The morning was spent with the Postal Dude and Larry Chakawitz "testing" the weapons out in the desert on hapless citizens, before running out of human targets and devoting their attention to some of the surrounding cacti. With each pull of a trigger, a loud "Bang!" ensued with a hunk of cactus being knocked to the sand. Taking time off to go shooting was the life for the Dude. Soon he put that fervor to a "good" use of wiping out druggies by the dozen. By the time the Postal Dude had ejected the last empty shell of a sniper rifle, virtually all the cacti were gone. Little more stood in front of the Postal Dude than the smoke coming off his barrel and a bunch of ruined cacti.
"Boy, you're gonna be the best one I ever had! You ready to get started? I got a tip from a friend o' mine about a newly set-up meth shack in the bad part of Paradise. Should be easy pickings. And fun. Each bastard you put out of their misery is another good thing the mayor wants to hear." Larry said ecstatically.
"Won't the cops hear a loud fucking gun go off and start investigating?" the Dude reasoned, as doing something like that in broad daylight none the less was a recipe for disaster.
"They will. But they can't teleport! Just get in, kill 'em all, and get out. That is, if they will respond. You know them cops ain't gonna come out unless it's something major. This to them isn't all that major. Oh, you know what would be good here?"
"Signing a petition to make the cops do their job so I can continue not listening to deals proposed by a wanted man in the desert?" the Dude said sarcastically.
"Heh, you're funny! But I was thinking, what if you could take out the shack as well as the druggies? And for that, you'll need something extra. Got some time to spare before we head out?" Larry proposed, hardly containing his excitement.
"If it means I don't have to listen to you talk anymore, then yes."
Larry Chakawitz walked to one of the shacks nearby as the Postal Dude walked closely behind him. Inside the shack was hardly anything impressive, except for a strangely placed rug off in the corner. The rug was moved to reveal a small trapdoor that led underground to a dimly light cellar with teal containers. One of the containers had a vast rocket launcher on top of it. It was nearly as tall as the Postal Dude, and about half as wide. It was painted crappy beige.
"This right here is what'll do the trick. Can you carry it for me? I need to hide my cargo down here anyway. I can teach you how to fire it real quick, also."
"Glad to see my tax dollars haven't gone to waste."
The Dude picked up the rocket launcher, and to his surprise, was lightweight, for a weapon like this. With great difficulty, he climbed up the ladder out of the cellar and back to the scorching deserts of Arizona. He spat in disgust; his loogie kicking up previously undisturbed dust on where it landed. Outside, he put the rocket launcher down to take a piss. Not just any piss though, this was a massive piss. The Dude walked over to one of the people he shot up, particularly the one demolished by the shotgun. He then unzipped his pants and felt a seemingly infinite trail of urine be drained out of his bladder.
"Ohhhh, ho ho ho, yeah."
The Postal Dude pissed for a full thirty seconds on the corpse; the piss soon trailing off the corpse and pooling onto the ground, swelling evermore. He took a step back to make sure his shoes did not get sodden as he finally finished his piss. Some of the piss had begun to vaporize from the extreme heat in the desert, and the surrounding area stunk like the Lucky Ganesh. When the Dude finished, he picked up the rocket launcher again as Larry finished stashing his weapons.
"Gimme that and I'll show how to use this thing. Now, pay close attention here. Just hold down the trigger, give it time to build, and…" Larry explained, as a computer inside the rocket launcher said,
"C.T ROCKET ACTIVATED."
"…let go and fire!" Larry demonstrated, not realizing he was pointing it towards the shack containing his weapons. The rocket was fired straight towards the shack, and when it hit, reduced the shack to a grand pile of timber. The Postal Dude chuckled at the disaster that was just created due to Larry Chakawitz's poor planning,
"Hmm, looks like there's no malfunction here!"
Larry couldn't muster up anything to say to cover his embarrassment as he threw the rocket down and went to the truck.
"Forgot to check if it was loaded. There're more rockets underground but no way am I gonna dig through that shit right now. We got work to do. And time is money!"
And with that, the two men abandoned the desert and went back to Paradise after a long ride. They stopped at the outskirts of Paradise, where Larry quickly devised a plan B.
"Well, I'm sure you don't need no guns to deal with this, anyway. I think that baseball bat and your intuition will be enough here."
"Yeah, and what is this place gonna look like, exactly?" the Dude questioned; his hand on the truck door, about to leave.
"It's built out of sheet metal and they painted it a yellow-green. Towards the ghetto part of Paradise. Not a lot of people. Make sure you clear it out as well as anybody who gives you trouble. You got that? Now get out and make me proud, boy! I'll stay head back to clean up the mess I made."
