Author's Note: The word play on this chapter's title is inspired by a line spoken by a bum in the 'Down Payment' mission of "Saints Row 2" where the Boss and Johnny Gat go up against the Sons of Samedi and a bunch of hobos in an attempt to secure the 'Old Stilwater Crib' as their meeting place. While fighting with the hobos, one of them will utter the line "Get ready for a nuclear hobocaust!"
I just thought that was such a sweet word play (that and "I'm a one bum army!") that I couldn't let it go to waste, and plus I thought that this new title seemed MUCH cooler than the generic-sounding "Pest Control," this mission being inspired by that mission from the original.
Chapter 13: The Great Nuclear Hobocaust
It had been two days since Artie Cappelli had helped defend his cousin's bar from the attacking Redcoats and since then he had been doing some extra work for the Freeman Cab Co. to make some extra money needed towards the bar's repairs.
So far his day had been fairly busy with several customers needing to be shuttled back and forth, and mercifully free of any encounters with those Borgnine douchebags. For now he was taking a much needed lunch break and stood in line at a nearby hot dog stand in Jansport, waiting for the fat man ahead of him to finish his order, which included the vendor putting one of every topping before the man finally paid up and left.
"And what can I getcha' sir?" the vendor asked in a thick Arabic accent.
"I'll take that one right there, extra ketchup please!" Artie responded reaching into his wallet for a five dollar bill.
"Alrighty, there ya' go and have yourself a nice day!" the man spoke handing him the fresh, steaming hotdog and accepting the bill.
"Thank you kind sir," Artie said walking over to a nearby bench and sitting down, taking a huge bite out of his hotdog and groaning loudly in pleasure at the sudden warmth he felt.
"Never gets old," he whispered to himself, not wanting to look crazy in front of the overly affectionate couple sitting on the bench across from him.
Finishing the hotdog within a few more bites he reached for a Funkin Screw he had gotten from the 24/7 and was in the middle of washing it down when his phone started ringing.
"And that gets old pretty fast," he thought to himself looking down to see Zeke was calling him. Remembering what had happened a few days earlier he quickly set the soda down and switched his phone on, "What's up?"
"Artie, are you still working?" the bartender inquired.
"Yes, why is something wrong at the bar?"
"No, everything's fine here. I'm just wondering if it's not too much to ask, could you please swing over by the Bellowfield area to check up on Randy? I tried reaching him, but I got a message saying his phone has been disconnected and I just wanna make sure he's alright," Zeke replied.
Artie breathed a sigh of relief, thankful the Redcoats hadn't come back to seek revenge, yet at the same time he had to shudder, remembering the last time he had dropped the long suffering Cluckin' Bell cashier off at his so-called 'house.'
"Fine, I'll look into it and I'll let you know right away if I find anything," Artie replied before switching his phone off.
Artie was making his way back to his cab when he suddenly heard some god awful guitar playing from a distance and decided to investigate and rounded a corner, only to stop and suppress the urge to laugh when he saw who it was.
"Speak of the devil."
Randy Spitz sat on an old milk crate with a beaten up, poorly-tuned acoustic guitar in hand. An empty coffee can was positioned in front of him, passersby scoffing at him as he tried to make a quick buck with his piss poor rendition of Bon Jovi's "Wanted Dead or Alive."
"I'm a cowboy…on a steel horse I ride…I'm wanted…wanted…dead or alive!" the young man sang in a horribly off key tune that made many around him wince.
"Man, he really couldn't sing even if his life depended upon it," Artie thought, still fighting is urge to laugh.
"You suck!" a man in a green hoodie shouted before tossing a half-full cup of cappuccino at him, staining his yellow t-shirt.
"You oughta' be wanted for your piss poor singing!" an old man tugging an oxygen tank shouted.
"Christ, I don't know whether that's supposed to be singing or some Vietnamese guy having his intestines pulled out through his asshole!" a man in a suit called out, prompting laughter from some of his fellow streetwalkers.
"Hey, I'm trying to make an honest buck here asshole! Show some fucking respect!" Randy shouted back as he continued strumming away on the rusted strings, one of them snapping as his pick made contact.
"Why don't you show some respect and get your worthless ass off the sidewalk?" a redheaded woman shouted before spitting in his coffee can.
"And thanks for ruining my appetite loser!" a middle-aged man in a blue jacket shouted before tossing his half-eaten 'Big Willy' at the long-suffering wannabe busker, hitting him in the face and covering him with ranch dressing.
Randy was about to shout something back when he suddenly found himself shoved to the pavement by a tough-looking man in a leather jacket.
"Oops! Sorry…I slipped!" the nameless aggressor cackled before stopping to stomp on Randy's guitar before continuing on his way, leaving more people to laugh at him.
"I so hate my life…" Randy Spitz groaned as Artie reached down to help him back to his feet. "Let me guess, you're here to laugh at me too?" he asked upon taking notice of who it was helping him up.
"Uh no…I'm not…honest," Artie replied, still struggling to hold back his laughter, "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be at work?"
"Hell no!" the former cashier snapped, "After what happened there the last time are you fucking kidding me? I wouldn't go back there even if my underachieving life depended upon it!"
