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DemonArchangel
04-05-2004, 23:39
This is a part of a bigger novel that i'm working on right now, but enjoy this as an independent short story. Or at least my rough draft.

A D.C Short Story
Part 1:
The youngish-looking male earthling with long pitch-black bangs, dark black eyes, and a malevolent grin, leaned back in his plush and comfortable Italian Leather chair and pulled out a small universal remote control from his pocket. At the press of a button, soft classical music flowed out from the speakers across the large, well lit circular office with white marble walls. He put the remote control into his pocket, smiled and dozed off staring vacantly at the ceiling, and despite the rich trappings of his office, he did not smoke a cigar, as many other occupants of fancy offices tend to do when they wish to relax. Besides, tobacco was bad for the lungs; assassins needed lungpower….
Meanwhile, in another location somewhere on Earth (more specifically, the obscure and unmapped country of Nowhereisstan (shown to be a part of Tajikistan, Afghanistan and China, but really its own country because no one bothered to govern it.) Mostly, the population of Nowherisstan consisted of dirt poor grass farmers, the occasional herder of some sort of mutated yak species that resembled malnourished shag carpets more than they did yaks, and of course, terrorists, fugitives from international (primarily U.S) law, more terrorists, rotten scumbags, more terrorists, and lastly, more terrorists. And in this harsh wasteland in front of a cave/base complex carved into the side of a mountain, landed a heavily armed V-22 Osprey Helicopter and an escort of about 12 Harrier Jump Jet fighters sometime in the early afternoon. The airplanes were parked in line, sitting precariously on a rocky road carved out of the mountains, and rocked back and forth for a few nervous seconds before stopping. The back door of the Osprey opened, and a tall man in a heavy blue-gray greatcoat and a rather old looking top hat that looked like it had been worn daily every day for 60 years stepped out.
Now the man associated with said coat and hat, was a man with a deceptively elderly looking pointed pale face, flyaway gray hair and red eyes that were as mad as a drunken devil’s eyes, anyone in possession of such eyes should be fled from in short order, because such madness can power a fist right through a human sternum….
The Youngish Looking Male Earthling woke up sometime later, music still streaming. For convenience’s sake, the author shall refer to this youngish male earthling as Satanicer, mainly because the tag “Youngish Looking Male Earthling” is more difficult to type than “Satanicer” and because “Satanicer” was the Youngish Looking Male Earthling’s codename, mainly because he worked for the U.S Government, and most if not all U.S Government employees have some sort of codename. An example of this would be George W. Bush, whose real name is Thomas A. Bacon, George W. Bush being a codename. Satanicer got up, stretched his muscles, and resumed the rather demanding activity of being the most intelligent person on the planet Earth, not including the Area 51 aliens. He walked out of his office, with an economy of movement that suggested that he never ever ran when he could walk, and never ever walked when he could stay still. He quietly shut the door behind him, leaving his office empty, the music turned off.
Meanwhile, back in the mountain cave system, the man in the top hat walked spryly towards the mouth of the largest cave. The man went by the name of Sir John Pippingsley, AKA John the Ripper AKA Sideshow Pip. He had the title of Sir, because he was given the title of Knight at the behest British military Special Forces after single-handedly capturing Osama Bin Laden. Unfortunately though, the Americans took credit for the capture and no one outside of the British military was aware that it was HE who captured Osama Bin Laden, not Special Forces Lt. Andrew DeLay (potentially a codename, it’s being researched as to if it is or if it is not a codename.) He had a nickname of “The Ripper” because of his incredible prowess with knives, swords, hat blades, shoe blades, butchery tools, woodcutting tools, power tools such as chainsaws, drills, electric screwdrivers, shards of glass, and/or everything and anything that held some sort of point or edge. And his other nickname was “Sideshow” because people didn’t tend to argue with a well dressed lunatic with red eyes, especially if their nickname was “Sideshow.” Those who did try to argue often found themselves looking for their pulped facial features in the nearest storm drain. By the way, he hated America too, just because they’re easy to hate. The huge blast doors to the cave base open up with an ominous groan and the gate guards walked aside for Sideshow Pip, some of the pilots of Harriers that followed him in.
Satanicer wandered out into the beautiful spring morning, the Sun was shining and people were out walking the streets of the city of Washington D.C. It was too good of a day to really work or do anything major, so Satanicer figured that he should just wander about a bit and soak up some sunshine and relatively fresh air (considering the air pollution in the world today, I’m REALLY stretching the limit of the word “fresh” here.) Satanicer walked over a hot dog vendor and brought himself 2 artery clogging sticks of death slathered with substandard meat tomato and bean paste, known as 2 chili dogs to most standard human beings. He sat down near a park fountain and started to consume the sticks of death slathered with the substandard meat, bean and tomato paste. The gurgling of the fountain’s waters and some other various background noises soothed the raging torrent of disturbed emotions in the recesses of his mind.
Sideshow Pip and Co. walked down into the cave, through several security check chambers and then, towards a well lit room deep underground, rather empty. In the center of the room stood a large purple pillow. Sitting on that large purple pillow was a fat and jolly looking man in a turban and camouflage, sporting a long beard and smoking on a pipe shaped like an RPG-7 rocket launcher. He resembled a horrible parody of an Arabic version of Santa Claus.
“Ah, Supreme High Superior First Godlike Lord and the Hand of Allah, Sheik Ahmed Abdallah.” Said Sideshow Pip in a quick and rapid-fire manner that suggested that he had spoken to him so many times, that saying his long and overly drawn out name was just a normal event. It probably was. Ahmed was the leader of the terrorist organization known as “The Absolutely and Completely Holy Brigade of Yet More Crazed Martyrs, Islamic or Otherwise, That Seem to be Totally Willing to Blow Themselves up in the Name of Whatever God they Worship As Long as We as an Organization Benefit From Said People Blowing Themselves Up.” Though in short, the organization’s name was known merely as HMO (Holy Martyrs & Otherwise). The Supreme High Superior First Godlike Lord, Sheik Ahmed Abdallah was, discounting the brutal murdering, torturing and kidnapping, quite a kind and ebullient man who was easy to get along with. And strangely enough (for mad terrorist lords and Americans anyway), he only kept one wife, and no prostitutes, sex slaves, or concubines. And thus he replied…
“Hello there Sit down Sit down”, the Sheik and Supreme High Commander. Pip sat down on the cold stone floor, his cold, hard facial expression changing not a micron. Pip stared at Ahmed for a second, and Ahmed just smiled back.
If it wasn’t for Ahmed’s gift for making things explode with incredible violence, I would have merely discounted him as a pathetic idiot unworthy of attention thought Pip. But Pip needed Ahmed’s specialist services and specialist services were really hard to come by these days. Pip reached into his greatcoat and came out with a document that looked as it was from an official source somewhere, because it was printed on expensive stationary in official looking language that was difficult to decipher. Such language tended to be respected around the world, mainly in a bewildered and mystical way. People worshipped various Gods (Primarily Gods such as Yahweh and Allah, which against all logic seem to be the most popular (They don’t guarantee a free ride into eternal bliss)) because they didn’t understand their infinite mystery and complexity. Bureaucratese, operated in the same manner.
Ahmed carefully read the document then handed it back to Pip.
“ Just a letter authorizing the transfer of 150 Billion Euros in funds to me for some reason, thanks for the money.” Ahmed was about to put the paper away, when Sideshow Pip raised a single long finger on his right hand that wasn’t the middle one.
“There is a catch you know.” Said Pip carefully.
“What is it?”, replied Abdallah.
“Destroy for me Washington D.C….” was the answer.
READ ON TO PART II TO FIND OUT “WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT” IN THIS STORY
Part 2:
Pip was obviously on the insane side of things of course. But of course, Satanicer, the young, intelligent Earthling, despite his intelligence, did not know what was happening all the way on the other side of the world in a certain mountain cave with an Arabic Santa Claus. Even if he did know, he probably had only the faintest of inklings that something like a terrorist attack of unprecedented carnage was going to happen. Besides, it isn’t healthy to dwell over the existence of Arabic Santa Clauses bearing weapons. Satanicer finished his hotdogs; buns and substandard sauce, chucking the remains into the nearest trashcan and walked back to the office.
After shuffling through some papers, he walked to a nearby garage to his jet black heavily customized Dodge Viper SRT-10 with a 9.0-liter twin turbo V-16 engine, all-wheel drive, retractable hardtop, Kevlar and LEXAN armor plating, hydraulics, 1000 watt sound system, and many, many other customizations that made the vehicle more fun to drive. He carefully checked the car for any bombs, poisonous chemicals or other anomalies that would have made driving less pleasant before hopping in and driving off, spewing large, poisonous clouds of greenhouse gases into the environment.
Satanicer merged onto the Capital Beltway and sped off towards the Route 29 exit, gingerly weaving through the heavy rush hour traffic at the approximate pace of 185 mph. Unlike many other important people in the D.C area, he did not live in Georgetown or Downtown D.C, where the houses were small and overly expensive. He chose to live in an isolated corner of the suburbs of D.C about 45 minutes to the north in a large red brick mansion in a heavily wooded area, just to make it more difficult for the folks at the IRS to drop in unexpectedly, especially when there are anti-personnel mines and bear traps in the woods. Besides, houses should have some sort of adjacent plant life; it made things more interesting.
The garage door opened as smoothly as door greased with salad dressing as he drove in. He hopped out of his car and walked into his house, the garage door closing as smoothly as it opened. Then he walked into his empty mansion, and walked into his kitchen. His girlfriend had left him a note on the kitchen counter that read:

Dear Satanicer
Hey I'm forced to attend some stupid physics convention tonight, which is pretty sh*tty to begin with cuz i know you wanted to watch taht weird movie with me or something.
Love,
Sofia
Satanicer swore under his breath silently. His girlfriend Sofia had to attend something stupid AGAIN. He rolled his eyes, kicked off his shoes and silently walked into his room, where his cat was dozing off on the bed. He turned on the lobotomy tube, commonly known as a television and flipped through the channels for various news broadcasts. He then pulled out his laptop and went directly to a top think-tank that was known in the inner circles of the powers that be to create news events such as terrorist attacks, just so they would have something to analyze. He first went a website that appeared to be the run of the mill pornography website and typed in a specific key combination. Then suddenly the website changed from Adult Materials Content Up Ahead to a professional looking website with the header “Conspiracies R’ Us International”
Because people involved in conspiracies wished to avoid causing World War III, they regularly communicate with each other prevent things like that from happening. For example, if the President of the United States wished to arrange a meeting with the Prime Minister of Britain, he’d post his intentions on his website (or going by the intellectual abilities of the current President, he’d get an assistant to do it for him), then the Prime Minister of Britain would then create an appropriate security situation in Britain. Also other world leaders and political insiders could look at the website to learn about the meeting dates and rework their schedules according to that, so the website was sort of like a fire hydrant for political dogs. Unfortunately, it also meant that terrorist leaders, potential assassins and other unsavory/unbalanced types were likely to find out about the locations and whereabouts of world leaders and pick them off, but usually world leaders were gullible enough in this case to actually TRUST terrorists not the read the contents of the website. Satanicer shrugged and read the news bulletins to learn the news BEFORE it was going to happen. The American President for today was planning to sit around in the White House doing absolutely nothing but clipping his toenails and watching the occasional show about how to go hunting with a 5-gauge ultra-heavy probably designed for use against tanks shotgun.
Then something caught Satanicer’s eye, apparently, the sheik decided to post something revealing Mr. Pippingsley’s rather dubious intentions for causing chaos. The notice went as follows:
ﭖﺁﺠﻺﻙﺿﻂ ﮒﮓﺿﺸﷲ﴾ﱡﻀﯽﺴ ﺚﺽﻝﻀﻙﻖ ﺳﺶﻞﻢﻤﺬﺦﭼﺾﺝﺶ ﺩﺿﺆﻡﻗﻒﺩﮓﺯ

