Done!! With the spare time i have i should be able to teach myself in a few days! Anyway, my favorite story is saved on a floppydisk and wouldn't you know it...new comp, no floppy drive. So let see what i'v written in the past few days
...this was written about a year ago in my spare time so blame me not for the...not-quite-as-good-as-my-resent-stuff-iness.
Chapter 1:
Two men stand back-to-back, firing their pistols wildly, but still precisely. They tilt their heads just enough to see each others face out of the corner of their eyes. A thin smile forms on both of their lips as if to say, “The greatest times in our lives are when we are together doing this.”
A mysterious package sits on an old wooden table, a knife handle sticking out the top of it.
A fiery wreck falling from the sky. A grinning face falling backwards towards the earth watching as the mass of twisted metal goes down. A tear filled eye watches the falling figure intently through the window of the burning plane.
“Yo!! Crimson!? Crimson!! Get your lazy ass out of bed!!” yelled a mysterious voice as Crimson quickly sat up, having been awoken from his nightmare.
“Flashes…always flashes, but even those are just as bad as the whole thing,” said Crimson putting his hand to his forehead and pushing his sloppy hair out of his face.
He looked around wondering where he had passed out this time. He seemed to be in bed for a change, the nice white sheets stained here and there by the bloodstains from past parties gone amiss.
The bare walls stared at him warmly as he threw off the sheets and put his feet on the cold metal floor.
“What was that?” said the voice, overhearing Crimsons muttered words.
“Nothing,” stated Crimson turning his head to see whom the voice belonged too. As he had suspected, it was Damien. Damien had his usual, unusually toothy smile pasted on his face. His buzz-cut hair was always on its ends, so the smile plus the hair made for a laughable, but some how intimidating combination.
“Well then hurry up!” chuckled Damien as he flung Crimson’s pants at him.
“Yeah, yeah,” growled Crimson as he stuck his legs through the appropriate slots, “what’s the rush, anyways?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s the rush’!” blurted Damien, “Its four in the afternoon, and we got a call for work!…You know you’re putting your pants on backwards, right?”
“Huh,” said Crimson sleepily observing his mistake, “shut up. I have a hang over the size of Jupiter.”
Observing the normally invincible Crimson stumble around trying to put his pants on right never ceased to amuse Damien, and with a chuckle he said, “You really are an idiot. Shake off the hang over, this job is big money. We might even get a decent meal.”
Pulling his shirt over his head, Crimson mumbled, “That good, huh? What are we this time? Some rich old mans lap dogs?”
“Nope,” said Damien, turning to leave the room, “this time we are temporary bounty hunters.”
The door closed behind him and Crimson was left alone to finish his wake up rituals. Which included stretching, brushing his teeth, and having a bit of hair from the dog that bit you. All this took him about ten minutes to accomplish, but before leaving his room to see what was going on in the outside world, he had to grab the tool of his trade, his custom made pistol.
It measured about a foot and a half in length a weighted a massive ten pounds. The black grip matched nicely with the silver barrel. Flawless in design, it was truly the ultimate in pistols. The only enigma about the gun was the word “Jessica” carved roughly on the left side of the barrel.
“Bounty hunters, huh?” Crimson said, smugly smiling in anticipation, “This could be fun.”
Exiting the room he found the living room looking as though a war had happened, complete with bullet holes in the couch. Empty pizza boxes lay around the room seeming to be the only casualties. Cans and bottles countless in number lay in every direction.
“Damn, I don’t remember things getting this crazy last night!!” said Crimson, feeling with the toe of his boot for a clear spot to walk on.
“Yeah,” said Damien in reply as he drifted away in his mind, searching for the fond memories of last night, “it was pretty wild. Well, lets get going then.”
“Sure, lets get paid and,” but upon saying this, Crimson’s foot came down on a bottle, which shattered into thousands of pieces, “Shit!!! Ah man, this is not the way to start off a work day!”
Damien, seeming to have been half expecting that to happen, coolly walked out the door, calling out to Crimson, “Don’t hurt yourself…not that I care, just if you do my work load is doubled.”
“Shut up you prick!!” yelled Crimson, who had ceased to care what objects lay in the path, trampling bottles, boxes, cans, and anything else that seemed in the way. Leaving in his wake not but destruction, he finally reached the door. He opened it quickly and slammed it on the way out so hard that the whole house shook.
He gazed across the disgustingly brown and ill kept lawn to see Damien mounting one of the two motorcycles parked by the curb. Damiens bike was black and had a certain sleeked back quality to it. Crimson’s bike was a bit more ragtag and rough. It also had a bit more muscle than Damiens bike, so it was used as the pack mule.
He strode across the lawn, dead grass crunching beneath his boots. He mounted his bike and started the engine, and with a screech of the tires on the pavement, they were off.
Not having any idea as to where to go, Crimson stuck behind Damien. The streets were relatively clear, which was unusual for that part of LA. Most of the time the two of them would have to sit through hours of traffic before getting to their destination. It was a nice change of pace to be able to cruise at one hundred mile per hour without interference.
