Chapter 8: All Clucked Up
It had been three days since the shooting at the Hell's Belles gentlemen's club over in Lakeview.
According to the news broadcast, the place had been shut down until further notice as authorities conducted a full scale investigation into the matter.
As for Artie Cappelli, he had spent the past few days blissfully hidden away from any serious forms of chaos, having gone out drinking at some bar in New Leningrad called Belchov's along with Iceman, where they had also enjoyed a round of darts which the errand boy lost, and then the next night he had gone to a concert with Zeke at some former warehouse venue in Stilsen called The 7th Circle, from which his ears were still ringing.
Yesterday had been largely uneventful and was spent mostly indoors due to rainy weather, the hitman spending most of his day playing "Pogo the Monkey 5: The Search for Phalloc" on his newly-acquired GBOX 720.
After that one day of nothingness inside a roach-filled apartment Artie had already begun to develop a heavy case of 'cabin fever' and knew he had to get out and do something as soon as he woke up. Carrying out his usual morning/early afternoon routine of grooming himself, he pulled on a pair of urban camouflage pants, a Rushmore City Statesmen t-shirt he had gotten from the ProLaps in Bellport and his olive drab combat jacket from the Binco in Blue Hook, along with a pair of red and white Hi-Top Kicks from the latter. As he had learned from his recent experiences, he also packed his Glock and some extra clips before making his way downstairs.
Walking into The Little Black Book, Artie found the place completely devoid of any paying customers and at the back of the bar Zeke was in the middle of playing the Space Conquerors pinball game, taking advantage of the time he had to himself.
"C'mon goddamn it!" the bartender grunted loudly, jerking his body back and forth and to the sides as he hammered down on the flapper controls, doing whatever he could to keep his last ball in play. "Ugh…fuck no!" he shouted rocking the machine violently out of desperation until he heard a loud electronic buzzing noise indicating the ball had fallen out of play. "Goddamned stupid machine," he said about to kick the machine as hard as he could, until he turned around to see Artie casually reclining against the counter.
"Oh…hey Artie! How are you doing today?" he sheepishly blurted out as he skittered behind the counter, "Can I get you anything today?"
"Yeah, you can stop neglecting your duties and do your fucking job," Artie chuckled taking a seat.
"Yeah…sure thing," Zeke replied grabbing a glass and pouring Artie's favorite beer into it, "Please don't tell Gino. I'm not in the mood for losing another job."
"Don't worry, I won't. Scout's honor," Artie responded delivering a two-fingered salute before accepting the glass and taking a long swig. "Hopefully you guys will soon be able to get enough attention to where you'll have more customers and won't have to stand around playing pinball all day long."
"That and enough money to keep those Redcoats and Sneed off our asses, but I don't that'll be happening anytime soon," Zeke sighed pulling out some cleaning solution and beginning to scrub down the counter.
"It will, don't worry. If my fat, lying slob of a cousin can't get the job done, then I'm sure you have the 'connections' that can help turn this place around," Artie continued before taking another swig.
"Yeah," Zeke sheepishly nodded, "So, take it you're still feeling the after effects of that Vile Crud show, huh?"
"Yes I am, my ears still haven't forgiven me just yet," Artie grunted, rubbing his ears for emphasis, "I told you I liked rock music, but not that extreme…ugh!"
"Pussy," Zeke taunted before leaning towards him, "It's only a matter of time before Vile Crud is rising up from the depths of Hell and destroying the entire mainstream…especially those Blue Brother fags, or as I call them the 'Blue Ballers.' God I hate those fucking cocksuckers."
"Can't disagree with you there," Artie replied tapping fists with his friend as a loud guitar solo filled the air and Zeke reached into his pocket, "One moment please!" he said pulling out his Whiz Wireless.
Leaving the bartender to engage in his conversation, Artie saw the TV's remote nearby and switched on the TV set, flipping through the channels until he came across the SAG network, which was in the middle of broadcasting a beach volleyball game between two sets of women in very skimpy bikinis.
"Now this is quality entertainment," he remarked aloud as he watched the women's large breasts and buns jiggling as they leapt through the air, yet somehow found the time to train his ears to hear bits and pieces of Zeke's conversation with his friend.
"…yeah he's here right now, that guy I told you about. He's my boss' cousin and he knows how to get things done," Zeke explained, unaware Artie was listening in.
"Is he trying to get me another job or something?" Artie wondered as he was beginning to slowly lose interest in the game and listened more to what Zeke had to say. At one point the bartender turned around, forcing the Italian-American to abruptly revert his gaze back to the TV set.
"…alright, I'll see how things go. I'll talk to you later man," Zeke said switching his phone off and shoving it back into his pocket.
"Important business?" Artie asked.
Before Zeke could answer, the crowd on the TV went wild as one of the volleyball players' bikini top came flying off, temporarily distracting both men.
"Goddamn that's amazing," the bartender muttered, completely losing track of what he was about to say, until the current image was replaced by that of an advertisement from Sprunk Soda saying they would resume the broadcast once the 'technical difficulties' had been handled.
