Author's Note: My original title for this chapter was going to be "I Ran (So Far Away)" after the song title by A Flock of Seagulls, figuring I thought it would fit the main theme of what goes on here, but after working further through it I decided the new one would be a more fitting title, so here it goes. Now on with the story!
Chapter 26: Suburban Chaos
With the loud roar of the Buffalo's engine announced its entry into the Kirby district, inviting worried stares from a young woman who had been out walking her German Shepherd and some teenagers who were playing basketball in a driveway, Artie ignoring their looks as he focused solely on finding Monica's house.
It had been a while since he had been around this part of town, but gradually it all came back to the hired gun as he spotted some familiar houses along the way, including that one with all those gaudy hedges trimmed into various wild animals.
Taking a left onto Flanery St., the same ivory house came into view and parked in the driveway was the same silver DF8-90 that Reverend Belding drove and next to it, a candy apple red Bravura he assumed belonged to Monica. Whatever the case was, it appeared somebody was home and he might still have some time.
Artie pulled the Buffalo to a halt on the opposite side of the street behind a Burrito belonging to 'Spliff Lawn and Garden Care.' Switching the muscle car off he sat back and took a deep breath.
Inside Monica Belding could very well have been in the midst of struggling for her life or perhaps could have been hiding in a closet somewhere. So far there were no signs of forced entry, the front door being shut and the windows being closed, yet appearances could be deceiving.
His thoughts drifted to the young woman, the same woman who had hired him on to do her personal 'bitch work' in trying to dig up dirt on her philandering 'man of the cloth' husband, something he would normally have snubbed his nose at, being one who typically hated gossip in all its forms. Yet at the same time, he thought of a woman being targeted by a relentless hitman with probably no means of protecting herself against someone driven by dollar signs and for that he felt some genuine concern for her.
Stepping out of the car he looked around before making his way towards the front door, stopping before his shoe could touch the porch's bottom step.
Something didn't seem right, almost as if he were being watched.
The sensation sent a chill down Artie's spine and left him gripping his sidearm like it were a safety blanket. Again he looked around, only hearing the birds chirping, dogs barking and the buzz of a lawnmower's engine in the distance, the typical sounds of suburbia.
Artie made his way around the side of the house, following the same route taken when he was creeping about to take those incriminating photos of the minister, he continued about until he reached a gate and quietly opened it.
Still, nothing had happened and the hired gun made his way along the backyard pool and onto the patio, finding the sliding glass door ajar.
"What the fuck?" he asked himself as the alarm bells went off in his head. Now feeling his suspicions rising to greater levels he withdrew the Beretta M9 and made his way inside.
He stepped into a well-furnished kitchen, where a large knife rested on a cutting board next to an uncooked ham and on the nearby table was a copy of 'The Daily Blowhard' that had been opened to the sports section.
It was nothing too out of the ordinary for his liking and he made his way through an archway leading into a narrow hallway lined with various photos of the Belding couple in happier times, as well as documenting the minister's various exploits through his chosen vocation, including one which had included the shapely brunette secretary, albeit with her face now crossed out by black marker.
Artie tore his attention away from the photographs and continued down the hallway until he found himself approaching the front door and was stuck in between a stairwell and another archway. Taking a left into the archway he found himself coming to a grinding halt.
There in the house's living room lay both Monica Belding and her husband, each of them done in by a single round to the chest.
"What the hell?" he asked himself staring into the woman's unseeing blue eyes, "Who could have done this?" he asked aloud as he knelt down and closed her eyes out of respect.
Could the hitman who had been targeting her finally gotten through and finished the job?
"If so, could he have also been the man who murdered her husband?" Artie asked himself staring over to the deceased man, his sky blue polo shirt now colored mostly crimson by the large butterfly-shaped splotch that had expanded further from the lone hole in his chest.
He still remembered the day Monica had been targeted over at the beach and how she was feeling paranoid that her husband had hired a hitman. If that had been the case, then why would the man suddenly murder his own employer?
His attention then returned to the deceased woman and again he was left wondering if it was something he could have prevented. Maybe if he had not stopped by the Ammu-Nation and let the prick cashier waste his time like that, then maybe he could have gotten over here just in time to stop the unknown assailant before he could carry out his foul deed.
"Well no use in crying over something you can't change," he said to himself rising back to his feet and was about to make his way to the backdoor when he heard a loud crash coming from behind and he quickly threw himself into the kitchen and took cover behind the island, just inches away from the sliding door.
"R.C.P.D.!" a masculine voice called out.
"Oh my god!" a feminine voice followed, "We're too late!"
"Someone get the coroner and the techs on the line. We've got a crime scene here," another man's voice added.
"Shit," Artie muttered to himself pulling the balaclava over his face.
The police were now on the scene and he had to get out of there as soon as possible. Thankfully the sliding door was only a few steps away and he pushed himself to his feet, crouch walking towards freedom until a loud shriek caused him to jump and shoot his hand out, knocking a row of freshly washed dishes from the nearby counter and sent them clattering to the floor, loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.
"What in the blue fucking hell?" Artie wondered as he looked down to see a gray and white cat scampering for cover after having its tail stepped on.
"Hold it right there!" the female officer yelled from behind, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. "Set your weapon on the counter and get on your knees with your hands in the air! Do it now!"
Artie turned around slowly to see the woman standing with a Beretta M9 of her own trained intently on him, just as her two colleagues stepped up behind her.
"Are you fucking deaf? Do as she said!" the first male, a scrawny African-American with a thin mustache, ordered cocking his pistol.
Artie glared hatefully towards the trio, unwilling to surrender his arms for anybody…the infamous 'Cappelli Pride' kicking in and raising his levels of adrenaline to unheard of levels. The officers looked like they were ready to shoot first and ask questions later, believing him to be the suspect in a crime he for once in his life did not commit.
"This is your last warning! Do as you are told or we can't ensure you will be leaving her without a toe tag!" the second male officer shouted, a burly Caucasian man who looked like he had seen his share of battles around the dangerous city.
"Time to nut up or shut up," the hired gun told himself before firing a barrage of shots towards the trio and then turning on his foot and bolting through the sliding door.
