Author's Note: Once again I apologize for the delay to my regular viewers as I have been wrapped up in my other projects, but alas I make my return. I would say 'glorious,' but that's probably stretching things, as long as it doesn't result in an impatient mob of people storming my house with torches and pitchforks.
So yeah, Afro Spirit, Native Gunz, SlayerDarth, blondebabe800, and anybody else who follows my story but is too good to post a review…yes I am still here!
Anyways, now that I've gotten that out of the way it is on with the story!
Chapter 24: The Shit Hits More Than the Fan
Another work day with Freeman Cabs was over and Artie emerged from the University Cyber-Ing internet café, which thankfully had gone by without incident. It had been four days since he and Boomer ran that errand for Ratchet and thankfully they had gone by quietly.
The errand boy yawned loudly before tossing his emptied coffee cup into a nearby trashcan and rounded the building towards the parking lot where his cab waited.
"Maybe I'll take another trip to Silver's," he thought to himself, his ass feeling sore from all the sitting he did in the cab and then at the workstation afterward. He needed some form of movement and needed to rebuild his strength after his recent injuries. If he couldn't lift weights he could at least run on a treadmill or ride a bike, do something to burn off all the pent up energy.
Artie pulled out his key and slid it into the slot and unlocked the door, but before he could climb in he suddenly heard a metallic rattle coming from behind him and he whirled around with his CZ-75 raised.
A trashcan with a pair of human legs sticking out came rolling down the hill towards him, coming to a crashing halt when it struck a nearby bike rack.
"Ow…I so hate my life…" a familiar whiny voice came from within.
"Randy?" Artie asked running over and grabbing his friend by the ankles to pull him out of the metal canister, "We've so gotta stop finding each other like this," he muttered to himself.
The former Cluckin' Bell cashier was covered from his head to his torso in trash, the smell of rotten fruit and expired liquids forcing the hired gun to quickly plug his nose.
"Randy, what the hell happened now?" Artie asked, feeling his eyes water at the rancid stench.
"What the hell does it look like? I just got shoved into a trashcan and rolled down a hill," the younger man groaned, rubbing his lower back and side following his rough stop.
"Uh yeah, I could see that much already, but who did this to you?" Artie asked, nearly recoiling as a used condom fell from the top of Randy's head.
"Donovan Doyle Darlington IV…" the former cashier replied before coughing up a ball of God knows what, "…some preppy rich bastard…thinks he's better than everybody else. I was in the park reading one of my self-help books, just minding my own business, when that bastard rolls up in his fancy schmancy F620 like he's on top of the fucking world and is going on how soon he's going to be running this city, yadda yadda yadda and all that other crap," Randy said making mouth flapping gestures with his hands as he tried explaining everything, "and just a whole bunch of other shit in general."
"So what did you do to piss him off?" Artie asked offering him a handkerchief to wipe his face off.
"I stood up to him," Randy muttered, almost sounding embarrassed.
Artie blinked his eyes repeatedly in disbelief, "Wait, you seriously mean to tell me that you actually stood up to somebody?" he asked, unable to believe a timid loser like Randy Spitz would be capable of standing up to another human being, let alone a rich kid of all people.
"Well yeah…" the wimpy man said looking to the pavement and kicking aside an empty container of Cherry Popper ice cream, "…I pretended as if I were you."
Artie laughed loudly at the smaller man's response, again forced to ask whether this kid was brave or just plain stupid.
"You're fucking kidding me, right? Please tell me you are!" the hired gun replied.
"No…" Randy replied, looking away in embarrassment, "…I just thought to myself 'What would Artie do in a case like this?' and I told him to take his silver spoon and shove it up his ass."
"And look at where it got you," Artie said motioning towards him, "Stuck in a trashcan with more used condoms in your hair!"
Randy's eyes widened and he began swatting away wildly at his matted down hair, "Gah! Get it off! Get it off!" he hollered thrashing his hands as if he were surrounded by a swarm of bees, "Don't just stand there man! Help me get them off!"
"Hell no, I'm not touching any of those with a sixty foot pole," Artie said recoiling as one of the aforementioned condoms hit the tarmac with a splat.
