Other Fan Fiction / Romance Fan Fiction / Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ The Adventures of Thad Gunter ❯ There's Something About DJ Silloc ( Chapter 12 )

THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF THAD GUNTER!!!

 

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Chapter 12: There's Something About DJ Silloc

 

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Waiting. Why always so much with the waiting? Surely, a question for the ages. And one that just happen to pass through the mind of Dr. Isaac Thaddeus “Thad” “Dude” “Mammy” Edgar Allen Poe Howard Philips Sam Leroy Gunter III, Jr. as he, uh, waited.

 

“The thing is, I didn't even know the guy.” Across from Thad, clothed in his by-now trademarked ducky pajamas, sat the Clueless Asshole, talking to anyone nearby who was foolish enough to listen. In this case, that included Thad, the secretary, and a large bullfrog that happened to amble into the room. The Clueless Asshole punctuated his sentence by slurping obscenely from a Styrofoam cup full of instant ramen, spraying loose droplets of spittle as he swallowed.

 

*Sluuuuuurp* “Anyway, so, there I am, between a rock and a hard place, and when I say that, I mean I was between two dicks. First off, I don't know how I even got there…” He paused, stirred his spoon around the inside of cup, “You know, why do the little carrot particles always sink to the bottom?” He shrugged off the question before upending the cup, drinking down the brownish broth like it was soda.

 

“So, the point of this story is, I'm never hiring that clown again for my little brother's birthday party.”

 

He took another long drink from the dingy cup before releasing a loud, hippo-like belch. Before standing up, he pulled his slouching pajamas pants back up around his doughy waist. The now empty cup was tossed into a near-by waste bin. He returned to his seat and scratched his groin haphazardly.

 

“So… You guys got any interesting stories?”

 

Thad bowed and covered his ears, hoping it would end. Jesus Christ, what was DJ doing in there that took so long?

 

Immediately after asking that question, he regretted his curiosity. The door to the far left opened, slowly creaking ajar, as if pushed by some supernatural force. Thad's nostrils perked up at the stench of necrotized flesh and animal manure that entered from the adjacent room.

 

Cover your eyes, dear God man, covered your eyes!, screamed a voice inside Thad's head. Sadly, he acted far too slowly to make any difference.

 

Exiting from DJ Silloc's office was a donkey, a good sized one of a rusty brown coloration. That alone would have been upsetting enough, but riding atop the beast of burden was the recently deceased body of a sixteen year old girl. The corpse barely wore the remnants of a Japanese school girl uniform. Her skin was a rough green brown color. Some of the skin around her face peeled back, like unstuck wall paper. An eyeball dangled from its socket and its fat, blue tongue dropped from the shattered jaw. Her once bright red but now faded hair was tied up in pigtails. The dead body laid against the animal's back, like, uh, a dead thing.

 

From inside the office, an all-too familiar voice called, “See you girls next week.” A sickened chuckled followed. The donkey shuffled out the door of the building and was never seen again.

 

Thad gulped again. Shit. He had to go in there. Thad was aware that he had kind of screwed his “friend” over last time they met. Especially since he had promised DJ that he would be receiving sweet oral affection from the object of his obsession, the fair Miss Rachel Merchawhitz, and Thad knew well that she didn't pay off on her end of the deal and never had any intention too. Should DJ hold some sort of resentment because of that, Thad might have to hobble out of that office on the bloody raw stumps that use to be his ankles.

 

He tried to remember the good times with DJ Silloc. The fun times, back before the dwarfed man's deviant nature became all too apparent. He recalled their first meeting. Thad had put a personal ad out for a sound editor and within a week, this strange, small, balding little thing appeared on his doorstep. Black char and scrap metal clung to it, and it was curled up in the fetal position, mumbling softly to itself. Thad took the poor pathetic thing in, cleaned it up, washed it, fed it. He put cloths on its back and let it sleep in front of the fire place. For several days, it didn't speak. That was, until Thad walked in on the thing that would be known as DJ Silloc masturbating. Without washing his hand first, DJ slapped him full in the face and screamed “Don't you ever knock, bitch?” Thad liked him immediately. Turns out he was a pretty good sound editor too.

 

In the present, Thad realized it was him that changed, not DJ. DJ has always been a near-psychotic hedonist of the most demented order. At some point along his metamorphosis, Thad had gone backwards on the evolutionary chart and lost his spine. At least, most of it anyway, except, perhaps, for the most primal inherent Neanderthal need for self-preservation.