"I see…maybe I should give you a ride back home then," Artie said motioning for Randy to follow him.
"You could do that…if I actually had a home to go back to!" Randy said sagging his shoulders sadly.
"What happened?" Artie asked as the younger man walked alongside him.
"Well because I refused to go back to Cluckin' Bell after that robbery, I ended up getting fired and next thing I know, I'm being booted out of my house," Randy mournfully explained as he swatted some flies away, "Before I could get my stuff out, some bums took over! Everything I own is still there…including my laptop and my framed copy of the first issue of 'Patriot Man,' autographed by the great Stan MacFarlane himself! Stan 'Freaking' MacFarlane!"
Artie couldn't believe it, but he actually felt very sorry for the poor guy and patted him gently on the shoulder.
"I'm sorry to hear that, I am…really," he said approaching his cab and motioning for Randy to get in, "I'll drop you off at our place. I'm sure Zeke would be more than happy to let one of his 'war buddies' crash on his couch for the time being, that or Iceman, one of the two."
"Thanks dude, but how am I going to get my laptop back? That's more important to me than my left nut! Well, that and a few other things. How am I going to escape my dead end life if I can't finish my screenplay for the next great Sci-Fi/Mafia crossover film?" Randy grunted, sagging into the passenger seat.
"Can't you just go buy a new one?" Artie inquired, starting the car up and switching over to the Underground Sounds FM industrial station.
"Uh genius…I just got fired from my job! Hello!" Randy said waving his hands wildly before shooting his hand towards the radio and switching the station over to Symphony 104.1, which was playing "Stars and Stripes Forever" by John Philip Souza, "And obviously I'm not going to have much of a career as a street musician…and I sure as hell will not resort to turning tricks in the nearest Burger Shot bathroom either! Haven't you ever been in one of those?"
"Okay, I think I see where you're coming from," Artie said preparing to make a right turn.
"Wait a minute!" Randy suddenly blurted out, snapping his fingers and banging his head on the cab's ceiling, "I saw how badass you were handling those gunmen…or at least you tried to be badass…maybe you could help me out!"
Grimacing slightly, Artie took a deep breath before speaking, "Let me guess, you want me to kill a few bums and help get your stuff back."
"Bingo!" Randy shouted, but then stopped himself and looked awkwardly towards the hired gun, "Just as long as the fuzz has no idea I'm tied to any of this. I don't wanna go to jail…believe me, I wouldn't last a second…especially after what my Uncle Louie told me about 'Horse Cock Harry…'"
Artie rolled his eyes at the statement, "Fine, if the pigs catch me I swear to God I have no idea who you are…and then I come back to haunt you if I end up getting the death penalty over this!" he snapped, causing Randy to yelp aloud.
Nothing more was said as the cab made its way along Gustav St. in the ramshackle Bellowfield district.
As he drove down the street, Artie couldn't help but feel as if he were in some kind of movie about backwoods hillbillies waiting in the shadows to ambush the unsuspecting 'city folk.' Several filthy kids ran around in the street playing with toy guns, a group of drunks sat around a garbage can campfire on a crumbling house's front lawn in broad daylight, a hobo slept on a graffiti-covered park bench, a scantily-clad woman carried all her earthly possessions in a laundry basket and a couple of rifle-toting rednecks were engaged in a round of target practice using tin cans positioned on the rusted carcass of a former Walton pickup truck, one of them firing and instead hitting a stray cat in the process.
"Alright, we're here," Artie reported pulling up to the peeling green house, finding a drunk passed out on the front lawn and another wobbling on the front porch.
"Please, just get it over with so I can get out of this shithole forever," Randy whined, burying his face in his hands so he wouldn't be forced to look at his former home.
"I'll do what I can," Artie replied grabbing the provided sawed-off shotgun and some Molotov cocktails. "Keep the engine running, I should be in and out in no time."
Walking in confident strides the young man made his way towards the front door and right up to the drunkard, who smiled at him with his few remaining yellowed teeth.
"Hey buddy; this here's a private club. Ya' gots to pay to get in!" he said extending a grubby hand in front of the door.
"Is that so?" Artie sarcastically asked aiming his shotgun at the man's chest and pulling the trigger, "I failed to get the memo."
Shoving his way through the rickety door, the hired gun once again found himself repressing his urge to vomit, "Just like the last time I was here."
Right away he was met by the sight of a bum slumped over the kitchen sink, vomiting into it. Wasting no time, he raised the sawed-off and fired a round of buckshot into the man's back, ending his suffering.
Several hobos sat in a circle in the living room area, so drunk and out of it they barely registered the shotgun blasts around them.
"Did somebody order a band?" an overweight man in a black stocking cap and filthy brown trench coat called out in a heavily slurred tone before having his head blown off by a point blank blast.
One by one, Artie dispatched the invading hobos with ease until he had completely cleared out the living area and made his way back to the bedroom, where he found another hobo sleeping on Randy's roach infested mattress, but yet he found no signs of the missing laptop or that autographed comic book the younger man had spoken of.
