Hello. Not much to say. Hopefully y'all will enjoy this, and regardless, please drop me a line. I swear I won't get angry if you call me stupid, disorganized, rambling; it's all constructive.
But I think I have figured myself out as a writer. When my creative energies are focused, then I can slam out two thousand words in a few hours. When they are lying about, I can't slam out one.
Oh. By the way- Charleston Green. That's one part green mixed with nine parts black paint. It's from the War Between the States; after the war, the "damyankees" had loads of ugly black paint sitting around, and Charleston, beaten but unbowed, refused to use it, even though there wasn't enough paint to go around. So someone came up with the idea of mixing one part Confederate Green with nine parts Yankee Black, and so bam. In Charleston, SC, you will find nothing painted black. Everything, by law, is Charleston Green. Especially the windows and wooden window shades.
Wow. Long A/N. But, I guess I can't help telling stories. On with the show!
Ron Jr. was on his motorcycle when he got a call. His phone was the latest model from Motorola's military communications division. Over two thousand bit encryption on the signal. The signal was bounced around five different transmitters all around the world before being sent to his phone. Ron had stolen it from under the nose of the Secretary of Defense, who was at the time considering buying that phone for not just Special operations, but the Black Ops division. He gave one other person this number, with the vow that he would destroy his phone if anyone else's voice came from the other line. He had a hunch on who was calling.
"Hi honey. What is it? I'm kinda in the middle of something."
Just like always, his fiancé, Jeanine Standard.
"Sorry. But I thought you might like to know, about that general?"
"He's not dead. I know. I'm rushing there as fast as I can. I need you to do one of two things. Either kill or kidnap Adalbert; just render him unable to do his job, somehow. All his subordinates are cutthroat politicians, not hardcore warriors. They'll die while trying to pick another leader."
"Ronnie, you know my objections to violence. I will not kill him, I tell you that much."
"You don't have to. All I'm asking is that he's gone for the duration. And isn't it hypocritical for a world-class martial artist to object to violence?"
"No, it isn't. We've had this out before. Again, be careful."
"I'll be careful to leave them dental to identify him by."
He could almost hear her grimace, but neither said nothing. The conversation ended coolly. He hated when his jokes backfired like this. He put the phone back in its jet-black holster.
"God damn it."
God does not like being invoked unnecessarily.
It was Sunday. And Heinrich, for all his faults, was a Christian, newly devout. Being nearly assassinated has the tendency to do that. He was in an old Catholic church, which was built like a castle. Even the stained glass windows were lined copiously and conspicuously with wrought iron, the brick was old, and grey. Ron's first impression as he pulled up to it was that it was a mountain of holiness, still standing proudly after centuries of being lapped at by wave after wave of defilers. Upon closer examination, where the rock had been worn away, Ron saw Kevlar underneath the holy stone.
Looking at the church, Ron grimaced when he calculated out the space. He could take down a man, guaranteed, up to three thousand meters with his sniper rifle. He was also good with a sword, complemented by his parentage- MMP was hereditary- and his love of the sight of blood- especially his. Given a pistol, he couldn't hit the dirt. Between a three and a hundred meters, he was uncomfortable, and in a real situation, would either charge, dodge, or otherwise move into his comfortable range.
So this was an uncomfortable situation for him. He refused to go on a mass murdering spree- that was the job of the beast, the only name the CVB give the ones who killed their father.
So he whipped out his sword and skidded down the building, using the sword to stop himself. As a CVB member, he didn't settle for anything less than the best when it came to his weapons, so it was a full Katana- a sister to the Lotus Blade, which fractured when Ron died- forged in all the old methods with a blessing inscribed on the hilt.
May your days be long
May your clan have its honor
May this sword save you.
Ironic, indeed. He rode for a fall, in a clan whose name was slightly more muddied than Hitler's, and used this sword to end many a life.
The chapel had emptied, except for the priest and Heinrich. He walked into the chapel. He pulled out night vision sunglasses that he carried with him- standard survival equipment- and found the back chamber. He found Heinrich on his knees, and the priest in full regalia, in an obviously shabbily built confessional- the pine wood was rough and unpolished, the window of the confessional jury-rigged plastic from a junkyard car. Despite that, Ron closed the door, some sense of occasion settling over him. Heinrich started.