"Gah! Damn it! My suffering never ends…" Randy whined and could feel his breathing quicken, but suddenly began taking a bunch of deep breaths to calm himself down, "…no Randy, you're not suffering…You're on a beach in Vice City and you're surrounded by lots of beautiful women…and then the cast of 'The Great Explosion Concept' shows up and offers you a guest appearance…and then Patriot Man, Cyber Dude, Flea Man and the Brown Streak all show up to play Blackjack with you at some casino in Las Venturas, all the while eating a nice warm pizza from Little Caligula's…yes Randy, you're just fine…you're just fine…you're just fine…" he repeated, his voice cracking the third time and he shot his eyes open, "Gah! It's not working!"
Artie could only shake his head as the ex-cashier searched frantically for a paper bag to breathe into, finding one sitting on a nearby bench, only to recoil in horror when he found a dead crow inside, "Gah! I'm getting fucked over by God himself! Why God? What did I ever do to piss you off so bad?" he screamed to the sky.
"Randy, pull yourself together!" the hired gun said going over and grabbing him by the shoulders, only to step back when he felt something sticky on his friend's right shoulder, "Randy, you need to settle the fuck down at once! Okay man, I'm sorry to yell at you, but you need to think when you find yourself in situations like this, not just rush in head on like you're Jack Howitzer or Buck Morris."
"How could I think? He had me cornered and was probably going to try kicking my ass either way, that's how it always goes with me," Randy sighed before picking off an old piece of pizza that clung to his back.
"C'mon, I'll take you back to the bar so you can get cleaned up," Artie said motioning for the cab.
"No way man, I can't just go back there after what that smug bastard did to me," Randy suddenly spoke up, inviting another suspicious stare from the hitman.
"What the hell do you mean? Since when did you grow a backbone? Normally you're the first person hiding in the corner shitting your pants at the first sign of danger," Artie replied.
"I don't know…I just know that we can't let what he did slide…if you get what I'm trying to say that is," Randy nervously replied, dusting some chunks off his shirt that left him shuddering a second later.
"And just what do you suggest we do? Obviously you're not some black belt who can go to this guy's house and start throwing out tornado kicks left and right," Artie said reclining against his cab.
"Well, there probably is something we can do without any up close, in your face action," Randy replied pacing back and forth before suddenly snapping his fingers, "I've got it!"
"Now this I've gotta hear," Artie replied sarcastically crossing his arms across his chest.
"I remember hearing him chatting on the phone with somebody before he got out of his car; yeah he had his window rolled down!" Randy said, his pacing becoming more manic as he could feel everything coming back to him, "He was saying something about a party…yeah, a pool party! He said he was going to have a bunch of people over, a bunch of those rich asswipes he hangs out with…they're all going to be in the same place at once!"
"And just what do you have planned? Going over and putting laxatives in their Gay Pisson?" Artie chuckled mockingly, earning another finger snap from Randy.
"Something involving shit alright!" he called out excitedly.
"Ugh, should I have even bothered to mention that?" Artie replied.
Randy ignored his friend's question, entrenched in the idea forming inside his head, becoming more spastic by the second, "There is a way we can do that, yes! We're going to steal a Wastehauler from the waste management plant over in Roosevelt Hills, and then we're gonna drive it over to that smug bastard's place and spray them down! I tell you, they'll literally be shit faced when we're done with them! Oh yeah, it's gonna be grand I tell you Artie! So epically grand!"
"Yeah, whatever!" Artie snapped, trying to avoid being touched by the smelly nerd, "And what do you mean by 'we're?' You're the one who's got the beef with this guy; shouldn't it be up to you to deal with him?"
"Well, you just said I shouldn't rush into situations without thinking, right?" Randy replied, "Well right now I'm thinking. Obviously, the probability of me being able to drive a truck larger than what I'm used to would come back to haunt me in the end, that plus I doubt I'd be able to drive the truck and spray them at the same time. It would be a two man job, therefore I will need another man and since you're here right now, you can be that other man. Seriously, you told me to think things through, well now I am!"
Artie sighed in defeat, "Well I guess you've got me backed into a corner on this one and if it isn't your 'superior logical abilities' that can do that, it sure is that rancid stench of yours alone," he replied as the slushy remnants of a burrito fell from Randy's shorts, almost making him look as if he were taking a shit.
