Over the Top: Terror on Gay Street
Chapter 10: Endgames Part 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight, Metal Gear or the KGB. Those are owned by Stephanie Meyer, Sega and Vladimir Putin. Also note, this story is rated M. So you young uns, click the back button while you still can. Metal Gear is owned by Konami I think.
Side Note: This story is based heavily off of another fanfiction story called Over the
Top by starfish422. Fans of that story can think of this as an AU fanfiction
of that fanfiction. It begins with the same budding relationship between
Edward and Jasper and takes a disturbing twist when a slew of colorful new
characters are added. This story begs the question - how far would their love
have gone had drunken KGB agents became involved? Fasten your seat belts
folks, and enjoy the ride.
Thank you to starfish422 for your permission to borrow your take on Jasper
and Edward as well as certain scenes from your story.
OTT can be found in the Twilight community, Some like it hot.
Seattle, downtown
The Bus raced through the streets of Seattle. It passed the space needle, which was burning like a giant match. Like London during the time of the plague, The Emerald City was red with flame.
The bus driver did all he could, trying to avoid the burned wreckages of cars and other obstacles. Inside the bus, the band was doing their best to stay calm and not lose their cool. They'd arrived in America for a grand tour which found its halfway point in Seattle.
The show had been good, sehr gut in the band's native language. They had been unprepared for when a giant riot had stormed the ShoWare Center and unleashed a level of violence and bloodshed evocative of the ninth Buddhist hell as foretold by Shakiyamuni.
In the tour bus's darkened exterior, the band leader's voice sounded as rough as the road they drove on. "Flake, bist du gesund?"
Flake responded, his voice was lighter. "Ja, Ich bin gesund, Till."
Farther up ahead was an army of men wearing rubber Halloween masks. This group of men were The Body, the same group that attacked Jasper earlier. The seeming leader of the group uttered in a hushed voice, "The Body has no ears; we hear no heavy metal music."
Back in the bus, a rioter had latched onto the side of the large vehicle and was hanging off of the driver's side mirror. The mad rioter wore biker leathers and for some reason has tar streaming out of his ears and mouth. Quick as a flash, the bus driver opened his window and shot the tarred biker through the brain. Licking his dry lips, the driver closed the window and prayed to Gott in Himmel that he would live to eat another Erdbertorte.
Up ahead, The Body were doing structural damage to a giant cross atop a church. Twenty tons of steel and concrete cross fell to the ground in blasphemous imitation of a falling tree.
The bus driver slammed on the brakes. Till screamed, "Sie die Strasse sehen!"
The tires squealed and rubber burned. The twelve ton vehicle carrying the band and their music instruments halted just short of the giant cross. In the shadows, The Body prepared their knives, swords, axes and guns.
Within the bus, the band leader called again. "Ihr sind nicht toten?"
A reply came in a chorus of ja's and super's and one "Ich hat mein hoden gekranken."
Till ignored his comrade's injured balls for the time being. Glancing out the tinted windows, he could see just the iceberg tip of a psychotic group of people in what looked like Halloween masks. At any moment the band of breaks looked like they might attack. Every single member of the band knew what they must do. The band's bassist, Ollie, smiled at the prospect.
The bus had a most distinct paint design. It had been painted with a fiery battle scene of the Franco-Prussian war being fought by French spiders and Jetpack wearing sharks. Emblazoned in bright red block letters was the name of this musical group. With a slight hiss, the bus doors opened and out came the band, marching like an East German raiding squad. The bus driver cowered behind his seat; there was no way that he was stupid enough to leave the relatively safe confines of his vehicle.
The Body began to charge; they leapt over burned cars like frogs and sprinted with Olympian vigour.
At the bus's side, the drummer and electronic percussion player, nicknamed Doom, was trying to open the compartment where their equipment was held. It was jammed! "Er ist klemmt!" Doom grunted. The door would not open.
The army of masked assassins drew closer. They were almost upon the band. A man wearing a Mexican wrestler's mask raised his shotgun.