"Hello, Pierre. I don't know exactly what the pastry was laced with, but I fed it to my dogs and they died instantly. But I really should thank you. You led me here. You redeemed me. I realized that Hell is what I was headed toward. I couldn't cheat my Maker. My number was called that night, but God decided to stay my fate one night that my soul would be saved. I prayed he would let me live long enough to see my Father.
The voices in my head, the hellish screams of the civilians I tortured in the war with France, fell silent. The demons that had haunted my sinful, hedonist life for years had fallen silent. I have looked into a man's eyes before, as my men took sledgehammers to his house, his wife, his son and everything he loved. Every blow a sin. Every blow another ghost that haunts me at night. Seeing hellfire in a dying man's eyes is the worst experience on earth. I would rather gut myself with razor wire.
I finally accepted His forgiveness and redemption. You need to keep in mind that redemption is as easy as facing up to yourself, and forgiving yourself for your sins after you ask God to forgive you. You should not hold yourself to a higher standard than the Almighty holds you to. To do so is blasphemy. I know you. You do not sleep easy at night either. None of us that live in shadow do.
Kill me now, for it is the best sleep I shall ever have. Father is here, and will be here for whenever you need him."
Ron was so moved by the speech that he stood there. He then hefted the sword and sliced off the man's head. As it left his head, the sword broke evenly in two, but it didn't fade from its pale glow. Ron knew something must be up, but he wasn't worried. He could fix it.
"Father… We'll meet again. His speech was moving- he's the most stoic man I've ever killed. But I've got Armageddon to set off before I come to get redemption for it."
The priest removed his collar and resolved to burn it. This was the last straw on his road to losing faith in humanity.
Jax was stuck to the roof of a building, wondering how the hell her boyfriend, her confidant, the one person she trusted in the world, could've stuck her in a situation as screwed up as this one. You see, Adalbert was a staunch atheist, but he did have his traditions. He was a WWII fanatic. He loved to study the what-ifs.
Jax took the time to analyze him. Adalbert was an old man, there's no doubt. But he was a serious old man. His head was entirely bald, he was thin, tall, and straight-standing. His suit was clean, and as grey as the wisps on his head.
He would stay in the cellar for hours at the time. She'd staked out his house, and there was one time he was vulnerable: Walking from his simulator he'd built to test the what ifs, to bed. He kept the simulator in the basement and on the second floor was a window where the wash was hung. She would grab him, hurl him onto the next roof, and jump to him. But her arms were very nearly exhausted. She could hear her Sifu's Long Island cut of a voice: Standard! Stop those shaking legs! It's mind over matter: If you don't mind, it don't matter! It is at least eighty percent mental and at most twenty percent physical!
Jax smiled despite herself, and Adalbert finally gave up the ghost. He leaned back, yawned, clicked save, and walked upstairs. She flipped down and landed quietly. She crept up behind him and grabbed the sides of his head. She used the pyrokinetic abilities she inherited from her mother to spawn some plasma, just enough to knock him out.
She carried him out the window and dropped him in the trashcan in the alley with a bottle of water there in his hands. He could lift it and shake it, but the whole thing would spill out if he tried to knock himself over. The trash men always checked the cans here, so he would survive- but still, he wouldn't be recognized without a uniform.
Jax still had her conscience screaming at her, asking her how she could even take the chance that he would be crushed. Asking her how she could do this to someone who could've been her grandfather. She shut it up by popping some Vikadin.
Now, to Aachen.
Ron now had one task left: Head to Berlin, and undermine the defenses there. The obvious method? Kill the general in charge. Ron considered the impact of the news reports he'd gotten after getting back on his bike were that the Red Army was pushing forward. China had declared war on the Islamic Nation, to get retribution for the destruction of Beijing- the source of the nukes had been "leaked." It wouldn't be easy on either party; the Islamic Nation had virtually all of the world's oil supplies, but China had a full fifth of the world's population. They'd relaxed economic controls, and their population had boomed to 2 billion by this point, the world's was roughly 10 billion. The Islamic Nation had the sands that had kept it concealed for thousands of years… China had enough bodies to turn all the sand in Arabia red. Most of the world was already devastated; the CVB and GJ virtually were law in America, the I.N. had culturally conquered the E.U, and so this had the potential to leave the world in ruins, just like World War I… except, no power would have the resources to wage a "recovery" war.
