22
Darkness enveloped Kimberly, her eyes foul with the thick blackness, darting every which way, questing for anything in the sheet threadbare. The blackness; it robbed her of her senses. Everything around was still, the air restful and bland. But something scratched fiercely into her wrists; it was difficult not to notice since it somehow kept her arms locked above her slumped head, the bad shoulder burning irritably. That same something scratched into her ankles, the top of her instep strangled with the other Achilles.
"Oh...!" the pain wanted to chew through her shoulder like acid. "-Uh--! - Where... where am I--?"
She gasped, her breath shallow as something made a noise. Sobering fear was thick as it crept out of the shadow just as did the quiet drone--a whirr and a calm rumbling; yet her ears couldn't place it. Her eyes fluttered erratically as her heart caught up with the rest of her. It bounced everywhere, and yet it didn't, or did it even echo at all?
Her nose crinkled, she let out a loud, wet snort. The insipid air grew thick with such a stench, a ghastly, pungent fume that stank of death and rot as though someone rolled in a pile of road kill on whatever made that drawling whirr.
"-OH--! -" She let out a haggard cough. "God...! What is that!?"
Something growled out close by---really- close by, a rumble so thick with such acquaintance and stability, and yet so buzzing and crackling with such intensity that it was practically incoherent.
"Death..." yet that voice, the second, was as so. It wasn't Drazen; its intonation and timbre was not thick with Slavic influence as that of that apartheid fascist. Instead it flowed deeply and neatly with more of a Semitic character, and it was so vivid in her mind as though she heard if fairly recently.
"That is what fills this room, Mick." And it all came together with a click in her head. "Or should I say Kim Possible, that world famous, teen hero bitch that's got a nasty habit of getting in our way."
Something above rang out vacantly--and a fierce light blasted into her wincing eyes from above. Her puffy mane made a black circle on the dark cement below, her toes curled at the sight of it, slick and glistening with grime and a dark puddle of organic nastiness her feet nearly toed.
"Ever seen blood in the light, Possible?" Her reflection shined at her for the second time, in the same place on that pair of combat boots as they stepped onto the circle of glittering cement. "Can't say that you haven't. It looks quite black, doesn't it?"
"Scarred Man!" her lips were in a tight sneer as she brought her head up, clenched throat mustering only a growl.
"Sergeant First Class Avi Jude!" the scarred man stood up straight, darkness robbing her of his arms. "Victims' Separatist Army!"
"'Victims of the Smiling Ass' is more like it." She shot defiantly. "From what I've read and seen. But not of the Palestinian Authority, I'm afraid."
"You Americans..." the gnarled corner of his lips pulled into a smirk. He may have been scared, yet that fire or explosion that still cindered couldn't scratch at that utter smugness. "Why can't the government make people like you understand? And that's a question, I'm afraid, that I don't have an answer to."
"Where... -uh---" She snorted. That foul stench was relentless. It took the darkness around and made it bubble like broth in a saucepan. Even the water brimming her lids ate at her tired eyes like acid. "Am I...?"
"You're in our little fun house, Ms. Possible." The scarred man's better half began to boil as well; his smug grin awash. "Most of the day, people like me buzz around these little events, where many an hour can cheaply, and messily be spent!"
"You rhymed--!" her lungs felt as though they wanted to claw their way out of her chest. "How delightful for you...!"
"Delightful indeed, Mick!" she was sure that dark mass atop his bubbling skin slipped down a little much, the tip of his chin pulling away. "For us..."
She coughed again. Her organs' escape ended abruptly as her throat clenched tightly.
"Don't like the smell?" he said. "Don't worry, Ms. Possible. You will get used to it sometime."
"Sometime...?" she sniffed.
"Yes." He continued. "As of now, you are no longer Kimberly Anne Possible. Your name is WKD4496. And as your host, I feel it is my duty to welcome you to your new home."
"My heart's all--" it wouldn't be long now before she felt thick chunks of she-wouldn't-want-to-know rolling up her throat, "-AH- twitter! -Uh...-"
"Before I take my leave, 4496," amazing how he took to her new moniker--her mark, easy as pie, really. How long would it be till Drazen personally had the tattoo artist brought in, needle in hand as though she were Val Jean? "I would personally like to introduce you to your new friend. I like to think of him as your room mate, personally--but that's just me."