Just when it looked like it would be the end of Rammstein, death came from above. The shotgun wielding man was stabbed from above by a falling drumstick. The fine wood and lacquer drumstick arced down and lodged itself in the shotgunner's brain.
One man that wore a rubber gorilla mask was downed when a drumstick impaled him through each shoulder and a third went through his spine.
Everywhere, like a deadly rainfall, drumsticks whizzed downwards like a hail of deadly arrows.
They were composed of Till Lindemann, Richard Kruspe, Paul Landers, Ollie Riedel, Doom Schneider and Flake Lorenz. Together they were the German industrial music group known as Rammstein, and they did not survive the fall of the Soviet Union so that they could die at the hands of costumed freaks.
Doom had a crossbow strapped to his arm; he was firing drumsticks out of it with machinegun rapidness.
A few attackers who'd managed to survive Doom's deadly drumstick rain charged at the gang with suicidal fury. These attackers were quickly decimated. They were sliced to ribbons by Olie and Paul's surgical sharp guitars. They were burned to a toasty crisp by Till's flamethrowers. He was a licensed pyrotechnician so it was perfectly legit that he carried flamethrowers everywhere with him.
Flake held the rear flank, electrocuting enemies with a lethal keyboard; stopping hearts and frying brains just frying eggs.
One desperate man tried to stab Doom with a fishing knife, but the vigilant drummer decapitated his opponent with a cymbal strapped to his back.
The Body's attack force was now reduced to a single man. Seeing that finally the battle was lost, the knife wielding man in an Armani suit and a Popeye mask fled. However, he would not get far.
Doom held his crossbow up; his last drumstick was ready to fire. It would be hard to hit a jumping and running target from this distance but it would not be impossible with his skills. The very instant he had a bead on their former attacker, Till shouted "Feuer Frei!" Open fire!
The last drumstick zipped through the air. The fleeing assassin ran to the left. The drumstick veered sharply to the left. From behind a building, the thud of a body could be heard.
Rammstein Wins: Germantiy
The Cemetery
While Rammstein had their victory, Edward and Jasper were still running for their lives. They were only two simple men that had originally intended to enjoy a night on the town. They lacked the awesome martial prowess of Rammstein, which was why they were running.
They didn't get far when from out of the shadows, Edward's legs were ensnared by a set of bolas, metal weights on either end of a rope.
Edward went down; he became aware of an agonizing pain in his shins right before he rudely met the ground. The impact knocked the wind from him and the rough ground scraped his skin where the Locust horde had ripped open his shirt.
With the wind knocked out of him, Edward panicked and tried to get his lungs functioning again. He suddenly felt someone grab his hand; it was Jasper. Jasper was shouting something at him but he couldn't hear him for the pounding in his head.
To his horror, Edward saw the massive bulk of Alexander Anderson collide with Jasper. With his shocked lungs only just beginning to get back to work again, Edward managed to croak out, "Jas-per!"
If the situation wasn't so life threatening, Jasper would have said that it was all growing old. Actually, he was remarkably calm as Alexander Anderson, Scottish psychopath and lawyer extraordinaire ploughed into him like some monster out of Greek mythology. The most likely explanation was that Jasper's brain circuitry was exhausted from feeling so much fear in a single night.
As he gazed into the face of Alexander Anderson, he felt surprisingly numb. The numbness afforded him a bit of room with which to think. Why was Anderson this way? Where did all of this hatred come from? He didn't know but despite his numbness, he continued to struggle under Anderson's iron grip.
Anderson on the other hand wasn't tired of this. As long as there was a sinner on this earth, he would break their necks, cut their throats, shoot them in the back of the head, stab them, and poison them or whatever else he had to do in order to do God's work.
As he held Jasper's delicate neck in one gorilla sized hand, he quoted his favourite book again. "Tha LORD is a jealous God, filled with vengeance an' wrath. He takes revenge on all who oppose him an' furiously destroys his enemies! The LORD is slow to get angry, but his power is great, an' he ne'er lets tha guilty go unpunished!"