Satanicer translated the little Arabic blurb: “Warning, the one you know as Sideshow Pip is going to launch a terrorist attack on Washington D.C with one of my dirty bombs, which I sadly provided him, if ANYONE can help me stop him, please call me.” Satanicer closed the window, and picked up his phone, dialing the number 1800-411-GOVT, the government’s phone directory.
“Yes, may we help you?” asked the dispatcher on the other side in an overly cheery, desiring too much to be helpful voice.
“Phone Number to Sheik Ahmed’s Cave of Potential Doom please.”
“The number is 4.”
“4?”
“Yes, it’s just 4, there are only 4 phone systems in the entire area, and maybe less than that because yak farmer Ghuzzhariznid is definitely lying about his cell phone.”
“Alright….”, Satanicer rolled his eyes and dialed the number 4. Someone picked up.
“Hello, my dad’s busy desperately trying to phone his buddies right now to see if he can take care of Sideshow Pip.” The voice was either a young male or a young female; he had no clue as to which.
“But he isn’t like that usually, wouldn’t he WANT Washington D.C to get blown up?” Asked Satanicer.
“Well” answered the phone call taker “normally, he would support this whole heartedly, and yes, that creepy British guy tried to pay him, but the thing is that because Sideshow Pip is so deranged, the first thing he’ll do is copy the dirty bomb plans so he can start World War III. Ahmed only wants to commit terrorists acts against the U.S for their actions in Iraq and Israel and other places, not destroy the world.”
“Oh great, we have ourselves a lunatic…. Tell your father I’m willing to help, the prospect of World War III does NOT look good.” Satanicer hung up and logged onto the Homeland Security website and put out a red alert lookout bulletin for Sideshow Pip. While the Homeland Security Department was tracking Sideshow Pip, Satanicer changed into comfortable and light athletic clothes with large numbers of pockets to make strenuous physical activity and carrying random electronic gizmos easier. He then walked into a room filled with various armaments; explosives, electronic devices and other things that could cause destruction as well.
He selected nothing more than a few computer and bomb defusal toolkits and a couple dozen flashbombs and stuffed them into his pockets. Then he walked back into his room to check on Homeland Security’s progress in tracking Sideshow Pip. There were a few maps and messages on his screen, Sideshow had already sailed up the Potomac River in a supertanker loaded with nuclear waste and probably a dozen crudely made thermonuclear devices and he was escorted by a flotilla of cruise missile armed armored barges and an honor guard of Harrier jet fighters and V22 Ospreys. The Supertanker stopped in the D.C riverfront near the Jefferson Memorial… Satanicer bolted out the door as fast as his legs would carry him.
Sideshow Pip stood in the hold of the supertanker at the base of what appeared to be a colossal package of dynamite. The detonator of the dirty bomb was the size of a supercomputer, mainly just to look impressive and make it harder for bomb crews to defuse the weapon. Pip punched in a few timer coordinates, 30 minutes should be just about right for him to get into international waters quickly enough. Then he turned to go onto the ship’s deck, where there was a Harrier jump jet waiting for him, when suddenly, the ceiling above him caved inwards as a Harrier jump jet, stripped of its fuel and ordnance crashed through, followed by Satanicer, who gracefully leapt down from the floor above smiling a mischievous smile.
“Sorry I ruined your getaway vehicle” apologized Satanicer.
Pip was furious; no one could ruin his plans and get away with it, absolutely no one. He drew out a 36 cm Victorinox butcher’s knife and charged at Satanicer. Satanicer just stood stock-still until he got within 10 feet, then crouched low and leapt, hitting Pip in the knees and knocking off him off balance. As the 2 hit the ground, Satanicer immediately rolled to the side and pinned Pip’s wrist to the ground, before he could introduce his knife into his ribs. He then twisted around on the ground, maintaining his hold, and quickly rolled Pip over, so that his knife was facing the ground and his arm was pinned. Of course, he knew that Pip was going draw a second knife, so he twisted to the right and scythed Pip’s arms and legs out from under him, then rolled behind him, and grabbed his arms and sandwiched his head between his legs. But before he could deal the fight-ending blow, Pip curled his body into a “C” and swung his foot down towards Satanicer’s head, a wickedly sharp blade was at the toe of his shoe. Satanicer let go immediately and rolled to the side again as the shoe blade dug into the floor. He then leapt up and slowly began circling Pip.
This time Pip charged and tackled Satanicer to the ground, where they were rolling about, each trying to get into a superior position. Suddenly, the LCD screen in the bomb detonation panel flickered to life, and the face of Sheik Ahmed Abdallah appeared. He said:
“Satanicer, use the forks….” Satanicer barely dodged a knife blade to the head, as he wondered what the Sheik just said.
“Use the force? What are you talking about?” Satanicer dodged another knife stab and gave Pip a vicious head butt, then staggered away.
“THE FORKS THE FORKS, THIS SHIP IS CARRYING A LOAD OF FORKS USE THEM” The Sheik, contrary to his personal nature, was shouting at the top of his lungs. Satanicer dodged another knife swipe and turned around grabbing a large crate full of forks, which he used to good effect by knocking Pip senseless with it. After tying Pip up and removing all the knives he had on him, Satanicer pulled out his cell phone to call a pickup crew when the Sheik’s face in the bomb computer shouted again:
“DEFUSE THE BOMB YOU HAVE 10 SECONDS”
The entire world slowed down for Satanicer as thoughts raced around his mind. HOW? Was the main question, his mind didn’t know what do to do, but something in his bones told him something.
He simply walked over and hit the large OFF button on the bomb and the timer stopped abruptly. He then picked up Pip and dragged him to what passed for justice around these parts. As he got up on deck, he could see a Federal Bomb Squad huddled up praying mostly. The U.S Air Force had repelled the Harriers and sunk the missile barges escorting the supertanker while Satanicer was fighting Pip. The bomb squad, thinking that they couldn’t defuse the nuke and that it was going to explode, said their goodbyes to their families and then curled up on deck, waiting for the moment the world would end in a flash. The bomb squad, figuring that they were dead already got up, dusted himself off and saw Satanicer dragging Pip along and realized that he must have defused the bomb below…
After handing over Pip to the proper authorities and avoiding the hugs and kisses of the bomb squad, Satanicer ducked into an alleyway to answer his ringing cell phone, it was the Sheik.
“You my good man, just saved the world, of course there will be more attacks on America by terrorist forces, but no nut jobs like Pip running around with nuclear weapons anymore, I congratulate you.” Satanicer nodded and said one thing before hanging up, “Learn to write in English.”
Satanicer walked off. He refused to be congratulated or awarded in any way for his feat, ignored the President’s calls and just went on with his life. Sideshow Pip escaped from prison because it wouldn’t be fitting for a super villain to actually STAY in jail now would it? And in a cave in Nowhereisstan, a jolly looking man in military fatigues sitting on a purple pillow scratched the letter “A” on a handheld chalkboard.


