Author's Note: I guess I owe an apology to SlayerDarth as reading my fic has probably now officially scarred him for life with the images of Old Freda burnt into his mind. Oh well, at least it now gives you incentive to review as Old Freda will likely be on hand to give you herpes, syphilis, or whatever her 'flavor of the day' is if you don't! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
And I have to agree with Afro Spirit in thinking that Tina Fey looks good while spoofing Sarah Palin, she's one smarty pants I wouldn't mind showing my "bookworm" too if you catch my drift. ;-)
Oh well, now it's time to go on with the story!
Chapter 5: The Iceman Cometh
Artie had woken up much earlier today and made a quick driver over to the 24-7 convenience store in Bellport, picking up a half dozen long johns, fresh jug of milk, carton of eggs and a fresh loaf of bread, as well a copy of 'The Daily Blowhard.'
He also had the TV going, distracting him from being able to get too deeply into any of the headlines featured on today's issue. Weazel News was currently broadcasting a news feed from its West Coast-baed affiliate network whose name he failed to catch.
The current image displayed was an exterior shot of the Visage casino in Las Venturas, surrounded by several police vehicles with officers trying to restrain the overzealous citizens and press. A headline at the bottom of the screen read 'Visage Casino Robbed.'
"The King is alive…and he's robbing casinos in Las Venturas!" a female anchor's voiceover announced, "Last night the Visage casino was robbed by a gang of men in Elvis costumes and brandishing military-issue weaponry, escaping with what was estimated to be over half a million dollars in cold hard cash. Our very own Dick Rodley is on the scene."
The scene then switched to a reporter standing in front of the casino's main entrance, where already some faithful Elvis fans had erected a shrine to the memory of their supposedly rediscovered hero.
"Thank you Joanne. I am reporting live from the Visage, where personnel are still in shock following the recent robbery, in which more than five-hundred thousand dollars was successfully netted from the casino's vault. I am standing here with Earl Spengler, a security guard who witnessed the spectacle firsthand. Mr. Spengler, please tell the listeners back home exactly what you saw happen last night."
The camera panned over to a short, balding red-headed man with a bushy mustache and protruding beer gut, while other spectators bounced around in the background doing whatever they could to be noticed, including making lewd gestures and holding up the typical 'Hi Mom' and 'John 3:16' signs.
"Well Dick, I was just doing my usual rounds for the night when all of the sudden, The King himself waltzed right into my very own place of work! Elvis 'Freaking' Presley at the Visage of all places! Naturally, I was excited to see the man and a little shocked because he looked pretty good for a man who died on his toilet!
"Anywho, I had to put that at the back of my mind and went up to ask the guy for an autograph to give to my dear mama, when all of a sudden he pulls out this huge ass assault rifle on me! He told me to don't be a fool and drop my weapon and get down on the ground, just as long as I didn't scuff his blue suede shoes, or else I would be 'all shook up.'
"Next thing I know, a whole bunch of them appeared! I didn't know Elvis also had himself cloned ten times! What's also funny was that whoever managed to clone him must've done some funky stuff with his DNA because a few of them were pretty young looking, a few of them were black, and one of them was even a freakin' woman!
"Anyways, I was tied up and blindfolded and next thing I know, I heard all these gunshots and screams, and a bunch of piss poor renditions of 'Heartbreak Hotel' and before I know it, I was being helped up by some officers. They told us The King and 'his boys' robbed the casino!
"Why the hell would he rob a casino? He's the single greatest performer of all time! He's got all the money he should ever need…even more money than God himself! People should be robbing him!"
The female anchor's voiceover resumed as a cameraman was shown trying to enter the casino, only to be shoved backward by an exasperated officer.
"Immediately after the vault was emptied, the Elvises escaped in a white limousine and were nowhere to be found. Police still have no leads as to their possible whereabouts and are almost too stunned to believe The King would ever do such a thing, but are determined that the only rocking in the end will be done in the jailhouse."
Artie shook his head and switched the TV off, returning his attention to the newspaper while reaching over for a half-eaten long john.
He was still feeling the after effects of a nasty hangover from the night before. As soon as he had gotten back to the bar, Gino was so overjoyed he had been feeding him shots nonstop until he had to be helped up the stairs.
"Last time I let you pull that shit Gino," Artie thought to himself taking a sip of his milk.
The phone rang on the stand next to him, making him grunt in anger as his breakfast was interrupted.