"Hell yeah! You're the best Artie! I promise, I'll pay you more this time around if you can help me get some well-deserved payback on those rich fucks!" Randy hooted, bouncing into the air repeatedly. "That rich prick's not gonna know what hit him…well actually he will in this case, but you get the idea! Now come along noble sidekick, we have work to do!"
"Noble what?" Artie asked shaking his head as the nerd climbed into the cab's backseat, "About the smartest thing he's done thus far," he thought to himself as he climbed in and slid the privacy window shut to block out the rancid odor before switching on the radio Rewind FM, currently playing "Hazy Shade of Winter" by The Bangles.
"Uh…and while we're at it, can we stop by Beaver's? I sort of threw up my lunch when I was rolling down that hill and now I'm hungry again!" Randy called out from the backseat.
"Hey, do you want your revenge against this rich preppy bastard or not? Your meal will have to wait!" Artie barked back as he charged through a red light, the rancid fragrance emanating from the filthy nerd somehow getting to him through the closed privacy window and wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, meaning it would be the faster he could get him home to get him cleaned up.
The hitman looked over to his left to see his window was opened just a crack and so was Randy's behind him. Seeing this he reached over to the nearby console to raise his friend's window.
"Hey, I'm hot back here!" Randy bellowed, this day having been warmer than expected. The issue was compounded by the cab's air conditioner not working, leaving the hitman feeling more on edge since he had climbed back into a virtual sauna.
"So am I, but you don't see me bitching," Artie retorted taking a left hand turn, "Now just quit your bitching and let me drive."
"Well you'd be in a bitchy mood too if you were just shoved into a trashcan and rolled down a hill," Randy replied crossing his arms.
"I guess you do have a point there, but it still gives you no right to get on my nerves. You keep that shit up and I'm gonna be the one shoving you down a hill, and you won't be alive when I'm done with you," Artie growled, his voice lowering into a threatening boom and his eyes narrowing as he looked at the ex-cashier in his rearview mirror, the younger man beginning to visibly quake as he approached the onramp leading to Roosevelt Hills.
As always, it was as if he were entering a whole new world as the hired gun made his way into the mostly rural land, speeding his way past a Walton hauling a trailer full of cattle and then past some redneck biker bar called 'Riding Bitch,' where more of those Whiteskins could be seen beating down on some other random schmuck.
"Once again those lifeless losers have nothing better to do," the hitman thought as he crossed a suspension bridge and soon happened across a sign telling him the Rushmore Waste Management Facility would soon be within reach.
"Okay, I think we're definitely getting closer…I can smell it," Randy squeaked from the backseat.
"Are you sure that's not just your own shit-stained clothing you're smelling back there?" Artie replied.
"No seriously, it's like the smell has been amplified by a million…" Randy said, stopping as he realized he had just picked on himself with that comment.
"At least you come by it honestly," Artie chuckled, leaving his companion to scramble through his mind for some kind of witty comeback, yet coming up with dead air as the waste management facility finally came into view, "Looks like we're finally here."
"Oh yes, now those rich bastards are finally going to know what it feels like to be shit on…and in a very literal sense!" Randy giggled as they drew closer to the front gates.
"Okay, should I really be looking forward to this?" Artie asked as he hastily parked the cab outside the gates and spotted a Wastehauler like Randy had mentioned, an overweight man in a heavily sweat-stained wife beater relaxing on a nearby bench with a Playhouse magazine in one hand and a beer in the other. The man quickly looked up when he saw the duo approaching.
"Hey! Only authorized employees are allowed beyond this point!" the man barked.
"So now you finally start to do your job, eh tubby?" Artie taunted, "Boy, no wonder this whole city always smells like shit!"
The fat man threw down his magazine and drink to charge after the hitman, only to be cut down by a round to the chest.
"Gah! Was that really necessary?" Randy screamed to his friend.
"Just shut up and get in!" Artie shouted back, climbing the short flight of steps and pulling himself into the driver's seat, nearly gagging as he took in the interior, stinking worse than the driver. He switched the truck on, its station set to the Beatbox 102 station, playing "Cool" by Suga Free, slamming the gas pedal down as soon as Randy had climbed in.
"Jeez, will you watch how you drive?" Randy yelped.
"Hey, do you want your fucking revenge on the snobby rich bastard or not? Jeez, keep your fucking mouth shut and tell me where this prick lives," Artie shouted back as he made his way out of the compound and onto the main road leading out of Roosevelt Hills.