THE END

(btw, that jumble of numbers was originally poorly written arabic script)

Note; This is more boring than the last one, but contains important transit information.

Chapter II: A Good Day(s) in Hell, 1 year later.

“MORE PLEASE SIR” shouted a balding red-faced man in a fancy business suit as a horsewhip came down on his naked posterior.
“Do as the nice gentleman says”, said another voice in a drawn out tone that bordered on cat like laziness. A scary looking man with a nametag that read “HI I’m a Secret Service Agent” raised the horsewhip high over his head and brought it down hard on the bald man’s rear again.
“MORE PLEASE, MISTER PRESIDENT SIR YOUR WONDERFUL AND BEAUTIFUL SUBLIMITY SIR” The Secret Service Agent gave him five more lashes. Then the President lifted up his hand very slightly and motioned for the Secret Service agent to leave. The President got up out of his seat and opened the curtains to the Oval Office, and it was raining.
“Aw f**king poo” the President got up out of his seat, just as the Secret Service agent picked up the red-faced man and carried him out, above the sound of his protests and lawsuit threats. The President walked over the Oval Office door and shouted down the hallway “THROW HIM IN DUBYA’S CUBAN LUVSHACK AND DON’T LET HIM OUT UNTIL HE DIVULGES THE NUMBER TO HIS SWISS BANK ACCOUNT” The Secret Service Agent barely moved, but the President could tell he acknowledged. The President went back into the Oval Office and sat back down on his ultra-expensive, butt-comforting chair of Presidential Power (Acronym=EAC, or Executive Ass Comforter). The chair didn’t make a noise, as President Offenheimer sat down on it. President Offenheimer you say? But the Presidential candidates are John Kerry and George W. Bush Well, true, but at the last minute, movie star Jack Offenheimer decided to run as another independent. Mr. Offenheimer, despite having no political experience whatsoever, won the election in a landslide, because he had better hair than both Dubya or Kerry, and the person with better hair ALWAYS wins the elections in America, it’s just a bonus if you’re young and good looking as well. Jack Offenheimer, actor and well, that’s it, actor had just turned 40 last June, and still looking youthful and was all in possession of all the proper bulges in all the proper places. Arnold Schwarzenegger, who had already become old and fat, was able to become governor of California, just by helping voters recall the memory of his muscle bound days. The going by that corollary, Jack Offenheimer was sure to win the Presidency. The President ran a brush through his long, silky, golden blond hair and poured himself a bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey. He held the honey-tinted firewater up to the sun that was just peeking out through the storm clouds, and relished the moment before downing the shot.
Meanwhile, Satanicer rolled over closer to his girlfriend and snuggled up against her. The sun was just poking through the early morning thunderstorm. He then slept for a few more minutes, as the alarm clock gently started to buzz. The alarm clock was mounted in the wall, buried in 8 feet of reinforced bomb shelter bunker concrete and programmed by remote control, otherwise Satanicer would just smash the alarm clock, and the table it was standing on, into pieces and be late for work. If it weren’t for the concrete, he would dig through the wall just to smash it anyway. Thus, the concrete was necessary although he was making progress with the pickaxe. He rolled over in bed and got up out of bed in the same manner a man with arthritis in his hips would get up out of bed, despite the fact that he didn’t have any arthritis anywhere in his body. He stood up slowly, and stretched his taut muscles and walked over to the bathroom wearing only his birthday suit, standing in front of a mirror to take inventory.
He was around 5’9, 141 pounds, carrying most of his weight in lean muscle powerful enough to push his fist through a human sternum and out the other side with ease. His hair was pitch black with long bangs, and his eyes, which were of the same color, shone with intelligence, and his skin was a lightly tanned bronze. He stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the shower. By the way, in case you were wondering, his race was and still is Human. He put that down on his I.D card, driver’s license and on his census forms, because it was easier than stating something like “Asian/Pacific Islander” or “Caucasian” or in his case 50 % mandarin, 33% various Altaic steppe tribes, and 17% of various other descent that could have included a chicken somewhere down the line (Ming the Bestial was VERY bestial). He shrugged and stepped into the shower.
Meanwhile, The Supreme High First Godlike Lord and Hand of Allah, Sheik Abdallah Ahmed woke up, washed up, put on his turban and military fatigues, then took an elevator to his throne room, which was buried deep inside a mountain cave system. He walked over to the purple pillow in the middle of the throne room and sat down on it. Another terrorist in fatigues walked in silently, bearing his laptop. The Sheik checked the news. His terrorists were successful last night in bombing several locations around the world, which was good. A video camera was dragged in front of the Sheik, as the standard responsibility videos were taped and such. The Sheik sighed, it wasn’t easy being a terrorist, and he couldn’t bring himself to think about all the puppies and children that he killed. But of course, SOMEONE had to terrorize Americans and other people; it might as well be him, he prayed that God would forgive him for sending people to Hell prematurely. He thought of the problems he had to deal with. First, there was Sideshow Pip, the insane British guy that tried to start World War III using one of his dirty bombs. He was probably wandering around in America trying to exact his revenge on that American agent, Satanicer or something, but Pip wasn’t above the random bombings of schools, churches and landmarks if he had nothing to do. And of course, all those attacks were being blamed on HMO. The Sheik needed to deal with Sideshow Pip and FAST too, otherwise, there could be another World War III situation like there was last year. But of course, the sun still shone, and he was generally successful in what he did, it was going to be a good day.
Meanwhile, Sir John Pippingsley, AKA Sideshow Pip reveled in his handiwork. He had just left 600 kilograms of C4 under Times Square in (New York City, It’s for all the non-American readers reading this.) It was set to go off at, oh, just about rush hour tomorrow morning, which left plenty of time for the bottle of Dom Perignon sitting besides him, and if possible, a nice Cuban cigar. He sat on top of the new World Trade Center and poured himself a glass. It was going to be a good day.