"Shots fired! Take him down!" the female officer yelled.
"Oh crap, Bob," the African-American officer said looking down to see his colleague slumped against the dishwasher with a quartet of bullet holes fresh in his brawny figure, "Dispatch report, we have an officer down! Send a med evac immediately to 718 Flanery St.!"
Artie bolted through the sliding door, only to be met by another officer armed with an Ithaca 37 pump-action shotgun. The cop opened fire, forcing the hitman to take cover behind the reverend's barbecue pit.
"Drop your guns and I might be nice enough to let you off with just a nightstick upside the skull!" the cop shouted before the lady officer joined in and they both pinned him down.
Artie winced repeatedly as bullets pelted the brick structure which he hid behind. He holstered his Beretta and withdrew the HK G36, making sure his clip was secured before popping out to blind fire at the two attacking officers.
"Keep it up dickhead! You're only making this worse on yourself!" the shotgun-toting officer called back before reaching for a handful of shotgun shells and sliding them into his gun before pumping the Ithaca and firing another barrage, purposely aiming higher to chip away at the top and deter the man from blind firing again.
Artie knelt down trying to take a couple deep breaths, but the loud explosions, dust flying into his face and bits of stone fragments impacting him made it hard to concentrate and he clenched the rifle in white knuckled desperation.
Finally having had enough, he popped up and fired a barrage into the shotgun-toting officer, riddling the man's chest with bullets and sending him falling forward into the pool, his blood turning the once clear water into a dark shade of crimson.
With the male officer down he felt the bullets impacting his covered chest before turning his attention to the female cop and launching another salvo, a round catching her in the side and sending her falling to the patio writhing in pain, giving Artie the much needed opening to run towards the fence enclosing the yard and pulling himself over it and into the adjoining yard.
The lady officer lay bleeding from her fresh wound, her cries of agony muting the hiss of chatter coming from the radio strapped to her shoulder.
"Patrol, this is HQ, we have additional units heading for 718 Flanery St., do you copy? Please, make yourself known at once," the dispatcher called out.
The woman let out a loud gasp before weakly reaching over and slamming down the 'Transmit' button, "This is Hilliard; the suspect is fleeing on foot. We have officers down and request immediate backup!" she managed to string together in one long rapid fire sentence before resuming her cries of pain.
"Request authorized," the dispatcher responded immediately, "Backup with be arriving shortly. Attention all units, we are now entering Wanted Level 2, use of lethal force has been authorized."
XXXXXXXXXXXX
More patrol units descended upon the nondescript ivory structure across the street, followed closely by two ambulance units, and within seconds the cars were skidding to a halt, the officers were fanning out around the premises and roadblocks were being set up at opposite ends of the street.
"Sir, we have a situation here and we're asking that you vacate the area immediately for your own safety," an officer spoke to an orange-clad gardener employed by Spliff Lawn and Garden Care.
"No problem sir, I'm finished here anyway," the man replied loading a duffel bag into the back of his company-owned Burrito.
"Very well, carry on then," the officer replied before going to intercept some neighbors stepping out their front door to see what the commotion was all about.
The gardener smirked and finished zipping up his duffel bag, containing a lock picking set, gloves, foot covers, a silencer and an Ingram MAC-10 machine pistol.
Making his way around to the front of his van he climbed into the driver's seat and pulled out a Whiz Ballsak, sending a text message to an unknown recipient:
"IT'S DONE"
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
With a loud 'oomph' Artie pulled himself over another wooden fence and into another backyard where a barbecue had been taking place, all of the guests scrambling for cover as he made his presence felt.
All he could really do was focus on putting as much distance between himself and the cops as possible and by any means necessary. He would worry about what a couple of jackasses thought later.
Unfortunately this was the last house on the block and he would be out in the open if he didn't move like a bat out of hell. Another siren drawing nearer made sure he wouldn't be leaping this fence and he snuck around towards the front of the house.
"There's the bastard!" a cop shouted, sending the hitman diving for cover behind a Bobcat as it was pelted by bullets.
In another string of bad luck, Artie found himself literally boxed in as a patrol cruiser approached from the opposite end and the two officers stepped out taking cover behind their doors.
"You fuckers will never take me alive!" the errand boy screamed raising the rifle and firing at the officers behind him, riddling their cruiser with bullets and eventually catching one of the men with a round that obliterated most of the crown of his skull.
"You bastard!" the other cop screamed stepping out and making a mad suicidal dash towards him, firing shell after shell, which again sent Artie scampering for cover behind the house as the pickup truck started smoking and leaking fluids, a surefire sign it was close to exploding.
"Get back here!" another patrolman shouted behind him, only to be cut down by a barrage to the chest before Artie nearly collided with one of the party guests and shoved the man to the grass, again cutting through the backyard and finally leaping over the fence, only to find yet another cruiser speeding in his direction with its lights flashing and its sirens blaring.
Without a word, Artie raised the HK G36 and fired a barrage directed at the car's windshield, taking both officers out before they could pull the car to a halt and he leapt out of the way before it could hit him, the unit crashing through the same fence he had just leapt over. A cacophony of screams let him know people had been injured.
"Goddamn, who does this son of a bitch think he is, the Annihilator?" a police officer huffed while continuing pursuit of the gunman.
One of his colleagues ignored his comment and scrambled for his radio, "We need air support! We need some fucking airport goddamn it!"
"Understood, we are sending air units at once. Commencing Wanted Level 3!"
Artie sprinted down the street as fast as his feet would take him, knowing he would need to get himself some wheels and fast or else risk collapsing over dead from exhaustion.
"And just where could you be, oh beloved set of wheels," Artie thought to himself as he took an abrupt right along the hedge wall surrounding a dark green house.
He passed a small gray house and noticed a Cavalcade FXT parked in the driveway, a dependable pickup version of the regular Cavalcade that possessed great handling and durability, an ideal getaway car for a time like this, but then he noticed the crazy survivalist positioned inside the garage behind a mounted heavy machinegun with sandbag fortifications set up around him, muttering on and off about rampant government conspiracies and even wearing the tinfoil hat that had been the trademark of paranoid conspiracy theorists everywhere.