Snapping back to reality Artie resumed their conversation, "Okay, now what were you going to say?"
"Uh…what?" Zeke asked before regaining his train of thought, "Oh yeah…I remember now! That was a friend of mine, someone who might be able to help us out."
"Really? Are you talking about this 'ambitious little campaign' of yours you're talking about starting up?" Artie asked, wondering if he should sit here and continue listening to the man.
"It might seem 'little and ambitious' to you, but it will grow into something more if I can get enough help to get it off the ground and this guy I was telling you about might be able to help," Zeke explained pulling up a stool of his own.
"This guy's name is Randy Spitz and he's one of my 'war buddies.' He's a total genius who knows a thing or two about electronics. Give him a paper clip and he'll use it to fix an entire supercomputer!"
"And he's stuck here in Rushmore City rather than working at some top secret government research facility out in the middle of nowhere?" Artie scoffed, unable to believe such a grandiose tale.
"Believe it. He's too poor to get out of this place and get himself into a good college. He barely makes ends meet for a sandwich working at the Cluckin' Bell over in Jansport," Zeke explained.
"Man, that is a sad existence," Artie said shaking his head.
"Yeah, anyways I've told him about you and he wants to meet you. He's at work right now and he says he'll give you a free meal," Zeke said standing up and resuming his duty of wiping down the counter.
"I don't know about the 'free meal' part, but I'll see what I can find out," Artie said rising from his seat.
"Yeah, just make sure he gets home in one piece. The dude's borrowing my car," Zeke spoke just in time for a thin, balding man in a soiled cream-colored dress shirt to come staggering through the door.
"Hi Zeke…" the man weakly slurred as if he were about to fall asleep.
"Pukin' Pete, gotta get ready," Zeke whispered to Artie, "See you later!" he waved as the drunkard collapsed onto a barstool and emptied his stomach contents all over the counter.
"Goddamn it!" Zeke screamed as Artie made his way into the midday streets, noticing how some of the nicer dressed types were strolling about, wanting to get their daily activities out of the way before the crazies came out at night.
He knew Jansport was located next to Komojack Downs, a rough part of town he would be entering. Not in the mood for taking the Sentinel down he looked around for a car he knew he wouldn't mind smashing up if necessary.
A Buccaneer passed him by, its driver busy chatting on the cell phone and making all sorts of hand gestures rather than focusing on driving.
"Typical idiotic driver, I'll be doing the city a favor when I jack your ride," Artie thought to himself as he watched the vehicle slow down behind a delivery van and sprang into action.
Running around the back of the car he ripped the driver's side door open and grabbed the man by the collar, punching him in the face and tossing him to the ground in rapid succession before picking up the man's cell phone and placing it to his ear, "Sorry, but your boyfriend is a little 'out of it' at the moment. Call back when he's not behind the wheel," he said before tossing the man's phone to the pavement and stomping on it.
"Hang up and drive bozo," Artie shouted to the fallen driver before climbing into the car and punching the gas pedal.
Getting settled into the car he turned up the radio volume, set to Beatbox 102 and playing Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre's "Nuthin' But a G Thang."
"Been a while," Artie said to himself before starting to sing along with the lyrics. Whenever he heard that song it made him think back to his teenage years and how he and his buddies Vinnie, Ray and T.J. would all drive around as soon as they had gotten their licenses, singing along to whatever hip-hop song they could find and talking about becoming the first "all white rap group" to go triple platinum.
"The houses in the hills, the garages full of sports cars, the blinged out jewelry, being able to buy their own women and impregnate them endlessly to build up their own small armies…all they would talk about," Artie smiled to himself, remembering the better times in life. "I haven't heard from any of those guys in years. I'm gonna have to look them up someday and arrange a reunion," he thought while coming to a halt behind a Mule van at a stoplight.
While the light turned green he proceeded along with the normal flow of traffic, only to be forced to pull over when two squad cars sped past him with their lights and sirens going.
"Isn't a typical day in Rushmore City unless that happens," Artie said aloud as he spotted where the two cruisers were heading, a side street where some gangbangers could be seen taking cover behind a parked Cavalcade and returning fire with machine pistols.
Once again he made his way into Hellcat-controlled territory, noticing a few of the said gang members driving around in tan-colored Dukes muscle cars with flame decals. Fortunately, they seemed too preoccupied with other matters to notice him.
"Good thing I didn't bring the Sentinel," he mentally patted himself on the back, knowing he would surely have been carjacked otherwise. His suspicions were affirmed as he watched a Hellcat run over to a Stinger and blast its driver in the face with an Ingram MAC-10, wrenching the car door open and tossing the body to the pavement before climbing in and taking off.
He found himself driving into another district largely populated by docks and warehouses, as well as a few factories, a bus terminal, a sawmill, both a recycling center and incinerator, and lastly a junkyard with a car crusher featured prominently in the center of the yard.
