Five Bullets Leave One Empty Chamber Dec 7, 2013 12:15:55 GMT -5
Post by Zombie DankMorris on Dec 7, 2013 12:15:55 GMT -5
Chapter IX: "Five Bullets Leave One Empty Chamber"
"I remember a long time ago, two weeks ago maybe, you told me about the virtues of what it means to be a man."
The high speed chase on the New Jersey Turnpike between Swag Wilson's imperial Cadillac Escalade and the stolen Eldorado of His Majesty Mayor Bobby Cairo has rounded its course, screeching to a halt outside of the Trump Taj Mahal Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City. Thousands of gamblers and tourists make their way about the boardwalk, creating a cacophony of foot traffic and erratic spoken word jive. Aimless as ants in a thousand mile maze, the visitors to this ungracious burgh parade through the endless emporium of sights and sounds, flashing lights and go-go dancers. They're not alone of course. Not by a long shot. Creeping in the shadows, callous as killers who lack the noble conscience to keep the light on for ya, are the dope pushers and the thieves, the connivers and the schemers. These cats ain't fly and they ain't fresh. They go about their gruesome business of defrauding he or she with disposable income because it's what comes naturally to them, like the hyena who picks the bones of the rotting gazelle. The grift ain't in the game, it's in the lifestyle, and their lifestyle entails preying upon those who are naturally susceptible to the siren song of temptation.
The local police force could hardly care about any of this hullabaloo. The officers are too busy getting their rocks off, playing grab ass and that age old game of sucky sucky my pee pee with them strung out, hard luck, down and out like a mother, bitches of the night. You know the kind- the "less than scrupulous" females who dropped out of high school after getting knocked up at age fourteen, couldn't hold a job at McDonald's, so now they strut down the catwalk of life with that unsavory mix of mucus and powder pouring from their membranes. Officer Big Dick and Captain Johnson grapple with a Latina of unruly proportion, the kind who can telepathically suck the cum out of a cock before that officer's trousers ever hit the ground. But they do hit the ground and they hit the ground running.
The Vapor Kings crew (Diablo Calzone, Zombie McMorris, the aforementioned Swag Wilson and actress Angela Lansbury) are staked out twenty yards away from where Tina Machina, the wrongly absconded with 1974 Cadillac Eldorado, is parked in a neutral lane amidst the furor of the Atlantic City night. Swag surveils the target vehicle with a pair of night vision goggles, mail ordered direct from Soldier of Fortune Magazine. He spots movement inside of Tina where the driver of the vehicle, a most unthick black man who is believed to be Steve Orbit, and his partner in crime, the six foot tall reptilian being known as El Chupacabra, are seated. The two of them are gesturing demonstratively and peering around with eyeballs capped and peeled as if trying to spot anyone who might have followed them to this locale. Clearly these gentlemen are perturbed and unnerved, panicked that their criminal plot has come unraveled.
The Vapor Kings remain patient, holding their position, waiting for the most opportune moment to swarm their target and reclaim the Mayor's property. D-LO is seated in the back of the Swag Wilson Escalade, eating juicy flame-broiled Triple Whopper. He observes ZMAC smashing that two hundred and thirty year old Angela Lansbury poon for the umpteenth time tonight, pants around ankles if not eschewed altogether. ZMAC cocks his head to one side and gazes at D-LO, while his cock pounds the shit flat, Lansbury's internal organs suffering from the lascivious deed, rock hard thickness invading ancient poon like nuclear missiles waging heinous attack against thousands of fleeing Japanese.
ZMAC heartily contemplates D-LO's statement regarding the virtues of manhood. He vaguely remembers the instance in which he imparted such wisdom to D-LO. Honey Badgers are like that- they live their lives in a drug-induced haze, yet they always remember the important stuff. ZMAC tries his damnedest to concentrate while his swelled phallus spurts ejaculate inside of Lansbury, pasting her innards with white on a crusty rye bread like texture. Weird shit. Lansbury hardly makes a sound, merely gently crooning like Frank Sinatra in the midst of a bedside stupor. Bodies bang. Bodies make music. Bodies make new life. Lansbury simply lies there, nude as an African hut woman, admiring ZMAC's scummy masculinity and undeniable sexual prowess. She waxes on her poetic tip, drunk on jizz and bottom shelf brandy.
Angela Lansbury: I am not even human right now, Honey Badger. You have taken me to a whole new plane of existence. I feel young again. I feel like a young woman traipsing through a dewy meadow-
ZMAC: Bitch, shut your mouth before I break you off a proper Honey Badger curb stomp like your name was Marco Valintine, that bitch ass fairy they picked to challenge me at ONE. Punk ass fairy. Oooh, Valintine, you won't even make it to ONE. NO! You want this belt that I got around my waist? The belt that I wear to hold up my tattered jean shorts while I fuck the Angela Lansbury corpse? Marco Valintine, let me explain something to you- You will never, EVER take my belt from me. Internet Championship? I invented this shit. I created a division. A division that stands taller and prouder than Jonny Fly's World Championship ranks.
Calzone interjects between ravenous, carnivorous bites of Triple Whopper.
Calzone: Jonny Fly, life partner of Steve Orbit, collectively known as "Dream Team", a duo that shall be defeated by The Thickness on Sunday Night SLAM.
ZMAC nods his head, that is to say his thickness.
ZMAC: Correct. The Nerdsmashers are better qualified to challenge for those belts than Fly and Orbit. At least they're not total ass sucking, shit eating, Sarah Twilight worshiping parasites. Hell, I'd rank The 8th Wonder ahead of Dream Team. At least they're coming off a win on SLAM against BioWalker instead of a humiliating defeat to S-PAC.