 

“What the fuck is taking you Asians so goddamn long? Kayla, send in the next appointment! A draft is getting in here! Shit. Fuck!” Screamed a horse voice from within the confines of the office.

 

Thad wiped his shoes on the carpet and headed into the office. Once again, he prepared himself for the worse. Would the walls be dripping with human viscera?

 

Cautiously stepping forward, Thad wasn't faced with blood-and-guts painted walls. For a fact, the walls were coating free. The room was crowded with an assortment of boxes, crates, and miscellaneous stolen goods. Thad wasn't even certain that the room belonged to DJ Silloc until he glanced at the far right.

 

Behind a desk covered with a mess of strewn papers, animal hair, and various unidentified bodily fluids, sat the tiny twisted ball of humanity. There was no mistaking him. Even when clothed in a suit, DJ's inner nature was readily apparent. Maybe it was the Brad Dourif-esque mess of orange hair. Maybe it was the crazed look in his wide and red as tomatoes eyes or the way his yellow, jagged teeth gnashed together so viciously. Or perhaps it was because, at that very moment, DJ had just finished pulling a spent condom from his short, withered penis. It snapped away from his manhood with a rubbery, wet slapping noise before he tossed the used article haphazardly across the room. It plopped right in front of Thad's feet. He stared down at the spoiled piece of latex with only a sort of sad, disappointed expectedness. He wasn't even disgusted because it was so natural. Out of all the things DJ had flung at him over the years, a used condom certainly wasn't the worse.

 

The dwarf looked to him and smiled a twisted grin. He stood up and slid on his trademark pair of red-heart boxers. He removed a toothpick from a desk drawl and started to pick at odd, green flicks of meat wedged `tween his teeth.

 

“Isaac Thaddeus Gunter the Third! What a surprise.”

 

Thad navigated awkwardly around the brown cardboard boxes scattered around the room. He removed a greasy piece of paper from a chair before laying his ass down. He hoped to God nothing objectionable dwelt there.

 

“I'm glad you're doing so, uh, well, DJ. You're not pissed about what happened last time are you?”

 

He leaned back and propped both feet up on his desk, legs spread, giving Thad a full-on look at his not-quite-bulging crotch area, before crossing his arms behind his head,

 

“What, you mean that thing with Rachel? Nah, no damage, dawg.”

 

Confused, Thad asked, “Dog?”

 

DJ continued, ignoring the cry for understanding, “You know, it didn't take me long to figure out that Rachel wasn't the girl I thought she was. You know she smoked marijuana in high school? Marijuana, Thad! Can you believe that?”

“Uhh… How should I answer that?” Indeed, the wrong answer could lead to a ceramic angel collectable right in the face.

 

“Besides, her husband, Joe? Waaay hotter. I mean, once I taught him the secrets of auto-fellatio, we were tight. Tight like two penises in a porn star's asshole. Let me tell you, there was quite a bit of felatting going on between the two of us. Extreme fellatio, to the max.”

 

Thad felt the bile rising, “Uh, DJ?”

 

Despite the protest, DJ continued his tale, unabated.

 

“During the days we walked the boardwalk, hangs clasp tight together, skipping stones across the calm ocean waters, throwing food to the gulls and the homeless. And when the evening came, we'd retire to our hotel room and spend the nights entangled in each others limbs, embracing the sweet embrace of lovers.”

 

Thad grasp his hands around his own throat, attempting to hold back the wave of vomit that rose from deep within his digestive system. He gurgled, ready to spew.

 

And still… “And then, you know, I'd put my whole fist up his butt.”

 

The dam broke. Glorious emesis exploded forth from Thad's face-hole. Composed of green and yellow bile (The most mean-spirited of all biles) as well as the remains of the Superbird Thad had consumed the night before, the slop plopped onto DJ's desk, splattering stray droplets on DJ's face and the surrounding area. Coming like a might tidal wave, the vomitus quickly washed over the surface of the desk and flowed onto the ridiculously cheap drab grey carpeting.

 

As the tap ran dry, Thad gagged, spat up a little more, coughed a long stream of clear snot, before standing up, wiping his mouth with a near-by tissue and sitting back down, hand to forehead.