"He lives over in Pinecone Grove, knowing him it shouldn't be too hard to miss," Randy replied as Artie approached the off ramp that would take him back to Jefferson Vale.
"Pinecone Grove it is," the hired gun nodded switching the station over to Old School 97.3, playing "Insane in the Brain" by Cypress Hill, and shoving his way onto the ramp, ramming a Feltzer hard and sending it tumbling over the concrete barrier and into the water below.
"Will you watch the road please? I really don't feel like having any innocent blood spilled for once in my lifetime," Randy groaned.
Artie ignored his friend and made his way through another intersection, earning a plethora of horns, curses and middle fingers, leaving Randy to blurt out apologies to people who likely weren't able to hear him as the hitman sped down the street.
He had become more familiarized with the island through his work with Freeman Cabs and within moments was on the main street leading into Pinecone Grove, past a group of rich folks out on their daily power walks and past a wine tasting event taking place on an ivory mansion's front lawn, the partygoers crinkling their noses at the rancid odor emitted by the passing truck.
"Alright, keep your eyes peeled. You're gonna have to tell me where this rich shithead lives," Artie spoke, chuckling at his little pun towards the end.
"He's not far," Randy replied as they pulled up alongside some ditzy blonde behind the wheel of a pink Feltzer who was yammering away on her cell phone and had a Yorkshire Terrier resting in her lap.
"Eww gross! Don't you peasants like totally have somewhere else to be? I mean, that stench is like so disguising all that expensive body oil I rubbed all over me this morning!" the young lady shouted.
"Don't even pay any attention to her," Artie said placing a hand on his friend's shoulder and continuing through the intersection, ramming head on into a parked royal blue Oracle in the hopes of cheering up his friend, knowing its owner would likely have a heart attack at the sight of its 'baby' reduced to scrap.
Artie continued down the street until Randy called out.
"Over there!" he said gesturing towards a tan-colored estate that looked to be roughly the width of the city's main shopping mall over on Washington Dell, several expensive-looking sports cars and limousines parked out front and the thumping bass of speakers turned up to the max. If there was another thing Artie had learned from his time in Rushmore, it's that the rich people of this city made no effort to hide it when they were hosting an upscale event.
"Time to rock n' roll," Artie said slamming on the gas pedal.
"Wait, we need some proper music for this occasion before you go in guns blazing, or hoses blazing in this case," Randy said reaching for the radio and turning it to Symphony 104.1, which was now playing Beethoven's "Symphony No. 9" (Better known as "Ode to Joy").
"Into battle we go fellow crusader!" Randy shouted mightily pointing forward as if he were mounted on a mighty steed and ready to charge towards an amassed horde of barbarians on the early morning hillside.
"Sure thing," Artie unenthusiastically snorted.
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"This is sure quite the party you've got going on here Donovan," porn producer Rod Cummins remarked sipping from a martini, temporarily diverting his gaze as some barely legal bikini clad beauties strode past.
"What can I say, I am a Darlington. Anything less would be unacceptable," Donovan Doyle Darlington IV replied in his posh accent as an animal handler led a genuine African elephant past them, "No matter what the Van Winkles may say, it was the esteemed Darlington Family who had the earliest roots planted in this area and it was my family, not theirs, who transformed a middle of nowhere cow pasture into the glistening jewel of the American Midwest. Back then, they were still cleaning up after those most boorish beasts while we were drawing in the settlers from the adjoining villages."
In addition to the live elephant being present, a stage had been set up where the rap artist Chihuahua was performing his hit single "I Fucked a Bitch of Every Ethnicity Last Night" while several scantily-clad women danced in the background. There were also miniature battleships armed with paintballs shooting back and forth in the massive swimming pool, waitresses walking around dressed like ancient Roman gladiators and even an animatronic shark that was a direct replica of the 'Bite' ride down at InterGlobal Studios in Vice City.
"Indeed they have, plus your dear father and his father before him were always good for providing me with new up-and-coming talent for my many productions," the short, sleazy man said eying up a waitress who was bending over to pick up a shot tray she had dropped.
"We've always been ones to help out the less fortunate," Donovan sarcastically replied as he looked over to see one of his bodyguards kicking a Mexican groundskeeper while he was down.
"Hey, what's that smell?" Rod asked crinkling his nose as did several other attendees.