"Why do I even bother?" he asked aloud picking up the phone and breathing deeply into the receiver, "This better be good."
"Artie, its Zeke. I need you to come downstairs right away. I have somebody I want you to meet, one of the friends I told you about who can help us out."
"Alright, I'll be down in a few minutes," Artie said before hanging up the phone. Finishing up his long john and glass of milk, he threw on his combat jacket and stopped to pick up the very baseball bat he used to murder Glenn Borker, knowing of the old prostitute that typically lurked outside.
Carefully sneaking outside he breathed in relief when he didn't hear the labored hacking that usually indicated her presence and made his way down the stairs, taking some time to admire the now dark red Sentinel he had acquired from yesterday's mission. While walking around to the front of the building he noticed a silver Patriot S.U.V. with dark blue designs shaped like icicles parked in front of the bar.
Making his way inside Artie found Zeke manning his usual position behind the counter, stocking up the drinks in preparation for when the establishment would be open to the public in a few hours. A lone patron sat across from him taking an early morning shot of tequila.
The other man was slightly shorter than him and appeared to be in his early thirties. He had jet black hair with a matching mustache and goatee, along with dark brown eyes. He looked like he had spent quite a bit of time at the gym, his muscular arms covered in various tattoos. At the moment he wore a sleeveless black t-shirt with a frost demon design on the front of it, knee-length camouflage shorts with a studded belt, black combat boots and black fingerless gloves. A shoulder holster was also slung around the man's right shoulder, his type of gun not immediately visible.
"Hey Artie, c'mon in," Zeke called out waving him over and motioning for him to take a seat. "Gino had an 'appointment' so he left me in charge. Anyways, I want you to meet my friend. This is Pete, but everybody calls him 'Iceman.'
"Iceman, huh?" Artie asked looking the newcomer up and down. "With a nickname like that I would've expected you to look like Santa Claus."
"Yep that's me. Nice to meet ya'," he spoke in a gruff voice before extending his hand.
"Iceman here is one of my 'war buddies,' cool as ice in the heat of battle," Zeke said tapping fists with the man.
"War buddies?" Artie asked, now looking the bartender up and down, not believing a scrawny punk rocker like him could have ever been soldier material.
"Yeah, every Thursday night we get together with a few other guys and do LAN parties," Iceman explained, "We play 'Sworn for Battle' online with people from all over the world."
"Highly addictive game, you should definitely check it out sometime. Our unit is number one in the Rushmore City division," Zeke triumphantly added, "I'm the sniper!"
"Okay, okay I get it," Artie said turning his attention towards the bartender, "So what's going on? Are you making big plans for whatever you plan on doing about those Redcoats?"
"Don't know if I'd say I'm really planning just yet, more so gathering intelligence and in the earliest stages of recruitment at this point," Zeke replied motioning towards Iceman, "Iceman here knows some people and could probably provide us with a few weapons along the way."
"I just hope these 'people' know how to fire actual guns better than they are at jerking off to internet porn," Artie thought trying to stifle a chuckle.
"You name it, I get it. I don't give a damn if you're looking for a pussy .38 snub nose, a badass .44, a .50 heavy machinegun or even a freakin' RPG! If it can be moved, I can get it here. There ain't no pussy laws out there that can stop the Iceman from getting what he needs and for whom he needs," the tattooed man proclaimed.
"Really? Well I hope you know what you're doing," Artie replied with a skeptical glance.
"Well you'd better not doubt me too much," Iceman shot back, studying his facial expressions closely, "I thrive on proving people wrong…believe me!" he said producing a Colt Anaconda revolver and twirling it with the grace of a Wild Western gunslinger.
"I don't think you wanna test him man. He really knows how to use that thing well," Zeke said cocking his head towards the gun.
"Alright, alright, just what the hell do you need from me?" Artie asked waving his hands protectively in front of him.
"You got anything else on you aside from that Louisville Slugger?" Iceman asked referring to the bat, which Artie had managed to cleanse thoroughly of the blood and brain matter that had once decorated it.
"No, why do you ask?" Artie said twirling the bat like a player on deck.
Iceman stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder, "Bro', if you're going to survive in a place like Rushmore City you need a gun, no questions asked."
"I was well aware of that, but I haven't pissed off enough people to warrant owning one just yet and I don't plan on it either," Artie grunted.