 

“Sorry about that. Uh, must have a bug or something.”

 

DJ swished his finger around in the puke, “No problem. I've been meaning to get that carpet replaced anyway.”

 

He leaned back again, putting his feet back up on the desk, dead center in the barf puddle. If his stomach wasn't complete empty, Thad probably would have thrown up more.

 

“So, what brings you here? Business or, heh, pleasure?”

 

Thad responded, quick to make sure no misunderstanding was made, “Business! Business! Sweet Jesus, its business!”

 

DJ's shoulder slumped and eyes faced downward, “Oh. I'm sad now.”

 

“I need to purchase an item you recently came in possession of.”

 

“Now what would that be?”

 

Thad wondered. How much information should he divulge? “Um, do the words Para-Deity Communiqué Apparatus mean anything to me?”

 

DJ wrinkled his all ready considerably wrinkled brow, “If you mean I understand what those words mean, then, yes, they mean something to me. If you mean, do I have something called that, then I'm afraid to report negative on that.”

 

Thad leaned forward. The feeling of nausea was replaced with one of befuddlement. “But I know you have it.”

 

DJ deviously, “Now how would know what I have in stock and what I don't have in stock, Mr. Gunter? You make it sound like you were sent here specifically to retrieve a stolen item.”

Jesus, Silloc was worse then Santa Claus. What didn't he know? Thad tried to be defensive.

 

“What if I am? What difference would it make?”

 

It was DJ's turn to lean forward, splashing his elbows into the still there vomit.

 

“You know my unique interests have me travelling in some out of the ordinary social circles. I am privy to information others can't even imagine. Hear me out, Thad. I didn't steal that satanic biker helmet from Renn-Tech because I thought it was pretty. You don't want them to keep their hands on that thing. It could lead to some seriously bad joo-joo.”

 

Thad knew these motives weren't altruistic, “Yeah, but what are the chances you'd sell that thing to someone any less sinister then Renn-Tech?”

 

“I all ready sold it, actually.”

 

Eaalhi was going to be pissed. “What? What do you mean you all ready sold it?”

 

“Don't worry. The owner returned it. Turns out the thing doesn't work. It's busted. The buyer was only interested in some exotic travel, far from the Earth shattering goals of your Eaalhi friend.”

 

“Travel? It's just a helmet. How can it help in travel?”

 

DJ chuckled, “You don't even know what it does, do you?”

 

“It's a fancy brain bucket! One that doesn't even work properly, apparently. What the hell is it supposes to do?”

DJ's lips were sealed. “You'll have to figure out that plot twist for yourself.”

 

Frustrated and still reeling from the intense vomiting, Thad decided to quiet with the witty banter and actually get the plot back on rails.

 

“So you'll let me have it?”

 

DJ sighed. “It'll cause trouble. Like, for the whole universe.”

 

Thad was aware of his employer's intentions. Or at least, he was aware that they were far from good. Renn-Tech certainly wasn't going to use the device to give sad little kids all over the country an adorable little puppy or kitten of their choice for Christmas. If Eaalhi's plans were as global as DJ made them sound, Thad could potentially be responsible for some horrible cataclysm.

 

But… Then he remembered that tape Eaalhi made him listen too. He recalled how desperate Helen's sweet little voice was. He briefly considered the ungodly things she must be going through. And then he considered holding her in his arms again, taking her away from all of that misery. He sighed. Damn it. Eaalhi had him wrapped around his finger, didn't he?

 

“Yeah, I want it.”

 

DJ shrugged, “Okay. Sure. Whatever. Not my universe. But I won't give it too ya' for free.”

“Oh, shit in a basket, DJ, I'm not going on some wacky goose chase for you again.”

 

“Are you sure? You look like you could use a wacky goose chase or two.”

 

“No. I assure you. I am all fed up with wacky goose chases. Please. The audience is impatient.”

 

DJ stood up, grumbled, “Fine. But you owe me your thumb. Both of them. No more Play Station for you.”

 

Thad eyed his thumbs. Well… He was more of a Nintendo guy anyway.

 

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Centralia was not exactly a warm town, this time of year. Unlike the other Centralia, Pennsylvania, this town didn't have an eternally burning coal fire beneath it and was actually prone to chilly spells. Rachel Merchawitz, formally Rachel Merchawitz-Doe, became aware of this as she stepped out of the pick-up truck she was supplied with for this job. It had been a while since she was around this area, especially during this time of year. She had dressed for the job, not for the weather. And though she looked extremely hot in a tight, buckle decorated black leather body suit, it didn't exactly provide for a lot of warmth.