After about an hour of driving, traffic started to pick up. Now stopped behind a bus Damien and Crimson exchanged frustrated glances.
“If we keep going straight for about a block, we should be there,” Damien screamed, trying to be heard over the car horns, “the address is one four nine five, Zabuzen Ave.”
Lifting an eyebrow, Crimson curiously asked, “Does that mean what I think it means?”
Revving his bike’s engine, Damien replied, “You bet your ass it does!!!”
And in a blink an eye the two were off again. Darting in-between vehicles with out any regard for the safety of anyone, including each other and themselves. Dodging cars trying to change lanes, and narrowly missing trashcans and pedestrians, the pair made their way towards their goal.
Seeing that he was not going to be the first one to reach the gate of the address that was given, Crimson made the decision to use an up coming VW Bug as a makeshift ramp. Pulling a wheelie, he slammed the front tire down onto the rear bumper of the car with a crash. Propelled into the air and sailing over traffic, people, and his opposition in the race, the cup was his. The back tire landed on the sidewalk and bounced a few inches off the ground, then landed again with the front tire following. Crimson slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt beside the massive gates of the client’s house. Damien stopped right beside him a second later.
“You just got lucky!” said Damien grudgingly, dismounting the bike and observing the enormous mansion that stood behind the gates.
“Nice place he’s got here, must have quite a bit of money to throw around,” commented Crimson.
“I told you this job was big,” said Damien with a shrug, “Now lets get inside and find out the details.”
He lazily walked over to the speaker panel and pressed the only available button. A scratchy voice came from the speaker and said with a bit of an annoyed tone, “Yeah, what do you want?”
Damien leaned forward and said, “Yes, we’re the guys you hired, and,” but before he could finish the voice cut in and said, “Alright…hold on.” And after a loud buzzing sound, the gate slowly swung open.
“Ladies first,” said Crimson mockingly.
They strode across the vast lawn and saw that a tall, slender, balding man was waiting for them by the front door. He was wearing a tuxedo, with matching shoes and white gloves. As they approached he said, “Follow me and I will take you too the master.”
Assuming that he was a butler, Damien giggled a restrained laugh and said, “Thanks Jeeves.” Crimson followed quietly admiring the butlers’ patients; had some one ever spoken to him like that they would probably be eating his fist right now.
They walked down a lavish hall with the sound of classical music playing faintly from another room. Crimson starred around the hall, awestruck at its magnificent beauty. The only thing keeping him from crashing into Damien was the sound of boots hitting the marble floor coming from about five feet in front of him.
The butler stopped and opened the last door on the right hand side of the hall. As soon as he did the volume of the classical music increased to more auditable levels. The room was even more beautiful than the hall. Paintings of exquisite scenes of ancient warfare hung from each wall; their stained oak frames shining against the chalk white walls. The stuffed head of a dear hung mounted on the wall, and below that there was a fireplace made of the purist crystal Crimson had ever seen. A long table sat in the middle of the room with one lone figure at the farthest end.
The butler cleared his throat and said, “The men you hired have arrived, sir.” He then motioned for Damien and Crimson to enter. After they had gotten a few feet from the door and into the room, the butler left and closed the door behind him.
“Welcome,” called the figure as he stood up. He was short and pudgy with very little hair left on the top of his head. Clad in a burgundy robe and slippers, he waved his arm in a gesture as if to say, “Have a seat, there is much to discuss.”
Crimson led the way to the table and took a seat; Damien did the same.
“Gentlemen,” said the man in a gruff, grizzly voice, “I have brought you here today fore the purpose of getting back something of mine from a thief.”
Damien glanced at the man suspiciously and said, “On the phone you said that this was a bounty hunting job.”
The man starred at him a second. Then he went on to say, “As for that, there is also the matter of dealing with the thief. That is the part where I need you two to do a bit of ‘hunting’. I would like you to bring that man to me dead or alive along with the treasure he stole from my chambers.”
The man had started catching Crimsons interest by this point, but there was one final question before he decided that the job was worthy of the work they had to put into it, “How much is this going to pay?” he asked hoping that the figure would be large enough to seal the deal.
“Twenty thousand dollars,” the man said, as if anticipating that question.
Crimson already knew that a case like this was going to pay big. A thief stealing something could easily be handled by the cops for free, unless, that is, the item stolen was illegal, and illegal merchandise worth hiring people to get back was worth paying big for. But that kind of money was unheard of for a simple job like this. It was a golden opportunity that couldn’t be passed up.
Crimson and Damien glanced at each other in giddy excitement. Then Damien said, “We’ll be needing a picture of the thief complete with address, and also a picture of the item stolen.”
The man slid an envelope across the table and gestured for them to leave. Crimson got up and tucked the envelop into his pants pocket. The butler was waiting out side the door to escort them out.
