Tales of an Intergalactic Spy

When some thug points a gun at you, you really don’t have a whole lot of choices. Fortunately, reflexes don’t require you to make a choice.
The Genovian lifted his left arm from his holster and heft it up with one arm, extending his arm fully at me as he pulled the trigger.
Just a bit quicker, I hopped over the table, hoping it to be sturdy enough to deflect a DeathRae 4000. Barely clearing the glass top, I heard the sizzle of a released charge, a charge deadly enough to bring down a Harlexian Elephant. Following the burning path with my eyes through the titanium alloy wall, I realized I needed a new plan. Unfortunately, this plan would have to do without a gun; good tip for you: always check your catridge before you need it.
“Surrender, fool!” he yelled out. “You have no chance against this!” tapping his nail against the casing of his DeathRae. Good model, shame to be wasted on such a low-life.
“Alright, you got me. I’ve taken quite a few gambles in my life, but this one doesn’t quite have the same odds as the others,” I responded, raising my hands and popping up to face him. I was right; the odds were much better this time.
I walked slowly towards him, hands still up, though it did nothing to ease him.
“Stay back,” he said, shuffling back, “if you know what’s good for you.” See how easy it is to gain the upper hand?
In a flash, I had him disarmed and back against the wall, a nifty trick from Phar. He recovered quickly enough, raising his fists, ready for a fight. I’ll admit, I’m no brawler, but I can handle myself. He faked left, right, left, right, and over and over, though it didn’t matter. I knew which was coming.
I threw my right hand up for the early block, then allowing my knee to teach him a cheaper alternative to a vasectomy. The fight wasn’t quite fair, I’ll admit, but I don’t fight fair. Besides, he should have aimed his gun with both hands.

Tis Hee-ya

Well, I’ve managed to moan in multiple entries b4 this of the impending school year, and it is now officially upon us. Everyone is doing last summer reading cramming, and band has absorbed me. Yup, same as the last 2 years…
Well, last Sunday was my birthday, if you didn’t know(and Thanks). Felt like pretty much ‘ne other day, not really feeling the “sweet 16″ness of it. Other than getting an ultimate frisbee from my sister. It was funny; it came with a “how-to” DVD, which I laughed over for about 1/2 hr until I realized I was slowly dying as I watched it. In ‘ne case, my family went over to Sweet Tomatoes for lunch, my positively most favorite restaurant ’round these parts.
After that, I went to Jane’s party in the evening, where I had a pleasant time catching up a bit with a couple past graduates, like Johnson and Tyler and the Corbetts. One thing I did notice however was how much easier it was to hang with them. The day before, at the DI party, I just kind of wandered around, and I realized that I really don’t have that strong of connections to ‘ne of them in particular. I talk to the likes of Chief or Fairley or whoever from time to time, but… well. Yeah. ‘Neways, so I had a great time talk to ppl, jumping on Chris’s back as he played DDR, you know, just the usual.

Morning after, the end of summer finally came as I stepped onto the marching field.
Over the past week, I’ve been very impressed with how quickly we’ve developed. We learned and covered our basics really quickly, and the music sounds a lot better as well. The band is humongous, but I think we’ve made it work. To a certain extent.
The tuba section has come a bit, but we’ve still got a lot of work. We sounded really wimpy that first day, but after we did a 10 min blasting excercise after sectionals on monday and really got the air going when we started stands tunes, we’ve got sound handled. Well, some of us. So far, the section has been severely dominated by a minority. Right now, I think we could have a section half the size and still create about the same sound and size of sound as we do now, and probably march better overall. But I guess it’s my job as a DI to fix that, and I definitely see it as acheivable. Yeah, about being DI…
It’s been interesting, to say the least. I mean, last year, I was marching as one of, and probably lower than, the other guys, having played the instrument for only 1/2 a year and never marching it. The section being so small, we’re all buddies, and now that I’m DI… it’s awkward. Everytime I give a command, whether it be calling out “Up tubas” after a break, or praising them “Good job guys” after a box drill, or deriding them with “*insert name*, cut it“, it’s weird; outside of the field, I’m one of them. Just a peer. I always seem to expect that they’re not going to listen, and I can understand why, but they do. Usually. I cut them slack, joke around with them, and so on, but when it’s business, it’s business. Whenever I’m standing in front of them, clapping or yelling, it’s like something comes over me and bolsters me, but I guess that’s part of being a leader. I’d like to think I’m doing a good job; as far as I know, the section is doing well marching and competently playing. And I think they still like me. It’s a rowdy bunch though.
Johnson kept a really clean section last year. No cursing, no dirty jokes around him, not much screwing around, on or off the field. It was a great way to run the section, and I think Johnson had a good calming aura around him that settled us down, but the section’s a lot different this year. Last year, only Johnson, Tim, and Reuel really knew each other, as I had just switched over, Lee had just moved in, and the fish were… fish. But now we know each other really well, it’s been interesting.
As just a peer of them, I don’t feel it necessary to control them completely. It’s a rowdy bunch. From breaks to warmups to instructions, there’s always a dirty joke going around.*shrugs* Not my place to fight it. So what if they throw a bad word around or giggle over something Janda says? No point in fighting it; it’s almost their nature, and they’re having fun. Very quickly, however, the tuba section has changed to what I feel is restoring a lot of what it means to be the “section to be in”. Before I came, trombones had it hands down, from Blake C. to Peter to Matt and Matt, though when they left, all they really had left was Kevin Ewen, and for the past two, it’s been the trumpets headed up by Chris and Jeff, though I think it’s time the tubas ascended to their former glory. I won’t be the one to do it though; as far as I’m concerned, we’re not going in the middle of the night to claim the tower or making a fire on the top of the garage just to put it out with juice and pee, but if that’s the other guys’ perogative, I’m not going to fight it. The section is hilarious though. I was surprised only we were laughing when Janda said, “Have a floppy one; don’t carry a hard and heavy one”.(talking about the drill binder, of course).
Oh, and our olympic game with the bass clarinets is going to rock.