--Everything became white, even with her lids clamped shut. A bright light burned into blazed into her face, through the flesh of her lids and into her eyes. Her tired, beaten body was bathed in it, with such intensity that she felt as though she was basking beneath a tanning lamp--a lot of them. Yet even her mind could not escape reality, her grim fate held fast by such a potent touch.
"WKD4496!" the scarred man exclaimed. "I'm proud to introduce you to your new playmate."
Her skin crawled at the bland touch of his breath, rippling away from where the wisps kissed. Her innards twisted at the real touch, a greasy, leathery wipe from his glove at her cheek as it climbed to her eye. Two digits touched her eyelids, pressing against the ball behind them gently, muscles fighting futilely against them.
--And she wished her lids were like iron, heavy iron that moved for no one. The blackened nastiness at her toes was everywhere, splashed haphazardly around, crusting on the grimy gray walls like careless finger paintings. Utter lack of composition unnerved her, tore at her deep down like nothing of the sort before. There was no purpose, no reason, just as those senseless, shameless acts responsible for their damned creation.
The artisan "sat" on his little tray, flanked by thick bands that rolled aptly as it moved. An arm laid its hand to rest where its lap should have been, the other in a jagged painful crook, its terrifying talon snapping at her like a condor. It opened its terrifying maw--
---Oh--GOD!! - She was certain she felt something trickle from her ears--
--And must have taken in a mighty yawn. Its mouth; she couldn't describe it as it bubbled before her. It wasn't one of flesh, which she could be certain of. It was like a piece of sheet metal, 12 gauges of steel at least, that seemed to cover the entire length of the mandible.
That face! She had definitely gazed upon that disgusting visage before! Those cheekbones, peeking out the gnarled skin of the face. The nose, so bulbous that it nearly blocked the curves of the nostrils. The eyes punctuated its face squarely where nature placed them, hazel eyes that were the exclamation point of everything that she had taken in. It was Drazen...
-And yet... it's not.... -
"Unless you've had those pretty emeralds of yours gouged out of your head, 4496," the scarred man said coolly, "then I believe it's clicked who's responsible for that ghastly stench."
"Porter's... -uh! -" She snorted. "Tank Man robot? -Ah.... - I've wondered where that went...!"
"It was a Robot Rumble contender some time ago." He shrugged. "But most of it's in the scrap pile. The Major's twin was in dire need of a quick fix; no time to get him the proper treatment and all."
"Twin...?" her lungs were shallow with that polluted, terrible air. "Impossible! Family Drazen's dead...! I killed them--"
"As much as you, the long arm of American policy, would like to believe, 4496." Her eyes found some relief. The scarred man graced her with his olive backside, wrinkles thick and drawing down his sides. "You are sadly mistaken. Sure, this -thing---as you'd like to call him--nearly did. It was almost a certainty. That's what you get when you're a little -too- carried away with kerosene, right Galil?"
"Galil...!?" she spat tartly, her mouth bitter with anger and that accursed astringent. "His name's Galil!? That's rich! Uzi and Galil! Tools of the trade: death and war and nothing else! YOU HEAR THAT, G!? DO YOU GET THAT!?"
That twisted monstrosity let out another screech, her warm crimson curdling in the veins, chilled it even in the thick rays, beaming down harshly from above like the Sahara sun.
"I think he said yes." The cap of dark hair shook side to side. "I'm not sure. My Bohemian is poor--or is it Czech now? Thank YHVH that he's got a brother, 'cause we'd never know what to do with him. Probably put him out to pasture."
"Just like everyone who crosses... -uh---your path?" she sniffed shallowly.
"If they get in the way of progress," the scarred man rejoined lightly, "yes!"
"The Palestinians...!" she breathed. "Killing them, to you, is like running over a squirrel. Just some---thing- that gets in your way. But... they're more than that! They're people, Sergeant Jude! Just like you and me! Why can't this nation understand that--?"