Ron focused. He still had to take down the Aachen power systems, but he would get his girlfriend to do the dirty work there. As Aachen was an alternative-power haven, and a long-standing power supplier, the simplest way was to hook into the one spot where the power grids all converged, and create a huge drain on the power there. Almost as big a drain as when Arnold Schwarzenegger goes for a tan. His method of choice was one of his own inventions- just a lightbulb with near-infinite resistance. Shines real bright, thick filament, but requires the power grid of a whole city. And they'd spend ages finding it.
Schwarzenegger had stepped down from being governor to do the second trilogy of Terminator movies. They'd also brought forward James Cameron, finally, some fans cried, to do all three movies
But back to the task at hand. He would need to enter the base and either kill or persuade the general to abandon his post. Saddam Achmed was a good, strong man- but either one of the above methods of removal shouldn't prove too difficult. He stopped his motor cycle, and climbed into the sewer. Hey, no one said creating the apocalypse was glamorous.
Great minds, as has often been noted, think alike. That is why Jax Standard was at that very moment wearing a green-black outfit, that was temporarily greenish brown. Jax had her nose sealed shut and her mouth filtered through her teeth. Every time she took a step, she was glad she didn't clean these things for a living. She pulled herself onto the ladder which had just materialized. She emerged into the pitch black University grounds. She stole across the grounds, creeping through the long Belgian grass. She saw a night owl inside the security building. She looked down and grabbed a rock.
She studied the guard's activity. God bless OCD people. every five minutes, he would reach down and sip his coffee, and every thirty, he would get a new cup. When he got up, he would be at the depths. She waited until he got up- and threw the rock. He walked out, and she crept in behind him. He searched the grounds with his flashlight, as she hacked the servers with her prowess. Prowess here meaning the standard basics taught her by her boyfriend- enough to get past this one computer and inside. She stole the guard's all-access pass, just for good measure.
She snuck in the door, and then stood tall. None could question her now; the God of Bureaucracy now stood irrevocably with her. Men never questioned things when they didn't have a good reason to. Law of survival. Ungh. Me have card. Card hurt you if you challenge card. Shamanism, repackaged. Ten thousand years and yet Man's essence hasn't changed since Adam, Eve, Satan and the Apple.
The power lab was at the center of the building, cushioned by a ten-foot-thick concrete wall, just in case someone like Ronnie were to try to get in there and mess around. Fortunately, the one guard staying there eyeballed her pass and let her through. The power supply for the entire city converged on this giant structure. She removed the bulb from the case and proceeded to install it in a dark corner. She heard footfalls in the distance. Mister Doppler effect said they were getting closer. She heard a gun cock in the distance. Not good. All of this told her two things: One: She was facing a cop- only they'd have guns in here. Two: She was facing a newbie. No old salty cop ever watched the monitors this late- or drew his gun first. In most cases, new cops had the highest mortality rates- crusaders, too used to the ideal of protect and serve, not believing corruption could exist in the brotherhood.
Ron emerged from the sewer. The base around him was fairly spartan, except for an office sized glass cylinder on top of the building. The grass was well tended, and the chain link fence was kept from public eye. The only weakness was this sewer hatch that they had to have, in case of siege, which also allowed him to get in. The building was made of ordinary brick, painted pale green, for the army, with a simple guard box out front.
Ronnie pulled out his rifle immediately after leaving the hole. First priority is to kill someone and take their pants and underwear. He had killed people for less. He had, at one point, actually followed a man who cut him off home, watched and waited. Okay, there was an extenuating circumstance. He was cheating on his wife.
But back to business. He saw a wino security guard in the guard box, smashed him in the back of the head with his rifle, knocking him out, and quickly raided his clothes, deciding to put on the whole outfit and stow his gear for later. He carried only a pendant and a ring with him. The ring was his engagement ring. The pendant was for if the fecal matter truly had an encounter with the rapidly oscillating bladed device. A.K.A. if the shit hit the fan.
He walked inside, and inevitably found Saddam's office, located on the top floor. It was the one with glass all around for a good survey of the strategic outline of the city and a desk, big enough to lay out a map.