Knowing it was a risky pursuit given the man's current intoxicated state, Artie still wanted to pursuit his last possible lead and ran over kicking the man hard in his shin, "Wake your ass up!" he screamed.
The vagrant gasped loudly, but was not yet fully awake, prompting Artie to fire a blast just inches away from the man's head and send him bolting awake, only to be knocked back down again as the hitman placed his foot on the hobo's chest.
"The former occupant of this house is missing some things very important to him. Where are they? And please don't test my patience!" Artie said pointing the barrel threateningly down at the frightened man.
"P-P-Please don't sh-shoot me! I honestly don't know man!" the bum blurted out before catching himself, "b-b-but I did s-s-s-see some of the g-g-guys taking some stuff to the old drive-in!" the man stammered.
"Where is that?" Artie demanded.
"I…I can't tell you shit! They'll fucking kill me!" the man whimpered.
Artie sighed and lowered the shotgun, only to pull out a lighter and light the makeshift fuse of a Molotov.
"Time to do Randy another favor and burn this rancid shithole to the ground," he thought before tossing the improvised explosive onto the hobo and casually walking outside, the man's screams nearly deafening by this point as he made his way out the front door and towards the cab, past the bum on the front lawn, who had somehow slept through the whole ordeal.
"Where the hell is everything?" Randy demanded looking towards him wide-eyed as he saw the hitman had come back empty handed.
"I need you to point me to the old drive-in. One of the guys inside said he thinks some hobos might have taken your stuff there," Artie replied.
"It's not too far away from here, only within walking distance," Randy replied as his former home was swallowed up by the flames.
"Damn, that place really must've been on the verge of collapse if only one Molotov can do that much damage in that amount of time," Artie thought making his way around to the driver's side and reaching inside to switch the cab off.
"What are you doing?" Randy demanded looking hurriedly over towards the group of rednecks who had been engaging in target practice, "We have to get the hell outta here!"
"You said that laptop of yours was more important than your left nut, right?" Artie asked.
"Uh…y-yeah!" the former cashier blurted out.
"Well alright, then we're going to get it back and I need you to lead me to where this abandoned drive-in is," Artie explained.
"But I haven't gotten my hepatitis or my tetanus shots!" Randy protested, "Who knows what kind of diseases those hobos are carrying! Hell, you've probably picked up a few just being within arm's length of them!" he squealed as Artie made his way around to his side and yanked his door open, "D-D-Don't fucking touch me man!"
"C'mon, we're going to get back what is rightfully yours!" Artie said yanking the smaller man out, "Now quit being a bitch and lead the way," he said before reaching down to pick a rusty screwdriver off the ground and offering it to his companion.
"No way in hell I'm touching that!" Randy yelped, "There's gotta be God knows how many germs crawling all over that thing!"
"Dude, look at what you used to live in!" Artie said motioning towards the burning house, "How do you know you're not carrying a whole shitload of diseases from what you used to sleep in!" he half-shouted before readying his sawed-off, "Now please, I just tore through a house full of hobos so don't test me."
Randy was backed into a corner and only nodded sheepishly as he began running down an alley to the left of his former home, most of the space congested by broken down cars and motorcycles, abandoned furniture and a few crude shanties occupied by several other hobos who looked too out of it to care as they ran past.
"Alright, we shouldn't be too far," Randy called out, only to skid to a halt a second later.
"Well look what we got here boys!" a scratchy voice called out as the duo found themselves face to face with a bald man with an oddly-shaped head, a toothless grin and a face covered with blisters, wearing nothing but a pair of tattered old jeans held in place by a rope belt.
"Looks like we got ourselves some rich folk passin' through," the man cackled, "We don't see many of your kind 'round these parts. How's about you make us a donation…better yet, why don' you give us a few minutes with the little lady over there," he snickered towards Randy, thrusting his crotch forward in the 'doggy style' motion, causing Randy to gag violently.
Grunting in frustration, Artie raised the sawed-off and fired a blast that obliterated the top portion of the man's ugly face.
"Holy sheep shit!" another hobo called out before producing a crude shank, "If you ask me boys, it's time for a nuclear hobocaust!"
"Uh Artie, are you sure it's a wise move to be pissing off a bunch of drunken hobos?" Randy asked barely able to hold onto his screwdriver.
"You want your stuff back or not?" Artie hissed before a bum in a soiled green wife beater leapt towards him with a crowbar in hand, forcing the hitman to duck low and sweep the man from his feet before delivering a hard kick to his ribs.
"Don't mind what Snaggle said back there," a dirty, mange-covered bum in a tattered combat jacket said as he circled Randy like a shark sensing blood, "He didn't exactly have the best sight, but still it's been a long time since I had me a fresh meal," the man said eagerly licking his crusty lips, a large pipe wrench dangling in his left hand.
"Hey man, I don't' want any trouble I just want my stuff back, that's all!" Randy said backing towards a nearby fence.
"And Daddy wants some young virginal flesh!" the hobo said before taking a swing at the young man.
"Shit, these stupid drunks are more tenacious than I thought," Artie thought to himself as he fired his remaining shell into the chest of a man in a faded denim jacket, bringing up his shotgun to smack away another man in a filthy sweater and red bandana who was armed with a small rusted hatchet.