Her head suddenly felt heavy, and her neck rolled it to the side. A pain swelled within her cheek, resonating throughout the side of her head. The teeth vibrated in an angry tremble.
"NO, 96!!" The scarred sergeant shoved his fist back into his pocket, flesh around his dark eyes pulled into a menacing glare. "YOU DON'T GET IT!! The rest of Israel's in a dream, catering to a fake nation that might just cater to them! Land--God--dignity! All sold to the thieving bidders: the people of this 'Palestine'! Unlike them, we woke up and saw them for what they really are. As you had put it so eloquently, 96, they might as well have been that squirrel with the skid marks!"
"You're all insane!" she seethed painfully.
"Are we?" the scarred man said rhetorically. "We might actually be the ones telling the truth! But I digress...."
The scarred sergeant turned on his heels, hand clasping the wrist of the other at the small of his back. The acoustics were odd. Her ears felt as though the man strolled right for them, though he clearly walked for that disgusting midget in the corner.
"I'll be taking my leave now, 96." He didn't bother to turn back. "Someone will join you two shortly. Remember this, 96. If you'd like G here to keep his hands to himself, you'd better answer my man's questions real fast."
"Since..." she sniffed, "this is the last time we'll---uh---meet... you want to hear a joke?"
"Hell!" he shrugged. "Beats more time with the Major at dinner. Can't stand another helping of that crappy goulash!"
"Glad you feel that way...!" her lips pulled into a weak smirk. "Here it goes:
"Knock-knock..."
The scarred man let out a sigh, his shoulders dropping as though they were deflating with the escaping breath.
"Who's there...?" he moaned.
"Go..." she sniffed, "fuck yourself!"
Her body curled in on itself, and the pain seemed to vanish in a snap as she let out a cackling fit of laughter. She didn't think the scarred man's shoulders could drop any lower than they did.
"Good one, 96...." He sighed. "I'll have to remember that for later. But, I think I'll leave you two alone now--get to know each other, as it were. Not that it'll matter in the end; you're just a rat in a cage anyway.
"Don't worry though." The sergeant named Jude craned his head around, at a natural curve and angle. His dark eye was like a brilliant bead, beaming the utter graveness deep within his soul like that tight, undulated mess of flesh suggested. "You'll keep Galil surely entertained."
"And what if I don't..." she breathed.
"Then you'll get acquainted real nicely with the stains on the wall." He said. "Enjoy yourselves, you two. Don't stay up all night... if you live that long."
The scarred man lifted up an arm, giving a menial flick of the hand, before his dirty combat boots carried him out the rusty portal. She let her body dropped out of its tense curl. The slab of blood encrusted steel screeched its way back into the frame, the shadows outside escaping out of that shrinking sliver, and with it did her chances for survival.
The freak leered at her. The lips of flesh were pulled flat against the teeth behind, above that expressionless jaw of iron. Its beady eyes seemed to shake within the sockets, its ridiculous talon clawing at her greedily. The "joy" within the creature was deep and suppressed; she could see it struggling to pop that very lid off of itself.
A gentle whirr was a wisp, barely flowing into her ears contrary to that stench. Pieces of her body felt dead and rotten, just about to slip of her bones as that piece of shit rolled closer, its tracks--God help her, that thing had tracks--rolling for her.
-God, if you're out there, I could really use the help! -
---
"Dear friends," Ronald barely caught Robin's chipper alto reverberating sharply off her ceiling, the very expansive ceiling of drywall and rough paint, catching it up with only half an ear, "I will be going off to my work now. Will you all be okay?"
"We'll be fine, Ms. Ata." The Asian rejoined politely from somewhere nearby, that flat, nasal accent bouncing off that same ceiling as it possibly was. Maybe it bounced off the back of the dark couch, looming over his length, if it didn't die on contact with the fabric "Don't worry. And we'll be expecting some company later this afternoon--someone -important-, if you get my drift."
"I have had a feeling that you might." Robin's voice bounced back. "They may help themselves to some goat cheese in the refrigerator just like you, but do not leave a mess for me. My Shia and I do have to live here, as you know."