In a rare plot of open space, Artie found the bright yellow Cluckin' Bell sticking out like a sore thumb among a few strip malls and office buildings. Pulling into the parking lot he parked between a minivan and a Bobcat pickup truck. Aside from the three aforementioned vehicles, the place was largely empty with only two other vehicles present.
Right away the intoxicating smell of chicken assaulted his sense of smell, but he quickly had to remind himself he would be dealing with processed fast food that wasn't even really food to begin with. He knew firsthand, having worked part-time in the kitchen of a Cluckin' Bell during his high school years, where he saw a lot of things nobody in their right mind should ever have to know about.
"If I told anybody I'd be having the Cluckin' Bell higher-ups on my ass for putting them out of business," he thought walking toward the double doors, where another member of the Hellcats was in the middle of spraying the gang's tag on the broad side of the building, ignoring the man walking past him like he was just going about his daily routine.
As expected, the place was filthy as was almost any fast food joint he had ever set foot inside. At one table sat two scruffy-looking hillbillies, at another a couple of Japanese tourists, then another where an overweight balding man in a faded Rock of Rushmore t-shirt had a laptop in front of him, engaged in a round of "Planet of Pandemonium," and lastly a nicer-dressed couple who he could tell definitely didn't belong in such a lowly establishment.
"Alright, he's a cashier," Artie reminded himself looking towards the front counter where two cashiers stood in the typical outfit of Cluckin' Bell employees, one which required them to wear those degrading chicken headdresses.
The first was an African-American who still had braces on his teeth and pimples all over his face. When the Italian-American inspected him further he saw the man's nametag read 'Billy.'
"Not my guy," he told himself looking over to the other cashier, who was in the middle of being yelled at by an overweight Hispanic woman complaining about bone fragments being found in her salad.
"…how do you stupid inbreds expect to keep a business afloat when you're gonna keep having bone fragments, plastic toys and actual chicken shit in your food?" the woman hollered tossing a salad in his face.
"But Ma'am, we always include the complimentary toys in our kid's meal!" the cashier protested.
"Fuck you and fuck Cluckin' Bell!" the woman roared shoving her way past Artie and out the double doors.
"I so hate my life," the cashier muttered as the stinging ranch dressing ran freely down his face. Surely enough, the man's nametag identified him as 'Randy.'
Artie approached the anguished cashier and waited for him to acknowledge his presence, yet his gaze remained far away and he finally had to speak up.
"Excuse me?" he asked.
Like receiving a slap to the face the young man was brought back to our world and frowned at his new prospective customer, "Cluckety fuck! How may I further degrade myself today?" he asked rather than using the simple 'Hello and welcome to Cluckin' Bell, may I take your order?' greeting.
"Are you Randy Spitz?" Artie asked leaning towards the man.
"Who wants to know?" he asked narrowing his eyes towards Artie, "Are you just hear to laugh at me after I was on the news for getting hung by my underwear from the Eastwood Bridge? Throw eggs at me like those Boy Scouts do every weekend? Or just show pictures of your hot girlfriend on your expensive phone to further remind me of what a loser I am and what I'll never have in my life?"
Artie couldn't help but stifle a laugh at some of the info he had just been given, but quickly composed himself, "No, my name is Artie Cappelli. I'm a friend of Zeke's. He said you could help us out with certain things."
Randy did not reply instantly and looked around to make sure nobody was listening in on their conversation, even going as far as to rifle his hand through a container full of honey mustard packets to make sure it wasn't bugged, "Depends on what kind of things you're talking about."
The two were so distracted they didn't even recognize three men walking in wearing industrial coveralls and hockey masks.
"Hey, can we get some freaking service around here?" the leader barked.
Billy the other cashier was on hand to intercept the three men, "Hello and welcome to Cluckin' Bell, muthafuckas! How may I help you?"
"Uh yeah," the leader started, "we would like one Cluckin' Little Meal, uh two Cluckin' Huge meals with extra honey mustard, two Lemon Sprunks and a Loco Cola," and with the last sentence the man pulled out a pump-action shotgun, "…and all of your fuckin' money!" he screamed pointing the barrel at the cashier's face, forcing all the other patrons to cringe. The two accomplices withdrew Micro-MP5's and started gunning down the patrons left and right as a show of force.
Artie threw himself over the counter and started crawling towards Randy, who had yelped a "Holy shit!" aloud and threw his hands into the air.
"Gimme the fuckin' money now you little shit stain!" the leader screamed firing a blast at the cashier.
With lightning quick reflexes Artie managed to grab Randy and pull him beneath the salvo of buckshot directed at his skull, which instead caught another employee in the chest and sent the man falling backwards against a deep fryer, showering him with scalding hot grease as he died.
"Geez Louise!" Randy cried as he watched Billy fall dead next to him with several rounds having torn through his chest.
"Just shut the fuck up and focus on getting out of here!" Artie hissed clamping a hand over the frightened man's mouth. "Is there any way we can get out of here?"