He didn't plan to kill Jasper quickly, he wanted to give him exactly what he deserved; with a little interest. Anderson moved his blade over Jasper's abdomen. Edward wouldn't be able to enjoy Jasper's chiselled abs because Anderson was going to disembowel him.
Suddenly, Anderson's green eyes looked up and past Jasper. That enormous horrible grin widened; it looked like his face was going to split in half.
To Jasper's surprise and relief, Anderson's massive hand let go of his throat. He was glad for this but the relief was short lived. Anderson must be planning something really nasty.
Suddenly, Anderson grabbed Jasper by his styled hair. Pain shot thorough Jasper's scalp and he cried out in pain as the giant vigilante began to drag him across the grass.
The Pasta Table
Peter finished eating the last of his pasta and then threw his paper plate and plastic cutlery to the side. He was not an environmentally conscious man. Besides, the cemetery's maintenance staff needed to earn their pay. Why not have them pick up after men like Peter?
By the head of the table, Fat Helen was still serving white pasta with tomato sauce and meatballs. Ignorance was bliss as Helen served pasta, unaware of several bullets whizzing past her head. One of the bullets hit her husband in the shoulder.
Wounded, Big Nose Carl cried out to his wife in a mixture of Greek and mangled English. "Help me you fucking beech!"
Helen had no sympathy for her injured husband. "Fuck you, I'm serving pasta here!" It was then that a crossbow bolt hit Helen in the leg. The overweight Greek woman went down like a harpooned whale, landing on top of her diminutive husband, breaking his collar bone and nearly putting out an eye on his long nose.
As all this was happening, Peter joined his brother and several of his in-laws and relatives. One of the Italian goons fired a WWI era rifle and bayonet at a band of bikers. His Uncle "Wild Man" Jack Costas wore a neck brace (because he was trying to get disability benefits from his job) and golden contact lenses underneath his sunglasses (because he'd heard that women digged guys that looked like the characters from Twilight.)
Dennis's friends had also shown up for this fight. His boss from the Pawnshop was here, possibly the greasiest man alive. Also along for the ride was Dennis's "girlfriend", skeevy whore named Maria with a switchblade and a nasty infection to match her bad attitude. Then there was Enrique, a greasy midget with bloodshot eyes who hadn't seen a shower or bath in ten days.
Enrique the midget rode atop of Dennis's shoulders like an Indian prince riding an elephant. The barely two-and-a-half-foot-tall man gazed around with vigilance and cradled a flintlock pistol and a Brazilian automatic pistol.
Sweet Kapoyanis meanwhile was being grilled by his dad. Old man Kapoyanis had been out drinking with his deadbeat chums when the entire city had exploded into an unholy firestorm of hardcore combat. Naturally, seeing as how the city was getting fucked like Constantinople when Attila the Hun showed up, Daddy Kapoyanis went out to make sure that his most prized possession in the world was safe: his truck.
And who was it that had Daddy Kapoyanis's truck? Answer: the son of Kapoyanis.
"Daddy" Constantine Kapoyanis was a tall man with dark skin, a big fat gut and a bushy moustache. Sweat soaked through the armpits of his shirt and he had mustard on his jacket when he'd run through the kitchen at the bar and grill while escaping from a horde of Marxist rebels.
He spoke to his son with authority and hardness. "What happened to the truck, Vasili?"
Sweet shook like a leaf. He'd faced killer nuns and Russian cowboys but they didn't scare him half as much as his own father did. "Dad, I swear, it wasn't my fault. It went like—
"You lost the truck!" The old man's gut quivered as he shook with anger.
Sweet almost panicked. "No dad, I didn't lose the truck! I still know where it is. We can get it later." He hoped his old man would forgive him for this.
"Where are the keys?"
Kapoyanis junior smiled and started to pat down his pockets. His reassuring smile quickly made way for a nervous look of fear. Oh shit, he'd lost the keys!