"Well sometimes things have a habit of coming to you when you least expect. Zeke told me about the sticky situation you found yourself caught in the middle of from the other day. You need to be prepared and I know of a place that can help," Iceman replied turning to Zeke, "We're going for a ride then, wish you could come along."
"Yeah, until then I'm stuck here," Zeke said sounding bummed out, "Just go and get your shit done," and with those words he switched on the boombox behind him, filling the once quiet room with "Armageddon" by Alkaline Trio.
"Let's go," Iceman said leading the way to the waiting Patriot.
"Where are we going?" Artie asked climbing inside and reaching for his seatbelt.
"There's an Ammu-Nation over in Stilsen. I'm taking you there to buy you some hardware," Iceman said starting up the tank-like vehicle and waiting for a delivery truck to pass before pulling into traffic.
"Um okay, that's nice of you then," Artie replied looking out the window and spotting a few more of those Redcoats standing around outside the Kraken Bros. Hardware Store, chatting amongst themselves while enjoying some liquor and blasting tunes. "So…what do you do when you're not running guns and helping start up little armies on the side?"
"Got my own record shop," Iceman spoke slipping on a pair of sunglasses, "I help this city rock out, anything to save it from the ghetto hip-hop shit and inbred country crap."
"Sounds like a noble cause. Liberty City was full of annoying wannabe gangsters who needed a few bullets to the skull, show them what it was really like to be 'hardcore' and shit," Artie replied.
"You don't even know the half of it," the gun runner replied, "I had to take out the kneecap of some dumbass who came into my store the other day and was talking shit about anything that wasn't hip-hop or Republican, saying his 'dogs were gonna run wild on my cracka' ass.'"
"Bastard got what he deserved then," Artie spoke as the Patriot nearly ran over a homeless beggar who had attempted to step out and offer a window washing when it looked like Iceman was going to bring it to a stop.
The Patriot eventually came to a stop outside a large building with an American flag design painted onto its front exterior with a large gun hanging over the doorway.
"We're here," Iceman announced switching on the vehicle's alarm, "I can smell the sweet aroma of gunpowder already, can't you?"
Artie sniffed the air in response, "All I smell is dog shit and burnt flesh."
He jogged after the gun runner, ignoring the protests of some anti-firearms demonstrators standing around with placards and handing out flyers near the entrance, and once inside took in the overpowering stench of gunpowder that Iceman had mentioned, as well as the multitude of loud pops coming from the firing range.
Much like the stores he visited in Liberty City, the walls were lined from start to finish with all forms of handguns, shotguns, machine pistols, assault and sniper rifles and even a couple of RPGs, with additional heavy artillery on display around the showroom floor, along with various mannequins outfitted in the brands of body armor sold at the shop. There was also an advertisement for a contest to win a brand new Scorpion all-purposes urban combat vehicle that came equipped with heavy machineguns, rocket launchers, built-in laser guided missile systems and a ton of other features that nearly made Artie cream in his pants as he read the list.
Iceman summoned him over to the front counter, where they were met by a grizzled middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair cropped closely to his head and a several days old stubble. An eye patch covered the man's left eye and there was a nasty-looking scar that ran over it. He wore a U.S.M.C. tank top, camouflage pants and had a pair of dog tags hanging around his neck.
"Eh Iceman, how ya' doin'?" the man greeted in a gravelly chain smoker's drawl, "Been putting those RPGs to good use?"
"Of course Colt, why else would I buy them? Just to sit around and collect dust?" Iceman chuckled heartily, "All those gangbanger bitches running around out there, gonna be putting them to use sooner or later."
"Heh, ain't none of those fuckers ever been in the trenches of Australia," the cashier, now identified as Colt, laughed loudly before shifting his attention to Artie, "And how may I help you today, young 'un?"
"He's with me Colt. He's going to need some guns and ammo," Iceman said stepping up.
Colt looked Artie up and down a little more closely and chuckled, "You look like a lightweight son. I'd better get you something small, something with a damned good trigger lock on it."
"Hey, I've used a gun before pal; I'm not a newbie to any of this shit!" Artie shouted and raised his fist threateningly to the man's face, but was stopped by Iceman.
"Just give him a Glock 22," the weapons dealer said before turning and whispering to Artie, "I'm sorry bro', but this is Rushmore City we're talking about here. Anything you might've accomplished elsewhere means jack shit around these parts. You're gonna have to prove yourself all over again whether you like it or not."