Now would not have been the ideal time for agitating such an individual so he would be sent moving further along, until he was disrupted from his thoughts by a horn's honking.
"Hey dumbass, get outta the road will ya'! I gotta pick me kid up from soccer practice before my old lady takes my ass to divorce court!" a man driving a dark blue Flash shouted, having come just inches from turning Artie into a human speed bump.
"Score," Artie muttered to himself running over to the driver's side door and yanking it open.
"Hey, what the fuck are you doing you cocksucker?" the man demanded before he was knocked out cold by the rifle's stock being driven into his head.
"Shutting your fucking mouth, that's what," Artie replied undoing the man's seatbelt and tossing him to the pavement before climbing in and strapping on the belt, just as an officer called out from above.
"This is the Rushmore City Police Department and you ain't giving us the slip that easily little man!" an officer called out over a Maverick's bullhorn, "Give it up you little shit stain or we're fucking your ass up beyond all recognition!"
"I'm not going out quietly, you bastards can count on that," Artie replied shifting the tuner into drive and racing down the street, taking a sharp right hand turn and narrowly dodging another cruiser that had swerved in an attempt to halt his progress, only to be met by a flurry of bullets for its troubles.
Another cruiser had come to a halt and the officer stepped out with a Remington 870, firing a shell that shattered his windshield, showering him with glass, and shredding the upper half of the passenger seat next to him.
Artie grunted in anger as the shards of glass cut through his jacket and into his skin, the warm sensation of his own blood trickling down his arms. He clenched the steering wheel as he sped down the street, no time to stop and put a bullet in the motherfucker. He had to get anywhere he could to get away from these assholes and for once it wouldn't pay to stop for the sake of putting a bullet in one man's face.
He raced down the street and narrowly dodged a Moonbeam whose frightened driver had come to a halt in the middle of the street, forcing another patrol car to swerve violently around it in continuance of his pursuit of an elusive target, taking out a mailbox in the process.
Another sharp left turn awaited the hired gun and he nearly lost control of the wheel, almost obliterating an old man riding on an Equalizer scooter.
"Carpet muncher!" the man weakly bellowed, another taunt that would have normally gotten him a sharp jab from the hitman, but again it was a case of urgency which left him spared the fresh hot knuckle sandwich that would have otherwise followed.
He raced down the street as more pedestrians running away for the safety of their homes or wherever they could hide from the dark blue torrent of mass destruction heading their way, not wanting to be sucked up and tossed about like a tornado blowing through a trailer park.
Two more patrol cruisers attempted to block the narrow street he was racing down and an officer attempted to throw down a spike strip, but he was intimidated by the sheer force at which the Flash raced towards him and instead leapt over a nearby picket fence as the tuner cut around the barricade at a dangerous speed and plowed through a line of plastic garbage cans and mailboxes before finding its way back to solid ground.
"What part of you'll never take me alive don't you motherfuckers understand?" Artie screamed as he came to a crosswalk, where a police officer who had been acting as a crossing guard dropped his stop sign and withdrew his Beretta sidearm to squeeze off a few rounds, one of which had managed to knick the hired gun's shoulder, only serving to further the ball of rage in his system that left him wanting to bounce all over the place like a pinball.
Slamming the gas to the floor Artie plowed head on into the lone officer, resulting in a loud crack that crumpled the Flash's front end and sent the man flying into the great blue yonder. Angered by the action against the brother-in-arms, the officers trailing him began firing wildly in his direction, not caring if there would be any civilians nearby to be caught in the crossfire.
"Man, these fuckers truly are desperate to catch me," he told himself as he watched more locals stopping everything they were doing to retreat for the safety of their homes, the pursuing cops dead set on their target and ignoring everything else around them.
He looked in his remaining rearview mirror to see another cruiser sizing him up for a P.I.T. maneuver and the hitman did what he could to stay one step ahead of the guy, rapidly weaving back and forth in an effort to deter the other man's advance as two more of his colleagues joined up in another car.
Another loud blaring horn distracted the hired gun from his thoughts and he looked forward to see a big yellow school bus coming straight at him, its driver jerking the steering wheel to avoid hitting him and the cruisers, yet turning the large stubborn vehicle at an awkward angle.
"Here goes nothing," Artie muttered beneath the techno music filling his ears as he again slammed the gas pedal to the floor and took an abrupt left, squeezing through a tiny opening that left him crashing through a small picket fence and mowing down a bugler statue on the residence's front lawn. The cops in their cruisers didn't have time to react as they headed towards the bus and crashed into it, followed by a trio of explosions that left a suburban intersection congested by the aftermath of a blazing ruin.
"Goddamn it, how the fuck can it be so difficult to kill just one fucking man?" a veteran officer screamed over the radio to his colleagues.
"I don't like the idea Sarge, but we might have to call in the N.O.O.S.E. boys for this one," one of his colleagues sheepishly replied over the radio.
"God fucking damn it," the sergeant spat wanting to put a bullet into the radio, but he quickly composed himself and spoke into the transceiver, "Fine, I'll notify Chalmers and tell him to get the boys ready. Now entering Wanted Level 4!"
Artie breathed a sigh of relief at having avoided another potentially lethal situation as he sped around trying to survive in a hostile environment. He needed to find someplace safe and fast; somewhere he could cover his tracks and manage to slink out of the area.
Unfortunately he wasn't left with many options except for racing down whatever street happened to be next, still stuck in a middle class district that likely wouldn't provide much in the way of cover and there were no friendly faces he knew of who would be willing to hide him until the heat died down.
Artie took a left hand turn onto Connolly Blvd., only to come grinding to a halt in wide-eyed terror.
Two large black N.O.O.S.E. Enforcers pulled into view with six fully armored agents piling out of the back of each vehicle, all of them armed with H&K MP5's, SPAS-12 assault shotguns, M4A1 carbines and riot shields, forming a defensive perimeter. Two black and gold Annihilators hovered overhead with more agents rappelling to the sun kissed pavement below, bringing the total to twenty agents altogether.