 

Oh well. No time for bitching. Besides, she needed a blanket for the job anyway.

 

Rachel climbed into the bed of the truck and went to the steel suitcase placed there. In the dark, it wasn't exactly easy to find the lock, much less slide in the correct combination, but she managed. Unsnapping easily now that the pass code was activated, she lifted up the suitcase and peered inside. The sight filled the cockles of her heart with warmth. Oh yes, there were her babies.

 

She removed the smaller of the two first and tucked it into her belt. Not that “smaller” was really the right adjective. Compared to most types, it was still pretty impressive. Rachel was aware of the irony of a woman owning such an obvious symbol of American manhood but, fuck that sociology shit, she felt good when she held it. Besides, most men shat their pants at the sight of a loaded, fully ready to fire .357 Smith and Weston handgun. Thus, the name, etched on the side of the barrel, The Emasculator. Which was a little more subtle then Rachel's first choice, “Shit-Your-Pants-and-Prepare-to-Die-Quivering-in-a-Puddle-of-Your-Own -Urine-You-Misogynistic-Pig.”

 

That, sadly, if all things went according to the plan, wouldn't be needed for this job. Rachel instead prepared the other device kept within the suitcase. It was an act she'd seen done before in many movies. As expected, things were never as graceful or as cool looking in real life as in the cinema. It took Rachel quite a bit of practice to get the thing together without stumbling and dropping something. Indeed, a knick on the scope was still visible from the first time she attempted to snap all the pieces together and dropped it. She wasn't exactly an expert just yet but Rachel was getting pretty good at it. Like how the Planteers combine their powers to form Captain Planet, she had combined the stock, body, barrel, scope, and trigger to formed her signature sniper rifle, an entity she had bestowed, The Fag Cannon.

 

She grabbed up the blanket and threw it over the pick-up bed, making sure she was covered and not seen. Killing someone was gritty business and not something you really wanted people to catch you in the middle of, even though she was sure few people would object to her blowing away her target.

 

Shivering, laying down on the flat bed, Rachel made a mental note to her self as she set up her shot, sticking the barrel just out from under the blanket. Just fuck off the whole GI Joe/ Baroness look. She was wearing a sweater next time.

 

She focused the scope and looked through. As if by teleportation, she easily saw across the parking lot and road between her and the target. Yes, it was almost like she was right there in the building's lobby. Now all she had to do was wait for a clear shot.

 

She clearly saw the other occupants of the room. The Clueless Asshole in his ducky pajamas, the preoccupied secretary with her horn-rimmed glasses. And stepping out of his office now, there was the little fucker. DJ Silloc, the son of a bitch himself. Not that Rachel really needed a reason to want to kill DJ Silloc, but when the strange man from the soft wear company showed her those pictures of what Silloc had done to that little girl, the deal was sealed. Her first, and possibly last, Rachel hadn't decided yet, target as a professional assassin was going to be that sick little piece of shit.

 

But... Wait? What was he doing there?

 

Whispering to herself, “Fuck. Thad, what have you gotten yourself into now?”

 

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DJ pushed open his door and led Thad back into the lobby. The sound that reached his ear first made him want to go back into the office. Which meant something once you considered all the vomit floating around in there.

 

“People tell me my humor is scatological. When I hear that, I could be honest and tell them I don't know what that word means. But usually I just flick them off and tell them to eat my green Jell-o from Bill Cosby shit.”

 

Once again the Clueless Asshole was assailing Thad's ears. He started to message his forehead. Jesus, Silloc and the Clueless Asshole in the same day? It was almost more then he could handle.

 

You knew it was a bad day when DJ Silloc's voice was relieving. “All right, I've got the thing right over here in the closet in a box.”

 

Thad just wanted to talk, “What kind of a box?”

“A brown cardboard one. Was that stupid question necessary?”

 

“Probably not.” He continued to rub but the pain would not cease.

 

Neither would the Clueless Asshole's chatter. “And then I yelled at the kid, “Put the cookie down NOW!” He started to laugh uncontrollably. “Just like… Haha… In that movie… Hehehehe… You know… Right? Heh.”