In another place far to the south, as Satanicer was showering, the life form known as Sofia Marachenko rolled over in bed, and accidentally fell to the floor with an “oof” noise that suggested a rather abrupt awakening. She pulled herself up off the floor and brushed a few strands of her snow-white hair out of her porcelain doll like face. Sofia stood up and took a deep breath, then got back into bed because of her personal belief that how someone gets out of bed every day will determine the quality of the day they’re getting up on. She then gingerly stepped out of bed again, just as Satanicer got out of the shower. Satanicer walked up to her and kissed her on the forehead. Now, in case you’re wondering, Satanicer isn’t living with someone that’s much older than him. Sofia was exactly 3 hours older than he was; her hair was only white because she suffered from CMJS (Congenital Michael Jackson’s Syndrome, it’s where only certain parts of the body, such as the skin and hair fail to produce pigment, but other parts such as the eyes do produce pigment, well at least in Sofia’s case, the real Michael Jackson suffers from Self Induced Michael Jackson’s Syndrome or SIMJS, because of all the pigment blocking drugs he’s taking. Storm from X-Men would be an example of a CMJS sufferer, because her hair is white, but her skin isn’t.) Sofia sat up, wrapped her arms around Satanicer and kissed him back gently, then got up without landing on her butt this time.
“So how’s my beautiful Wisdom?” asked Satanicer. He was the sort of person that usually spoke in a harsh snarling rasp that suggested to the person being spoken to that they were on the wrong end of a wild animal that would tear them apart without any remorse, and would probably enjoy the activity as well. Now, his voice sounded like Austin Powers making his mock tiger growling noise, except that he never actually made that noise, it was present in his speech and in his tone and inflection, and no, it didn’t sound as cheesy as Agent Powers’ version, it sounded more like a wild animal speaking in flawless American English.
“Fine, fine _” answered Sofia. (The blank was left in there to protect Satanicer’s identity). Although Sofia’s English was worded impeccably, her Serb/Czech background showed through in her heavy Eastern European accent, the price people get for learning English from a non-native speaker. She grinned and stroked Satanicer’s muscular chest, they brushed their teeth together and walked downstairs into the kitchen, where an orange and white tomcat snoozed on the counter.
“I’ll make breakfast”, volunteered Satanicer. He opened the door of the fridge and rummaged around to see what was there. “Would Belgian Waffles be ok?”
“Sure, why not?” was the response. Satanicer pulled out some ingredients for batter and other things. The 2 of them mutually decided that breakfast, as well as getting up on the right side of the bed was essential to a good day, especially if you’re sent to a Central American country to assassinate their military dictator right before lunch, and the airplane you’re on is a low budget airline that doesn’t even serve desiccated peanuts. He whipped up some batter and heated up the waffle iron, whistling the tune to a Bach fugue as he sliced up some weird fruity materials. He quickly poured the batter on the waffle irons without even bothering to look. He then poured 2 glasses of orange juice and turned off the waffle iron. Then, he flipped the waffles onto plates and poured the syrup and fruity materials over them. He brought the plates over to the table.
“Breakfast is served”, he announced. The waffles were shaped like small humans beings, drizzled with fruit, whipped cream and syrup, which looked like fake blood. Satanicer sat down, flashed Sofia a barefaced grin and stuck his fork into the little waffle man while making sounds that a mortally wounded person with a large fork in their abdomen would make. Sofia giggled, her lime green eyes lighting up and picked up the waffle man in her hands and dangled it over her mouth while screaming in a tiny little voice “Aiieeee The monster Gigantra has got me”
Satanicer cut the top off the waffle man’s head and announced to the world “AH HAFF GEEVEN A BRAIN TRANSPLAANT TO THE VEECTEM” in his best mad scientist voice. Sofia giggled again and put the entire waffle man in her mouth, chewing it and swallowing quickly. Satanicer smiled, “You’re washing the dishes”, he said as he got up to leave for work. He put on his shoes, grabbed his car keys and was about to step out the door when Sofia raised the question, “did you forget something?” Satanicer stopped, what was it that he had forgotten? He went back, grabbed his lunch, kissed Sofia on the forehead and walked back to the door again. Still, the question was “forgetting something?”
“Oh yea” Satanicer grabbed his tax return forms and walked back to the door again. Sofia still asked in a sweetly courteous voice “forgetting something still?” Satanicer sighed, walked back to the kitchen and fed the cat, then began to walk back out when he saw his reflection in wall mounted kitchen mirror.
“You finally figured it out,” muttered Sofia as Satanicer dashed upstairs to put some clothes on.
Satanicer walked out the door, and took in the sunshine and the damp earth, which smelled of evaporating rain. The April morning was positively gorgeous, hopping in his Viper, he suspected his day was going to be a good day and that he would be at work in exactly 45 minutes.
The President stared at the recently passed legislation on his desk, such complex language. He sighed; his Chief Adviser wasn’t around, he needed his Chief Adviser to explain political reality to him, and his Chief Adviser wasn’t around, wasn’t around, wasn’t around. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, but restrained himself from doing so to save the Secret Service the trouble of having to destroy the ceiling again to gain a dynamic entrance path to the Oval Office. He sighed, oh well, he thought, time for the first meeting in 5 minutes, during that time, he hastily read and signed an overly pro-abortion bill before dashing out of his office towards the White House dungeon elevators.