While Sweet was getting a new asshole ripped by his dad, Peter looked around. "Hey, where's Edward and that other guy?"
"Where are the fucking donuts?" A massively muscled man screamed in a thick accent.
Peter turned to face the source of the voice. It was a large, powerfully built Kenyan man named Thaibiti; his friends called him Sparky. He was a buddy that Peter knew from the boxing gym. "I want my fucking donuts!"
Peter tried to calm down his friend. "Take it easy, Sparky. Here comes Hong with the donuts now."
Indeed, the valiant Korean fighter was returning from the fracas with a giant box of donuts. The hearty South Asian man was bloodied but still standing tall and strong. Behind Hong were the best of the Korean fighters. The rest of them were off defending their home turf. These men were all in one way or another driven to fight for Peter. Whether he was an old friend or he'd redone the tiles in their kitchen or gotten revenge on the bullies that tormented their kids in school, they would stand by Peter.
As Peter's inner circle drew tighter, his brother Art stood to the side. They'd eaten their fill of pasta and now he wanted to get the hell out of here. His girlfriend was at home waiting for him. The bald headed man was talking to her on his cell phone. "Erm, have you tried clicking on the help bar?" Pause. "No, you have to plug in the computer first?" Pause. "Yes." Pause. "No, you can't plug it in with your mind." Longer pause. "No Erm, remember—you don't have the power of telekinesis." Yelling from the other end of the line. "Have you taken your anti-psychotic medication?"
The conversation was cut off as Art's brother grabbed him and dragged him into the circle of fighters. "Move it, Art!" Peter shouted.
Trying not to invoke the rage of his psychotic but very loving girlfriend, Art said into he phone hurriedly, "Erm, I gotta go now. I'll call you back in five minutes."
Peter and his best, toughest buddies were all arranged in a circle. Their number included Art, Hong, a bunch of Hong's buddies, Dennis and Enrique the midget, a bunch of dudes from the boxing gym, and sweet Kapoyanis, just returned from verbal abuse by his father. Also there were Little Dominic, who could drink two hundred pound men under the table, and Big Pisan, a man with gorilla hands, one of which was frozen into a perpetual claw because of arthritis. These and a few others made up their ranks.
Finally, there was Sparky. "Where are my fucking donuts!!!?"
Peter gave Hong an exasperated look. "Give him the donuts, quick."
No sooner had he said this than Sparky forcible grabbed the donuts. Grabbing two donuts for himself, Sparky passed off the donut box to the next man.
As the donuts made their rounds, Peter addressed the men like a general. "We're here to rescue a buddy of mine called Edward. He wears a nice suit, has hair the color of a penny and he likes to fuck other guys. Any questions?"
Uncle Bill raised his hand; he'd just arrived on the scene in time for donuts. He caressed a tire iron. "Will Edward latch onto us and make us gay?"
"No, I'm pretty sure he won't do that." Then he focused on an Italian man called Bad News Antonio. "Hey Antonio, where's your other sock?"
Bad News Anthony explained why his left sock was missing. "I had to take a shit and there was no toilet paper. I couldn't wipe my ass with my sleeve."
Several seconds of awkward silence followed.
Art piped up. "Has anybody seen Edward?"
Speaking through a mouthful of chewed donut, Sparky rumbled, "Yeah, he went in that direction." He held up a finger to indicate where he'd seen Edward run.
Peter shouted, "LET'S KICK SOME ASS!" They all cheered back, even Art, who just wanted to get the fuck out of here as fast as possible.
***
Jasper stopped screaming as the man trying to kill him let go of his hair. Groaning, he put both well manicured hands, now bloodied, to his blond locks. He did not have long to see that all his hair was in place because at that moment, a size seventeen foot came down on his stomach.
The impact of Anderson's foot did not wind Jasper but it caused pain to spasm through his abdomen. In vain he tried to move Anderson's leg, but it was a fool's errand.
In his state of shock and pain, he did not see what Anderson was doing. The gargantuan zealot was using his last bayonet to try and jimmy open a large piece of equipment left here by the maintenance staff of the cemetery.