 

Thad focused all of his attention ahead on the closet. DJ searched through the piles of boxes, his ass cheeks sneaking out of the top of his boxer.

 

Not really wanting to look at that any longer then he had too, Thad decided to avert his eyes to elsewhere in the room. He glanced out the window of the building and could have sworn he noticed something. An epigrammatic flash of light, refraction off a reflective surface. It was the sort of thing that Thad was familiar with from his days as a documentary filmmaker in the rough street of war torn Massachusetts. Usually when you caught a brief glimpse of white light, it meant your head was about to be blown off. The scope of a sniper rifle.

 

DJ presented Thad with the aforementioned brown cardboard box. He pulled back the flaps and, like Sub-Zero yanking the spine from Liu Kang's neck, heaved the Para-Deity Communiqué Apparatus from the pond of green and white packing peanuts.

 

“Here's the doo-whachamacallit-thingy you asked for. Now take it and fuck off.”

 

Thad only barely heard DJ's statement. Everything seemed to slow down for him. In the distance, he could hear the pulling of a trigger, the faint inner explosion of a charge, and the bullet being launch from the chamber into the night air.

 

Even the endless banter of the Clueless Asshole slowed to a crawl. “Annnywaay, whaaat I meaaan is, I thinnnk Uwe Boooooll is oooone of the mooost underraaaatedd directoooors of ourrrr aaaage.”

 

Thad lunged forward, pushed his hands out, colliding with DJ Silloc's forehead. The dwarf groaned in slow-mo and grabbed his forehead, swearing extensively before falling to the floor against the weight of Thad's body.

 

Events caught up. The glass of the window shatter as the single bullet snipped through its surface and into the lobby. The tiny piece of lead sail right over Thad and DJ, blasted into a leg of an empty chair, ricocheted up towards the sky before busting a sprinkler. The fire safety system clicked on and started to rain down on the room while the bullet continued to whizz, occasionally colliding with a stray droplet of water. The magic bullet smashed into a clock, backtracked, flew right past the secretary's left ear lobe, hit the file cabinet, headed back towards the ceiling, damaged another sprinkler facet, before traveling to its final destination.

 

The Clueless Asshole, clueless as always, continued, “What-what-what? What was the noise? Was it a manatee? It was a manatee wasn't it? You know, I have an interesting anecdote about…”

 

Before the bullet bored itself right between his eyes and the bridge of his noise, bashing through the skull bone, tearing through the small amount of brains the Clueless Asshole was granted, before exiting his head from the opposite side, taking with it blood, miscellaneous brain matter, and several large pieces of skull shrapnel. The bullet, now a spent ball of lead, spiraled through the air, finally rendered harmless.

 

The Clueless Asshole belched, crossed his eyes, and slumped out of his chair to the floor, the back of his head now closely resembling a bowl of cheese dip, instead of just being metaphorically like a bowl of cheese dip.

 

DJ struggled underneath Thad's body. “Jesus, Thad, if you wanted a piece of this you could have just said something. No need to tackle me.”

 

Thad had no time for the homophobically humorous aside. He looked at the now Dead Clueless Asshole before snapping his neck around to stare out the now broken window.

 

“DJ, somebody just tried to kill you.”

 

“Really? Must be Monday.”

 

Like a flipped crab, DJ arched his arms and legs up, the bones cracking loudly, and crawled backwards, his back still hugging the ground. He scurried over to the near by closet and plunged his hand into the boxes, tearing through the cardboard as if it was wet, uh, cardboard.

 

Packing peanuts tossing into the air, DJ sprang back to his feet, a high-tech pistol resembling a Nintendo Zapper but with a laser bayonet, now in his mitts. He pulled back the chamber, his thumb rubbing against the inscribed name, The Xtro-3000, before walking to the window and shooting wildly, without aim.

 

“Who wants a piece of me? Come on out, fuck-sticks! I've got a bullet with your asshole's name on it, you fuck-douche! Blow my carcass, wank stain! Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles- style, motherfuckers!”

 

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Silloc's bullets shot around Rachel, never hitting but coming close enough to make her nervous.

 

“Goddamn it,” she muttered, “Why did you have to become involved in this, Thad?”