The White House “dungeons” were actually huge mazes of passages dug deep under the White House, normally used in the event of a nuclear or terrorist attack. These days, their purpose was to provide space for every branch of government or important private citizens/citizen groups that needed space in the White House and a way to speak directly with the President when the Oval Office or other things just wouldn’t cut it in terms of size or secrecy, or the Mole People insisted that going above ground was dangerously un-mole like. He sighed again and entered the large elevator, which plunged down the deep subterranean shaft with incredible speed, stopping only at the –300th floor. He calmly stepped out the elevator as the door opened and walked down several long hallways lined with many doors, each of a different design and shape, ranging from standard government style heavy 1 narrow windowed door, to faux leopard print with a rustic oak frame. The President, as he walked around, tried to recall the history of these passages. They were first dug when the White House was first being built back in 1800. At first, they were 2 levels below ground and operated by man powered pulleys with no effort made to conceal them because most people back then didn’t know the White House even existed. As the years passed, the entrances to the dungeons became more and more heavily concealed as they became deeper and deeper. By 1900, the dungeons were 50 levels deep and the elevators powered by electro-hydraulic pumps. The dungeons were then subsequently neglected for a while until the Great Depression. Because so many people were out of work, FDR decided to have many members of the Civilian Conservation Corp help dig the dungeons deeper and deeper. 70 years later, magnetic rails cut into the side of the shaft powered the elevators and the dungeons extended a full 5.5 miles into the bowels of the Earth and under much of D.C and the surrounding areas.
Enough of the history lesson, the President stopped at a door with a large black hole painted on it and turned the gilded doorknob.
Meanwhile, Satanicer pulled up to the United States Capitol Building’s Visitor’s Center’s garage and got up out of his car, throwing his keys to a giant, automatic shotgun toting valet wearing a black suit and sunglasses. He then began to walk down Pennsylvania Avenue at a brisk pace, as other people in various types of designer suits paced up and down the street in a random fashion jabbering incoherently into their cell phones trying to appear busy. Satanicer stopped at the gates of the White House and leapt up onto large marble flower planter, then from there, leapt again over the electrified wrought iron fence surrounding the White House before striding confidently towards the main entrance of the White House.
Pip glanced at his watch, 23 hours and 15 minutes until Armageddon… He poured himself another glass of Dom Perignon and sipped it calmly while listening to some Bach. The fools will never know what exactly hit them… He took another sip and waited, it really WAS going to be a good day.
The Sheik puffed on his Rocket Propelled Grenade Limited Edition collector’s pipe and contemplated long and hard about the next terrorist attack he was planning. Maybe Tel Aviv? Paris? Moscow? Jakarta? London? He carefully pulled out a dagger from his fatigues and threw it at a map on the wall. The point of the dagger landed in Athens.
No…. Athens has already gone through too much, especially after what had happened at the Olympics…. The Sheik pulled the dagger out of the wall and made another throw, after the dagger had stopped quivering, the Sheik walked over and pulled it out. Mecca, it appeared, was going to get blown up. He prayed that God wouldn’t condemn him to a trillion years in the fires of Hell for what he was going to do, but that was the price of being a Terrorist. Somewhere from a burning slave pit in another Hell, the founder of the Society of Iniquitous Nutcases (SIN) smiled an evil smile at the Sheik. The Sheik groaned and began to call his cronies in the explosives business, a potentially good day had turned into a rottenly horrible bad one because of an unlucky knife throw. Such was the Randomness Rule of the SIN…. (*) Someone on the other end picked up, it sounded like an American. The Sheik couldn’t use the standard Islamic Fundie Terrorist for this job, because no Islamic Fundamentalist would accept an assignment like the one that the Sheik had in mind, not even the really crazy ones…
The President opened the door with the black hole painted on it and surveyed the group of middle aged or above men and women in the run of the mill business suits. There were several overhead projectors in the room, each projecting a map onto one wall or another. The President sat himself down at the head of the long oak table and blinked once. There was a long agonizing silence briefly interrupted by a few coughs, chair squeaks and a single release of methane due to excessive baked beans in last night’s dinner.
“Well?” the President began.
“Mr. President, this panel has concluded that the Terrorist John Pippingsley, AKA Sideshow Pip is no longer a threat. We have reason to believe that he has either passed away, or is incapable of making anymore terrorist strikes on American soil.”
“Oh, really?” asked the President, “What makes you so certain?”
“Well, he hasn’t popped up anywhere for a bit and we merely have reason to believe that he’s dead, now if you’ll stop being a nosy bastard, we’d all sure appreciate it”
The President leaned back in his chair and grinned slyly, looking at each member of the panel. Then he spoke again. “Well ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be sure to take your advice into consideration.” He got up and walked out of the room, the door closing with a creak behind him. “Goddamn Homeland Security panelists….” He muttered under his breath. Pip wasn’t dead, he was sure of that. He was out and alive and probably had bombs everywhere. However, he wasn’t sure just WHERE he was… He needed intelligence, and the C.I.A was useless to him at this point. There were a few options available to him, and they all weren’t definite, not really.
The life form known as Spots the cat was lying about on Satanicer’s kitchen table being stroked gingerly by Sofia. As he was being petted, Spots reflected on the fact that he did not have any spots; in fact he had stripes. Spots rolled over so that Sofia could stroke his abdomen. Life was good here, he was petted, fed, and watered on a regular basis, and Satanicer had 5000 cable channels on his TV and a VERY comfortable sofa. He rolled up again and leapt up off the table, to the kitchen counter. He pawed open a kitchen drawer and retrieved a small cigar from it and a lighter, and then, holding these in his mouth, he leapt down from the kitchen counter and strutted towards the living room, where he leapt onto the couch and very carefully lit a cigar with the lighter before flicking the lighter off and leaving it on the coffee table. Then Spots hit the TV “ON” button with his paw and caught the episode of “The Sopranos”, which he missed last night, and puffed on his cigar gently. It was going to be a good day for him too.
Sofia got up from the kitchen table and walked upstairs, took a quick shower and then started rummaging for clothes in the rather messy bedroom. She was the head of Completely Impossible to Apply on a Non-Theoretical Basis Physics department at the University of Maryland College Park. That meant that she spent all day drawing up equations as complex as the new Income Tax forms (**). The 8 primary reasons why the physics couldn’t be applied were as follows:

1.) Time/Space will collapse on itself and everyone in the multiverse will end up in Peoria, Illinois at the approximate time of 3 p.m last Tuesday. EVERYONE.
2.) Religious fundamentalists under America’s excessively loose gun laws tend to storm the building every time someone makes a try.
3.) Even if they could try, can YOU invent a device that measures the time/space flux shift of last Tuesday in Peoria, Illinois?
4.) It’s much easier said than done.
5.) Time travel is perfectly possible, but if you smash a butterfly upon landing, the pilot will cease to exist, and according to calculation, there will always be a butterfly at the landing site.
6.) The last guy that tried to make a teleportation device at home in the black of night was sucked into a black hole and landed in a dimension where technological, economic and social development never got past the Inquisition.
7.) #4 again.
8.) The University funding appropriations chair realized that quantum flux device costs a lot more than a chalkboard and chalk.

Sofia looked at herself in the mirror. She had to give a lecture today, so that meant relatively dressy up formal clothes. She sighed and brushed away some of her white hair out of her face and tried to put a smile on as she walked downstairs. Sofia’s parents (which were in another dimension due to a black hole incident), had always encouraged her at a very early age to do what they did, which is play with space/time. That meant child prodiginess, and stuff like that, and a doctorate at the age of 12. That also meant that Sofia was around the same age as the students she had to teach, which was bad sometimes… She grabbed her car keys and walked out the door, remembering her clothes unlike her absent-minded boyfriend.

THE END OF CHAPTER II


* The Randomness Principle of the SIN goes as follows: If you have trouble deciding on a target, you must randomly choose one and go with it. If you don’t attack said target, then you’re kicked out of the society, which means loosing the free real estate space and weapons subsidies offered by SIN.

** The New Tax forms are so difficult to understand, that the IRS just takes the money from your bank account. It’s easier that way. Some incredibly intelligent and learned people tend to fill it out themselves however.

Axeknight
04-06-2004, 12:56
Quote[/b] ]And of course, all those attacks were being blamed on HMO.


Quote[/b] ]CMJS (Congenital Michael Jackson’s Syndrome, it’s where only certain parts of the body, such as the skin and hair fail to produce pigment, but other parts such as the eyes do produce pigment, well at least in Sofia’s case, the real Michael Jackson suffers from Self Induced Michael Jackson’s Syndrome or SIMJS, because of all the pigment blocking drugs he’s taking.

http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-jester.gif http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-jester.gif http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-jester.gif ROTFLMAO

V. funny - Reminds me of Douglas Adams.

Satanicer? Sounds like an ezcema cream...

Ludens
04-07-2004, 17:17
Very good. It seems written with such certainty that I suspect that DemonArchangel has some experience with writing short stories.

Well, we now have got Demon, Froggy and (perhaps) Voigtkampf writing comedy (plus a small addition from Axeknight) and Monk is writing drama, so the Mead Hall only needs a good ol' fashioned romance to be a complete literary forum http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif .

Axeknight
04-07-2004, 17:29
Quote[/b] (Ludens @ April 07 2004,18:17)]so the Mead Hall only needs a good ol' fashioned romance to be a complete literary forum http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif .
Oh, Ludens, will you marry me?

How was that? What? http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-stunned.gif

DemonArchangel
04-07-2004, 17:47
http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/tongue.gif

part III coming at the end of spring break

Ludens
04-07-2004, 17:58
Quote[/b] (Axeknight @ April 07 2004,18:29)]
Quote[/b] (Ludens @ April 07 2004,18:17)]so the Mead Hall only needs a good ol' fashioned romance to be a complete literary forum http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/biggrin.gif .
Oh, Ludens, will you marry me?

How was that? What? http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-stunned.gif

http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-stunned.gif

Eh, I hope you are female, right? Because else it will be very modern fashioned romance...

http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif

Axeknight
04-07-2004, 18:08
Yeah, don't think we could have a church wedding... http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/gc-inquisitive.gif

frogbeastegg
04-07-2004, 18:58
Once again a good read Demon http://www.totalwar.org/forum/non-cgi/emoticons/bigthumb.gif Now when is the end of spring break...

:Froggy reads Luden's list, is quietly relieved that she got penciled in for comedy rather than romance:

DemonArchangel
04-07-2004, 19:25
Easter Monday

DemonArchangel
01-02-2006, 01:04
Note: More than a year overdue, my apologies. :skull:

"Shopping.... Shopping.... Yes...."

Sideshow Pip strolled down the random Manhattan Avenue whistling well... the author isn't sure what exactly he's whistling. Probably a mix of some 19th Century Russian Composer and..... 50 Cent? Yeesh, have some taste Pip. Pip's feet skipped off of the pavement as he twirled around with a few large plastic shopping bags in his hands. Dumb move, because the British man bumped face first into a very, very, very large man, who, despite the rather affluent surroundings, was wearing a wife beater and a pair of ripped jeans. Clutched in the large man's fist was a bottle of vodka, half consumed.