Well, after a week of band, I was tired, but last night was the Fortuna’s moving party, so seeing as the family was invited, I went. Had a good time hearing how Alex wants to ask Michael to HC, and how Shoshank and Kyle got high from 2nd hand pot. Watched Neville bust a move on the DDR pads, probably the funniest thing I’ve seen in years, and stayed until about 1 just hanging out. I was really hungry though; hadn’t eaten since lunch, and all they had were snacks. I know, it was sad.

Not Quite What He Wanted

You know how there’s always that story of the final mission?
That came too early.
My cry for help came too late; apparently someone was a little trigger happy.
The last thing I heard was, “Looks like we have another case of ‘swiss cheese’.”
But then again, if I’m dead, how am I recollecting this story?
Beats me. Ask the author.

(Author’s Note: I wasn’t too sure where this was going in the first place, but I soon realized it was nowhere. In ‘ne case, I’ll have a fresh adventure with a new lead soon.)

Breaking… In or Out?

Imagine being on a summer vacation in the Bahamas, the warm rays of sunshine engulfing you in its blinding glory, listening to the gentle sloshing of the tides against the beach, that has the smoothest sand in all the Caribbean, endless miles of clear water all around you, alone on your own private island.
This mission was nothing like that.
After bumping my head against the low air duct ceiling for the 5th time, I let out a silent curse, wondering why Jake always insisted on doing things the hard way.
“Dammit, Jake, they don’t have a front door for nothing!” I vehemently spat at him, intent on digging in the most guilt with every word.
“I’m sorry Dixon, but it simply isn’t in our best interests to make our presence known. Now we quiet, or we might be caught,” he whispered fiercly back at me.
I cursed again, for there were now oil stains in my best blazer that would never come out. Such is the life of a private investigator.
We continued in the air duct, taking several lefts when I felt right was right, and often taking rights I thought were wrong. After endless passages and several more bruises, Jake turned and smiled, apparently successful at finding our way to our destination. He quickly popped the grate out while we silently dropped into the dark room. I stood and waited, hoping that Jake knew where the light switch was.
“You know, why is it that the room you always need to get to always has an easy back door in it? It’s just ridiculous how easy things are; it’s almost as if they wanted us to just stroll right in,” I commented, a growing sense of pride at our apparent competence in making such a difficult assignment easy.
“Yes, it would seem that way, wouldn’t it?” responded a distinctly unfamiliar voice, to which I soon attributed to an unfamiliar face as the lights overwhelmed the darkness. “Now, you’ve met your end. Men, kill them,” the man ordered, and I look around to see several thugs who seemed very eager to let their index finger speak for them.
“I think we should fight,” Jake muttered to me.
“If by fight, you mean pull out a random device that has been alluded to by our mastermind toy maker earlier in the story and escape in a spectular manner, I agree,” I retorted.
“By fight, I meant something more like praying to every god you know that their weapon providers accidently filled their ammo boxes with blanks. Either that, or their aim sucks and they shoot each other instead.”
“I think we’ll just go classic,” I finished. I heard percussive clicks come from each gun as our doom moved into the barrel. I anxiously waited for the last moment, feeling the exact second before their trigger appendages tensed, and yelled, “Wait!”