Randy felt around in his pocket until he heard a jingling noise, "Yeah, I borrowed Zeke's Blista Compact. If we can get to the backdoor we can climb in and get the hell outta here."
Nodding in reply Artie pulled out his gun and cocked it, "Get ready to run when I give the signal!"
Another shotgun blast boomed above both men and the cash register Randy manned showered down upon them in fragments of metal and plastic.
"I'd say that's good enough!" Randy screamed.
"Then move," Artie shouted pushing the man forward and rolling for cover behind another partition.
"Hey! Get back here you little chicken-headed bitch!" another robber shouted, firing a barrage at Randy but only striking the wall around him. He was soon forced to duck as Artie leapt out and fired a few shots, allowing himself time to slip out the backdoor.
"Quick! Those turds are escaping!" the leader shouted firing another blast in their direction.
Randy nearly fell to his knees as he flew out the backdoor and completely ignored the staring pedestrians as he frantically searched for Zeke's Blista Compact. He finally spotted it parked in the corner stall next to a beaten up Nebula, just as Artie emerged running out backwards as he fired more rounds at the robbers.
"Get outta my way," Artie screamed shoving an old lady to the ground as he spotted the two door compact and sprinted towards it.
"Oh god…you're gonna have to drive Artie. I don't think my nerves are gonna be able to handle it!" Randy whimpered and tossed the keys over to the shooting man.
A second later the three armed robbers appeared from the kitchen with their weapons drawn.
"There they are!" shouted the third robber, firing a burst at the two fleeing men as they leapt into the small car and backed out, knocking over a drunken bum in the process.
"Don't let them get away! We can't have any witnesses!" the leader ordered as the trio made its way to the beaten up Nebula and began their pursuit.
"Oh god…my life is shit!" Randy squeaked as Artie peeled down the street bobbing and weaving around any incoming traffic. "C'mon Randy, remember what your therapist told you. Think happy thoughts! Think happy thoughts!" he said trying to breathe deeply as he switched the car's radio over to Symphony 104. 1, now playing "Morning Mood" by Edvard Grieg.
"Yes that's it, go to your happy place," he spoke in a cracked tone, "You're not on the streets…no, you're in a lush morning forest. Think of the sun rising above yonder; think of the cool, gentle morning breeze, think of all the bright pretty flowers, think of the birdsongs…"
"Man, this poor schmuck really does have issues," Artie thought to himself, not knowing whether he should feel bad for the guy as he swerved to avoid hitting a young woman carrying bags of clothing from the Zip.
The nervous cashier was quickly jarred out of his attempted meditation when the crooks' Nebula rammed them from behind, forcing him to let out an inhuman shriek that sounded like a kettle whistle going off.
"Is your place anywhere near here?" Artie asked swerving to avoid a mail truck, only to move over onto a sidewalk to avoid a tow truck coming from the opposite direction.
"I live in Bellowfield, but those fuckers will follow us!" Randy cried being jolted back and forth by the centrifugal force.
He was right. They didn't want those criminals finding out where Randy lived or else they would put themselves in even greater danger. They had to find a place he knew well outside of his home neighborhood where they could lay low until the crooks lost interest.
Unfortunately, all the split-second thinking, sharp turns, incoming traffic, oblivious pedestrians and buildings made the journey more difficult and if these thugs didn't kill them, one of the aforementioned hazards would.
"What should I do?" Artie shouted, barely swerving around a Linerunner semi-truck and forcing a few cyclists onto the nearby sidewalk, the former colliding head on with a '08 Willard Faction coupe and the latter ripping apart a newsstand. Screaming pedestrians dove out of his way as he took a sharp turn onto a more populated street and smashed through a hot dog vendor's cart and then another abrupt swerve where he plowed through a mountain of trash and knocked over a streetlight.
The robbers were ever persistent and they remained on their tail like a wild animal in pursuit of its injured prey. One hung out of the front passenger window and the third robber had his entire upper torso stuck out from the driver's side back window, both peppering the fleeing Blista Compact's backside with heavy dosages of lead, trying to make it burst into flames or at least take out the rear tires. So far their target had been clever and managed to dodge them with a series of complicated turns.
"Shit!" Randy screeched as Artie barely dodged a construction area and was forced to make another turn into a back alley populated by members of the Hellcats, who took great offense to their poor driving and opened fire upon them as well, forcing them both to duck the bullets as they shattered the windows and penetrated the leather interior.
"Fuck! What did we ever do to you?" the terrified cashier whined as Artie floored it out of the back alley, who at the same time looked into the rearview mirror to see the robbers' car crushing two of the gang members.
Randy shrieked again as Artie ran over a bum digging through a trashcan and then another pushing a rusted old shopping cart before he nearly flattened a group of teenagers playing street hockey in another back alley, but quickly calmed as he saw they were entering familiar territory where he figured they would be more likely to lose the robbers.
His hopes were soon dashed as his borrowed ride was rocked from behind and through the rearview mirror he could see the Nebula's driver pulling out a Tec-9 machine pistol and firing a burst. He ducked down at the last second as the rounds tore off the top of his seat.