It took a little finagling before Alexander was able to pry open the panel. Beaming with triumph, the giant man put his skills with electronics to good use. At one point, Anderson had taken a training course for electricians. After all, it always helps to know the workings of power tools if you plan to use them to do God's work.
Suddenly, the large machine roared to life as Anderson manipulated its metal and wire guts. Its initial roar was muted as Anderson grabbed the machine's partly disassembled controls and turned down a dial. He wanted Jasper to hear what he had to say.
Jasper gasped as the weight of a five hundred pound man was taken off his stomach. His relief was short lived as two giant hands in white gloves grabbed him by the shirt collar and two arms as thick as his legs raised him to face level with the Catholic murderer.
Face to face with Alexander Anderson, Jasper was looking into the face of pure evil. The giant had been terrifying enough when he foamed and raved, grinned and howled. Now that he was calm, Anderson looked unspeakable.
Anderson looked completely calm. The ear to ear grin was replaced by a subdued smirk. His enormous green eyes were narrowed and his breathing was slow and calm. But behind this image of mocking calmness was hatred like nothing that Jasper had ever seen before.
The blood in his veins ran cold and his mouth went dry. Now he could clearly see what Anderson was. In that one single moment, Alexander Anderson had revealed himself to Jasper without having to say a single word.
His original pair of spectacles had been smashed, so he'd taken a new pair from a dead man. These new glasses had been smashed; the left lens was intact while the other was a jagged mess. The intact lens glowed in the moonlight, while from behind the broken lens; Anderson's green eye seemed to peek from behind time and space.
Behind those green eyes, Jasper could see a soul that was completely empty. The devil's greatest trick was not to make humanity believe that he did not exist, it was to put on the markings of God and call himself holy.
Jasper would have assumed that with his anger subsided, that Anderson might be less deadly. Not so. Anderson was a murderer of the most cold blooded order; a monster who could kill without any empathy and take as much time as he needed to do the job.
In a half whisper, Anderson uttered to Jasper a quote of the holy book. "Ah will sweep away everythin' in all your land," says the LORD. "Ah will sweep away both people and animals alike. E'en the birds of the air an' the fish in the sea will die. Ah will reduce the wicked to heaps of rubble, along wi' the rest of humanity," says the LORD.
His voice began to rise from the half whisper to a normal speaking voice. Though is words were not loud the passion for destruction was there. It oozed off of his words and evaporated into a cloud of zealotry that could choke infants, "Ah will crush Judah and Jerusalem wi' ma fist an' destroy e'ery last trace o' their Baal worship. Ah will put an end to all tha' idolatrous priests, so that e'en tha' memory of them will disappear."
Anderson paused from his speech. Letting go of one massive hand, he started to adjust the settings on the machine. It was then that Jasper got a good look at what it was. He began to whimper with terror and try to break that unbreakable grip. Anderson was going to feed him into a woodchipper!
The bestial man grabbed Jasper by his collar and belt. Cradling Jasper in his arms, he paid no mind to the young man's struggles or pleas for mercy. Mercy would not be forthcoming. "For they go up to their roofs and bow to the sun, moon, and stars. They claim to follow the LORD, but then they worship Molech, too. So now I will destroy them! And I will destroy those who used to worship me but now no longer do. They no longer ask for the LORD's guidance or seek my blessings."
Jasper sobbed and cried. "Please, no! You don't have to do this!" Tears fell from his eyes as his mind flashed back to his mother and father, to his sister and her husband, finally to Edward. All of Jasper's terror and misery, all of his confusion was lost on Alexander Anderson. He had to die.
Anderson flashed Jasper his devil's grin. "Welcome to hell, lad." Just like that, he used his mammoth foot to kick the wood chipper into high gear and then started to shove Jasper into it.
Jasper tried to fight, he really did, but he was no match for Anderson's strength. His hands couldn't hold on. His feet slipped. He screamed louder as if someone could save him. "No! No! NO!"