 

She kicked off the blanket, held the rifle close to her chest, and jumped out of the truck's bed. Her boots clapped against the concrete and continued to clap as she ran as quickly as possible. More and more bullets continue to fire over the truck. The red painted chrome was soon swish-cheesed as DJ shot recklessly at the vehicle. Rachel glanced back at the truck as the bullets penetrated it. Damn it. What was she going to tell the guy at the rental place when he saw that?

 

As long as Silloc continue to go nuts like, well, DJ Silloc, there was no chance she was going to get a shot off. No, Rachel thought, as she snuck over to the side of the building, she was going to have to be a little more subtle about that. Subtlety was something she had over DJ, since he wasn't equipped with, you know, any of it.

 

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Thad pressed his palms to his ears. Silloc's finger wrapped around the trigger and pressed down again, for what must have been the hundredth time, and another loud shot rang out. To accompany this constant cacophony was DJ's unending barrage of incoherent vulgarities, making the cacophony all the more cacophony-ier.

 

“Shitting-grab cunt-smacker, I'm going irrigate your colon, splint fucker! Child molesting pimp-snob! Douche-crap! You fuck cows in retrospect, dick-lick! Taste my juicy lead ejaculate of doom, pap-smear!”

 

“Sweat mother of Moses, DJ, give it a rest!” Thad pleaded.

 

DJ looked away from his target but continued to fire aimlessly. He didn't care the slightest when a stray bullet incinerated a passing opossum that had been up the entire previous night eating garbage. If you don't cry for it, no one will.

 

“What? No! I'm not going to stop firing until that truck goes up like any prop in a Michael Bay movie! Or until I run out of bullets, which ever happen first. I take attempts on my life very seriously.”

 

Thad decided to smack some logic into the proceedings. “That may very well be true, but let's be honest, you just want an excuse to shot at a truck until it explodes.”

 

DJ whooped in joy, “Hells yeah! I want to shot at anything until it explodes! Who doesn't?”

 

The trigger was pressed once again but instead an eruption of metal and ash, the gun instead hollowly clicked. The chamber was, finally, empty.

 

The beady, blow-shot eyes of the High Reaper of Rhyme looked to his shiny new dispenser of death and then to the decidedly unexploded truck. The gun clicked several more times in futility. DJ lowered the weapon and his head in dismay.

 

“Oh man. I bet I was close to an explosion too.”

 

Relieved that the shooting was over for now, Thad stepped over to his so-called friend.

“DJ, we have to get out of here. The person who tried to kill you is probably still out there.”

 

DJ's tiny little fist of fury grabbed his friend's testicles through the fabric of his pants and twisted. Thad yelped, his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, squirming.

 

“Why the fuck would I want to leave? This is my property, Thad! I'm only one payment away from ownership! No dirty little thug is going to force me out of my home, Isaac! A man needs a home, damn it!”

 

Getting back to his shaky knees, Thad decided the game was up. Enough with the bullshit all ready. He was sick of DJ's nonsense. He was taking his Para-Deity Communiqué Apparatus and going elsewhere. Let the dwarf deal with his own damn sniper.

 

He snatched the helmet from the floor. “You know what, DJ? I'm leaving. You're obviously more then capable of dealing with things yourself.”

 

“Actually, technically, I'm out of bullets now, you know.”

 

Summoning up his best Clint Eastwood brogue, Thad intoned, “I don't care about your friggin' bullets.” And started to strut to the door.

 

From behind, DJ's snide voice ushered a snide response. “Oh come, Thad. Eastwood would never say friggin'.”

 

Thad searched his mind for the best possible come-back. DJ was right of course. In all his long history as a studio stock player, as the Man with No Name, as Dirty Harry, as second fiddle to a prankish orangutan, and as an Oscar winning director, Eastwood had never, and probably never would, utter the phrase “Friggin'.” Ultimately, Thad realized, he was so right, that no possible come-back could make up for Thad's lack of foresight. Instead, he decided to do the mature thing.

 

He flipped around on his heel, extended his index finger, pulled down his right eyelid, and stuck his tongue out.

 

DJ mumbled under his breath, “Donkey shit.”