Randy yelped aloud while barely ducking underneath another attempted swipe, a deep gouge left in the wooden fence behind him.
"It's only a matter of time pretty boy! Daddy's got a sweet tooth!" the bum hollered before trying to swing downward at his crotch, but Randy scampered backward on his hands and feet to avoid the filthy man's attempted swings.
"Artie, h-help me!" Randy pleaded.
"I'm a little busy at the moment!" the hired gun called back, swinging the stock of his shotgun upward to shatter the jaw of a bum charging towards him with an old wooden baseball bat.
"Ya' can't stop me rich boy! I'm a one bum army!" called out a burly man in grease-covered overalls who wielded an old parking meter as his improvised weapon, swinging it at waist level in the hopes of bringing down the invading hitman, who had barely leapt back in time to avoid the swipe.
"Hold still little boy!" the psycho hobo called out as he missed another swipe at Randy, who by now had rolled over onto his hands and knees and was trying to crawl away from his attacker.
"I'm so never giving money to a homeless person ever again," he whimpered while trying to scurry away, spotting a hole in a nearby fence and making a mad dash for it. He had reached it and was in the middle of coming through when he felt the man's grubby hand clamping down on his ankle.
"Ya' ain't goin' nowhere kid!" the bum chuckled sadistically, "Now we're gonna have some fun!"
"C'mon, think Randy! Think damn you!" his mind shouted to him as he struggled to find a foothold in the rough surface, but it was no use and he could feel himself being dragged backwards on his stomach, trying to dig his screwdriver into the pavement to halt the man's progress.
"Jesus Fucking Christ! Why didn't I even think of that before?" he asked himself. His mind had been in such a rush he completely forgot about the rusted old screwdriver, just as he was being rolled over onto his back.
"Bye bye baby boy!" the hobo roared raising the wrench above his head.
Acting on instinct, Randy lashed out and drove his screwdriver into the man's thigh, quickly leaping out of the way as his blood squirted out. The nameless hobo howled in agony as he collapsed to one knee and with a mighty heave yanked the bloody tool from his leg, but by then the former Cluckin' Bell cashier had found a discarded lead pipe and walloped the man upside the head with one mighty blow.
"Oh god, Randy what the fuck did you just do?" he asked himself while staring down upon the man's collapsed skull.
Swiping a brick off the ground, Artie chucked it towards the parking meter-wielding bum, striking him in the shoulder and forcing him to drop his crude weapon. The hitman brought his foot up and kicked the man hard in the stomach, doubling him over and leaving him open for his opponent to perform a wrestling maneuver known as the 'D.D.T.,' driving his skull into the pavement.
"C'mon, let's find your stuff and get the hell outta here," Artie shouted, finally able to see the tattered screen of the former drive-in over a nearby fence. Given some much needed free time; he was able to reload the sawed-off and rushed towards the lot, finding it had been converted into a crude shantytown, populated by a sizeable portion of drunken vagrants.
"Guess we're gonna have to shake these fuckers down to find out where your things are," Artie said grabbing one of the hobos and tossing him through a makeshift shanty consisting of old wooden crates and sheet metal.
"Viet Cong! It's an ambush!" another bum shouted, "Danforth, hold our flank! Look out for Charlies up in the trees!"
"Get ready!" Artie shouted to Randy as he raised his shotgun and fired a round of buckshot into a filthy emaciated guard dog that had been missing patches of its fur, the animal letting out a loud yelp as its head snapped back.
"You can't stop this bum rush!" another hobo called out reaching for a shovel and charging towards Randy, who inadvertently tripped the man as he fell to the concrete and in the process ended up delivering an elbow drop to a bum passed out on a ratty old sleeping bag.
"Artie, help me damn it!" Randy squealed as another hobo swung a pool cue downward at him, the young man barely rolling out of the way.
"You're gonna have to grow a fucking pair for once!" Artie shouted back as he struggled with another bum that had been hiding in the charred husk of a Roadtrain semi, the man leaping out and latching onto his back. The hitman was forced to throw himself backward to get the man off before another bum charged head on at him with a crowbar and he brought his shotgun up to deflect the blow, the sawed-off being broken as a result. He kicked his foot out and sent the bumbling tumbling backward as he still struggled with his ambusher, finally gaining enough traction to flip the man over his shoulder and knock him out cold.
There was no time to rest as the hitman was forced to duck a swing from a tire jack, but the hobo had been winded by his heavy swing and let him wide open for Artie to kick him hard in the back and drop him to his knees, leaving him to the mercy of a powerful uppercut that knocked him out cold.
Randy managed to scamper for cover behind one of the ramshackle huts to avoid the pool cue-wielding hobo and a bum armed with a chain that had joined in on the pursuit.
"My god…who did I piss off in a previous life to deserve this? I'm never come here again! Hell, once I get a roof over my head again I'm never leaving there!" he whimpered while becoming entangled in a ratty old bedspread hanging over a crudely set up clothesline, temporarily blinded as he stumbled into a still-lit campfire and the sheet became engulfed in flames.