For one terrifying moment, one of his feet went into the two meshing wheels that fed wood into the machine. He pulled his leg back and off came his shoe. The other end of the chipper spat out a few strips of leather.
Anderson gave Jasper another shove. Jasper was about to get his foot caught in when all of the sudden. . .
CLANG!
Something hard and metallic hit Anderson on the shoulder. It was Edward!
Annoyed, the rhinoceros of a man threw Jasper to the ground. Brutally, he delivered a sharp kick to Jasper's face. Jasper lay still.
Edward looked down in horror at Jasper's prone form. A layer of perspiration covered his pale features. His former proud head of wild hair was matted with sweat and dirt. One of his shins hurt like hell when he put weight on that leg; no doubt from Anderson's bola.
He had meant to hit Anderson over the head after getting loose of the bolas and finding a conveniently placed shovel.
Edward had a problem now. Right now, the entire world was composed of him, Anderson and Jasper within this clearing. There was fighting all over the city, but it might have as well been a million miles away.
Anderson advanced with a measured stride.
In vain, Edward tried to take another swing at Anderson. He would have hit him right on the side of the head, had Anderson not caught the shovel in midair and snatched it from Edward's grasp.
So now Edward was staring down a man who was able and willing to murder who had physical superiority and a number years of combat training under his belt. He stood no chance.
CRACK!
Edward jumped at the sound, immediately sending pain signals shooting up his shin. Anderson had broken the shovel in half. He dropped the handle and kept the blade.
Anderson was getting closer and Edward was getting nearer to Panic.
Suddenly, Edward's vision was filled with light as Anderson struck him savagely across the face with full force. The impact cracked Edward's cheekbone and knocked a few teeth loose.
Edward didn't black out. Instead, he lay on the ground moaning. His face felt like it was on fire. He couldn't think clearly. The blow had knocked his brain about; his world had shrunk even more.
It was then that Edward noticed that he was being lifted up, but he couldn't properly feel or see what was happening.
It was only when he felt himself being slammed against the trunk of a tree did he finally return to full senses. He truly wished that he hadn't.
The ugly mug of Alexander Anderson was only six inches away from his face and he was wearing a pig shit eating grin. Actually, it was more of an eating human flesh grin.
Edward tried to draw breath but couldn't. Anderson was holding him by the throat. He could only mewl as he saw what Anderson had in store for him.
Positioned Just above Edward's gut was the pointy end of the broken shovel. At any moment, Anderson was going run it right through Edward and pin him to the tree.
Not needing to rush, Anderson gently pressed the sharp tip of wood into Edward's exposed stomach. Little by little, he began to apply more force to it. Edward's features contorted in pain as the wood broke the skin and a small trickle of blood started to come down from the sight of injury.
Anderson twisted the piece of wood around; soon he'd thrust it through the liver. Except that he never got to. Somebody pressed the long, shiny barrel of a gun to his cheek from an upward angle.
BANG!
Edward tumbled to the ground, his ears ringing from the gunshot. Now it was Anderson's turn to fall to the ground and clutch his face. The bullet had sliced open his cheek but had done no major damage to the bone or teeth.
None of this worried Edward, because at that moment, somebody pushed a single action Colt Revolver into his face.
He heard a voice that would be the stuff of his nightmares for as long as he lived. "There's nothing like shoving a long silver bullet into a well greased chamber."
Edward froze with shock and fear.
Revolver Ocelot said, "But you'd know all about well greased chambers, wouldn't you Edward?"
Thank you ladies and gentlemen, you've been a wonderful audience :) That Rammstein thing was in total parody of Mortal Kombat.
I'd like to thank my regular readers and reviewers. Also remember, that in my other stories I'm open to requests. Not in this one, because we've only got a little ways to go. Here are the German translations. "Are you healthy, Flake?" "Yes, I'm healthy, Till." "Watch the road!" "Are you guys not dead?" "I hurt my balls." "It's jammed."
Ta
Master of the Boot