Artie grunted angrily as he accepted the handgun, carefully checking over the sights, sliding mechanism, clip and any other small details which needed notice.
"Be careful where you're pointing that thing rookie, you might shoot your eye out," Colt taunted.
"I am pointing it straight at you right now. I'd watch my mouth if I were you jackass," Artie shot back.
"Heh, little boy I've killed plenty of wannabe tough guys like you with broken limbs, concussions, heavy blood loss and even a 104 degree temperature," Colt said cracking his knuckles, "Right now, I can think of nine different ways I could break your arm and force you to shove that barrel up your own asshole."
"Okay, thank you for your input Colt," Iceman cut in, stepping between the two men before an altercation could occur. "C'mon, we'd better put that new baby of yours to the test," he said leading Artie over to the shooting range.
"Don't shoot your own dick off like that other greenhorn did yesterday!" Colt called out, "Blood don't come out easily y'know!"
"The nerve of that asshole," Artie grunted as he was led into the shooting range, accepting a pair of protective shades and earmuffs handed to him by Iceman.
"Never mind Colt, he acts like that with all the new guys who come in here," Iceman explained as they passed an overweight gentleman in a replica Rushmore City Statesmen baseball jersey, armed with an M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon light machinegun, wildly spraying his bullets about, yet finding himself whipped back and forth by the gun's heavy recoil and barely hitting the paper target, a sight both men found humorous.
Aside from the baseball fan, there was a lanky, nerdish-looking man in a plaid sweater vest with buck teeth, a prominent cowlick in his red hair and thick glasses. He was carrying an Ithaca Model 37 Stakeout pump-action shotgun, which he was using to reduce a paper human target to shreds, all the while muttering how "the entire cruel world was going to learn a lesson for pushing Ferguson around."
"Okay, now there's a kid who seriously needs some help before he goes and shoots some place up," Artie thought as he passed a petite blonde-haired woman dressed in her Sunday best, armed with a Desert Eagle and firing rounds directed at her target's crotch, heard and head areas, rambling on about how she was going to teach her husband a lesson for banging his secretary behind her back.
"Alright, I'm going to make it perfectly clear to you," Iceman began looking him straight in the eye, "I don't roll with just any random schmuck. If you're going to rip shit up with me, you'll need to prove that you're not some goddamned fucking pussy. You'll need to be ready to blow the head off any random motherfucker when commanded."
He then motioned towards the gun held in Artie's right hand, "One way you can do that is by showing me what kind of shot you are. You'd better be a damned good one, or else you're on your own."
Artie nodded in acknowledgment, "Fine, I won't let you down. Just remember, I'm not the rookie that Colt prick tries to make me out to be. I know what the hell I'm doing and you've got more than one random crippled schmuck up in Liberty City who can attest to my skills."
"This is a whole new ballgame Artie. What I see happen here is what counts right now," Iceman replied.
Artie said nothing and prepared to take aim at the paper target before him, until his companion placed a hand on his shoulder.
"One more thing I forgot to tell you Artie, you're not going to be showing your skills here."
"Then just what did you have in mind?" Artie asked cracking his neck back into place.
Next thing he knew, Artie found himself in the space adjacent to the regular shooting range, which appeared to be an abandoned warehouse designed to look like an actual city, complete with cardboard buildings, crates, sandbag barriers, stripped down cars and so much more.
"What I would see on that range out there would be only the tip of the iceberg. I wanna see more out of you," Iceman's voice boomed over the intercom, "I wanna see just what exactly you can do in the heat of battle. These targets are rigged to fight back, so I'd be quick on my feet if I were you. Take three strikes and you're out."
Artie stood over a large red 'X' waiting patiently for the buzzer to ring. Taking a couple deep breaths he relaxed his shoulders and steadied his aim.
A buzzer echoed and right away the first target popped into sight, that of a masked man wielding an AK-47 assault rifle. Artie squeezed the trigger and a lone round sailed through the air, tearing through the target's center mass. He instantly pictured what would have happened had it been an actual opponent, how the blood would gush from his chest as he collapsed to the ground.
Another loud spring sounded and he whirled around to find some biker type armed with a sawed-off shotgun. With a squeeze of his trigger, a round tore through the cardboard figure's throat, an instant kill shot in real life.
A spring sounded from behind, sending Artie rolling for cover behind a wooden crate. When he went to take aim, he was relieved to see it was the harmless figure of a woman holding a bag of groceries.
