Chapter 2: THE RAGE OF POSEIDON
After murdering all the witnesses and setting fire to the bar, the terrible trio of Jack Ryan, the disgusting she-whale, and the man returned to the van and sped off into the night. Excitement crackled tangibly in the air.
Jack Ryan knew this feeling. There was a hot steaming plate of adventure sizzling in the skillet that was life. And he was a hungry man.
"How do we begin going about killing the President?" Jack asked with true curiosity.
The man glanced over his shoulder, ostensibly to look at Jack, but really to watch out for cops. "That depends Jack. Are you familiar with the plasmid Teleport?"
Jack indeed remembered those wretched wizards and their eminently practical power of teleportation. "Yeah, but I never took it."
"Then we'll need to return to Rapture to get it. You wouldn't be able to escape the Secret Service after the assassination without it, and besides that we need to stock up on EVE. We weren't able to get much out of Rapture. A few velvet-lined cases of hypos on one of Fontaine's derelict fishing subs, that's it."
The man observed the way that Jack Ryan stiffened up, and let out a tired sigh. He mustered a vaguely maternal, comforting air that his horrid partner would never evoke in her entire life, and spoke to reassure our hero.
"I know you probably have some reservations about returning to Rapture. I understand, because I grew up on a battlefield as well, and I—"
But the Big Dog, our hero Jacky R., processed the sounds spewing from the man's mouth as a sort of incoherent siren, for within him brewed an anticipation threatening to erupt in an ejaculation shockwave. Rapture had been the greatest experience of his entire life. It was like attending a sweet cocaine carnival.
Nothing else could be so wonderful.
"I'm ready," Jack hissed out through clenched teeth. It took all the will the godlike mortal possessed to suppress the various expressions of joy he wished to subject his fellow vehicle riders to.
The man, for his part, observed Jack in the rearview mirror with an awestruck expression, gobsmacked at the apparent fortitude and courage of the man riding in the backseat of his van. The lad's made of some tough stuff, he thought. Bulbous Auntie Anne in the passenger's seat tried her best to contort her body into an alluring posture, feeling a sudden surge of sexual desire for our hero, not realizing the impossibility of such a task, nor the comedy that was her wants and needs.
"Really?" asked the man incredulously.
"Yeah. I never found one last time, but I figure there must be some lying around Fort Frolic or something. Lots of those teleporting Splicers there."
The van roared deep into the night and well into the morning as the three-king trifecta made their way across a slice of mom's best Americana. The starry night gave way to a sleepy sunrise as cornstalks swayed in the wind along a peaceful rural road. Many an hour was spent chatting on agreeable topics, bonding over heartwarming anecdotes, and sharing a feast of power bars, much to the tubby gorgon's displeasure.
Finally they arrived at the ocean, where a man in a trench coat was waiting for them with a boat, a beautifully powerful watercraft worthy of their momentous journey. He gazed at Jack, but flinched upon meeting his eyes. They emanated an eerie red glow, silent promises of righteous vengeance and retribution roiling in their unfathomable depths. This man is power, the boatman thought.
Nonetheless, the boatman attempted to project dignified bravado. He ensured that his spine was upright but it took all that he had to keep from nervously blowing big chunks in front of our Jacky R. "Well shiver me timbers, Glass Rook and the Black Horse bagged themselves a Red Queen, eh?"
Nobody knew what the fuck he was talking about.
"Bring me to the fucking lighthouse," Jack snarled. He was an antsy mythical beast, perhaps a Cerberus, and the dallying stranger before him threatened to ignite the powder keg that was the Big Dog's barely restrained natural violence.
The newly minted fantastic four piled into the boat and took a hearty sniffity sniff of the salty nautical air. The boatman unfurled the sails, and the wind began to carry them to their nebulous destination. They indulged in the soothing sound of the waves lapping at the sturdy hull of their magnificent seaworthy vessel, lulling even the furious Jack into a dreamy trance, until he remembered that the lighthouse was halfway between the United States and Europe, and potentially, he would have to spend several weeks with present company.
Jiminy Crickets, thought Jack. Good thing I packed some Steel Reserve.
After 47 days on the open sea, most of it spent pounding the Big Steel and having a laugh at the landwhale's expense, Jack could finally see the familiar rapturous spire that was Andrew Ryan's devilishly inconspicuous lighthouse. He whistled in undisguised appreciation for his dad's ingenuity.
Suddenly, from the unthinkable depths of the sea, what sounded like a vastly oversized porpoise or a forcefully inducted whale on rocketfuel rumbled deep a song of power. It rocked their magnificent vessel on a tumultuous wave, sending the three worst individuals on the boat scrambling for cover.
Not Jacky R. though. Our Big Dog overtook the portside mast, standing atop it like the symbol of status that is a Mercedes Benz hood ornament. He splayed his arms out to the side in a bombastic display of challenge and power to this most ignominious aberration of the natural order.
"I fear not Poseidon and I fear not you!" screamed Jack in a voice that made Angels lock their doors at night for fear of a possible rape or burglary. "Come topside, that I may render judgment!"
His warbling fury was dulcet…and deplorable. It said nothing and everything. As though cowed by his natural authority as the king of the jungle, the denizen of the deep shot up from the sea like a professional swimmer with gold medals.
Jack's hands pulsed with invisible power, ready to take this anomaly and toss it into the sun if need be—but when the spray settles, the sight defies his expectations.
A majestically powerful young woman stood atop a submarine, a young woman who reminded him of his own daughters were they not such fuckups and disappointments. Her shining black eyes, like burning coals on a BBQ grill, radiated authority. For the first time ever Jack felt that there was someone present who could relate to his lot in life. This young woman was clearly a powerful beast.
"Who are you, strong lady?" asked Jack with a kindly tone.
But the young lady didn't hear him. She was busy jamming an arm needle into one of those Powerful Papas that Jacky R. had had many a fisticuffs session with down in the glass halls of Rapture. That was another thing they had in common, Jack thought as she seemingly murdered the Papa. He cracked open another can of Steel and waited to be acknowledged by this newfound rival.