Twists… are Best Saved for a Rope

Well, luck is fickle, but I just seem to always grab it at the right time.
“Well, that’s one bridge that I’ve crossed while burning,” Jake Rawlins muttered. “How you doing, Dixon?”
“Oh, you know, not so bad, just the usual, murder attempts, torture, etc. Hey, you mind undoing these bindings?” I casually requested of him.
“Oh, ya, sure,” he responded, putting his gun back in his holster, sweeping a couple blond locks back, then working on the rope behind me.
Within a minute, he had undone all of it, and we immediately began to plan.
“So, when you got me in here, did you have a plan for getting me out?”(‘neone catch the quote? Comment the source) I asked, rubbing my wrists, then checking to see what equipment they had stripped from me.
“Well, I know the guards on this hallway are knocked out from some ‘special’ whiskey I gave them, though past that, I don’t think there are any major obstacles. What are you doing down here, anyways?” he inquired. So he was bluffing before…
“A Mrs. Betty Belle came to my door, looking for some cover when she was killed in my office. Went down to Pops, and he pointed me in this direction,” I explained.
A ghastly look came over Rawlins when I turned to look, and his eyes widened. Apparently something was wrong.
“Did, did, did, you… say Betty Belle?” he repeated, blinking hard as though to rid it of his mind.
“Uh, yeah, didjya know her?”
Color seemed to return to his face as he eased slightly, wiping his sweat with a hankerchief.
“We need to break into Captain’s office. Now.” He held his voice carefully, making sure to enunciate every word precisely.
“Why is that?” I asked him, wondering why it was so neccesary to take such a big risk.
“Because there’s no way she could be dead in your office if she’s locked in the Captain’s.”

Strange Places

Waking up in a strange room with menacing men holding weapons no longer scared me. Or even surprised me. I’d been through this hundreds of times, and my survival is a testament to some ridiculous fortune.
Perturbed that my hat and coat had been removed, I also noticed my gun gone, along with my keys, wallet, and rubber duck. I tried to move, but found all limbs tied to the chair, and the chair seemed quite stable.
“Stop moving, or the boss says we can make a hit,” one of the men behind him said.
“Make a hit, you say? Hehe, well, my good friend Ricky has made a couple hits too, like “Fly me to the Random Space Junk” and “Come Soar with Me”, hehe,” I replied nervously. Humor always loosened up tense situations. It also loosened up restraint.
“Think you’re so funny, eh?” Darn Canadian hitmen(W00T!!). “Well, why don’t you tell your joke to Mr. Louisville Slugger?” His arm cocked back when a door I couldn’t see creaked open. His arm relaxed as another voice, much smoother, came across to me.
“Mr. Dills, I’m surprised to see you back again so early,” the man said as he closed the door behind him. “Does it not seem like just yesterday that you made a similar visit, under similar circumstances?”
“Perhaps,” I responded neutrally. Advice: don’t let anything on in an interrogation room.
“Ah, well I’m sure you know best. Of course, I actually know why you’re here this time,” he hinted.
“Oh, do you? Mind letting me in on that, I think I’ve forgotten.” I always chuckle in my mind after lines like that.
“Yes, I believe it was because of something like this,” he finished, pulling out his gun and cocking it.
Some people pray at moments like this. I just use my psychic powers to deflect the bullets.
Not really.
“See you in Hell, Mr. Rawlins,” I responded cheerfully, knowing all the little offenses would’ve stacked up against me.
“To be sure,” he responded, swinging his gun around and popping each of the thugs in the forehead.


Yeah. Because that one happens a lot.

Trouble’s Not Just for the Customers

He quietly opened the door to the “Bunny Cradle”, attempting to make as little disturbance as possible. The smoke filed his nasal cavity, blessing him with the smell of cigarettes instead of the B.O. of many unshowered men. Pool balls knocked together, mugs were clunked around, and music played above all other sounds. Wondering what he would find here, Dixon sauntered over to the bar, taking a seat isolated from the others.
“What can I get for ya?” the bartender called over his shoulder while cleaning out one of the mugs.
“Prune juice. Warm, not chilled,” he responded smuggly.
The bartender stopped for a moment, then turned toward him, embers burning in his eyes. “How dare you bring your sorry butt in here and order something like that! You come to an honorable estab-“
CRACK, cried the baseball bat as it collided with the back of an unsuspecting man’s head, ensuing into another bar fight.
The bartender paused again. “Okay, whatever, need to get rid of it ‘neways,” he finished, moving into the stockroom to grab the unopened crate.
“Mr. Dills, I’m surprised to see you back here again,” called out a familiar voice from behind him.
Dixon turned as Mr. Knuckles greeted him as well.