 

Thad was disappointed to discovered that the swear wasn't do to his brilliant retort. Standing just outside of the window, a high-power sniper rifle pointing directly into DJ's face, was an honestly attractive young woman. She was probably model material in a girl-next-door sort of way. Her body was lean but not overly toned, she had nice long legs and, to put it bluntly, an ass that just wouldn't quick. And the tight black leather body suit she was wearing certainly didn't leave anything to the imagination in that department. Her short light red hair and dark-rimmed glasses focused the attention on the most attractive feature, her face. Her high cheekbones, almost Asian angles, mischievous grin, clear brown eyes… If it wasn't for the big ass gun, the appropriately entitled Fag Cannon, most dudes would probably want to take her out for a date, treat her nicely, bring her home to Mom.

 

Rachel Merchawitz. So we met again. But what the hell was up with the gun?

 

“Rachel! What on Earth are you doing?”

 

She never took her eyes off of DJ and never took her finger off the trigger. “What do you think I'm doing? I'm going to waste this sick son of a bitch.”

 

Thad approach slowly. He didn't want blood on anybody's hands.

 

“Come on, Rachel, I know DJ is a despicable human being but, jeez, are you sure you really want to kill him?”

 

He saw a flash in her eyes, momentarily. She did indeed have doubts. However, it was gone soon, brushed away and replaced with a superficial brashness.

 

“Listen Thad, you don't know this guy like I do. He's a bastard, a real fucking bastard, and, out of all the lousy people I know, deserves to have his brains splattered against the wall more then any of them.”

 

DJ piped up, “I don't appreciate the way you two are talking about me like I'm not here.”

 

Rachel flicked a switch, the blaster hummed, and a tiny red dot appeared on his forehead.

 

“One more word out of your stinking mouth…”

 

Thad crept over to her, hoping to God she wouldn't notice and see fit to point that thing at him.

 

“Rachel, this isn't like you. Who put you up to this? Where'd you get that scary ass gun?”

 

She glanced briefly at him but still held the rifle close to her. “Okay, I'll admit, I'm getting paid by a very nice software company out of LA that, for whatever reason, wants to put this son of a bitch in the ground. And, hey, I was more then willing to help.”

 

Wait… did she just…? “Software company? It wouldn't happen to be called Renn-Tech, would it?”

 

She relaxed her posture never so slightly, “Yeah, I think that was it.”

 

Oh crap. This was all part of Eaalhi's plan, wasn't it? What reason would he have to involve Rachel in his sordid affairs?

 

“Listen, put down the gun. We've got to talk about this. Renn-Tech are bad people.”

 

She would have spoken, said something about how Silloc was also “bad people,” but the short reprieve she gave to talk to Thad was enough of an opening. DJ used his gremlin like ways to scamper over to those nice legs and lounge into them, scratched at the suit and chewed on her kneecaps like a rabid raccoon.

 

Rachel tumbled backwards, falling like a downed tree. The deranged dwarf jumped up and sat on her chest, as if he was a friendly pet hamster. He then reminded the world who he was by latching his grubby hands onto her breasts and feeling them up, demanding an erect nipple or two. (Or three. Hey, DJ would be down with that.)

 

The rifle slipped from her hands and roughly slammed into the ground. The barrel discharged and an armor-piercing round was hurled through the air in the general direction of Rachel's all-ready shot to shit rental truck.

 

It was the final straw, just enough needed. The insides of the vehicle were transformed into an orange/yellow/red haze of heat, smoke, and fire. The force and temperature was too much and the fiery innards were violently project from the shell of the vehicle. Soon, something else within the truck gave and from the bottom erupted another blazing hell storm. The means of transportation rocketed high into the air, projected by a pillarly inferno. Flung to maximum heights by the sudden upsurge, the extra crispy truck then exploded one last time, a topper to the tower of flames. Burning black shrapnel rained down on the fencing organization. The blaze quickly dissipated, its fuel used up, but a few spare plumes of fire clung to the place where the truck once rested. That parking lot was fucked, holms.

 

DJ Silloc groaned disappointedly, “Awwww, I wanted to blow up the truck!”

 

Giving even more credence to his supposed rodent origins, he scurried forth with all the nervous speed of a vermin and grabbed up the Fag Cannon before Rachel had a chance too. He brandished the high-powered rifle like a club.

 

“Now I'm really going to hurt you, honey-pie!”

 

“In you're fucking dreams!” Her hands where on the gun and attempting to wrestle it from DJ's greasy little pits.

 

He rammed down and smashed her in the chest with the butt. (As opposed to smashing her in the butt with his chest, something DJ probably would have liked to do.) He shook a naughty finger at her.