"This is the National Office of Security Enforcement and this is your last chance to surrender or else we will rip your sorry ass apart at the drop of a hat. You have ten seconds to make your decision bucko!" one of the pilots called out over a bullhorn.
"Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee! I'd start to pray now, a lot if I were you," the other pilot cackled like a hyena.
Artie sat in silence staring straight ahead at what awaited him as the pilot began counting down slowly, putting as much emphasis as he could into the numbers and wanting to do whatever he could to make the hired gun shit his pants.
At this point he was boxed in and knew he had only two options. First he could surrender like a dickless pussy, but that thought quickly ebbed from his mind as he knew these cops were notorious for their itchy trigger fingers and would probably drop him in a hail of bullets even if he came marching towards them with a white flag in hand….
"You'd better hope your family has enough money to cover your funeral expenses!" the second chopper pilot taunted as his colleague reached 'five' on the countdown.
…and then there was his second option, which was to fight his way through the best he could. If he died then at least he would be going down in a blaze of glory as opposed to surrendering like a wannabe prison bitch.
"Once again the 'Cappelli Pride' speaks for me," he told himself as his hand gripped the gear shift and he shifted the car into drive, "It tells me that if you're gonna die today, then you're taking down as many of these fucks along with you as you can!"
"Fuck it all," Artie spoke with a smirk as he slammed the gas pedal to the floor and made his suicidal charge towards the barricade.
"Shit, that crazy bastard's gonna ram us! Open fire now!" a lead officer on the ground called out.
In one thunderous roar numerous firearms were discharged simultaneously, forcing Artie to duck low as the bullets shredded through his seat like Swiss cheese, in addition to blasting the side mirrors off, popping both front tires and peppering the hood, yet that did not stop the Flash from charging forward at full speed just as its name implied.
"Scatter!" the lead officer shouted as the charging car came within ten feet of the barricade. One of the officers still pelted the car as he fled, hoping to strike the small car's gas tank, but instead popped one of its rear tires and caused it to begin fishtailing out of control.
"You son of a bitch," Artie screamed as he struggled to keep the car moving in a straight line, but found that with three tires popped that was next to impossible as he closed in upon the two Enforcers forming the barricade.
There was only one thing he could do now and that was bracing himself as he awaited the collision to follow.
A deafening crunch followed and Artie cried out as he felt himself shoved violently back and forth, the whole world suddenly becoming much smaller around him as the tiny Flash tried to force its way through the narrow gap between the two massive emergency vehicles, thrown onto its side and into a barrel roll that sent it striking the ground multiple times.
"This…fucking…sucks!" Artie screamed between rotations as the car plowed through a fire hydrant and finally came to a halt as it crashed into a parked Sentinel XS, setting off the latter's car alarm.
The hired gun found himself feeling smothered as an airbag exploded in his face and he thrashed violently to get it off of him. His heart was racing, his breathing rapid and ragged and his entire body aching from head to toe.
He couldn't believe it, but somehow he had managed to survive.
"Maybe somebody out there does love me," he thought to himself as he struggled to get the deflating airbag off of him and fumbled for his seatbelt, struggling for a bit before finally unbuckling it and looking for any means of escape, finding a shattered window looking towards the Sentinel XS, providing him enough room to slither out, trying to avoid touching any of the large shards littering the ground around him.
"Well…fuck me…with a…rusty spear…" Artie gasped pulling himself along on his hands and knees, his stomach still performing a million times somersault inside of him and leaving him with a queasy sensation that left him wanting to vomit.
He pushed those thoughts out of his head as his original objective returned to mind, to survive!
Artie could still hear the Annihilators hovering overhead and could only pray they didn't spot him as he continued crawling along on his hands and knees, sucking in small mouthfuls of air as his hands eventually made contact with grass and he pulled himself behind a tall fence for cover.
"You think the bastard is still alive?" he heard a N.O.O.S.E. agent call out.
"Well we're just gonna have to find out for ourselves," the lead agent spoke up before issuing his next orders, "Fan out! Goddamn it fan out men! I will buy a free round of drinks for whoever brings me this faggot's severed dick!"
It was a telltale sign they had not given up their pursuit and Artie pulled out the AA-12, loaded with the destructive Frag-12 explosive rounds, twenty altogether in one drum magazine, knowing a few more heads were about to roll as he heard a loud hiss, followed by a whistle and then another explosion as one of the Annihilators fired a missile into the wrecked Flash.
"Was that really necessary?" he could hear another voice ask loud enough for it to be picked up on the attack copter's mic.
"Just shut up and man the fucking gun!" the pilot snapped.
Artie crept along the fence doing whatever he could to make himself as small as possible before he got close enough to the lavender house whose yard he had entered and he threw himself against the two story building, collapsing into a crouch walk to avoid being spotted by any possible occupants as he passed the windows.
He eventually reached the backyard, only to jump as he heard the loud barking of a pit-bull terrier charging towards him. Fortunately the hitman was far enough away to pull himself over another wooden fence, but the dog's barking had alerted nearby officers.
"Hey, did you hear that?" an agent called out, "Maybe the fucker went this way!"
"Boss, this is Red 3, we've encountered a possible disturbance and are investigating immediately," another officer spoke into a radio.
"Copy that, you are green to go," the team leader spoke over his radio.
"Damn these persistent bastards," Artie thought to himself as he crept along another narrow passage between two houses, "When I find whoever killed Monica I'm so going to strangle the life out of that motherfucker for putting me through this. You can count on that you fucking piece of shit wherever you are."
Eventually Artie happened across a backdoor that led him into a garage occupied by a vintage Classique Station with a wicked flame paint designs and a supercharger clearly visible on the top of its hood, normally a car he would have committed murder to have (quite the allegory for a time like this), but he had too much going on around him and doubted he would have the time to hotwire the beautiful muscle car.
Instead he collapsed behind the car and pulled out his cell phone, bringing up his list of contacts and wondering whom he could prevail upon for help at a time like this.