"Ah! Hot! Hot! Hot!" Randy screamed as he could feel the flames encroaching and managed to toss it off, only to come face to face with another hobo that had been waiting near a broken down Voodoo, the man armed with a high-powered nail gun.
"Viet Cong, 12 o'clock!" the bum shouted squeezing the trigger, his nails becoming embedded in the long abandoned '73 Sadler pickup truck.
"Oh god, my life is shit!" Randy squealed as the nails were driven into the metallic surface behind him.
"Your Commie ass is gonna pay for what you and your gook brothers did to Asa and Hoss!" the bum shouted chasing after him.
"Damn stupid bums! Why does it always gotta be me they steal from?" he whined while tossing an abandoned bike in the pathway behind him hoping to slow his pursuers.
With a mighty 'oomph' Artie drove his fist repeatedly into the face of a shaggy-haired bum in a plaid shirt before tossing him into two of his oncoming buddies and then grabbing another and chucking him head first into another shanty.
"Think I've had enough of a workout for now," he whispered withdrawing his Desert Eagle and firing a blast into the face of a ratty-looking woman who charged towards him with the sharpened tip of a broken baseball bat before firing a round into the gut of a hefty man preparing to toss an old TV set at him. He looked to his right to find three more bums charging towards him with crude weapons and he remembered his remaining Molotovs, grabbing one and chucking it in their direction, setting all three men ablaze at once.
"Now where the hell did Randy take off to?" he quietly asked himself while running past a hobo cowering beneath a picnic table and watching as a few more scampered away from the lone man tearing a path of destruction through their makeshift community.
"You can't run forever Charlie!" the nail gun-wielding hobo called out, "We're gonna smoke your gook ass out eventually!"
Randy held a hand over his mouth to avoid crying out, hiding beneath the overturned remnants of a '92 Previon. His heart was thumping loudly inside his chest and he could feel his breath getting short on him, knowing he would soon need to take a hit from his inhaler. "How do I always get myself into these situations? Whenever I peek my head out, fate always has to shovel shit in my face!"
"Uncle Sam will not be denied boy! I'm gonna sniff your ass out one way or another!" the bum called out, banging his fist on the car Randy hid beneath hoping to scare his prey out. "I'm gonna get me a medal for bringing your ass in!"
A gunshot rang out and Randy screamed like a little girl as the same bum fell in front of him with a crater in the side of his head. He needed to get out of there and scurried out from beneath the car, only to jump again as a powerful hand gripped his shoulder.
"Randy, settle down! It's me!" Artie shouted from behind him, "Christ, you keep that shit up I might as well strap a siren to your head. Man you scream like a bitch."
"A-Artie! Thank god! I thought I was a goner there!" Randy yelped.
"Whatever, we've wasted enough time. Now let's find what you need and get our asses in gear," the hitman replied looking around with his gun raised.
"It's gotta be somewhere around here…I hope," Randy muttered as he happened across a frightened woman with frizzy salt and pepper hair, her tears made oily by the soot covering her face.
"Shh! Listen!" Artie said suddenly grabbing his companion by the shoulder and creeping towards a slightly larger shack lit up by a nearby trashcan fire.
"Oh mighty Patriot Man, we ask that you please protect and deliver us from those maniacs attacking our sacred land! In the name of the great Stan MacFarlane, amen!" a voice called out.
Artie pulled the blanket that served as the shanty's 'door' aside to find three people inside, one of them wearing the antlers from a moose head.
"Be gone foul blasphemer!" the wannabe preacher shouted drawing a meat cleaver from a nearby table, only to be knocked backward by a round to the chest from Artie's Desert Eagle before the hitman dropped the other hobos with single rounds.
The autographed comic book hung on a wall above a makeshift altar where a pigeon had been sacrificed. Aside from a few smears and fingerprints it appeared intact.
"Oh my god," Randy exclaimed running over and grabbing his treasured possession off the wall, "I am never letting you out of my sight ever again!" he said hugging it to his chest as if it were his own long lost child that had finally been returned to him.
"Uh yeah…now what else did you say we needed? Your laptop I believe it was?" Artie asked stepping back into the open, where the drive-in now largely appeared to be deserted.
"Over there," Randy said pointing towards another shanty Artie had left untouched. The hitman took his cue and led the way over to the rickety structure, where he could hear a woman's moans coming from within.
Creeping towards the opening he found a barefoot hobo in a soiled wife beater and ratty jeans who had somehow managed to hook up Randy's laptop and was in the process of watching a Mia Diane porno.
"Excuse me sir, but that laptop belongs to my friend," Artie called out.
"Finders keepers! Get your own asshole!" the bum retorted, leaping to his feet with a large pipe wrench drawn, only to be cut down by a blast to his right kneecap.
With his final foe incapacitated, Artie made his way over and disconnected the laptop, walking past the wailing man without paying him any attention.
"Please brother! Don't take my bouncing boobies away from me!" the hobo pleaded as Artie walked away.
Withdrawing a lighter, Artie pulled out the last of his Molotov cocktails and lit its makeshift fuse, casually tossing the makeshift explosive over his shoulder and immolating the pathetic hobo whole.
