwright banged his hand on his desk again and stood up.
"Damn it, no man. We can't concede one micro-inch of our rightful space to that Overlord of Eternal Suffering. Anyone who makes terrorizing attacks, like when children dream about demons, is considered a terrorist! And we don't negotiate with terrorists," he spat bitterly.
"But, sir, what's the harm in a dream?"
"Mental warfare," said Cartwright in anger as he sat down again. "No, we need to save this Private Blasto, and assassinate the Overlord of Eternal Wanking forever!"
The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
"Okay," said Hardingsfoyle. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?"
"By recruiting the one man who has ever successfully entered the fiery flames of the Lake of Fire and returned: Barry."
"Barry sir? What's his last name?"
"He ain't got one!" Cartwright said. "And damn it, man, damn it. No one has seen him in years. He went into the Witness Protection Program after the Mars Station Incident, so that the Wanker Chief wouldn't find him. Unfortunately, his cover was blown when some idiot went on the news and leaked his real name. When he realized that he was in danger of retaliation from foreign governments, namely Hell itself, he started living off the grid, and no one has been able to track him."
"Well… uh… we'll get on," Hardingsfoyle said, and showed himself out.
XXX
Somewhere in Appalachia, Earth
Sometime around four-ish
The cold Appalachian winds chilled Agents Goode and Stone to the bones, but soon they wouldn't have to endure it much longer. They had found their target: a small wood house tucked deep in to the hills of Appalachia. On it's front porch, an old man and an even older golden retriever sat in placid contentment: the old man in his rocking chair, and dog laying on the front steps, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. The man was old looking, perhaps in his mid to late sixties. He had a long gray beard which flowed to his waist. He wore gray-patchwork overalls, and no shirt underneath. He had on a straw hat, and peculiar round purple shades.
As the two agents approached, the old dog got up and barked, and then suffered a heart attack and fell over dead. The man didn't seem to notice it had died. He stood up.
"Rowdy, where'd you go to boy? Rowdy!" he called in a wheezy voice. "Oh, dangnabit, he's run off again. Oh well. He'll come back. He always does." He heard a porch step creak as Agent Goode began to ascend up onto the porch.
"Whose there?" asked the old man, looking slowly back and forth. "I warn you-- I'm armed!" He reached over next to his rocking chair and pulled up a cane.
"My name is Truman Goode, and I am here on official government business. With me is my partner, Rowling Stone." They decided not to bow, seeing as this old man was blind. But there was no way this could be the man they were sent to retrieve.
"Whaddyoo want?" croaked the old man. "Gosh-durn government. Why, back in my day, I was the government! Leastways I worked for 'em anyhoots."
"Listen, Grandpa," began Stone hotly.
"Johnny boy, is that you?" asked the old man wheezily. "Come give your grandpa a hug!" And he moved slowly, feebly over to one of the roof supports and hugged it. Stone and Goode gave each other sidelong glances.
"Is your name Barry?" Goode asked, getting straight to the point, staring fixedly as the old man scooped the roof support.
"What? Oh yes, but I haven't been called that in years," Barry said brightly. "Old Rowdy just kept calling me woof. Strange dog. I'd introduce you, but he seems to have wandered off."
"Can we go inside? We have much we need to talk about," Stone said detachedly.
"Of course," said Barry, taking his arms from around the roof support, and with his cane began to guide himself towards the door. But as he tapped it against the wood of the deck, the tip found the dead body of Rowdy. Barry gave it a few good pokes.
"Hm… it seems as though something crawled onto my porch and died," he observed. "Must be a wild skunk. They always seem to be dying. We'll, let's get inside. We're burning daylight."
Over the next ten minutes, he wandered around his deck looking for the front door. When he found it, he led the two Agents inside.
Inside wasn't much. It was one room, with and adjoined bathroom and kitchen. It had a bed, a furnace, and barrel with two crates placed next to it like chairs. On top of the barrel was a checkerboard.
"I always play red," said Barry fondly of his favorite game. Stone eyed the number of pieces. Apparently, Rowdy had won the last game.
"Barry, let's get straight down to business," Goode said, sitting on top of one of the crates. "We are from the government. We know about your past. We know you were involved in the Mars Station Incident all those years ago. We need your help now."
"That was a long time ago," said Barry, sitting down on the metal plate that was on top of the furnace. "I don't play guns anymore - I play banjo," he said, pulling a banjo up and striking up a tune.
"Yes, that's great and all," Stone interrupted the theme from Deliverance, "but we need your help. The Prince of Darkness has taken a prisoner of war, and Fleet Admiral Cartwright is creating a special team to save this Private and assassinate the aforementioned Lord of Darkness. Your participation is… required."
"Is it getting hot in here?" asked Barry as steam wafted up from underneath him. "And it smells like bacon. Maybe I started some in the kitchen." He got up and walked into the kitchen, revealing the place, right smack-dab in center of his rear, where the heat from the furnace had burned his overalls and fried his skin, which continued to smoke a little.
Stone and Goode both sighed in unison.
Private First Class Christopher Blasto was, in military terms, officially fucked hardcore.
