Episode 6: Sentox
I was in a federal building. My president had spent the entirety of the day working on responding to a nuclear terrorist threat. I had not seen the president yet, but I was in definite, non-political support of his actions. Everyone likes to own terrorists, without exception.
While I was not in the president's personal presence, however, I did encounter a bitch of a woman, the president's ex-wife. When my support of the president's actions became obvious, and when I intended to go to the press with it, she somehow conned me into a room with two Secret Service agents sitting in chairs.
Agent Adams, in a slowish drawl, began conversation with me. His words were provocative, and I responded as courteously as I could to them. As his whimsy drew him closer to the subject of his combat skills, however, my speech became more curt, and he produced a knife from his belt as if to prove is point. I dove behind the other agent, Agent Pierce. Passing down, I glimpsed the identical knife on Pierce's belt. Seven and a half inches from heel to toe, non-reflective black, with wicked serrations and no metallic portion. It was incredibly lightweight and cheap, but it was the perfect stealth weapon.
I crouched behind Pierce and implored him to help with my eyes. This type of nonverbal communication has always been tricky for me, but Pierce understood perfectly. He dropped to me a six-shot revolver and turned back to Adams, who was drawing his own revolver from the holster.
"Agent Pierce, move or I will hurt you."
"We both know that we can't attack each other, Agent Adams. I suggest you holster that weapon."
BANG BANG. I double-tapped from underneath Pierce's chair, pointed the gun at Adams, pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. But the revolver's physics played nothing like those of a semi-automatic, and my two-handed grip went totally out of control. Neither bullet connected.
"Sir," Pierce was saying, "Agent Adams was the most qualified agent on the force the day he joined. Don't expect him to miss."
I was out of bullets after the initial two, and I slid back to Pierce's other side. Pierce dropped me a bullet, and I loaded it. Loading a revolver was a slow process; my total inexperience at the task made it nearly impossible, but I spun the bullet chamber hard and finally, the bullet clicked. I rolled under the chair again and aimed. Adams was still loading his gun; it looked like he wanted all six shots. I fired with one hand. The bullet hit Adams in the chest but caught in his vest. Adams smirked.
I rolled back. I heard Adams twirling the chamber and the click. No amount of faith would save me if my next shot did not incapacitate him. Pierce handed me three bullets, and I snagged them viciously. There was only be time to load one of them. I slammed the bullet and fumbled clumsily with the dial; adrenaline tends to fuck up my dexterity rather than improve it.
Agent Adams's revolver poked out under the chair and pointed awkwardly at me. My gun had not finished loading. I gripped Adams's left hand with both of mine and twisted hard, knowing that I couldn't overpower him. His right hand reached to unsheath his knife, but I launched my both into his right arm and knocked his chair over. I landed sprawled across his chest, arms on his left arm and torso on his right. I heard my chamber click, and he shoved me off of his right arm. I released my grip on Adams's gun and shot in blind faith and hit him in the neck, from the front.
The bullet made an ugly hole in Adams's throat, jerking him, but he managed to stop my heart with fear for a few seconds before going limp. Blood started to flow.
Episode 7: Brits in Faction
In the mid-1970s, in a small suburban nature reservation, there lived a snapping turtle. It lived where no mammals visited, near a pond full of scum. The pond's population of stupid prey had fed the snapping turtle for its entire life. As it needed more and more to eat, the pond's population shrank faster and faster... but the turtle did not notice.
The turtle spent all day in his shell or eating. On the day Gerald Ford was sworn in as President, the turtle saw a falcon flying by with meat. The turtle strained its neck, stretching it out of its shell to see where the falcon went, but it could not see. Then the falcon turned back and landed before the snapping turtle to eat.
"It took me forever to catch this," said the falcon, eating its meal quite civilly. It offered a bite to the snapping turtle, who took the offered gift shamelessly. The pungent flesh and fresh blood tasted far better than the stagnant primary consumers of the pond. "Oh, I'm out of meat," said the falcon, and it left.
The next day, as the press went crazy speculating about what Ford would do about Nixon, the falcon came by again. It did not bring meat this time. It chatted a little with the turtle, commented on the hunting situation, mentioned the status of the rest of the forest, and departed quickly.
On the third day, the falcon brought a bountiful meal to the turtle. The turtle accepted the meal happily. Why the hell is this falcon doing this? thought the turtle, but it did not ask the falcon.
The turtle savored the taste of the falcon's meat long after it had passed through its beak. It looked into the pond and saw not its typical subsistence but a timed pool of scum. It would not last him two more months.
When the falcon did not appear on the fourth day, the turtle ate sparingly from its pond.
On the fifth day, the falcon came again. It regaled the snapping turtle with bountiful stories, but the snapping turtle did not eat any of the falcon's meat.
"Why don't you eat the meat?" asked the falcon.
The turtle said nothing. The falcon did not eat the meat, either. It carried the meat away when it finished talking.
On the sixth day, the falcon brought meat and stories again. Its storives wove and wound, describing sights far beyond the turtle's marine ecosystem. But the turtle listened with its head bowed and its beak in the meat.
The falcon did not stop at the turtle's pond on the seventh day. The turtle fed alone, as he had done before, and walked as far as it could with the time restrictions. It found another pond, fresher and more supportive of life, and it considered moving in. But then it saw that another snapping turtle was already in it.
"You can move in," said the other snapping turtle.
The first snapping turtle shook its head and crawled back and withdrew into its shell.
The next day, the falcon showed up again. The turtle had withdrawn into its shell entirely. The falcon deposited the meat before the turtle's shell.
"What's wrong?" asked the falcon.
"Nothing. Don't feel like talking."
"Well, yesterday was a huge hunt," the falcon began, "but we finally found our prety, way over near the other county, several miles -"
"Bullocks to the hunt!" yelled the turtle, and it stuck its head out to snap at the falcon. The motion frightened the falcon, who retaliated by kicking out with its talons and flying away, undignified. The kick flipped the turtle onto its back.
The turtle tried to move, but it couldn't. The meat the falcon had left for the turtle was right in front of it, but it couldn't reach the meat from on its back. It starved to death.
Two months later, the pond's ecosystem failed.
Home.