"One laptop coming up," the hitman said offering it to the laptop back to Randy, who for once actually seemed overjoyed in his tortured existence.
"Holy shit, thank you so much!" he cried out, hugging the laptop much in the same manner as the framed comic book, "Thanks a lot Artie. If you were a hot chick I'd so be letting you make out with me right now!"
"Gee thanks…I think," Artie said looking away, "Is this everything you needed to grab?"
Randy looked at him awkwardly and struggled to speak before finally finding the words, "Well…uh yeah…there is sort of…one more little thing…I needed to grab…" he said, his face turning bright red.
"Well what is it?" Artie demanded, "Go on, spit it out kid. I haven't got all day."
"Well it's sort of embarrassing," Randy giggled before looking around to make sure no one else was listening in, "You promise not to tell anybody?"
Artie shrugged and rolled his eyes at the same time, "Randy, you used to wear a fucking chicken head for God sakes, what could be more embarrassing than that?"
"Well it's sort of a person…" he trailed off before catching himself, "…a best friend I've had since I was two years old."
"Is this a stuffed animal we're talking about?" Artie asked, causing his companion to look to the ground in embarrassment.
"Yes…uh, just how did you know?" Randy asked looking up to him.
"Duh, what else would be your 'best friend' at that age?" Artie replied shaking his head, "Fine, I won't tell another soul. Now let's find your 'friend' and get out of here," he said grabbing a loosened board on a nearby fence and pulling it aside.
"What was that?" Randy asked pointing towards a little blur he spotted while making his way through.
"Guess we'd better find out," Artie said cocking the Desert Eagle's hammer and running towards the old concession stand, watching as a figure disappeared into what had been the ladies' room.
The duo made their way into the rancid quarters, Randy again squealing as a large rat scurried alongside him, stopping as he received another sharp glare from Artie, who raised a finger to his lips motioning for him to be quiet.
It was a struggle for the former cashier as they moved through a rancid, poorly-lit space and he was weaving back and forth to avoid stepping on what he assumed would be more rat carcasses, letting out another loud yelp when he stepped in something squishy.
"Randy!" Artie hissed.
"I c-c-can't help it! Th-This is too m-m-much like th-th-those 'Crawlers vs. Slayer' movies!" he whined as Artie pulled out his lighter to illuminate the confined quarters. They were nearly to the end and all that remained was one final stall where the door was slightly ajar.
Artie looked back to the frightened Randy and nodded quietly with his gun raised in his other hand. Creeping towards the stall he brought his foot up and used it to pry the door open, stepping forth with his gun pointed downward.
A youthful scream greeted the hired gun and he found himself pointing his gun at a filthy little girl who had to be roughly eight years old. In her hands she held an old teddy bear with a red bowtie, the same stuffed animal he had seen in Randy's bedroom.
"Mr. Eddy! There you are!" he shouted in joy, his tone changing the next second, "Give him here little girl!"
The little girl cowered in the corner and clutched onto the teddy bear for dear life, the way all children clung to things they believed would offer protection from the often imagined evils which supposedly surrounded them.
"You heard me! Give him back. He's mine!" Randy ordered.
Artie could see the fear in the little girl's dark misty eyes and couldn't help but wonder how she had ended up under these circumstances to begin with. Furthermore, he had to wonder what happened to her parents, the possibility that he had could have murdered them hitting him like a freight train. She looked to be scared and alone and he wondered if that teddy bear could be all she had left in this cold, cruel world.
"C'mon damn it, give him back!" Randy shouted and attempted to make his way into the stall, only to be restrained by Artie, "What the hell Artie?"
"Let her have it," the hitman said.
The younger man looked at him in wide-eyed horror, "What are you saying man? That's no ordinary teddy bear, that's Mr. Eddy, the most awesome bear in the entire universe! I can't let him go! I just can't!"
"And just why the hell not, huh? Why can't you let him go Randy? Huh, why can't you let him go?" Artie asked narrowing his dark eyes towards him, "Why do you still need a teddy bear? You're twenty what freaking years old! You're a grown fucking man! It's time to move on and let somebody else have it. You really want people to keep picking on you? They're going to if they know you're gonna be such a big baby over something so trivial!"
He again turned to face the little girl, "Look at her, she's frightened. She probably has nothing else left for her and right now that bear is probably all she has left! Do you really wanna take that away from her? Do you really need to keep being such a big fucking baby because you had something taken away from you? Huh, is that what you fucking want for yourself?"
Randy looked over in wide mouthed shock towards the hired gun, his companion's gaze cold and unflinching. "I…I…" he stammered, but he now knew there was nothing he could say to change the man's mind.
"Come on. She's seen enough," Artie said pulling out a one-hundred dollar bill and dropping it on the floor in front of the little girl, "It's yours," he said to her before turning on his heel and walking away.
Randy stared at the little girl and then towards Mr. Eddy, a tear creeping out of the corner of his eye knowing he would likely never see his beloved teddy bear ever again. He could have been a brute and just gone in there and snatched it away from her, but what kind of person would that make him? It would make him just as worse as those who had stolen from him. Wiping his solitary tear away he made his way after Artie.