"Zeke is a decent enough shot, but a majority of his 'combat experience' is from some video game, so he's a no go. Randy, heh are you fucking kidding yourself? That guy's scared of his own shadow as is, imagine what he would do when confronted by a highly-trained government operative sticking an M-4 in his face. Gino, he's another big 'fuck no!' Gladys, nah she's going through enough as is already. I could ask Aunt Gracie…yeah right! Damn it Artie you've gotta get some friends who actually know what the fuck they're doing," he told himself until he came across Donnie's number.
"Worth a try," he told himself pushing the speed dial button and waited impatiently, mentally repeating 'pick up, pick up, pick up,' over and over again as the four rings commenced and went straight until "Love Rollercoaster" by The Ohio Players came into play followed by Donnie's recording:
"Hey yo' if you've reached this number to begin with, consider yourself very, very lucky. Anyways, if you're hearing this, then that means 'The Don' is either too busy at the moment or doesn't give a shit who you are and wouldn't wanna talk to you anyway. Please leave your name, phone number and a short message after the lady's screams of ecstasy and I'll get back to you whenever I damn well please."
Artie hung up before the woman's screams could be heard and was about to switch the phone off when he finally came to another contact he had completely forgotten about in all the confusion and mentally slapped himself on the forehead.
Iceman.
The hired gun eagerly pushed the speed dial button, hoping against all odds the weapons dealer, and one of the few people in this city he could actually trust, would pick up the phone, but he too would be greeted by a voice mail recording before hanging up.
"Jesus Fucking Christ Iceman, out of all the times I need you the most!" Artie mentally shouted just as an electronic ding came on telling him he had gotten a text message.
"Shh, did you hear that?" a voice suddenly came from outside, causing the hired gun to grip his assault shotgun for dear life.
"How the fuck did they find me?" his mind demanded as he heard light footsteps come up alongside the figure outside.
"Yeah, you think that's him?" the other agent asked.
"There's only one way to find out," the first officer replied.
"And whatever that way is can't be too good for me," Artie told himself just as a ball-like object came crashing through the front door's porthole, something he could tell right away wasn't good.
There was a window behind the hitman over the tool bench, but it appeared too small for him to fit through comfortably.
Then again, the hiss of tear gas pouring into the room telling him he wouldn't have choice and he grabbed a nearby toolbox, chucking it through the window with a loud crash.
"He's definitely in here!" one of the agents cried out breaking the door down, only to be knocked backward by a Frag-12 round eviscerating his chest.
Artie coughed violently and threw an arm over his nose and mouth as he pulled himself onto the bench and quickly pulled himself through. His eyes burned as he hit the ground, but thankfully he hadn't been around the gas too long and wasn't rendered totally helpless, meaning he could actually fight back when the other N.O.O.S.E. agent rounded the garage to strike, only to fall before another explosive round.
"We've got shots fired! Coming from over there!" an agent cried out from a distance, Artie's cue to get his feet pumping as fast as they would take him through the suburban warzone.
"There he is!" the voice of one of the Annihilator pilots boomed from above, "Suspect is heading on foot along Dafoe Dr., approach with caution!"
"Fuck it all, let's just burn the bastard!" the insane pilot in the second chopper cackled.
"No! There are too many innocent bystanders around to be caught in the crossfire!" the man's co-pilot barked.
"Fuck them all too!" the insane man screamed before depressing the trigger and sending a flurry of high-velocity rounds, ripping apart the pavement and the grass as Artie dodged for cover in a narrow space between two houses, eventually coming to a door where he would use an explosive shell to break it down.
"Get the fuck outta my way!" the hired gun screamed as he bolted down the hallway, knocking over a woman who had emerged from the nearby bathroom in nothing but a towel, using another round to blow open the house's front door and continue his run, where the Annihilator was again right on top of him, its driver firing a volley of rounds into the woman's sky blue Admiral like a hot knife through butter, forcing him to make his way along the front of the house to avoid being hit.
Artie raised the AA-12 and fired upward at the black and gold attack chopper, one of his rounds managing to graze its side before the deranged pilot opened up again, cutting down an elderly man who had been in the middle of mowing his lawn.
He felt sorry for the innocent bystander caught in the crossfire, but he knew it was either him or them and he was in no mood to be done in by some psychopath who had somehow managed to get his hands on a badge and an attack helicopter.
It was time to end this with the maniac and he whirled around to again fire his attack shotgun, this time his rounds connecting with the flying metallic bird and firing away until it began smoking. It took a few more rounds before the burning helicopter began spinning on its axis and dove violently into a nearby house, a fragment from one of its blades being flung backwards during the following explosion and impaling a N.O.O.S.E. agent that had caught up.
Artie turned to find several agents had caught up and were conveniently boxed in between two houses, giving him ample room for firing upon them and cutting four men down in one fell swoop.
Apparently the pilot for the remaining Annihilator had given up on worrying about the safety of nearby civilians and opened up on the hitman, his high-powered rounds tearing through the outer wall of a blue house Artie had taken cover behind.
"Fuck protocol! I'm taking your worthless ass down!" the man hollered before unleashing another volley of high-powered fire that was soon followed up by a missile, blowing the blue house to smithereens.
Fortunately for Artie, he had gotten far enough from the blast radius and took a right into a nearby alleyway, pushing his way through another backyard's gate and eventually approaching the backdoor of an older house covered in peeling white paint, pulling himself inside only to be met by the cocking of numerous machine pistols.
"Bitch, you best step the fuck outta here!" called out a man wielding an Ingram MAC-10, a tall African-American male with his head covered in thick dreadlocks and wearing a bright red hoodie, along with a matching bandana obscuring the lower half of his face.
There were four more men in the room as well, all of them clad in red and standing guard over what appeared to be a meth lab.
"Redcoats, over here in Jefferson Vale? What the fuck's up with that? Kinda' far from their normal turf aren't they?" Artie thought to himself before a lanky Caucasian man spoke up.
"Hey faggot, he asked you a question!" the man said stepping closer with his TEC-9.
Without a word, Artie could only tiptoe back out the door he had just entered through, not wanting to get another faction on his ass after everything going on.
The hired gun could hear the Annihilator drawing closer and stepped back into an alley filled with rusty, graffiti-covered dumpsters, the burn out shells of long abandoned vehicles, ratty old furniture and wrecked appliances, it was a scene that to him belonged on Lincoln Island, not the suburban utopia of Jefferson Vale.