Jax put her game face on. It had been a while since her bullshit muscles got a workout. She stood up at a comfortable angle- not so straight as to be challenging or cold, but not so lax as to suggest a layman.
"Hello, officer. Just coming around to check on my contribution to the latest experiment. I thought I saw a rat over here- but I was mistaken."
"Yeah, right. What's with the dirty get-up?"
"I was experimenting with fuels for my part of the project; an accident in the chemistry lab, the old baking soda and vinegar reaction rehashed with much stinkier and much more disgusting chemicals. I took that as a sign to come down here to put this in and go home for the night."
"Where's your ID?"
She stamped her foot. "Dammit, I knew I left something back at the lab. If you'd allow me to run to the lab, I could get it for you and be back in a second."
He lowered the gun, and she was beginning to run out, and the cop came closer to her "experiment." She decided to give him a parting gift, just in case he had a brain. Not likely at this hour of night, even though he was supposed to be a security guard. She took aim and hit him square on the pressure point on the side of the jaw with a narrow beam of Charleston Green flames.
As it was night, he would forever swear up and down, that they were black. She would grin, and tell him, no, they were Charleston Green. The CVB had a trip there when planning the New York bombing, and she heard the story and liked it so much- she had never before known how to describe her flames. And it was a wonderful icebreaker. Or melter.
She coolly strolled out the front door, and grimaced as she remembered that the most disgusting part lay ahead- getting back to good old Paris- after a stop in Berlin.
He stood atop the peaks of Oblivion. This may sound metaphorical; no. The stink of death, of ruin, of finality was in the air. The weight, the screams of millions could already be felt. It bowed Ron Jr.'s back. He looked on with sadness, before he saw a general, so unobtrusive as to be part of the scenery, rise from his chair. He felt suddenly as if he should have a lightsaber in his hand. He idly wondered, what color would it be? Would he be the one tempting, trying to lure the hero to the dark side? Or would he be the one trying to save the universe from and through damnation? Or, could the two roles be the same?
Enough B.S. He was here to kill and he knew it. He said, "Unless I am mistaken, you are Saddam Achmed. Graduated valedictorian from high school, refused the honor because your parents came here illegally- or were accused of it. Joined the military because no college would take you. Spat on as you rose through the ranks, because you were the only one in your units who lodged objections that proved to always, without fail, be right. And still looked down on by your fellow generals."
Saddam stirred indistinctly.
"You forgot one thing. I have sworn, repeatedly, oaths of loyalty. I have borne those indignities for the Fatherland. I would bear the cross of Jesus of Nazareth, would lead an army into Russia in the winter, would dash headlong across the field into a machinegun nest for my country. Why? Germany is an old country, but one that has been known for its poor leadership. I know, if I can set an example, become a leader, that we can streamline Germany, make it better, maybe even challenge the U.S. for dominance of the world."
"Then we work for the same goals- the army already headed this way has been instructed to only shell the Reichstag- to destroy the very agency which binds and poisons the veins of your country, which you love. Would you betray her by allowing those who you yourself despise to stay in power?"
"Nice try. But authority is king over power. They have had the free and fair approval of the people, and I must therefore defend them. Do you have a sword?"
"Why, yes I do. Why do you ask?"
He removed the talwar (Arabian broadsword) from its blood-red sheathe. He said, "Trial by combat."
Ron Jr. sighed reluctantly. He removed his pendant, grasped the center, and brandished it, willing it into a katana, permeated by a pale glow. He dropped into a basic stance and circled around the room. He tested the weight of his sword, adjusting it slightly so it was perfectly balanced. He noticed that Achmed had a slight tilt to his arm- age or fatigue, he couldn't say. But the effect was, he left his back side open. Ron feinted to the belly and swirled to where the head should be. He then twisted the side of the blade to block the incoming strike to the forehead, which he parried and tried to cut open the arm with, but failed.
The battle went on, Ron Jr and Achmed in the deadly dance of old, where individual skill, not unit strength, won the war. They both took hours to tire; they were almost as fit as Lance Armstrong in his heyday, but age still effects the body. Achmed made the first mistake. He dropped the arms an inch too low, and allowed Ron Jr. to get in a nick to his ear. From then on, the battle shifted. Every twenty minutes or so, his hand would drift down or up far enough to allow Ron Jr. to get that one nick in.