"And I'm not even going to reply to that." Yune said ironically.
"You'd better not!" A lighter, bubbly voice interjected, from somewhere around where that Korean sat... or stood--one of the two. Ron let a growl catch in the back of his throat, letting it swell.
"Be nice, Ron!" That bubbly voice yipped like a puppy.
--"SECOND!!" His pink buddy squeaked out. His sternum felt heavier, around the stern, as his bucktoothed friend clambered itself upon its hind legs, one of its forelegs outstretched and locked at the middle. The pink flaps that were the eyelids hid the black, rapid beads, and the branched whiskers shifted as it gave a twitch of its little nose.
His eyebrow kinked, his lips dropped into a frown, and a grunt swelled in the back of his mouth irritably. Rufus let out a whining moan, short and sweet, and the weight in his sternum simply lifted off his body.
"Friends, let us not fight." He was in no mood; thankfully Robin played referee. "There is no use at all in infighting. What has happened has happened, and there is nothing that any of us can do to change that! But I am sure we all know someone who can!"
"Easy for you to say..." he huffed.
"For someone of the children of Jacob, Ronald, you sure do act like your Mr. Head alias!" The Ethiopian exclaimed.
"Zing someone who actually gets the joke, Rob!" he growled.
"Dickhead, Ronald!" Yune exclaimed. He was pretty sure he saw that tanned arm flail in the air before it disappeared behind the back of the couch. A solid pat echoed throughout the room. "That's you! Dickhead! Richard--Head! Richard--Dick! Dickhead! I hate it when I have to spell it out for you--DAMN!"
"And you're living up to it quite well!" that puppy dog yipped again, just aching for a good whap.
Something scraped at the matted carpet, intermittent and quick like footsteps. They were footsteps, he was sure of it when dark, slender fingers clasped onto the back of the couch. Robin's shadow draped over him like blanket, the girl leaning against the back of the couch a little below her bosom.
"Ronald," she said kindly, "you are as Jewish as I! You have seen the great miracles that our great god can do! He has brought us all together again, after many years of wandering, He has delivered to us back our homeland, and He is with us always! Why can you not believe that our god, the same one who has done all of this for us, can benefit your Kim?"
"I... just don't know, Rob." He shook his head. "I just don't!"
"Just give it some time, friend." Robin continued. "I am sure that He will soften your heart up. But for now, I have to get to my job. I am going to get Hell if I'm late again."
"Heaven forbid if we should keep you then." Yune said, and Robin lifted her chest from the couch's back. Her broad, frizzy tassel gave him a fleeting wave before she disappeared behind the back of the couch again.
"I have brought this up to Ms. Stark--"
"I told you, Robin." The puppy dog cut off the Ethiopian with a gentle yip. "It's not like I don't have a first name, you know."
"Of course!" Robin replied. "Tara it is then. But anyway, I have brought this up to -Tara-, but I wanted to ask you beforehand."
Tara let out a sigh, just before Yune had his chance to exhale audibly. He let out a quiet chuckle, a chuckle that made Rufus dart his head around like a prairie dog.
"What is it...?" the Korean sighed.
"I wanted to take your SUV to work today." Robin said. "I know this man at my job, and he is really good with all kinds of vehicles. When we met last night, your car was in really bad shape, so I thought--"
"You'd thought you could help us out, yes?" Yune finished her sentence.
"Well, yes." The dark girl continued. "You people are going against an army, not some street gang!"
"Sadie's in no condition to fight again, Yune." The puppy yapped. "She's a train wreck--a borderline jalopy--that can't take much more."
"Drazen's probably put out an APB for her, you guys." The Asian noted. "It's too risky! If some sympathizer spots her, we all might as well be bloodstains!"
"Have you seen her, Yune?" Tara continued. "Mud's so packed on, she's practically a different color!"
Again, that tan arm was thrown up from behind the couch's lengthy back. Another sigh escaped from the limb's owner, one of defeat and exasperation, loud and hoarse. The arm dropped behind the couch, and out from behind came a slap.
"Don't argue with your girl!" The man groaned. "They're always going to win."