"All available units report, be on the lookout for suspect. Suspect is a male of unknown ethnicity, around six feet two inches tall, last seen wearing a denim jacket, black pants and a black balaclava obscuring his identity. Suspect is believed to be the one responsible for the murders of Reverend Caleb Belding and his wife, as well as the deaths of several police officers. Suspect is considered armed and to be very dangerous. Situation has now escalated into Wanted Level 5. Stand by for F.I.B. orders."
Artie was exhausted from his recent mad dash and eventually ducked his way into an empty playground, taking cover beneath a slide that had been designed to look like a whale made out of fiberglass. Collapsing to a knee and breathing heavily, the hired gun reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, again attempting to reach through to Iceman.
"Goddamn it, what's your fucking hold up?" Artie pleaded as he suddenly heard a cacophony of sirens louder than those of the standard police cruiser and even those of the N.O.O.S.E.-owned vehicles, a telltale sign things couldn't be good. "Goddamn you," he groaned miserably shoving the phone back into his pocket and keeping a white knuckle grip upon his AA-12.
Looking through a crack in the nearby wooden fence he was able to make out three F.I.B.-owned Buffalos speeding past the playground followed closely by a pitch black Rancher.
"This day keeps going from bad to worse. It's safe to say somebody out there enjoys watching me suffer," he thought to himself, resisting the urge to scream to the sky.
"Alright men, keep it sharp. He couldn't have gotten too far away," he heard a male's voice calling out.
Artie peeked out to see sixteen agents altogether spreading out to canvas the area, armed with H&K MP5's, Ithaca shotguns and a few even carrying the hard-hitting rapid fire AMP Automag Model 180's.
He looked straight ahead where there was another alleyway the government-owned Rancher was parked in front of and not too much further away from that was a government agent, a dark-haired, mustachioed man in a white long-sleeved shirt covered by a bulletproof vest that had 'F.I.B.' stitched into the front in bold white letters, his badge hanging over it, black slacks and a black baseball cap that also had his organization's logo etched into it, and lastly a pair of black shades. The man darted his head back and forth with a Remington 11-87 clutched in his hands, appearing visibly agitated and providing another dangerous obstacle for the already weary hitman.
Artie took cover behind a parked '86 Sabre Turbo and waited for the agent to turn his back before bolting across the street and sliding for cover behind a Manana, just in time to avoid the man's gaze. He crouch walked along the side before reaching the end and it was by then the man again turned his back. Raising the AA-12 he snuck up behind the agent and drove the assault shotgun's butt into the back his head, knocking him out cold.
"Bronsky, come in! Do you see anything out of the ordinary?" a voice crackled over the fallen fed's radio, "Bronsky, pick up!" the voice repeated before an "Oh shit!" followed.
"That's my cue to skedaddle," Artie told himself as he bolted down the alleyway.
"There's the son of a bitch, take him down now!" an agent shouted from behind.
"How do these fuckers keep finding me?" the hitman thought with a grunt and eventually snuck through an opened door, finding himself in a kitchen area.
"Hey man, you can't be back here!" a voice called out.
The hired gun whirled around with his shotgun raised to find himself face to face with three people wearing bright turquoise polo shirts and turquoise and white baseball caps that had bright red braids sticking out from both sides, which mimicked those of the ten year old freckle-faced girl from the iconic logo of the Ginger's fast food chain.
"And who the fuck says I can't?" Artie threateningly asked the man who spoke to him, a lanky, pimply-faced teenager with a high-pitched nasally tone, strands of greasy brown hair sticking out from beneath his garish cap. "Obviously you three losers shouldn't be back here either," he added, noticing how one of the other employees hastily attempted to conceal a glass bong as he made his entrance.
Artie could hear the loud huffing of the federal agents still hot on his tail and pushed his way past the three hopeless losers, hitting the one man hard enough to knock the bong from his shaky hands.
"Asshole, do you have any idea how much that cost?" the young man protested, but Artie brushed him off and instead made his way towards the front of the room, where a sizeable line had amassed in front of the registers.
"Sorry, but it looks like you're gonna have to head for the nearest Burger Shot today," Artie shouted raising the AA-12 and firing an explosive shell towards a nearby window, causing the angry customers to scatter, literally falling over each other to get away from the masked shotgun-toting madman.
"We have possible contact!" he could hear an F.I.B. agent shouting from a distance as Artie bounded over the counter and brought his shotgun's stock up to knock an overweight man out of his way just as he pushed his way through the front doors and into a parking lot filled with cars, bolting towards a young woman who was climbing into an Alpha sport coupe just as an F.I.B. Buffalo roared into the lot.
"You're going down you cop killing bastard!" an agent shouted stepping out from the car with an MP5 in hand, flanked by three colleagues.
Artie took cover behind the woman's car as she ran away screaming like a steaming teakettle, the agents' automatic weapons pelting away at its exterior before the hired gun popped up to squeeze off an explosive round that did significant damage to the government-owned car, yet failed to hit any of his attackers.
"Hope Satan has a special place waiting for you in Hell when we're done with you!" shouted a Caucasian man in black hooded jacket before he unleashed another salvo of lead from his MP5.
Artie grimaced and returned fire, his shells missing before he was forced to reload.
He could hear the flutter of helicopter blades overhead and peeked around a corner to see the remaining Annihilator circling the premises and coming dangerously close to spotting him.
"Time to unleash some great balls of fire," Artie muttered as he secured the drum magazine and raised the shotgun, firing a barrage upon the black and gold chopper.
"Hey, we need some cover from the ground too y'know!" the pilot hollered over his bullhorn as he struggled to get the bird into position, his gunner firing wildly on reflex and cutting down some of the angry customers who had attempted to flee from Ginger's.
Artie fired away relentlessly until he noticed fire coming from the cockpit, followed by the gunner leaping to his doom. The black and gold Annihilator spun wildly out of control before it came crashing to the ground, its tail rotor slicing into an oncoming F.I.B. Buffalo and then slicing another agent in half as it spun violently, sending the man's remnants against the windshield of a nearby car before it exploded and swallowed up a few more agents that hadn't been fortunate enough to get away in time.