Back in the days where Ug and Chug fought with sticks, the prize of prizes was the wooly mammoth. But Ug and Chug couldn't get it; they wanted that mammoth, it was just too big! So they kept on attacking and attacking, and ended up killing it, after poking about a thousand holes in it.
Death by a thousand cuts, that's what happened to Saddam. He fell ungracefully. He finally couldn't lift his arms above his chest, and Ron was about to cut his head off when he heard a voice whisper in his ear… "So when's the wedding?" He nearly defecated in his gluteal coverings, also known by the highly technical term of "shitting one's pants."
"Jax, you nearly gave me a heart attack! And to answer your question, after we get rid of Rome!"
But Saddam survived, taken to a hospital, and nursed back to health.
"And so, now that France has for all intents and purposes conquered Germany- with no casualties on either side- the new transnational state of Frermany has been produced. Their first product will be a BMW that smells like cheese. Russia, in other news…" Grigor Romanov shut off the television. That was, to him, old news, on all three counts. Of course, the russian news hadn't officially happened yet; he was about to make it happen. All he had to do was walk out onto the balcony and pronounce it.
An onlooker would say that all Russia had gathered here. It was almost indistinguishable from coronations or speeches of the more popular Tsars. In the same place that Nicholas II had effectively committed political suicide; the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg. The new seat of the government. Another world-shaking announcement was about to be made, causing horrors like the first.
"My Comrades. Russia has been behind in environmentalism for far too long. After the Bolsheviks seized power, we neglected the environment. We have abused Mother Russia for thousands of years, and the last hundred and twenty have been different in only that we have moved from the foreplay to the actual rape. We are raping the Motherland, and we need to stop it right now. Ever since the Industrial Revolution, we have been taking and taking with no thought for giving back. In the past thirty years, the conscience of the world has truly been stirred. Therefore, I declare, we are immediately taking steps to stop the atrocities we are committing. First off: The Save Russia act is hereby passed. The horrible destruction wrought on our native soil, and her native soul, will be reversed. We will no longer be taking natural gas, oil, or any fossil fuel as imports or doing any ourselves. The removal of those products destabilizes the Earth herself, and is disrespectful. I realize the transition will be hard, but we can do it together. For the sake of Russia!"
The crowd cheered. Any one of them would've stood in horror at the insanity of the pronouncement. But a master manipulator made them cheer at the abolishment of the lives of almost literally all Russia- many a Russian just barely survived with their lamps, cars to drive to market, and other necessities.
"In 1848, we drilled our first oil well. And Russia's first grave. Now, almost two hundred years later, we say enough! Second on the agenda: No Minks Extinct Act! Passed! All of Russia's wildlife is now on the Protected Species of Russia list, and all import, export, sales, and businesses relating to, animal parts, are gone. All animal related products are to be surrendered to the police immediately, even furs. That means no beef jerky, no pemmican, and for the love of God, no eggs and ham. I realize it will be a difficult transition; I myself will miss the Katlyeti (meat cakes) my mother used to make on cold winter days. The animals of Russia replenish the land, carry us, and we ask them for more? And we repay them by killing, eating, and wearing them! I think their load is quite enough!"
Now he had damned everyone in Russia to starvation and freezing. Meat was the only thing some of the villagers of the outer extremities could rely on. Beef jerky was the only thing that lasted long enough for some hunters, backwoodsmen, and some villagers to live off during lean times. And the furs were the only thing that kept every Russian from freezing, when January rolled around. It would be like Hitler, but a hundred thousand times worse. But the zombies cheered, blissful as ever to their demise.
"And last and definitely not least, the Russia Loves Her Soldiers act is passed. Soldiers can now only be convicted in a courtmartial if two eyewitnesses step forward, with sufficient corroborating evidence to rule it out beyond the shadow of a doubt. We will not tolerate slander, libel, or 'dissing' those who give life and limb to protect Russia; they continue to give, serve, and protect, and we continue to falsely prosecute him."
And of course, he had just made himself Caesar to the troops. There was now not one soldier, one cadet, or one soldier's wife or widow who would oppose him.
And most disturbing of all, the crowd was chanting. Chanting "Long Live the Tsar."