Down by the Water

“Ah, Mr. Jones,” Dixon replied curtly as the men around him moved closer, bats in hand. “I would greatly prefer it if you removed the mask,” he continued, gesturing to the tall man’s face.
“Ah, yes, about that,” he returned, slowly pulling it off. “So when are you planning on joining the community baseball team? I’ve been waiting for a reply for awhile.”
“I’m on a case right now, so I’ll have to give you a rain-check. Sorry about it.”
They slowly began walking down the street, chatting about news and such. Fortunately, a team of baseball players with bats in hand was enough to keep the thieves and muggers away.
“Well, as much as I’ve enjoyed this,” Dixon said later, “I really need to figure this case out. I’ll call you when I have time.”
The tall man nodded, and Dixon took the nearest cab to head down to the docks.

The docks were a savage place for only the toughest of men, bravest of all, and darkest of skin(sorry). For as dangerous as the streets of Webster were, no law enforcement officer dared go near the docks. A hive of corruption and danger, the docks held almost every major crime organization in town. Along with the only “Sears”.
The sun had not set, but the roads seemed dark regardless. The smell of the ocean, the cries of the seagulls, and the taste of garbage around gave the greatest warning any could need to stay away, but Dixon was unafraid.
He had his membership card in his pocket.
“Yo, whachu trying to pull?” said a random gang member as Dixon walked up.
“I’ve got my card in my pocket,” he quickly responded, pulling it out and showing him.
The man inspected it carefully in his grimy hands. “Looks alright to me. But you better watch yourself,” he hinted, lowering his voice. “The Blue Clams are looking to start trouble. I’d stay in Vaseline Razer town, if I were you.”
“Do you know where I can find the nearest Bar on 5th street? I’m actually kind of thirsty,” he asked offhandedly.
“Bunny Cradle. Can’t miss it,” he responded. Dixon gave him a quick nod and headed in that direction, not noticing those in his shadow.

A Stroll to Papa’s Place

A good afternoon is not having a dead broad on your office floor.
Today was not a good afternoon.
One of the secretaries came rushing in, a horror covering her face.
“Oh my stars!” she exclaimed, hand over mouth, eyes as wide as a whale.
“Yeah, that stain’ll be a pain to remove from the carpet,” I responded, checking to see how deep the blood had stained.
The secretary ran back out, which I had hoped was to call the cops. I needed answers.
And stain remover.
I checked and found the bullet wound just above her left temple, piercing straight into her brain. I shook my head, disappointed at another lost life at my hands. I searched her, looking for any clues to her existance, but she had no identification, nothing that could tell me anything. I knew there had to be a lead, something that could tell me something and lead me from this mysterious enigma before me. I checked her pockets once more, then again, hoping that I had missed that important clue, and that it still lay there.
“The police are coming,” the secretary told me, poking her head just past the doorframe. Glancing in her direction, I gave her a quick nod, and she disappeared back to where she came from.
No good mystery starts without a lead. Then again, maybe my lead was waiting for me somewhere else.
After the cops had arrived, after I had cleared up the situation, after I had cleaned up my carpet, I took my coat and went for a walk.

The Webster streets are a dangerous place, a poorly kept part of town. Slums exist in every doorway, crime runs rampant in the alleys, and no one who lives here doesn’t have a story to tell. The disorganized streets are a haven for those who wish to disappear and make a living without one.
I knew one man who might help me, one man who had all the answers, one man who just might give me that lead.
I walked into the bakery, inhaling the aroma of “Papa’s Bread”. I catiously walked over to the counter, checking for spies, yet trying to maintain my facade.
“Daniel, finish the baguettes right away! I cannot afford to lose my top customer just because someone sneezed in the first batch and had to start over!”
I chuckled at the menacing voice coming from the back, a deep Italian accent for a large man. I stood at the counter, awaiting his return.
“Ah, Dixon, my top customer,” he spewed, sauntering back over to the counter. “What can I get for you today?”
“Ah, Mr. Papa,” I started, iniating the code sequence. His countenance suddenly changed as he glanced at all the tables, then resuming his act, picking up a glass to clean.
“How are the chickens, Mr. Dills?” he responded, quickly picking up the lingo.
“They are just fine, but my third hen lay a broken egg this morning. I was wondering if you could stop it from happening again,” I quickly responded. You don’t get sent to four years at detective schools to not know this stuff.
“Well, what name does this hen go by? I hear that the name is important.”
“She is Betty, and it happened right after I rang the bell.”
His eyes suddenly flashed sorrow as he turned his back to me, replacing the glass and picking up another. “You might want to check the Bull’s Barn, the fifth stall. You might find some more hay there for more padding.”
I nodded my head as he handed me a baguette, which I kindly took for free as I turned to leave his shop.
I wondered as to what I would find at the Docks, but I knew that Papa wouldn’t fail me. I closed the door behind me when I noticed several figures around me.
“We’ve been waiting Mr. Dills; I’ve been waiting for this,” said the tallest one.