Once outside, Crimson looked at Damien and said, “So we are some rich old mans lap dogs…but for that kind of money…I’m more than happy to be any ones dog.”
Once they had arrived home, Crimson took out the envelope and opened it.
“Hmmm,” he said as he read the name and address listed. “Vincent Valconen…See what you can pull up on that name.”
Damien got up from his seat and went over to the door next to Crimsons room. He pushed it open and entered. Contained with in the room was a machine of Damien’s own design. He called in a computer, though it was one hundred times smaller than even the most advanced computers used by the military. It was so complex in its configuration that Damien was the one and only person who really knew how it worked.
He flipped the “on” switch and punched the name into the space available on the screen. “Now loading,” flashed on the screen as it tried to find information on Vincent.
Back in the living room, Crimson starred at the picture of Vincent. He was a tall, skinny, man no older than twenty-five. He had his hair parted down the middle and a piercing in his left nostril. Crimson put down the picture and searched the envelope for the picture of the stolen goods. He felt it and pulled it out. It was a small gold hourglass hanging from a thin golden chain.
Damien called from the other room, “Nothing!! This guy is squeaky clean. No convictions…not even a parking ticket!!”
Something wasn’t adding up. Why would a man with no history pull off a heist of something so precious to such a wealthy man? And on that note, why would a small hourglass be worth pay twenty thousand dollars to get back? Last time he had checked, jewelry, no matter how tacky, was in no way illegal. So why not let the cops handle this?
While Crimson was pondering all of this, Damien was busy gathering equipment from other parts of the house, which once located, was placed on the coffee table in a large pile. In the pile laid three shotguns, eight grenades, sixteen pistols, a trench coat, two swords, and enough ammo to supply a small army.
Once he had collected all the weapons he felt they would need, he put his hand on Crimsons shoulder and said, “Stop starring off into space. We have a job to do and a shit load of money to make!”
Crimson set the photos aside along with his doubt, and now only thought about the money and the man they had to kill or capture.
Damien pulled on several holsters, which he then loaded with guns. He tucked the swords under his belt and hung the shotguns from specially made holsters on his back. He stuck seven of the grenades into his left pocket and tossed the other one to Crimson.
Crimson caught it and said, “You know I won’t be using this, so why give it to me?”
Damien said with a frustrated sigh, “I know all you ever use is that damn pistol of yours…but come on!! I know that were only going after one guy, but still, better safe than sorry. So why do you refuse to carry an other weapons on you?”
Crimson took out his pistol and examined it. Then, putting the gun back into its place at his side, he said, “Name one time I ever needed another weapon.”
“Sometimes it seems like you want to die,” said Damien adjusting the load of weapons.
“That might be…but for now lets just worry about getting that cash,” said Crimson as he stood up and headed for the door leading to the lawn.
With a heavy sigh, Damien followed him out.
The address listed was only about an hours drive away, and by the time they were leaving the traffic had all but disappeared, so they arrived quicker than expected.
As the pulled their bikes up to the curb, the sun fell behind the horizon and darkness descended upon them. The unfamiliar streets were ominous and maddening.
Crimson got off his bike and pulled the slip of paper containing the address of the target. It was apartment number sixteen in building B. Gazing around, he located the building and proceeded to lead the way. Damien readied one of the pistols and followed with an even wider grin than usual.
Slowly and quietly, they made their way up the narrow staircase, guns drawn, watching every direction for some sign of the target. As they passed by one of the windows that were placed every ten feet or so, Crimson looked out and saw the back alley leading to the street. That would be the only way for the target to escape, unless of course Vincent felt jumping off the roof of the six-story building was a better route.
After about three flights they found the number sixteen hanging on a door. This was it. This was the time when things started to go right. This was their big payday, and the day the past might finally die.
Crimson nodded to Damien, who nodded back. They positioned themselves in front of the door and with a simultaneous kick, forced it open.
They were just about to rush in when they noticed the dozen or so faces staring at them from all over the room. Vincent was sitting amongst the many people surrounded by beautiful women.
He stared at the stunned pair and said, “And just who the fuck are you?” and with that, every person in the room unveiled their concealed weapons and aimed at the two fools in the doorway.
Suddenly it was clear. This guy wasn’t squeaky clean; he just never did his own dirty work. This guy was a mob boss, and the pay was so substantial because it was likely that they wouldn’t be going back alive. This was not going to be pretty.
Crimson and Damien quickly glanced at each other, then dove for cover on either side of the door.
Just as they had gotten out of the way, a hail of bullets came flying from within the room, taking hunks of wood off of the doorway’s lining.
Crimson and Damien knew what had to be done and in a farewell salute Damien called out, “If you die my work load is doubled!!” and Crimson called in return, “If you die I won’t have any one to work that damn computer!!” Then they went their ways, Crimson running further up stairs and Damien running back down. A lone grenade was left marking the starting point of the race for survival.
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Topic: Artist and person with web know how wanted. (Read 3150 times)