"I knew you'd see it my way." The man's puppy yipped excitedly.
"Better than the highway, I guess."
"Trust me," the puppy's bark was smug, "it is!"
"I am sorry, friends!" The bird from Africa interjected softly. "But I really must leave now. Does this 'Sadie' need a key?"
"Yeah." Yune said. "She works just like any other car. But after yesterday, you may want to be a little careful with the brakes. Gotten a little too touchy, if you ask me."
"Can you blame her?" Tara asked rhetorically.
"No...." Cloth ruffled, shifting and scratching on its owner's body for a few seconds. "I don't. A serious tune up couldn't hurt."
There was a jingle--and a small sliver shinned in the brilliant natural light, glinting and rattling with its bulky, black ornament, popping from behind the couch, arcing sharply, and disappearing behind the back about an inch or so from where it came. The rattle sharply stifled, ceased in the midst of a hollow clap.
"Don't make us regret this, Ms. Ata." Yune said gravely.
"There is not a need for such worry, Mr. Bin-Mok." Robin replied jovially. "I will treat your car as it were my own. And to tell you the truth, I've wondered how your American vehicles compare to ours."
"Don't go crazy with her!" Yune said sternly. "I wouldn't want to be you, if Freeman found her crashed into those Old City walls."
"The feeling is mutual, Mr. Bin-Mok." The dark girl countered. "If you need to use my car, the keys are in the kitchen."
"My name is Yune, Ms. Ata."
"And mine is Robin, -Yune-."
Ron felt his eyes roll all by themselves.
---
"GOD--!!" Kimberly screamed; the flesh at her side being dragged and torn to and fro--that familiar sticky liquid gently warmed little of her skin as it trailed down her leg in a steady trickle. Her shot nerves hardly recognized it was even there, barely feeling her toes pressed against themselves, sliding rather too smoothly in between. It disappeared when it tapped onto the nasty, glistening floor.
Soon... she didn't feel it at all, or anything for that matter--yet the swaying slaughterhouse around clearly showed her it wasn't over, not even close. Her heavy eyes caught a glint at her side; glistening of crafted metal and crimson in the hot light, where flesh of a separate two, twisted and twisting, merged... excruciatingly.
A gentle whirr purred into her ears. The freak backed away on its dirty tracks, the monstrous talon waving her goodbye, yet it didn't. The lips of stretched, gnarled flesh curled into its self, sliding back over those pearly whites, slick with thick red as the entire mandible.
"Aw look..." that stone-faced stick of a grunt said mockingly, "he's smiling! If I don't know any better, 96, I think he likes you!"
She let her weak glare do the speaking for her, snorting scornfully. The freak let out a growl, or its equivalent to whatever that ribbed tube stuck in its neck could muster.
"Looks like I'm correct." The stick shrugged. "I guess. I'm not really sure. But as much as it pains me to say it, work has to intrude again if we are to make any sort of progress today! Now let us try this question again, 96: why, pray tell, do you want to kill our benevolent Commandant, hmm?"
"Seemed--" she coughed, "like the humane thing to do!"
"With that kind of attitude, you're going to get a little more acquainted with Mr. Drazen over yonder!" the stick kinked his thin brow. "Given your nationality, it'll be all the more sweeter. But now for our next question: whom do you work for--or with? The CIA; the Ministry of Intelligence Six, or even the Shin Bet perhaps?"
"Drazen's Momma actually!" she spat. "And she told me to tell him that she's very disappointed in him!"
"Americans!" he frowned. "The whole world is the butt of every joke to you, isn't it?"
"Considering that joke of a leader you got!" she shouted. "Do you honestly think the world's going to stand aside and let you tear this land apart!?"
"Of course not, 96." The stick shook his long drawn head. "We don't have to do that. The world is doing a fine job of it. We only want to take back what's ours, and serve to correct those who wish different."
"...I don't believe you!" she growled.
"Think what you want, 96." The thin man sighed. "Doesn't change jack! Whether you're right or wrong, you're cute little ass is still ours!"
"I'm a POW--!"
"POW?" the stick interjected jovially. "HA! Face facts, 96! You're no POW; you're a hostage! There is no Geneva Convention for you!"