Donovan did not reply, his eyes widening in shock.
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"Ha ha ha ha ha! Who's the bitch now Darlington?" Randy shouted as the Wastehauler pulled up alongside the pool party, "Let 'em have it!"
"You're the boss," Artie nodded and flipped the switch activating the roof mounted pressure hose.
"Looks like you're in for a shitty day!" Randy shouted, before laughing hysterically at his own pun, "Hey, I made a funny!"
Artie ignored his companion and activated the cannon, launching a torrent of human feces upon the hapless partygoers, many of whom were too slow to avoid the high speed jet sprayed in their direction, filling the air with screams of terror and disgust as they were showered in excrement.
"Man, I haven't had this much fun since I finally kicked my Cousin Scott's ass at 'U-Boats!' Yeah! Yee haw!"
Artie ignored his friend's excited outbursts as he continued to spray everything in sight, eventually catching the rapper Chihuahua with a pummeling jet that sent the helpless rapper falling into a nearby pool. He waved the hose back and forth, turning everything he could into a dark shade of brown.
Several bodyguards eventually made their way onto the mansion's balcony armed with assault rifles, but most of them were cut down by the shower of shit before they could squeeze their triggers, including one man who was sent tumbling over the railing.
"Oh man, this is so fucking epic on so many fucking levels!" Randy hollered excitedly before breaking into another hysterical fit of laughter before suddenly stopping himself, "Quick, there's some of them trying to get away!"
The ex-cashier pointed towards the front lawn where several scantily-clad partygoers bolted towards their waiting cars, most of them not having had the time to change back into their regular clothes.
With a nod, Artie shifted the hose towards the fleeing guests and began spraying them down with human excrement, the so-called 'beautiful people of Rushmore' now looking like swamp creatures, most of them knocked backwards by the hose's force and a few of their fancy sports cars even overturning as they were drenched by the brown tidal wave.
"Hell yeah that's how you fucking do it!" Randy whooped with a vigor Artie hadn't known him to possess as the hitman sprayed down more targets.
The wail of sirens came from behind and the hired gun looked in the truck's rearview mirror to see two blue and gold Patriots rushing into view, belonging to the Patrol Invest Group private security firm.
"Shit, we've got bogeys on our six! Bogeys on our six!" Randy shouted.
Seeing the two bulky vehicles speeding into view, Artie shifted the Wastehauler into reverse and watched as the two vehicles sped past them, their inhabitants scrambling for their guns. As the drivers struggled to regain control, the hired gun activated the hose and sprayed his antagonists down, assuring they would smell like ass for the next two weeks.
Artie would soon turn his attention beyond the Darlington pool party and began spraying whatever else he could see, including a group of power walkers, an older lady walking her two French Poodles, a man who had been tanning on his balcony and was waiting for his butler to serve him some expensive imported champagne, a whole slew of parked luxury cars and anything else that stood within his reach.
Randy jumped as a flurry of bullets pelted the septic truck and he looked ahead to see some of the shit-covered guards emerged from their Patriots with their guns blazing.
"Okay Artie, I think you've done enough damage. Now can we please get out of here before I have to shop for a toe tag?" Randy yelped as a bullet pierced the windshield and embedded itself in the seat inches to his left.
With a grunt, the hired gun shifted the truck back into drive and sped towards the firing guards, crushing one man before plowing through the multitude crap-covered vehicles and down the street to an area untouched by the shit, the large truck plodding along sluggishly due to its large size.
"Okay, I don't think these guys are gonna be too quick to forget," Randy nervously laughed as he noticed more P.I.G.-owned Patriots speeding down from the side street towards them.
"Of course not, we just covered their boss' neighborhood in a whole heap of shit!" Artie shouted back, jumping as a Patriot suddenly rammed them from the opposite direction and its passenger began rattling the truck with gunfire.
Artie slammed the gas pedal to make the truck go as fast as its wheels would allow, T-boning a limousine and sending it flipping over and crushing a nearby white picket fence.
"Take the hose," the hitman ordered, keeping a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel as he attempted to get them out of there.
Without hesitation his nerdy sidekick grabbed the controls and began spraying fecal matter wildly towards the vehicles chasing after them, only to jump as a blue and gold Patriot had somehow bypassed the stream of shit and was again ramming into them, too close for the hose to spray them.