"You're not escaping us that easily chicken shit!" he shouted firing wildly at the car, riddling the entire body with bullets and ripping some of the feathers away from his headdress.
"Bwok! I mean shit!" Randy cursed as the fake feathers fell into his lap.
The blaring horn of a pickup truck caught Artie's attention as he was speeding down the wrong lane and barely managed to switch over to the right side, clipping a Landstalker and sending it flying head on into a small shoe store. There was no time to feel concerned for the couple in the wrecked SUV, they had to do something and fast.
"There's no way around these clowns! We're gonna have to fight back!" Artie shouted pulling out his Glock and offering it to the frightened cashier, "Here, try slowing them down!"
"But I've never fired a gun before!" Randy protested.
"Well now's your chance to learn! Now just take it for fuck sake!" Artie roared forcing the gun into the younger man's shaking hands, a loud 'thunk' distracting the cashier as the car rammed into a pedestrian.
"Oh my god…I should've called in sick today," Randy whined as he saw the fresh blood now decorating the teal car's crumpled hood.
"Less whining, more shooting," Artie shouted back knocking over a parked Faggio.
The metallic pings of bullets striking their car made the Cluckin' Bell cashier jump repeatedly and drop the pistol to the floor, causing it to discharge within the vehicle and make Artie leap, sending him crashing through a chain-link fence near the strip mall housing Randy's favorite SubUrban clothing store, clipping a parked Hellenbach GT and activating its alarm.
"Damn it! Don't fucking scare me like that again!" Artie shouted back, relieved neither one of them had been hit by the misfired bullet.
He would have another sticky situation to contend with as clipping the parked car had been the hood and caused it to flip backward, heavily obscuring his vision before he sped up enough for it to go flying off.
"Okay, now just fucking shoot, the safety's off!" Artie ordered speeding through another intersection while the light was red; leaving him just inches from clipping a fancy Coquette sports car. "Pretend it's a pretty flower you're holding!"
Taking a few deep breaths, Randy stuck his arm out his shattered window and managed to squeeze off three rounds, the last of which would strike an R.C.P.D. patrol cruiser.
"Oh god…" the cashier whimpered as the vehicle's lights and sirens switched on and the car began chasing after them, "…I'm so going to jail…and I don't even have the money to bail myself out! Seriously, I wasted the last of my money fixing up my old broken down Perennial, only to have one of those Hellcat maniacs jack it the next day!"
"You're not going to jail, now give me that," Artie said swiping the gun.
Looking forward at the last second, Artie could only curse aloud as he spotted a road crew in the middle of repairing some potholes just inches ahead of him, the leader worker frantically waving his 'Stop' sign at him. Before he could even entertain the idea of hitting the brakes it was too late.
Artie slammed head on into the sign man and sent him flying through the air, followed by more heavy thuds as he struck the other workers and splattered their blood all over his windshield, and some crunches as a jackhammer flew onto his exposed engine and then struck the bloodied screen, spider webbing it but not shattering it.
"This is the R.C.P.D.! Pull over at once!" an officer called out over his car's microphone, barely heard above the deafening wail of his siren.
With the blood and cracks heavily obscuring his vision Artie raised his pistol and shot the windshield out, bringing his hand up to shield his face from any shards of glass.
"Are you trying to fucking kill us both?" Randy cried throwing his arms over his head.
"No, I'm trying to fucking help us see better!" Artie shouted back.
It turned out to be a stupid move on his behalf as black smoke began spewing freely from the car's battered engine, wafting into the interior and causing both of them to cough and gag.
"Nice going Artie," he scolded himself as his vision was now further obscured.
The long, wild ride continued for both men until their fears would soon be realized. Two loud pops could be heard above the sound of screeching tires, followed by intense heat.
Artie just realized his rear tires had been popped as he swerved uncontrollably around the street trying to regain control, but was failing miserably as he brushed against several parked cars, soon finding himself cutting through high weeds and bushes much to his confusion. Looking ahead, he spotted flames rising from the engine and knew they would soon have to bail out.
"Mother of…"
The flaming Blista Compact sped through a quaint park, scaring away many pedestrians and running over a few gathered for a picnic as it sped aimlessly towards a fiery destination, which at the moment appeared to be towards the small pond in the center of the park. The water would have immediately doused the flames, but that was not to be.
KA-BOOM!
The compact car exploded into a reddish-orange ball of flame, sending twisted metal flying in all directions before it hit the water. Within seconds everything was suddenly as calm as it had been before the burning car's appearance.
The armed robbers witnessed the explosion from a distance and the two other criminals smirked, proud of their 'work.' The leader however, was not as certain and turned to his men, "C'mon, we have to search the area and make sure those shitheads didn't make it outta there alive!"
"But the car blew up! There's no way they could've escaped that alive!" the second man protested.
"Yeah and what about the cops?" the third asked.
The nearby siren distracted the leader from his current train of thought and he looked into his rearview mirror to see the pursuing car coming towards them.