"Then do with me what you want!" her crimson wad glittered in the light before it disappeared into the slick cement. "Others will come for me...! You HEAR!?"
"Is that a fact?" that thin brow kinked again. "Then I'll make you a deal, 96: if your 'friends' lack the brainpower to keep away, we'll keep them alive---if- you manage to manage to survive this little interrogation, -and- if you keep quiet. But if you sing me a swansong, the torture will end clean and clear--but..."
Her face pulled into a weak sneer. "But what...?"
"Their lives are mine for compensation." The stick smiled like a shark. "Either way, I win! Simple huh?"
"You're sick!" she seethed. "You all are!"
"Dually noted, 96." The stick sighed. "Now back to business, shall we?"
---
Uzi nodded to no one, lest his brother could see him past the mirror on the other side.
Galil seemed to do the trick, the very trick that a collaboration of the world's lowest of the low could not follow through, nor the highest of the high like dear old dad. In his steel grip, that wench would surely snap like a twig. Even the switch's precious sap, sparkling of G's crimson delight, ran down the length. He thought he could hear that distinct stretch of a prelude to that snapping fissure straight through the pane; it was like the cracking of lumber... or bone, preferably.
Tank Man's tracks rolled for the bleeding switch, his claw flexing continually just as did its predecessor before the kerosene scorched it away. The twig wiggled against the binds futilely, the chains rattling restlessly. The twisted man graced it with its claw, scooping a long, thick branch into its iron grip rather roughly. The links clattered against themselves ferociously when those steel fingers drew--
--"OH--SHIT...!" never before had he heard such a scream, that froze his curdling, cold blood, one that German couldn't hope to utter. –
--To a close.
"My, my, Major Drazen...!" The geezer's third, laminated leg dragged the rest of him closer to the glass. "Won't you might consider that this treatment is a little -too- extreme, even for such a bane as Kim Possible?"
He cocked an eyebrow. "How do you mean, Senor Senior?" he said flatly.
"Where's the tradition?" the coot outstretched his long sleeves in protest, angling his cane inadvertently. "And where's the heart? Without the heart, what makes the interrogation--protagonist's plight--enjoyable? Tell me that, young man, and maybe you'll be a better villain than I!"
"Interrogation?" he took a queue from his brother. "This is torture."
The geezer's eyes popped open, his drawn lips crunched into such a cringe, it even made even his iron stomach turn.
"-Uh...! -" The coot groaned in disgust. "Torture...? You surely must be joking!"
"It's as jovial as a heart attack, Senor Senior." He sighed. "We may not receive any vital information in hindsight, but at least we'll get this troublemaker out of our hair once and for all! Don't you agree?"
"Oh... Major Drazen!" the coot whined softly. "This is disgusting! A travesty of villainy, as it is! This isn't villainy at all! It's a horror show! Do you know how my son will react? He sees this girl as a fox--his blue fox!"
"Blue fox...?" he said skeptically, shooting the old man a look.
"Yes!" the coot tapped his cane harshly against the cement. "Ever since he had gotten his hands on that tasteless Animology book, his feeble head has been circling around that little tart from sun to sun! Then again, I must sheepishly admit, this girl is quite the feisty little vixen!"
"Fox, huh...?" he frowned. "This is no foxhunt, Senor Senior. Okay? Here, in the Middle East, we don't hunt foxes; we hunt jackals! Instead of using bloodhounds, we use Royal Harriers! And let me tell you something, that -thing- you see out there, getting eviscerated is -NOT- a fox!"
"Then what on earth is she, dear man?" the coot inquired strongly.
"-She-...?" He said rhetorically. "That isn't a she! I'm not even sure she's human! And even its humanity comes into question after a few lengthy session with Galil."
"The sin of spin, young Major!" the coot tapped his cane. "The sin of spin: avoidance and deception! When confronted with such queries, a proper villain always delivers a prompt answer to the very best of his or her ability."
He threw his arm up aimlessly, letting gravity slap it against the stump of his leg with a hollow clunk.