 

“Nah-nah-nah,” spoken like a patronizing mother. “I've got the penis and the gun. I make the rules. There will be no more attempts to shoot me unless I give explicit written permission to do so.”

 

He crawled off of her body, making sure to “accidently” sweep his hand over her inner thigh. He pointed the gun at her and grinned the kind of grin that earns people the description of “a little bastard.”

 

“Now get up, hot stuff.”

 

She did as she was told, despite resenting every minute of it.

 

DJ motioned to Thad. “Thad, you to, get over here.”

 

Thad wasn't sure he wanted to do that. “Now, DJ, come on, I haven't tried to kill you in at least six years.”

 

The insanity burned in his eyes, “Fucking do it, Thad! I know you're prone to random acts of heroics! I don't want your Lash La Rue side to get out of hand and try to save the day and all that shit. I think we'd all feel a lot more comfortable if you were under the barrel, too. So get your sexy ass over here.”

 

Thad groaned and marched obediently next to Rachel. Sure seemed like he was doing a lot of things against his will these days.

 

DJ motioned the Fag Cannon at both of them. “Okay, kiddies, let's go for a ride.”

 

Thad mutter to his partner in bondage. “I'm really sorry.”

 

She jabbed him in the ribs, “This is completely your fault.”

 

The two began to march out of the building, urged on by DJ taking turns poking either of them in the ass with the barrel of the gun.

 

Just before exiting, a tiny voice squeaked up out of the chaos. From behind the front desk, a retro-haired, horn glasses sporting teenager poked her head over the edge of the desk.

 

“Um, boss, is it okay for me to leave?”

 

“Oh, yeah, sure thing Kayla. Take the rest of the day off.”

 

“Sweet!”

 

Kayla the secretary grabbed up her purse and quickly shot out of the building, leaving a small cartoonish trail of white smoke behind her, her high heels tapping distinctly against the concrete.

 

Thad couldn't help but ask, “How much are you paying that poor girl?”

 

Silloc jabbed Thad's posterior again, “Enough. Now get going Lil' Bitch.”

 

----

 

A shiver of dread crept up the Author's spine. It was inexplicable. For the first time in what must have been days, he peeled his eyes away from the computer screen. What day was it? What was the time? How long had he been writing? The gurgling sounds of hunger from inside his torso meant he obviously hadn't eaten in some time. He looks to his hands. The tips of his fingers were bloodied. His overgrown fingernails where forced down into the flesh and the skin peeled back in several spots. Some extreme typing had been going on down here.

 

His eyes drifted to the corner of the computer screen. It wasn't the last minute. The latest chapter of “Thad” wasn't due for a week. Something had obviously come over him. He hadn't even taken the time to get dressed. For what had been at least several days, the Author sat at his computer in pitch black, completely nude, writing undisturbed.

 

And something was coming over him again. He stood up, several particles of skin coming off against the leather of his chair. His headache grew more severe and the Author rubbed his temples. Whatever force had caused him to sit down and work continuously on his serial for two months was now drawling him towards another goal.

 

He went to the shelf of vintage “Battle Star Galactica” action figures and pushed them aside. It wasn't typical behavior. He had used up all of his milk money getting them off of eBay and they were always helpful whenever he had to prove to some noob how much the new BSG sucked. (“When they a robot dog, fucking come talk to me, okay?!”) However, that was about as important now to the Author as it was most normal people.

 

He violently yanked the shelf from its space in the wall. Hefting the piece of particle board over his shoulder, he stuck his hand between the mattress and bedsprings of his sleeping pod. The numerous stuff animals on top were jostled as he searched only by sense of feeling for his required tools. No, it wasn't a FleshLight, a crack pipe, or that staple gun marked “IN CASE OF SUICIDAL TENDENCIES,” it was a hammer and a box of nails.

 

Going to work like somebody without any experience at all, the Author placed the particle board over his window and began to pound nails into his soft material. The shelf obviously wasn't going to be enough. The furniture would have to go next. That was just a minor trifle at this point. Something had risen inside of the man-boy. He knew now that whatever was out there in the real world, or whatever was going to be out there in the real world very soon, would have to stay out. If it meant sacrificing some more mint-condition action figures, then so be it.

 

The shit had officially hit the fan.

 

TO BE CONTINUED!!!