The Dude got out of the truck and Larry Chakawitz sped off back to the desert.
"Oh great, sending me alone to try to deal with some of the bad folk in the bad part of town. Nothing good is gonna happen…for them!" he chuckled. That is when the Postal Dude realized he still had his shovel and Habib's baseball bat at his disposal. Some good old-fashioned beatings with blunt objects should be more than enough for this. If worse came to worse, he still had his crack pipe with some crack still inside it to give him a quick pick-me-up.
The Postal Dude made his way towards the run-down part of Paradise, Arizona. It was teeming with lowlifes and nearly everything undesirable. The police station nearby, but the cops weren't going to be helping the Dude. This was yet another thing he was going to do by himself, as the Bitch couldn't squeeze out the door, and Larry Chakawitz abandoned him to avoid the police altogether. Whatever; there was stuff to do. The Postal Dude walked around for a bit on his way to the dangerous part of Paradise, keeping an eye out for anything yellow-green structures. He found a homeless man in dirty rags and horrendous sores on his face. He looked like one of the druggies Larry talked about. The Dude decided to sweet-talk him to get some more information.
"Hey buddy, I need my fix. Any place nearby where I can go to pick it up?"
The homeless man looked at the Postal Dude with droopy eyelids and spoke with an incredibly thick Mexican accent,
"Si, amigo, si." He pointed towards an alleyway off to the corner that lead to what would be the meth shack.
"Thanks," the Dude thanked as he ran off towards the meth shack. It didn't take much time to locate the meth shack. It was painted a vomit-inducing yellow-green, built out of the lowest quality materials, and had a cancer-inducing funk radiating from the center. This was the meth shack Larry Chakawitz talked about. Outside the shack were two homeless people smoking cigarettes with a dirty and heavily worn t-shirt and sweatpants. One of them was clutching a carton of milk as well. The Postal Dude brandished the baseball bat and approached the people.
"Looks like we got ourselves a party in the making here!" he said while coughing spastically from the meth fumes. He raised his baseball bat and tested it in his palm repeatedly. The meth people started to get scared.
"And nobody invited me!"
Without wasting any more time, the Postal Dude brought the baseball bat down on the milk-carrying man, killing the hapless soul instantly. The other one dropped the cigarette and raised her arms high in the air to let out a terrified shriek.
"Aiiee! Run for your-"
The Dude swung the bat right to left at her head, knocking it off and sending the head roughly fifty feet in the other direction. One person came out of the shack to investigate the ruckus. He had little more than a pair of underwear on with a heavily grayed and long beard with equally grayed and shaggy hair. He had about six teeth in his mouth, all yellow and spacious between each other.
"Now, whut in da goddamned hell is- WHADDA FUCK ARE YOU?!" The man screamed, clearly lost in a state of delusion from too much meth. A low, animalistic growl came from his throat to fully get the Dude's attention as he picked up the goat milk. He was armed with a brittle yet sharp piece of glass to shank people with as he started to lunge for the Postal Dude. In response, the Dude unzipped his pants and started to piss right in the man's mouth thanks to his genetically enhanced bladder. A warm stream of piss continuously splashed on the man's face and into his mouth.
"YOU SICK BASTARD! I'LL-" The man howled, but soon his body started to reject the urine in his mouth. He stopped dead in his tracks and was hunched over with his hands on his stomach, dropping the shank in the process, as the Dude continued to urinate. The next thing that happened was a sickening orange flow of stomach acid and undigested vegetables gushing out of the man's mouth in response to sucking down the Postal Dude's urine. A nicely sized puddle was made from where the man vomited, only stopping after six seconds of non-stop puking and pissing. With each man's fluids drained, the crazy man went back to his murderous intentions. By the time he recovered, the Dude had picked up the man's shank… and jammed it into the man's throat.
"Sorry, but apparently I'm feeling a little psychotic this morning."
The Postal Dude cracked the comment before started to cough and sputter from the fumes of the meth brewing in the lab. He was out of ammunition for his Deagle, and there wasn't anything he could do to start an explosion. So to finish the job, the Dude wandered off and found a half-empty canister of gasoline stashed underneath a set of rotting wooden stairs.
"Good thing I still have my matches!" The Dude said aloud to nobody as he found a small container of blue-tipped matches in his pants. The Dude's mom always taught him never to play with matches, but this is where matches come in handy.
The gas can's contents were spilled around the meth shack and on the bodies evenly. Once the gasoline ran out, the can was chucked into the shack. A single match was lit and chucked towards the gasoline-soaked shack. The flames from the match erupted into an all-out inferno, followed by the meth shack turning into a grandiose fireball. The scent of burning methamphetamine and flesh combined into what one would imagine as a horrifyingly toxic smell. Such a scent was not picked up from the Dude's nostrils.