"Where on earth are you getting this stuff?" he sighed exasperatedly.
"Ah, The Book of Evil, my young friend!" the geezer outstretched his limbs in grandiose, haughty pride. "With such classics as the evil snicker, the evil laugh! Might I suggest you read it, young Major? It could very much--as you young people might say--rock-your-world!"
"I think I'll wait for the movie..." he dismissed.
"Oh, you young people and your new-fashioned ways!" the coot shook his head, as his dried body curled back into a hunch. Yet he did take a finger from his free hand and placed it on his squared chin, the loose skin on the thick digit practically stuck in place though the bone moved about. "But on the other hand, weren't our ways once new and radical?"
Somehow, Uzi caught the sound of the door creaking open from behind, softly.
"Then on the other hand," the Spaniard continued on, "without tradition, you cannot have villainous morality without dividing it amongst itself, into ambiguous sects. But on the other hand--"
"That's a lot of hands going around." That boyish, carefree timbre reverberated all over the viewing room. "What's next? The Tradition dance from 'Fiddler on the Roof'?"
"Now, don't knock such a timeless piece of theatre, young Lieutenant!" The coot turned on his loafers a weak 180 degrees.
"I'm not exactly sure, Senor Senior." He shrugged. "But I have a feeling--just a slight, sneaking suspicion that he wasn't. But who am I to tell? I'm just the a young chicken-shit, fresh off the boat--WHO'S DONE MORE FOR THE UNDERWORLD IN LESS THAN A QUARTER THAN THE VILLIANS' IN OVER TWO YEARS!!"
He took in a deep breath. "As you can see!" the limb of flesh motioned towards the pane. "The hopeful protagonist has been stripped of all her clothes and dignity... and then some, if I don't keep an eye on G. But that's beside the point."
"And what on earth may your point be, Major Drazen?" the Spaniard pressed.
It was mere child's play. His ranting and raving came down like the final line of a villanelle, sweet, curt, and quick to the point.
"My point, Senor Senior," he rejoined smugly, "that brilliance may not be in need of a genius! Isn't that right, Bonnet?"
"That's gospel, Mr. U!" the curly top replied with forced glee.
"You see," he began, "I woke up, Senor Senior. I realized that no matter where you look, where you turn, or what one chooses to believe will have little consequence. Freedom is nothing more than sheer illusion, perpetuated by those with power--like dear old Prime Minister -Putz-, sitting pretty up north. Causality flows through this world deeply throughout!
"Most people on this disgusting mud ball are in need of guidance--a moral compass, if you will. People look to the stars, others to nature and its indifferent wonder, while some turn to books, as you have yourself. On the other hand--the real hand--it doesn't matter what you've read, what you think, or what you believe! I need no book, no truth--no -rationale- to tell me what I should love, what I should hate, and most importantly--!"
"What might that be, young man?" The Senor folded his arms.
"What--or -whom- I should punish." He smirked weakly.
"Oh, you sad little man." The coot shook his head sternly, condescendingly. "What happened to that lad I met no more than a few weeks ago, huh? His spirit longed for the dreams swirling inside his head to come to pass, leaping for joy. And no sooner had they, he sank to nothing more than a sadistic, hate filled torturer.
"I think that's what a propeller to the face will do to a man, Mr. Senior." Shia firm grasp of the obvious came unsolicited.
"It does not matter, my young Lieutenant." The Spaniard sighed. "I must feel I must pray for your soul, my young Major."
"My soul...!" forced out of his neck came a shallow chuckle. "I guess justifying my existence warrants such actions, yes? Go ahead and grovel to your avatar if you want. Her 'kin' killed my family! That fox beyond the pane shoved a hook through my neck! Maybe your god wants it this way!"
The coot's arm dropped to his sides, his frail body curled into a gentle crouch. His eyes closed, and that mat of salt and pepper moved side to side, opposite that of his head.
"Just remember, Senior." He said. "Cause and effect! That wench tried to skewer me, so my brother will skewer her! Funny, what goes around really does come around after all. But come; let's take our leave for now. This is going to get pretty messy."
"If you say so, young Major." The coot sighed. "If we must...!"