"Jeez, for a kid who claims to be such a brain you sure do have a hard time following orders," Artie shouted, switching the radio station over to the Crossbones 99.1 indie rock station, currently playing "A Favor House Atlantic" by Coheed and Cambria.
"But I didn't see him! He just snuck up on me from out of nowhere!" Randy protested.
"Yeah, I'm sure that's what your mother said to your grandparents when they found out she was pregnant with you," Artie retorted, jumping as more bullets rattled his side.
"Hey!" Randy screamed back, only to be sent flying forward as a bullet shattered his window and landing face down in Artie's crotch.
"Get the fuck off of me!" Artie hollered.
"No way," Randy shouted, his words muffled as his face remained buried.
"Jesus Fucking Christ, I've always wanted to try receiving 'road head,' but this definitely isn't what I had in mind," the errand boy thought to himself as he plowed through an oncoming Stinger, only to find more of those security guards had set up a roadblock and were firing away.
"Hang on tight, this one's gonna get hairy!" Artie shouted to his friend slamming the gas pedal down and with a loud crash plowing head on through the blockade with no signs of slowing down.
"Oh shit…the brakes just went out!" the errand boy screamed finally forcing his friend off of him as the world moved past them in a blur.
"Oh god…I don't wanna die! I don't wanna die! I don't wanna die!" Randy whimpered repeatedly while making the Sign of the Cross.
Artie ignored the wimpy man's sudden lapse into faith as the out of control Wastehauler tore through the Kirby district, past the Ye Olde Retirement Citadel nursing home and barreling towards a Tarbrush Café, its patrons seeing the vehicle coming straight at them and rushing for cover.
"God, if you're out there and you exist then please do something to make sure we come out of this alive," the hired gun thought, finding it bitterly ironic he was calling out to a possibly fictitious deity with all the shit he's pulled throughout his life. "The things people will do when they know they're possible facing down their own mortality."
Artie braced himself as the truck plowed through the tables and chairs on the patio and then right through the windows, the truck finally grinding to a halt when its tires were pierced.
Just like that it was over and the hired gun slowly opened his eyes, only to shut them again as a cloud of dust flooded his vision. He waved his hands wildly in front of him before daring to open them and looked over to see Randy deathly still next to him, ragged gasps being his only sign of life.
"Hmph, guess there was someone looking out for me after all. Who would've thought so?" Artie asked himself reaching over to nudge his companion, "Randy, snap out of it!"
The ex-cashier shot his eyes open and let out an almost euphoric gasp, a frown returning to his features when he realized he was not at the gates of Heaven being met by a gaggle of attractive angels.
"Just when I thought I was finally free from this cold cruel world…"
"Whine about that shit later. C'mon, we've gotta get out of here," Artie said climbing out of the truck.
"Did you really have to say 'shit' after everything we've already been through?" Randy groaned.
Artie ignored the man's complaint and made his way through the double doors and into the parking lot, where a white Fortune sat abandoned. Running over to the sedan he drove his elbow into the driver's side door and climbed inside to hotwire it, the station set at Beatbox 102 and playing "Rush" by Talib Kweli.
"You coming or what?" Artie asked honking the horn.
"Okay, sheesh don't try to attract any unnecessary attention!" Randy snapped climbing in and buckling in.
"Says the guy who smells like shit," the errand boy chuckled.
"Will you please stop saying that word?" Randy retorted, "God I so just wanna be as far away from that stuff as possible after what happened today."
"Sure thing, keep that in mind next time you've gotta go to the bathroom," Artie replied.
"You're a lot of help," Randy sarcastically muttered, looking away and shuddering. He held himself tightly and tried to curl himself into a fetal position, but the limited space wouldn't allow it and he was forced to bury the side of his head into the seat.
"Dude, lighten up. What you needed done is done," Artie replied, "We humiliated that rich prick beyond his wildest dreams. I'm sure it's going to be a long time before he decides to fuck with you again."
"Heh, and knowing my luck, tomorrow I'm gonna be getting shoved into a porta-potty and have it turned upside down on me over and over again," Randy groaned, "How many times do I gotta tell you I have the Devil's luck?"
"Well seeing as how I'm always feeling like I need to be seeing a shrink after hanging around you, I'd say you've got it hammered down to home," Artie chuckled as he came to a stoplight.