Thinking he wasn't expected to, Artie prepared to move on to the next target, only to be hit from behind by a high-velocity ping pong ball striking him in the ass.
"Ow!' he grunted.
"I also forgot to mention Artie, of course you're supposed to blast cops on this range too. Have you no idea how corrupt the pigs are in this city?" Iceman called out over the loudspeaker.
Growling in anger, Artie fired a round with controlled precision that would have caught a real police officer right between the eyes, knocking the cardboard cutout down.
The simulated shootout went on for three minutes and ended with the majority of Artie's shots considered instant kills and others that would have crippled his imaginary opponents. He had also managed to make it through without being hit again. Ejecting another spent clip he allowed the adrenaline to ebb from his system.
Iceman whistled at the final results, "Damned good if you ask me. I really should trust Zeke's gut instincts more often. Come on out to the front. I've taken the liberty of getting you another gun as well. You've gotta carry more than one piece if you're going to survive in this concrete jungle."
Out in the store's lobby Artie found Iceman had already paid for his second gun, a 9mm Uzi.
"Alright Iceman, you keep it Second Amendment! The revolution is a comin' y'know!" Colt called out before turning to Artie, "Later hippie!"
Artie grunted in frustration, but kept his comments bottled up to avoid the serious firestorm he knew would follow. It was only when stepping outside that he finally voiced his displeasure.
"I wonder how that condescending asshole manages to keep any customers if he insists on acting like that towards newcomers," Artie grunted climbing into the Patriot.
"Simple, he knows people will always need protection with everything going on outside his shop," Iceman replied starting up his vehicle.
"Still doesn't give him the right to be a prick to others," Artie replied.
"That's Colt for you. Tell him otherwise and he'll likely put a round between your eyes," Iceman replied turning the radio to 94.3 CSKD, now playing "Enemy Within" by Arch Enemy.
"Heh, I don't know if that's supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing," Artie replied when the vehicle suddenly jerked. "What the fuck are you doing?"
Iceman had abruptly turned the Patriot around, smashing into a Fortune in the process, and was now following a purple Broadway lowrider from a safe distance, similar to the same one he had spotted while out and about with Donnie yesterday.
"Iceman what the fuck are you doing?" Artie demanded, ready to put his newly-acquired machine pistol to the man's head and force him to turn around.
"That hi-top fade…makes the son of a bitch look like a fucking eraser!" Iceman growled narrowing his eyes behind his shades, "I found him!"
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Artie repeated.
"Rocca Foo," the gun runner replied, cutting off a Vapid Uranus as he remained on the Broadway's tail, hoping he was far enough to now arouse any suspicion.
"Rocca what?" Artie asked looking at him in confusion.
"We figured this would probably be your reaction, but this is something that has to be done," Iceman explained, calming himself as he turned onto the Eastwood Bridge.
"What has to be done? More importantly, why the fuck didn't you tell me anything aside from wanting to take me out and buy me some guns?" Artie asked as the smuggler passed a Blista minivan.
"It's something very personal for me and the reason we didn't tell you is because we knew you would probably say no. This is something that I need backup for, which is why you will need the guns I brought for you…and some other merchandise as well," Iceman answered as he came to a stoplight and waited for a Trashmaster to pass them by.
"What's going on?" Artie demanded as Iceman sped up to avoid losing the lowrider.
"Look in the glove box," he ordered, "Do it.'
Artie did as he was told and opened the glove box to find a photograph of a young woman in her early twenties with green eyes and short stylishly cut black hair that had aqua blue highlights.
"I have a cousin who's been kidnapped by the High Ryderz, Rocca Foo's gang, and I'm out to save her. That's her in the picture, her name is Kenna. She used to sell herself on these streets to any slimebag needing a quick favor in order to support a nasty heroin habit, until I found her and hauled her ass to the nearest drug rehab facility," Iceman explained as they passed through the Crystal Waters district, past the same Well Stacked Pizza where he encountered those three thugs out for Donnie's head.
"I take it you pissed off quite a few people in the process, huh?" Artie asked while examining the photo.
"Damn right I did, but in the end it was worth it because I finally saw her starting to turn her life around. She had gotten an apartment and was making progress towards her dream of becoming a veterinarian," Iceman half-growled, the rage building in his tone. "She used to work for some prick named Cotton Dale, who claimed she was one of his top 'moneymakers.' When he found out she was leaving him, he harassed her at every turn up until I put a bullet in his kneecap."