"You clowns win this round, but if I hear anything about survivors I'm killing both of you myself!" the leader growled before shifting the Nebula back into drive and speeding off.
Unknown to the armed robbers something stirred in the water behind them.
Artie emerged from the cold water, gasping heavily and hurriedly wiping the water from his eyes.
"Son of a fucking bitch…" he repeated over and over again as he swam towards the shore and pulled himself out of the water, shaking everything he could from his drenched garments. The young man stumbled along the shore until his foot nudged an article of clothing.
His eyes widened as the object was revealed to be the headdress of a Cluckin' Bell uniform.
"Randy!" he blurted aloud and began running along the shoreline for any traces of his missing companion, finding more remnants of the cashier's uniform as he moved about, until he heard horrified screams coming from nearby.
Washed up along the pond's shore lay Randy Spitz in nothing but his undershirt and boxers, kicking and screaming. Upon getting closer Artie noticed the cause of the young man's hysteria, a used condom that had found its way onto his face.
"Ahhh! Get it off! Get it off!" he screamed repeatedly as he swatted away at the latex contraceptive as if a swarm of locusts surrounded him.
"Just a second," Artie called out grabbing a nearby stick and using it to carefully pry the used condom away from the frightened man's face.
"Thank God!" Randy blurted out as he crawled over to the pond on his hands and knees and reached in for handfuls of water to splash on his face, hoping to wash any bodily fluids away. "Thank you so much Artie, I owe you my life!" he said returning his attention to the Italian-American, only to realize he was now wearing nothing but his white undershirt, socks and a pair of boxers covered by teddy bears, with three other people standing nearby pointing and laughing their asses off at him.
"Nice underwear kid, did your mommy spend a buck fifty on those?" a construction worker shouted.
Sensing the man's humiliation Artie withdrew his Glock, which thankfully had not become waterlogged, and pointed it at the laughing man.
"Get the fuck outta here now or else I'm giving you a free sex change!" he growled, training his aim on the man's crotch.
Without hesitation the construction worker took off running, as did the other laughing people.
"My humiliation never ceases to end…" the cashier lamented.
"Relax, I'm gonna get you out of here," Artie assured as he noticed the wallet of an older man who had been run over by the flaming car moments before and swiped it up to find sixty dollars and a voucher for a free private dance from Queen Sheba's Revue.
A nearby sign told him they were currently in Nixon Park, a low-lying plot of land dominated by the pond they had just been in, along with the bridge covering it and a few small kiosks set up.
Doing what he could to prevent his companion from enduring further embarrassment, Artie quickly hailed a taxi cab and motioned for him to hop in.
"Bellowfield! Take us to Gustav St. and please get us out of here now!" Randy ordered scrunching his body up and laid down on the seat to avoid being spotted by any pedestrians who would break down laughing at the sight of a grown man running around with teddy bear-patterned boxers on.
"Sure thing kiddo, for a second there I thought you were heading to some gay pride convention in San Fierro. Why else would a grown man run around dressed like that in broad daylight?" the driver chuckled.
"Ha ha, real funny," Randy sarcastically laughed.
Artie on the other hand had heard enough and pointed his Glock at the back of the man's head, causing him to nearly piss himself right on the spot.
"Look pal, we've been through enough shit already today and right now we need to get some place safe and secure. We're paying you to get us there, not be a fucking comedian. Now do your fucking job or else I'm gonna paint this interior with your brain matter! Capiche?"
"Okay, okay I'll get you there! Sheesh!" the driver nervously laughed as he started towards their destination.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
"Drop us off here," Randy said to the driver as they approached a tiny one store house covered in peeling green paint with all of its windows either barred or boarded up.
"Are you sure this is the place?" Artie asked looking over the 'house' closely. It looked like one of those shacks crudely thrown together by a few boards and pieces of sheet metal he would see on a documentary about some third world country, one inhabited by an entire cluster of people with accommodations intended for only one person. From what he saw, the place was probably no more than three rooms at the most, not much of a step up from a cardboard box.
"Yes I'm sure; now just pay the guy already!" Randy replied climbing out.
"N-No that won't be necessary! You two just get out and enjoy yourselves!" the driver blurted out before taking off down the street.
Artie continued to stare at the glorified shack Randy called a home.
"Now I know why he sounds so bummed out about life in general. If I lived in a place that looked like it had no heating and cooling, electricity or running water I'd be pissed off too," he told himself noticing a mailbox that had been snapped from its foundation, along with a front lawn covered in dead grass and marred by tire tracks, also covered by discarded broken beer bottles, spent joints, a few emptied bullet casings and he swore he even spotted a severed finger lying somewhere in the mix.
Randy looked around cautiously before kneeling down and pulling a rusted spare key out from underneath his filthy doormat and had to jostle the front door a few times before it finally fell from its hinges.
"Goddamn it!" he grunted before hearing Artie walking up behind him, "Come on in," he sighed, stepping on a weak floorboard that collapsed beneath his foot. "I'm alright! Just come on in!" he said pulling his foot out and forcing himself inside.