There was no time to celebrate the small victory and Artie pushed himself away from the shot up Alpha and leaping over the frightened woman, who still lay on the ground curled up in a fetal position, making his way across the street and through another alleyway.
Artie huffed and he puffed as he stumbled through the narrow alley, collapsing against a parked blue and white '84 Phoenix. All of this running was quickly becoming too much for him and he knew he would have to find a safe place fast where he could recoup or else risk falling over dead from exhaustion, a possibility that had been nagging at the back of his mind all this time.
Desperation rose with every passing second and he needed to find some means fast. There had to be somewhere he could go and hide, or find some means of furthering his escape when none of his friends would be on hand to pick up.
Taking a couple more deep breaths Artie continued further down the alley until he found himself entering the parking lot of a strip mall containing various clothing stores, a Backside Skateboards skater shop, a divorce lawyer's office, a Boinkin Peters ice cream shop and a photography studio.
Feeling dead on his feet, the hired gun stumbled towards a Gnocchi clothing store and almost collapsed through the front door.
"Hello there and welcome to Gnocchi's. How may I assist you today?" a well-cultured voice with an effeminate lisp called out from behind, only for its owner to stop when he noticed the shotgun held in Artie's hands.
The hired gun turned to find himself standing face to face with an olive-skinned man around his height with slicked back black hair and clad in a beige suit with a burgundy dress shirt underneath. The attendant, whose badge identified him as 'Gaetano,' stood silent in terror, sweat already cascading down his face like a waterfall, his dark eyes glued to the assault shotgun held in the would-be robber's hands.
"As a matter of fact, I need to buy a new suit!" Artie replied before bringing the shotgun's stock up and knocking the man unconscious.
He could still hear the sirens of the federal-owned vehicles in the distance and knew he needed to act fast.
The store was lined with racks of clothing carrying the finest brands in the known world; the kind of store where a pair of shoes alone would cost the equivalent of a month's rent to the average Rushmore resident. To Artie, these clothes were even too much for him and he thought that only the richest of the rich would be able to afford even a pair of socks from this place.
"Today's gonna be different," Artie thought, able to pick out anything of his heart's content for free thanks to the attendant being incapacitated. "Can't get too picky right now though," he lamented, staring at a nearby mannequin wearing a black custom-tailored sport coat along with matching pants, a white dress shirt underneath and a blood red tie that stood out like a sore thumb.
Artie bolted back and forth between the aisles looking around for anything he thought could fit him, going from a light blue double-breasted jacket with a granite turtleneck underneath and basalt pants, to a blood red suit that would have made him look like Satan's personal pimp, to white business suit that would have made him bright enough for an airliner to mistake for a landing strip at night, to a bright yellow suit that might as well have made him a walking French Fry.
"C'mon damn it," he muttered to himself, until he came to another suit, a smart-looking black suit made of silk that would have made him quite the 'lady killer,' yet at a time like this it would have made him look like your stereotypical Mafioso, something that would make him stand out in the suburbs at a time like this, another risk he wasn't willing to take.
Eventually he happened across a gray business suit with a white dress shirt and a matching striped tie underneath. It was a suit that looked still a bit too fancy for this part of town, but at least it made him look more like a regular office stiff who was just getting off work for the day rather than a gangster looking to cause trouble. Carrying out a further sweep of the area, he eventually added a pair of black oxfords and a silver Crowex found in one of the front display cases. Remembering his hair would be messy once he removed the balaclava he also grabbed a matching fedora to cover it and lastly, a cream-colored trench coat that could be used for concealing his guns and ammo. With his new clothes gathered he made his way back towards the fitting rooms and emerged seconds later as a whole new man.
"Now I look like that detective guy from that 'L.S. Noire' game Zeke and Randy are always playing," Artie thought admiring his new attire in one of the mirrors, "Now all I need is the 'Blue Begonia' and I'm complete," he sarcastically added with his old clothes held in a bundle and making his way back to the fallen attendant.
He looked the man over again to see he was nearly his size, but lacking his musculature and then an idea came to mind.
"Hopefully they won't notice the difference right away," he thought scooping the unconscious fellow up from underneath his shoulders and dragging him towards the office at the back of the store, locking the door behind them.
Fortunately for Artie, the office also contained the store's rear entrance and even more fortunate for the hired gun, the safe had been left wide open and because of that he was able to pocket an additional ten thousand dollars.
With that taken care of he then made his way over to the desk, which contained the bank of security cameras and the VCR. Opening the hatch he pulled out the videotape inside, hopeful it would prevent the authorities from being able to identify him afterward.
"Now onto you Mr. Gaetano," Artie whispered kneeling over the fallen attendant and grabbing his wallet, finding an extra five-hundred dollars inside, in addition the man's ATM card (which he hoped Randy would be able to hack into, given the man must be somewhat well off if he's able to carry around five-hundred dollars out in the open like that), library card, savings card for the local Supa Save (which seemed like a place beneath a man of 'more refined tastes'), an official V.I.P. membership card for Golden Boys (no surprise there), and lastly the man's driver's license.
Having taken the man's wallet and keys he then proceeded to remove the man's sport coat, replacing it with his denim jacket and then grabbing a nearby roll of duct tape, where he broke off a piece and then placed it over the man's mouth just before pulling the balaclava over his head.
"Alright, this is the next store. Keep it sharp people," he heard a voice call from outside.
At the same time, Gaetano was beginning to regain consciousness and looked up towards him trying to say something, but instead finding his words muffled by the duct tape.
"Welcome back," Artie sarcastically chuckled walking over and pulling the man back to his feet. "You've got customers, aren't you going to assist them?" he asked leading the man over to the door and shoving him back into the front room.
"There he is! Drop him!" an agent's voice called out, followed by the explosion of numerous firearms being simultaneously discharged.
"My work here is done," Artie whispered making his way towards the exit and finding himself in the employee parking lot. Grabbing Gaetano's keys he grabbed the button attached to the key ring and pushed it, hearing the locks unclicking on a nearby hot pink Feltzer, causing his face to sag in disappointment.