"Sounds like a Grade A prick," Artie grunted.
"He's the lowest form of shit, not for what he's done to my cousin, but to a lot of women around this city. I know only he could be up to something like this. The bastard had two goons show up and take her right out of my store in broad daylight while I was away, roughed up one of my buddies too. Had I been there I would've shot them up and then chopped off their dicks and mailed them back to the son of a bitch!"
"And just what does this Cotton Dale prick look like?" Artie asked, finally gaining some interest in the matter.
"A scrawny bastard, who wears gaudy clothes, has a gold tooth and walks with a limp. You'll know who he is once you see him, trust me. The only problem is I don't know exactly where he lives, but I do know Rocca Foo is one of his bitches. I get my hands on that eraser-headed son of a bitch, I find Cotton Dale," Iceman explained.
Iceman pursued the Broadway until they found themselves driving through an arch supported by red pillars encircled by dragon statues. They had now entered Chinatown and were surrounded from all sides by bright red buildings, signs with traditional Chinese lettering and various stands set up where the peddlers were selling all kinds of traditional food, the aromas causing Artie's mouth to water.
"Don't be doing too much eyeballing around here, the Triads don't like it," Iceman spoke up as he noticed Artie checking out a young female vendor at an outdoor antique market.
The errand boy saw what he was talking about as a small group of Chinese men in white suits walked through the market, all of their outfits decorated by golden dragon designs.
"The Enlightened Path," Iceman spoke up, "Very traditional mobsters. They're alright as long as you don't fuck with them."
"I'll keep that in mind," Artie replied as he noticed one of the Triads talking to a police officer and being handed a wad of cash.
It wasn't much longer before Iceman noticed the Broadway pulling to a stop outside of Sum Han Job's Massage Parlor and watching as Rocca Foo stepped out, removing his purple floor-length mink coat and handing it to a doorman.
"Alright, we've got the fucker right where we want him," Iceman said pulling the Patriot to a stop behind the purple Broadway.
"So what are we doing?" Artie asked as Iceman inspected his revolver.
"I'm going to make the son of a bitch talk; you're going to stay in the lobby to make sure nobody calls the cops. Hopefully this should be a quick in and out. It'll depend how ballsy the fucker is feeling," Iceman said making his way towards the massage parlor, "I hear he likes to talk a lot of smack, but isn't much of a fighter."
"Right," Artie replied as they made their way inside, only to be stopped by the doorman.
"Do you have an appointment sir? You must leave if-" the man spoke to them in a broken English accent, only until Iceman drove his fist into the man's face and reached down to grab his key ring.
The duo stepped into the lobby and found themselves in a very quiet, relaxing atmosphere where incense wafted through the air and traditional Chinese music played quietly in the background. Several expensive Ming vases, paintings and statues decorated the room and it was an almost wondrous sight for the hitman until he was distracted by the woman at the front counter.
"We're sorry sir, but we are booked to the max for appointments," the receptionist spoke up. She was about to say something else when Iceman walked over and placed his large gun on her desk.
"Well then you're gonna have to make room for one," he growled, "Rocca Foo, what room is he in?"
"Rocca Foo?" the woman asked nervously as she eyed the revolver, her pulse racing and her eyes nearly bulging out of her sockets.
"You know who I'm talking about; faggot likes to wear purple and has hair that makes him look like Phuckmeat on crack," Iceman said as he heard a low whimper coming from behind him.
Artie looked over to see two women who had been carrying stacks of towels and a younger man whom he assumed was a janitor, all of them quivering with fear upon noticing the two armed men.
"Get over here now!" Artie said pointing his Uzi at the trio.
"Do what he says!" Iceman shouted pointing his own gun towards them.
The frightened trio did as told and made their way towards the center of the lobby, where Artie grabbed each of them and forced them to sit at his feet, his aim wavering on all three of them.
"Now tell me, where the fuck is Rocca Foo, and don't think I didn't see him come in here. I'm not slant eyed like all of you. I see things clearly," Iceman growled pressing the barrel against her forehead.
"Room three," she blurted out, "He's here for his weekly massage with Ming Wu!"
"Thank you," Iceman replied grabbing the nearby phone and ripping it out of the wall, "Stay here and make sure none of them try anything funny. I should be out in a few minutes."