"I could give you the number for my therapist if you want," Randy said reaching for a nonexistent business card.
"I was being sarcastic," Artie said rolling his eyes, "But seriously, you need to lighten up man. You keep up this 'woe is me' bullshit people are gonna keep walking all over you. You've gotta take a stand sometime or another or else you're gonna keep getting thrown into the gutter and shit on like you're always whining about…and when you do try sticking up for yourself again, at least make sure you have some means of backing it up."
"So I go on a shooting spree over at the Washington Point Mall?" Randy inquired.
"No! No! No man! No! I'm not telling you to go on a fucking shooting spree man, but seriously you've gotta do something to defend yourself. Zeke and I won't always be around to watch your back," Artie explained as they exited Jefferson Vale and were driving through Washington Dell through the aforementioned Washington Point district, another upscale part of town where a lot of people were leaving the mall to visit the other establishments, leaving him to take the longer way around to avoid the forming traffic jam, and in the process force him to have to endure the rancid stench from Randy's clothes much longer.
"Gah…why oh why can't I just please be bitten by a radioactive flea right now?" Randy whined looking towards a teenager in a Flea Man t-shirt, "Look at how much good it did for Danny Dicker…"
Artie said nothing and opened the windows so he could air out the foul stench, listening to the hip-hop music as he drove back on what had thankfully been an uneventful ride, aside from being cut off by a patrol car speeding past with its lights flashing.
He pulled the Fortune up in front of The Little Black Book, which as usual didn't appear to have much in the way of business, and brought the car to a halt.
"Well thanks again for your help Artie…I seriously mean it…I'm not used to having people stick up for me the way you have," Randy said still looking away as he spoke to his friend.
"Hey anytime man, I can't stand those rich pricks either. Now go ahead and get yourself cleaned up," Artie ordered as his phone began ringing and he looked down to see Boomer was calling him, "I'll probably be in later."
He waited until Randy entered the bar and then pushed the button to answer, "Hey Boomer, what's up?"
"Not much man, listen I was in the area and was wondering if you wanted to meet up at the Three Leaf Clover over in Bellport?" the demolitions specialist asked.
Artie was feeling rather tense after his time spent with Randy and sighed before replying, "Sure why not? I've had a pretty crappy day. Might as well blow some steam off."
"Hell yeah that's the spirit man! I'll make sure to have a beer with your name on it until you get your ass over here."
"Cool man, thanks," Artie said before switching his phone off, wondering if drinking with an Irishman would be a wise move before departing for his next destination.
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Author's Note: Well after months of being sidetracked I have once again managed to complete yet another installment of Rushmore City and thankfully it wasn't as shitty in the end.
This mission was inspired by the "Septic Avenger" side missions from the Saints Row series and the Wastehauler is an original vehicle I've introduced that is physically inspired by that same septic truck as shown in the game.
And now for the parodies: "The Great Explosion Concept" is my spoof of "The Big Bang Theory" from which the character Sheldon inspires Randy Spitz.
The Brown Streak is an obvious parody of the Flash whom a life-sized statue of appears in Yusuf Amir's penthouse apartment in "The Ballad of Gay Tony" and Flea Man is supposed to be a spoof of Spiderman and furthermore Danny Dicker is a spoof of Peter Parker, Spiderman's alter ego.
Buck Morris is a spoof of Chuck Norris and I might have some jokes inspired by him like they do with the real life Chuck Norris jokes.
Little Caligula's is a spoof of the Little Caesar's pizza chain which is inspired by "San Andreas" where they renamed Caesar's Palace as Caligula's Palace.
Beaver's is a spoof of the Culver's restaurant chain that was founded right here in Wisconsin and I would have it where their restaurants have the same iconic blue rooftops as the real life Culver's restaurants.
Gay Pisson (pronounced Piss-SAHN) is a spoof of Grey Poupon and made me think of those commercials I used to see when I was little where those bourgeois older guys would pull up alongside each other in those fancy cars and be like *in an afflicted upper class British accent* "Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?"
U-Boats is a spoof of the "Battleship" board game.
Rod Cummins is a spoof of Ron Jeremy and I would also have it where he physically resembles him too.
Well that's everything covered I believe so until then read and review as always! This is Metal Harbinger saying SPREAD THE SICKNESS, ONE MIND AT A TIME! \m/