Artie nearly gagged as he was overcome by the combined stenches of mold and rotting food, but forced himself to take it in as he stepped into what could have roughly been described as the living room/kitchen area of the 'house.'
Randy disappeared into a room off to the side and Artie was left to stand in the room alone, trying not to take in the depressing surroundings.
"Seriously, I almost feel like I need to be seeing a shrink or something from just standing in here alone," he thought looking towards the tattered green couch and a heavily scratched up coffee table supported by cinder blocks on one side and covered in empty soda cans, food wrappers, peanut butter jars, pizza boxes and God knows what else, which served as the only real furniture in the room. Hell, there wasn't even anything amenity-wise in the kitchen outside of a refrigerator with its door hanging on by one hinge and an oven which looked like it would be set ablaze the second anybody tried using it.
The only thing that appeared to be well cared for was a framed comic book hanging over the couch, upon closer inspection it was seen to be the first ever issue of 'Patriot Man' and was autographed by its creator Stan MacFarlane, a series Artie himself had followed as a child.
Randy emerged from the other room now dressed in a yellow t-shirt, gray shorts and old blue and white athletic shoes. His short shaggy brown hair had since dried and he took a puff from an inhaler before speaking, "I know…it's hard to make yourself feel at home in a place like this," the young man sighed in his typical melancholy tone.
"No offense, but how do you deal with this dump?" Artie asked staring through the cracks of one of the boarded up windows, where another tan Dukes carrying members of the Hellcats passed by, its passenger performing a drive-by shooting on a similarly beaten up house across the street.
Come to think of it, pretty much all the houses were in the same condition as Randy's, a few of which had even burnt to the ground with their charred husks left behind, the city not even bothering to tear them down and build newer, nicer houses over them. It was as if the Bellowfield district had been totally forgotten and was left to slowly rot away into nothing.
"It's just life I guess…" Randy replied collapsing onto the couch, "…nothing ever goes right for me. I work a dead end job at Cluckin' Bell, which will probably be shut down now thanks to those fuckers back there, live in a dumpy house where I'm constantly under the threat of eviction, put up with bored assholes who like to play 'Beat the Cock' with my co-workers and I, put up with at least one robbery a week, this most recent being the fourth one this week alone…"
"Man, that does suck," Artie managed to get in, but didn't get much more as Randy continued with his rant, placing a pillow over his head and talking into it.
"…not only that, I had a side job working as a courier with Zynam's Food Mart, wasn't the best, but still better than Cluckin' Bell, which I lost after some kids shooting a skateboarding video got in my way and caused me to skid out of control and collide with some old granny, destroying all the packages I had been ordered to deliver…"
Artie began pacing back and forth, covering his ears to block out the man's whining, but it was to no avail.
"…if that wasn't bad enough I was seeing some nice girl, seemed like 'the one,' until she found out I was working at Cluckin' Bell and dumped my sorry ass, claiming she 'didn't want to spend the rest of her life with a nobody who wore a fucking chicken head for a living' blah, blah, blah…"
"Uh Randy," Artie said trying to break through the broken man's rant.
"…and when I could have escaped from this menial, dead end existence through a job with Zombo Industries, my car decides to take a shit on me and I have to spend all my money getting it fixed, only to get it carjacked the next day…"
"Randy!" Artie shouted this time, but still couldn't be heard as the cashier was bawling like a man going through a nervous breakdown.
"…and if that's not bad enough…I get burglarized and the bastards make off with my TV set, boombox, GBOX 720, microwave oven, even my stash of Playhouse magazines, and the cops can't do a damned thing about it because they're too busy getting drunk and getting laid…"
"Randy, snap out of it!" Artie screamed grabbing the bawling cashier by the ankles and yanking him from the couch, causing him to land hard on the weathered floor.
"Ow…uh what?" he muttered, looking around before seeing Artie standing above him.
"Never mind about all the other stuff, I've heard you're knowledgeable about electronics and computers, how can you help us out?" Artie asked reaching down to help Randy back to his feet, struggling as the young man had landed in something sticky.
"Okay, okay, allow me to show you," Randy said leading Artie into the side room, which appeared to be the house's bedroom, judging by the only real piece of furniture being a roach-infested mattress lying towards the back of the room. Other than that, there was nothing but old clothes strewn all over the floor and an old teddy bear with a little red bowtie.
Walking over to a weak-looking part of the wall, Randy carefully pulled it aside and emerged with a laptop in hand.
"Like this," he said plugging it into a nearby wall, a miracle he wasn't electrocuted given his poor luck.
"You give me a name, address, phone number, Social Security number, credit card number, driver's license number, any of that good stuff; I assure you I can hack into anything and get whatever info you need on them," Randy explained as a devious smile crossed his features, "If I would've had this baby on us back in the car I could've hacked into the R.C.P.D.'s database and gotten them off our tail."