"I have to drive around…in that?" he asked himself, forcing himself into a sprint towards it after hearing the hiss of an F.I.B. agent's radio.
"All units report, threat has been neutralized. Someone get the meat wagon on the line, bag 'em and tag 'em."
Artie climbed into the convertible and switched it on, its radio set to Rewind FM and playing "I Ran (So Far Away)" by A Flock of Seagulls, a proper theme given everything he had just been through.
"I feel like I oughta' be taking a trip to West Vinewood via the Hershey Highway in a ride like this," Artie thought as he pulled out into traffic, noting the odd looks of some nearby pedestrians.
Oh well, at least he was finally getting out of there and he quickly made his way towards the bridge leading for Washington Dell, only to come to a complete halt as he approached a N.O.O.S.E. roadblock, a line of cars already in front of him. All he could do now was pray to God nobody got suspicious.
It took a few minutes but when his time finally came Artie was waved forth by a black-clad agent.
"Alright sir, need to see your identification," the man said, eying the hot pink car and visibly struggling to contain his laughter.
Embarrassed beyond belief, yet trying to act normal, Artie presented the fallen attendant's ID to the cop and steeled himself as he hoped he could be spared another battle.
"Alrighty Mr. Moreschi, you're good to go. Don't wanna keep you from the next foam party," the agent laughed before allowing him to pass.
"Very funny asshole," Artie muttered under his breath passing through the blockade, breathing a sigh of relief at his good fortune.
He continued forth into Washington Dell's Hyacinth district before his phone started ringing.
Not wanting to cause any more drama for the day, he decided to eschew the verbal assaults of his angry fellow motorists and pulled into the nearby Van Winkle Dome's parking lot. When the car was fully parked he looked down to see that it was Iceman returning his call.
"About fucking time you got back to me," the hired gun snapped.
"Hey man…take it fucking easy will ya'!" the weapons dealer shot back, sounding visibly out of breath.
"Where the hell were you? I was in a jam and needed your help," Artie shouted back in reply.
"I was in a jam of my own thank you very much," Iceman retorted, "Some of those Redcoat shitheads came over to my store and were causing trouble again. Sid and I barely managed to hold them off and they wounded one of my other buddies, I had to make them motherfuckers suffer."
Artie was still exasperated, yet managed to calm himself when he listened to his friend's explanation, knowing he certainly wouldn't lie about something like that.
"A whole bunch of those fuckers showed up. Believe me, if I could've gotten over to help you out I would have!" Iceman replied, trying to help cool his friend's fury.
Artie took a few deep breaths to calm himself before replying, "I was over on Jefferson Vale and if it helps you any, for some reason those fuckers have a meth lab over in the Kirby district."
"The Kirby district? I just heard about the feds shutting that place off because some guy was wreaking havoc over there. Was that you?" Iceman asked.
"Guilty as charged," Artie replied, wondering if he should have been telling anybody about what had just gone down, even his smuggler friend.
"Damn, that's pretty badass if you're able to hold off the R.C.P.D., N.O.O.S.E. and the F.I.B. all in one sitting like that. Now I'm really wishing I could've been there to help if I would've known you were in that much trouble," Iceman spoke sounding almost guilty.
"Hey don't worry about it man, somehow fate was on my side today," Artie replied looking towards the sky and wondering if there was somebody up there watching over him, someone guiding his hand to make sure he had made it through the ordeal alive. "Who are you fucking kidding? God would never help you out with something like that…unless there's some dude out there writing a story about your exploits and actually told the fuzz to miss you like that…Sheesh, who are you fucking kidding Artie? Now you're starting to sound like you belong in an insane asylum!"
"Well whatever the case was you sure as hell got off lucky," Iceman replied, "I'd love to stay and chat, but we've gotta get these bodies over to Paco's and then get this place cleaned up. I'll have to tell the boys about that drug lab over in Kirby, give those fuckers some payback after what they did to my place."
"No problem, I'll talk to you later," Artie said before his friend hung up and then he looked to the icon telling him he still had an unopened text message left in his inbox. Remembering how receiving it had nearly gotten him killed he furrowed his brow before pushing the button to open it.
"Guess who got a new job!" the text message from Randy Spitz triumphantly proclaimed and included was a picture of the ex-Cluckin' Bell cashier giving a smug 'double thumbs up' gesture.
"Randy, Randy, Randy…" Artie grunted shaking his head wildly, trying to rid himself of the malicious thoughts of himself clamping his hands around his 'friend's' throat and strangling the life out of him, all because the man wanted to send him some pointless text message that in the process nearly got him killed.
"That's gonna have to wait until later," the hired gun said as he stepped out of the feminine looking convertible and walked over to the nearby sidewalk to make a call over to Freeman Cabs, knowing Mr. Freeman would offer him a ride back to Camden Heights free of charge.
XXXXXXX
Author's Note: And so once again ends another installment of "Rushmore City" where our beloved antihero barely survives yet another skirmish with the authorities.
Flanery St., Connolly Blvd. and Dafoe Dr. are all references to actors from "The Boondock Saints," Sean Patrick Flanery, Billy Connolly and Willem Dafoe respectively. I already include Boomer, who himself is physically inspired by Norman Reedus, so I wanted to include references to other prominent faces in the movie as well.
The Equalizer is an original vehicle I included that is inspired by real-life scooters and motorized power chairs.
The Stallion Artie found in that one garage is indeed directly inspired by the Diablo Stallion the Diablos used in GTA3, which was probably my favorite out of all the gang cars, probably next to the Cartel Cruiser or the Yakuza Stinger.
Ginger's is a Wendy's parody and Boinkin Peters is a Baskin Robbins parody.
The suit on the mannequin Artie saw right away was a reference to 47's clothing from the "Hitman" series and "L.S. Noire" is a parody of "L.A. Noire" and the 'Blue Begonia' is a spoof of Elizabeth Short's moniker 'the Black Dahlia.'
Well I believe that's everything for now so until then all I have to say is read and review! This is Metal Harbinger saying SPREAD THE SICKNESS, ONE MIND AT A TIME! \m/