The duo made their way back to Artie's waiting cab, Randy's former home still burning in the background as some of the gun-toting rednecks had now gathered around roasting fresh road kill over their makeshift 'stove.'
"Uh hey Artie…I'm sorry if I behaved like a kid back there," the younger man said fastening his seatbelt.
"Don't worry about it. It's all in the past. Right now I'm just going to worry about getting you over to the bar in one piece," Artie said shifting the car into drive and making a quiet, uneventful drive back to their aforementioned destination and within minutes Randy was being dropped off.
"Here you go," Artie said shifting the taxi into park.
"Thank you so much Artie. I owe you big time for this! Let me know whenever you need your ass out of a jam and I'll be right on top of it!" Randy called back before exiting.
"Sure, I'll keep in touch," Artie replied just as a drunkard came staggering out of the bar towards his cab.
"I hope it's not too soon. Christ, being around him makes me hate my own life," Artie thought to himself before turning to greet his passenger, "Where to?"
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(A/N: This scene right here would be intended to be my play upon the 'random encounters' that occur during the GTA4 arc.)
**2 Hours Later**
Artie had just dropped off his last passenger of the day outside of the Rusty's Trombone musical instrument shop in Bellport and was ready to call it a day. All he needed to do now was get back to the depot, collect his paycheck, get his car and then go home. At the moment a Weazel News broadcast was beaming in over the radio and he turned it up to listen.
"In other news, following the actions of a 'just minded vigilante' in the long besieged and very rundown Bellowfield district, Mayor Ronald Walker has decided to effectively cordon off the dilapidated area."
Another male voice called out, this time the flashing of cameras from a live press conference could be heard in the background.
"I've decided that I am through beating a dead horse and that after this 'act of God,' the time has come to put the Bellowfield district out of its misery!" Mayor Walker spoke.
"Mayor Walker, can you tell us what will become of the residents of that district?" a female reporter asked.
"What about them? That place is home to nothing but a bunch of pimps, prostitutes, drug addicts and God knows what else. It is time they move on with their lives outside my fair city!" the mayor replied.
"Mayor Walker, it has been brought to our attention that you are already planning a major gentrification project in the area, one of which is already coming under fire from your Democratic challenger Robert Kretchell. Your thoughts?" a male reporter asked.
"Fuck that liberal douchebag!" the mayor called out before catching himself, "You can have that edited out, can't you? The douchebag part that is."
Artie switched off the radio as he made his way back to Komojack Downs and was only two blocks removed from the depot when he came to a halt at a stoplight, only to have his back door suddenly open.
Looking over his shoulder he found a blonde-haired woman in a nice blue dress with a suitcase in hand climbing in.
"Take me over to the Montezuma Hotel in Cuba Norte," the woman ordered, her tone indicating she had just been crying recently.
"Ma'am, I was just about to punch out for the day," Artie protested.
"You're a fucking cab driver aren't you? You're supposed to shuttle us well-paying citizens around to where we need to be. It's not gonna kill you to get off your fucking ass and drive me somewhere last minute. Isn't your job supposed to be making money for your boss?" the woman snapped.
"Fine," Artie said turning his meter on and finding a safe spot to turn around.
He took another look in the mirror at his new passenger and having seen her face and recognizing her tone, he now knew he had seen her somewhere before. She had been the lady testing a Desert Eagle at Colt's Ammu-Nation store when Iceman took him there to buy a gun.
"Rough day?" he inquired as the woman exhaled deeply.
"You don't even know the half of it," she grumbled, "My bastard husband's been fucking his secretary behind my back again and none of his worshipers believe me!"
"Really?" Artie asked, his ears perking up at the mention of 'worshipers.'
"My husband is the minister over at the Methodist church in Jefferson Beach. The members of his congregation think he's so high and pious they refuse to listen, but I know he's lying to me…if only I could find some way to prove it to them!"
"Well I'm sure there are plenty of ways you can do that," Artie replied.
"Hmm, do you think maybe you could do me a favor?" the woman asked.
"And what would that be?" the cabbie responded, wondering if she was about to offer him a job.
"Do you think maybe you could help me prove he's been cheating on me? I'll pay you if you do," she said leaning forward.
"Alright, I'll see what I can do about it," Artie replied just as they were pulling up to the Montezuma.
"Good, here's my card. Please let me know what you find. He should be getting out of work pretty soon, so you'll need to be over there fast," the woman said offering him a business card, identifying her as 'Monica Belding.'
"It would be a pleasure doing business with you. I will let you know as soon as possible Ms. Belding," Artie nodded before accepting a twenty dollar bill from her.
Artie switched the radio's station over to Old School 97.3, which was currently playing "Jump Around" by House of Pain, and proceeded towards the nearby off ramp leading to Jefferson Vale.
The hitman harbored a very low opinion of organized religion in general, sickened by how it could possess so much power over one's general beliefs and hating it in believing it how more people have died in the name of a supposed God than any other cause on this earth. The chance to ruin one so-called 'man of the cloth' was just too good for him to pass up.
It wasn't long before he was arriving in the Jefferson Beach district, dominated by the coastline whose name it bore. There was still a fair amount of activity on the beach with people playing volleyball, riding around in jet skis and even a beach party where a 'dance battle' was taking place. Not far from the beach was the local Methodist church with a silver '05 Imponte DF8-90 parked out front.