"Really, now that's news to me. Zeke said you knew a thing or two about these kinds of things," Artie continued.
"Just a thing or two?" Randy asked sounding offended, "I'm so shooting him in the face for that the next time I see him…in an online gaming sense that is! I can do all sorts of things. Hell, I almost got expelled back in junior high after I turned my sister's vibrator into a pipe bomb! Luckily my uncle was on the school board, the only thing that saved my ass."
"Yeah, I'm sure Zeke's told you of some kind of 'campaign' he's trying to start up against all those loan sharks terrorizing his boss, but quite frankly I'm sure he doesn't even know half of what he could be getting himself into. Either way, it can't be good," Artie said rolling his eyes.
"Uh yeah, he warned me you might sound a little pessimistic over that," Randy said flipping his laptop shut and rising back to his feet. "Nonetheless, if you ever need my help I'll be more than happy to do whatever I can," he said offering Artie a slip of paper with his phone number written on it.
"I honestly don't any money to pay you for helping me out with this job…but I can set up an e-mail account for you on EyeFind if you want! It would be a good way for you to keep in touch with myself and the other 'war buddies' if you ever decide to join us!" Randy suggested, to which Artie only shrugged his shoulders.
"Go ahead; I enjoy getting random e-mails convincing me I need pills to make my dick bigger," he sarcastically replied before pulling out the wallet he found in the park and offering it to his new acquaintance, "Keep it and until then watch yourself," he said looking around the cramped, crumbling quarters, "You should also look around for any other jobs and a new place while you're at it. I'm sure Zeke and Iceman will gladly help you if the need arises."
Making his way outside Artie made sure to put the front door back into place, or at least try to, before leaving.
Reaching into his pocket he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Zeke's number.
"Hey Zeke, what's up? It's Artie!"
"Did you get through to Randy?" Zeke asked, the sounds of laughter in the background indicating he actually had some customers in the background.
"Yeah, I got through to him alright, quite an adventure unto itself. I got him home in one piece though and he seems down for helping any way he can," Artie replied.
"Yeah, he'd better have gotten home in one piece alright, crazy fucker's borrowing my car," Zeke spoke.
"About that…"Artie trailed on with a nervous laugh.
"What about that? Did something happen to my car?" Zeke demanded.
"Well let's just say the Cluckin' Bell got robbed and the gentlemen pulling off the job didn't take very kindly to having any possible witnesses. Needless to say we got chased and your car…well it sort of got blown up."
"What?" Zeke screamed on the other end, silencing those in attendance, "What the fuck do you mean my car got blown up? That was my only fucking car! How the hell am I going to get around now? You sons of bitches fucking owe me!"
"Zeke calm down! Calm the fuck down man!" Artie shouted back.
"How the fuck can you tell me to calm down? You know I don't make enough money here to afford a new car right now! Christ, Gino can't even afford to pay me half the time!" the bartender hollered in a rage.
"If it makes you feel any better, I'll steal you a new one!" Artie replied, "Yeah, that's it. I'll steal you a new one. You tell me exactly what you want and I can have it to you in no time."
A few deep breaths followed before Zeke finally spoke up in a much calmer tone, "You'd better not be yanking my fucking chain with this promise of yours. You'd better fucking deliver or else I'm gonna shove my shotgun up your ass and pull the trigger!"
"Fine, fine I'll hold you to it. If I mess up, well yeah I get the idea," Artie said nodding in defeat.
"Well I want it fast because Vile Crud has another show at the 7th Circle coming up soon. You know I don't like missing my shows," the bartender spoke.
"Yeah, yeah I'll talk to you later," Artie said before switching his phone off.
"Now to get the hell outta this shithole," he told himself looking around for any means of transportation out of there.
At one of the houses across the street he spotted a yellow and black Sanchez dirt bike propped up against the weathered building, practically calling out to him. Sprinting over to it before anybody could come chasing after him with a shotgun; he switched it on and sped away from the accursed Bellowfield neighborhood.
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Author's Note: Okay and now onto my usual post-chapter randomness, the GBOX 720 is obviously meant to be a parody of the XBOX 360. "Planet of Pandemonium" is a spoof of "World of Warcraft" and Patriot Man is a spoof of Captain America, his creator's name Stan MacFarlane being a combination of Stan Lee (Spiderman, The Fantastic Four, The Incredible Hulk, etc.) and Todd MacFarlane (of Spawn fame). I figured I would take some pity on Randy and give him at least one nice thing in his shithole.
Randy is closely inspired by Zero from San Andreas because every GTA game needs some geeky character in it to laugh at. If this were an actual video game, Randy would do the same thing Francis McReary does if you spare him in the "Blood Brothers" mission and what Kiki Jenkins does if you date her, where he would be able to hack into the police database and clear anything you have for a up to a three star wanted level.
Well that's it for the time being so until then read and review as always or else I'm gonna have Randy go Wikileaks on your ass! This is Metal Harbinger saying SPREAD THE SICKNESS, ONE MIND AT A TIME! \m/