"Say, that actually smells pretty good," he commented on his newly made firework display in action. Screams of terrified civilians could be heard in the distance over the flames. A thick, putrid, burning smog rose above the fire and started to spread out over the general vicinity of the district. The Postal Dude's errand was done.
"Next: time to get paid! But first, I should probably check in on Larry. Hopefully, he didn't hop the border or into a grave."
The Dude went back to where Larry dropped him off and saw his distinct truck waiting for him. He cautiously approached, reeking of industrial grade chemicals. A child-like voice of glee squeaked from the inside of the truck.
"Woo! I can smell ya from over here! I also saw that smoke signal ya made for me out of 'em. Great work! The mayor's gonna be pleased!" Larry cheered on, congratulating the Postal Dude's work.
"So, when am I gonna get some cash going my way?" He asked, starting to get angry with Larry's overly happy personality.
"Don't you worry about that! I'll tell the mayor about what we did and fix you up a nice cut. It'll take 'til Tuesday, though, but then I'll get you some more work cut out as well as money all in a single day! Can ya hang on 'til then?"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." the Dude said, obviously annoyed. Larry Chakawitz drove off into the desert as the Postal Dude went off to finish what he was instructed to by the Bitch's list. Next stop was getting his actual paycheck from Running With Scissors: the video game company that caused him to relocate to Paradise in the first place. It wasn't that far of a walk, but he noted a group of video game protestors standing outside the building. All of them had picket signs and chanted,
"Games are bad! They make you mad! Games are bad! They make you mad!"
Somehow, they didn't care for the Dude walking right into Running With Scissors. Now inside the building, he went to Vince Desi's office to pick up his paycheck. Behind the desk sat Vince Desi, the executive of Running With Scissors.
"Nothing personal man, but you're fired."
The Dude was greatly confused,
"But I just started yesterday!" Vince Desi only replied with a hearty laugh back at the Dude as the Dude picked up his paycheck for one-hundred dollars. As he left Vince's office in disgust, he saw the horde of video game protestors pouring into the building, armed with guns.
"Crap. Good thing there's always a backdoor."
The Dude went out the back way as quickly as possible, hearing gunshots ringing above him. Thankfully, none of the protestors seemed to have known there was an alternate route to the building, so the Dude got out scot free. It was still quite nerve-wracking for the Dude; dealing with drugged homeless people with sharp glass is one thing, but dealing with ignorant video game protestors armed with guns was something else.
Now the Postal Dude was in Chicken Queen Estates with his paycheck. The only thing left to do was to head to Paradise's Fee of America to cash it for what it was worth. With great haste the Dude made his way to the Fee of America unbothered. As he arrived, there was a terribly long line of people. Since there was a good amount of bank guards present, and he was almost done, he decided to wait it out. Finally, it was the Dude's turn.
"Hi there. I'm here to cash this pitiful excuse for a paycheck."
"All right. Hand it, over and we'll just update your account and…done!" spoke the teller. A decently thick wad of cash was handed to the Dude.
"Thanks."
Just as the Dude thanked the teller, a squad of four bank robbers entered with shotguns. One of them squeezed off a warning shot onto the nearby wall.
"This is a stick-up! Don't move any nobody gets hurt!"
A firefight between the robbers and the security officers erupted as the Dude scrambled out of the door. A violent cacophony was taking place back inside the bank, where the Dude bumped into a fifth bank robber carrying something on his back.
"Freeze! Give me your money!" the robber ordered as he pulled out an automatic pistol.
"Oh, fine…" the Dude whined, pretending to get out some money. But he didn't get out money. He got out his Deagle pistol and squeezed the trigger, capping the robber right in the heart. The robber stiffly fell backwards onto the bag on his back, making an ear-piercing clanking noise. The Dude laughed as he made his way back home to his trailer just as the sun was going down.
"Honey, I'm home!"
"Did you go by work?" the Bitch said, still reading the day's newspaper.
"Yeah, apparently I'm on, uh… sabbatical, or something," the Dude tried to explain, not hinting his connections to Larry Chakawitz.
"Well, good. Maybe you could get a few more things done for me!"
"I'mma do a few things to you…"
"What was that?!" yelled the Bitch.
"Uh, nothing dear," the Dude said as he put the now grossly warm carton of milk into the refrigerator. The Bitch turned around to see what the Dude was doing.
"Enjoy your milk," the Dude concluded as he went off to bed. The Bitch smiled with her repulsive lips at the questionably fresh goat milk in the refrigerator. Just before the Dude hit the hay, he toked up on his crack pipe to prepare him for tomorrow.