A redheaded man exited the house of worship dressed in the typical black outfit of a preacher, followed by a shapely brunette and it was there Artie recognized them. They had been the same naked couple who wanted him to avoid the paparazzi when he was shooting that reality TV pilot for Solomon.
"The surprises just keep piling up," Artie whispered to himself as he pulled out his Whiz Wireless and activated the built-in camera, snapping a scandalous shot of the couple kissing alongside the car. Judging by their terse actions he could tell they were both hot and bothered and decided he would follow them around, thinking he could get more pictures that would make the first one laughable.
He waited as the car started up and allowed the preacher to get some distance before following after him, cutting off an elderly couple riding on a Faggio.
"Alright preacher man, just stay in my sights," Artie muttered to himself as he allowed a Coach bus belonging to the 'Lassies Laid Bare' franchise to get in front of him, hoping the distance would lessen any suspicions of being followed.
He continued following from a distance as the bus turned to the left and when he saw the sedan make a right turn he sped up.
The trail led him to the Kirby district, an area filled with modest homes with small yards and playgrounds, lacking the opulence of the other neighborhoods Artie had explored during his time on Jefferson Vale, the ideal area for raising your kids, if there even was one in Rushmore City.
Artie watched from a distance as the preacher's car turned into the driveway of a nondescript two-story ivory house and watched as the man and his secretary got out of the car, the redheaded man giving her a hard smack on the ass as they made their way inside. Ready to dig up more juicy gossip, he parked his cab down the street and walked towards the house, slowing his pace so he would fit in.
It wasn't long before he was approaching the house and looked around before sneaking along the wooden fence listening for anything out of the ordinary.
"This is quite the 180," he thought to himself, "I was trying to keep those photographers from getting his picture and now here I am doing it myself," he told himself as he rounded the corner into a neighbor's backyard. "No remorse for sanctimonious pricks like him."
He eventually found a hole in the fence where he could spot the couple's pool in the backyard and the nearby hot tub. It wasn't long before the shapely brunette secretary emerged from the house in her birthday suit, the same way in which she had been when he first met her.
"Damn, with all the houses surrounding them I'm surprised their neighbors don't know about this already," Artie thought to himself as he activated his camera phone and snapped some shots of the nude brunette, "God that lady is built. I'm gonna have to save some of these for myself," he thought just as the preacher emerged with a bottle of champagne.
"Hey honey remember what we practiced," the lady called out, "You're the Solitary Steward and I'm the damsel-in-distress. You're on a mission to save me from my own lack of sexual satisfaction!"
"Oh right," the preacher replied, Artie making sure to snap a picture of him before he pulled out a white cowboy hat and black eye mask.
"Hi ho Shiny, away!" the preacher called out pretending to gallop on a hobby horse towards the waiting woman before they started going at it like a couple of wild dogs in heat.
"Monica's gonna be so pissed when she sees these pics and so will this guy's sheep," Artie smirked forwarding each picture to the scorned wife and hitting the 'Send' button as he made his way back to his cab.
His phone rang just a few seconds later and he switched it on, only to hear a cacophony of enraged shrieks before finally speaking, "I take it you've seen all the pics?"
"Yes I have and boy I'm so taking that bastard's ass to the cleaners!" Monica screamed from the other end before finally calming herself down, "Thank you Mr. Cappelli. I'll see to it that one thousand dollars is wired to your account for a job well done."
"Pleasure doing business with you," Artie replied shutting off his phone, only to sniff his armpit a second later.
"Goddamn I need a shower after being around those bums!"
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Author's Note: And once again I find myself with a chapter being much longer than I expected it to be and this is technically my first chapter where more than one mission occurs within a chapter.
Again there were several other parodies and references I made in this chapter, the first being Mia Diane, who is a parody of Lisa Ann, one of my favorite porn stars who is the amazingly hot cougar that spoofed Sarah Palin in Hustler's "Who's Nailin' Paylin." I definitely had to throw in some form of reference to her.
"Crawlers vs. Slayer" is a spoof of the "Alien vs. Predator" franchise. The scene with Artie and Randy moving through the dimly-lit bathroom and Randy being scared of something leaping out at them made me think of how in the AvP series you often have the Colonial Marines or other surviving humans trekking through the dimly-lit areas only to have the Aliens or Predators suddenly leap out at them from the darkness, in this case the 'Crawlers' being the Aliens and the 'Slayer' being the Predator.
"Lassies Laid Bare" is a spoof of "Girls Gone Wild." I could have used the world 'Lady' instead, but I thought 'Lassies' sounded funnier and might create some kind of weird double entendre where some readers might picture a Collie coming for them rather than a naked college girl. LOL!
The Solitary Steward is a spoof of The Lone Ranger and Shiny would be a spoof of his horse Silver. I wanted the preacher to be in something that would be both kinky and hysterical at the same time.
Well that's it until then and as always read and review! This is Metal Harbinger saying SPREAD THE SICKNESS, ONE MIND AT A TIME! \m/