"Oh.... damn...." thought Pip. Pip didn't have time to think about anything else really, because the very, very, very large man smashed him across the head with his vodka bottle screaming,

"WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING YOU EUROTRASH F***ER!"

Pip reeled back under the blow. In a flash, he withdrew a huge butcher's knife from his greatcoat (which he was wearing, despite the fact that it was May), and jammed it right into the large man's abodmen, sinking the weapon up to its hilt. This didn't work, because of the deep layers of fat around the man's abdomen. In response Pip recieved a blow to the face which literally sent him flying. Pip slammed into the nearest wall.

"Bloody 'ell mate..." spat Pip as he staggered to his feet. A small crowd of rubberneckers had already gathered around the fight. After all, they were raised on TV violence and as such, loved real violence even more.

The large man lunged again. Pip simply sidestepped him this time, withdrawing the knife still stuck in his opponent's abdomen. Before the man could turn around, Pip jammed the knife into the back of his neck. There was a thudding sound as the man's limp body hit the floor.

Pip wiped off the blood on the man's jeans and picked up the bags he dropped. Unfortunately for him, the police chose to arrive just at that time. Four squad cars of them to be exact.

"Down on the ground, NOW!" shouted an officer as he pointed his M4 carbine at Pip. American policemen were getting rather aggressive recently, especially with all these random terrorist threats. The policeman got Pip firmly within his sights, while three other policemen approached Pip.

"Hands on the back of your head!"

Pip immediately obeyed the command. Two policemen moved up to place handcuffs on him.

"You're gettin' a bit too close 'ere..." Pip could already feel the icy cold cuffs touching his wrist when he acted. He slapped the officer's hands to the side, knocking away the handcuffs, and exposing his gun, which Pip drew from its holster in a heartbeat. The officer to the other side of Pip fired, hitting the officer whose weapon Pip had stolen in the chest. Pip responded by shooting the firing officer between the eyes, then shooting the third officer in the throat.

The officer with the carbine popped off a few rounds in Pip's general direction, with one of the 5.56mm bullets tearing through his greatcoat.

"ARGH! You rat bastard! That's pure child labor sheared wool!" yelled Pip as he shot the policeman in the head twice.

Seeing that the coast was clear for now, Pip ran into the carbineer's car, grabbed the dead policeman's weapons and floored it. The squad car shot off, leaving the crowd dazed, and the mass media with one more piece of "action news" to report.

~*~*~~

"WHAT THE F**K?!!!" the President threw a priceless glass vase in the general direction of his Bad News Reporting Guy. The Bad News Reporting guy ducked the vase. Bad News Reporting Guys always had to be good at ducking or dodging, otherwise, they wouldn't survive for long. President Offenheimer's reaction was mild compared to what Reagan did with his Bad News Reporting Guys (throw golf clubs at them), Clinton (try to toss them into spiked pits), or the Bushes (shoot at them).

"Yes... it's true. Sideshow Pip was spotted in America... He killed four policemen in New York City and got away. Our intelligence has no idea where he is.... Please don't throw anything else..."

"I won't throw anything else...." The President pulled a .357 Magnum from his desk and pulled the trigger, the BNRG dodged the bullet.

"Well... anyway... I'll be off now..." the BNRG ran out of the Oval Office as fast as his pudgy, middle-aged legs could carry him.

The President brushed a few strands of his long blond hair out of his face and picked up the phone on his desk.

"Call up the head of Homeland Security.... What do you mean he's in the Caymans.... JUST F**KING FIND HIM..."

The President sighed. He needed a beer. Badly. But, getting drunk on the job, no matter how badly needed, is usually seen as inappropriate, especially by tourists inside the White House.

Of course, the foreigners think we're drunk bible thumping homophobes already, how else can America damage its image?

Something inside President Offenheimer's head told him that he never should have asked that question....

Ludens
01-02-2006, 18:55
Now this is a blast from the past. I am glad to see you continue this story, and do hope the next update won't take as long. ~:thumb:

The Stranger
01-12-2006, 17:00
whahahhahah hilarious...i only read the last parts but was very funny

AntiochusIII
01-13-2006, 04:12
Ah, what do we have here? A comedy, that is! Comedy beneath the buried passage of time! Excellent display of thread necromancy, my dear comrade DemonArchangel!

And very funny. You do have good writing experience somewhere, don't you?

Ah...how much I admire and envy those who are born -- or have grown -- into a matured writer. Children like me lingers behind wasting time with life!

Ludens
01-13-2006, 16:48
Ah, what do we have here? A comedy, that is! Comedy beneath the buried passage of time! Excellent display of thread necromancy, my dear comrade DemonArchangel!
Talking about thread revival, is there any chance you might continue one of your excellent stories? Or am I asking too much?

AntiochusIII
01-14-2006, 00:15
Talking about thread revival, is there any chance you might continue one of your excellent stories? Or am I asking too much?I...er...just started doing exactly that. Though I'll be editing the stuff that already exists quietly before actually reviving them with my necromancy posts (otherwise known as "new chapters"). That's because I am not really satisfied with the work. Besides, I need to reorganize a lot of stuff as The Night of Alexandria was created organically -- i.e. write as you go, which isn't the best way to write for such a long story, lest I go into plot stonewalls and have to resort to deus ex machina to get through. :sweatdrop:

Thank you for remembering. :2thumbsup:

Ludens
01-14-2006, 18:24
I...er...just started doing exactly that. Though I'll be editing the stuff that already exists quietly before actually reviving them with my necromancy posts (otherwise known as "new chapters").
~:thumb:

Ludens
02-27-2006, 22:59
Is this story going to be continued? It can't be at its end, Times Square is about to blow up!