"You heard the man," Artie said training his Uzi on the first woman's head, "I hear a peep outta any of you you're gonna be licking up your buddy's brains with your tongues!"
Iceman made his way down the hall with his gun drawn, remaining as quiet as he could until he found the door labeled room three and put an ear to the door listening to what was happening inside.
"Aw yeah Ming baby you sure now how to hit the spot!" the High Ryder called out in his annoying high-pitched voice, followed by a girlish giggle.
"Now I rub big American snake," the masseuse replied.
"Aw yeah, you know I love it even more when you use those fine lips of yours," Rocca Foo replied.
Iceman had heard enough and kicked the door open.
"What the fuck?" Rocca Foo shouted, lying on the table covered in just a white towel, reaching for a Glock 17, "Ain't nobody gonna ruin-"
Before he could say anything else Iceman was firing a round through his left hand, causing Ming Wu to let out an ear-piercing shriek. The gun runner then turned his attention to the masseuse, who was clad in nothing but a blue silk robe that ended just above her thighs.
"I'm in no mood for blasting a lady. Get the fuck outta here!" Iceman shouted to her before returning his attention to Rocca Foo and bringing his boot down on the man's good hand, "You've got one hand left to jerk off with buddy, don't make me ruin that for you too!"
"Wh-what the fuck do you want from m-m-me-ooooowwwww!" the gangster screamed in pain as Iceman applied pressure to his wrist.
"Cotton Dale, where the fuck is he?" the gun runner screamed.
"Y-Y-You want him?" Rocca Foo stuttered.
"Are you fucking deaf? Yes I want to know where Cotton Dale is!" Iceman shouted stomping on his wrist and casing him to scream out in pain again.
"I-I-I-I-I don't know where h-he is!" the High Ryderz screamed as tears streamed down his face, only to receive another bullet, this time to his kneecap.
"I am a man of little patience and now is not a good time to be pissing me off!" Iceman screamed, "Tell me where the fuck Cotton Dale is!"
"Salmon Ridge!" Rocca Foo squealed, "Salmon Ridge! He has an estate there!"
Having heard what he needed Iceman stepped back, "See, that wasn't so hard now was it? All you needed to do was simply say where he was and none of this would have happened," he spoke in a patronizing tone.
The High Ryder shot his eyes open and looked up towards the gun runner, "D-D-Does this mean you're g-gonna let me…live?"
"No," Iceman flatly replied firing a final round into his face. "At least now I don't have to look at that ugly hairdo," the gun runner thought to himself making his way back into the lobby, where Artie stood guard over the employees and was in the middle of stomping on a Whiz Ballsak.
"My Ballsak!" the janitor cried, "I had my screenplay stored on there!"
"Consider this compensation," Artie said pistol whipping the young man with his Uzi.
"C'mon, we gotta go," Iceman said walking towards the front door, stopping to face the hostages, "Call the cops and we'll be back for your heads!"
Artie chased after his companion, who had stomped to knock the recovering doorman back into unconsciousness. "What did you find out?"
"We're heading for Salmon Ridge," Iceman said climbing into his Patriot and starting it up, "Cotton Dale has an estate there. We're going to pay the little shit a visit. Be ready to rock 'cause some heads are gonna roll!"
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Author's Note: Iceman said it best himself, heads are going to roll in the next chapter! At this point I haven't had too much action, but I promise that will pick up in the next chapter so stay tuned for more gratuitous bloodshed!
Now onto my list of random notes, "Sworn for Battle" is a spoof of "Call of Duty," Phuckmeat is a spoof of "Buckwheat" from the "Our Gang/Little Rascals" series. The guy I based Rocca Foo after reminded me of him with his crazy hair. Whiz Ballsak is intended to be a spoof of the Blackberry and since the Whiz phone service from GTA4 was a slang term for urination, Ballsak would be my added sexual innuendo.
Rocca Foo was intended to be a spoof of Kid from the 90's rap duo Kid n' Play. I always thought that guy looked like a yahoo so it was fun for me to lampoon him, although Rocca Foo was intended to be a more adult-oriented version of him.
Physically I would say Iceman is intended to be inspired by a more muscular version of Jonny Davy, frontman of the badass metal group Job for a Cowboy.
Well okay I think that's everything for this point so until then read and review or else Old Freda's gonna be coming for you and she's hungry!
SPREAD THE SICKNESS, ONE MIND AT A TIME! \m/