D-LO chortles like a schoolgirl, not even believing that a team that JUST LOST TO S-PAC is being taken seriously as tag title challengers to The Thickness.
Calzone: How in the fuck does one lose to S-PAC exactly? I'm trying to imagine this in my brain and it makes no sense to me. It's like... are you depressed because your kid just got abducted? Oh no, never mind. That's Seifer's bitch. And anyway, Jonny Fly is shooting blanks. He'll never be a dad because he has that Hank Hill narrow urethra bullshit.
ZMAC: Just a scam for saying that he can't get it up for the ladies. Typical Fire Island flamer. Brings me back to your original statement. You talked about the virtues of manhood. Let me explain something to you. You see me nailing this old broad, name of Angela Lansbury?
Angela Lansbury: Hey, I'm not that old-
Bitch is cut off before she can complete her sentence, violently and horribly back-handed by ZMAC, dentures knocked into next week. Hey don't judge the man. He had to discipline his bitch. That's how the Honey Badger rolls. ZMAC's belt is loosened from his shorts- read the Internet Championship belt- and he begins choking Lansbury with it. Her faces turns shades of red, blue, purple and green. She's got a smile on her thousand year old kisser though. Bitch is enjoying herself. Hasn't had this much fun since convening with those returning GI's in WWII.
Calzone: I see you strangling the old broad with your Internet Championship, yes. What does this have to do with the virtues of manhood, ZMAC?
ZMAC scoffs. He knows that D-LO is ignorant and petulant- petulant like a child who dropped his banana split onto the ground and then blames it on the next kid in line- but even taking that information into account, ZMAC don't understand how D-LO is this dumb.
Calzone: Why do you always look at me like I shit the bed, ZMAC? You and I were born and raised in different worlds-
ZMAC: And I've died a thousand deaths before you were born, smoked more weed, snorted more blow and smashed more poon. That's besides the point, D-LO.
Calzone: Your truths, these truths that you turn on like lightswitches when you spit your shit like no one can... they are universal truths.
ZMAC: Finally, you're beginning to express some knowledge, young Calzone.
Calzone grins like that same little punk ass kid who dropped the banana split when his dad pulls out the big ol' leather wallet and pays the ice cream man for another one.
ZMAC: The key point that I'm trying to make, kid- a man holds down his business at all times. A man never EVER shows weakness. Not in front of another man and certainly never in front of a bitch. When the poon sees you weeping and acting all soft and faggy, that poon is moving on to the next thickness, no questions asked. Your thickness will eventually transform into a poon and then you'll be the one who's gettin smashed.
Calzone: Shit, man, shit.
D-LO sits riveted, still chomping down on that Triple Whopper, scarfing down on onion rings to boot. Strawberry milkshake- ahh, strawberry milkshake to wash it all down. Oh shit did D-LO squirt some onion ring sauce on the ceiling of Swag Wilson's Escalade? Oh no, that's just ZMAC's nut butter. D-LO breathes a sigh of relief.
Swag Wilson: Hey what the fuck's going on back there? You jizz on my ceiling, ZMAC? Motherfucker, you're paying to get this shit detailed if I gotta come back there.
ZMAC: This motherfucker still busting my balls-
ZMAC flips Swag Wilson the double bird. Swag Wilson bitch slaps ZMAC, setting off a full scale riot inside of the Escalade. WCF referees and road agents run out from the casino to separate Wilson and McMorris, temporarily halting the melee. WCF Hall of Famer and former Tag Team Champion Frank Bates of Dreadnoks fame makes a fleeting appearance to a nice pop from the appreciative Atlantic City crowd.
Calzone: Just cool it, guys! Cool it! We're here to save Tina Machina from those goddamn degenerate tweekers. Don't forget about what's important here! We got a big payday at stake here, not to mention my genitalia. We don't get this bitch Tina back in our ranks, Bobby Cairo gonna choppy choppy my pee pee.
ZMAC: You shall be neutered as Jason Weslow is. Another example of why manhood is a virtue and not a given. This "man" is being teamed with a slut in Cooper week after week on SLAM, yet has he banged the bitch? Has he laid pipe in her holiest of holies? Of course not. No pink taco for Weslow. Why? Because A) He don't have nothing to plow that fertile soil with in the first place. His equipment is mismatched, antiquated and fallen out of practice. B) He's too busy stroking his anti-thickness, puttin himself over or failing at that, while regaling an unlistening WCF Universe with tales of his eleven bullshit tag title reigns in some jobber paradise company that The Honey Badger burned to the ground with the mere essence of his existence. You think this is a game, Weslow? You think The Honey Badger won't hurt you? Motherfucker, I'll knock the chip off your shoulder and drop you to your knees, make you beg ZMAC for mercy.
ZMAC froths at the mouth with a rabid saliva, eager to Curb Stomp the most unthick Weslow back to whatever bumfucker, backwater junction, dimestore jabroni, dog and pony organization that he came from.
ZMAC: Weslow spits myths of his greatness, a fallacy that insults the intellect of The Honey Badger and even a dumb shit like you, D-LO. I've smoked more crack than Weslow's got herps and I can tell you right now that ain't no man. That ain't no man. That's a stone cold coward living a carefully crafted image that The Honey Badger is about to shatter with my size thirteen boot shoved squarely up his ass crack. And if this bitch Swag Wilson wants a preview of that hardcore ass fucking action then I'mma give it to him right now.
The action spills outside of the Escalade. ZMAC and Swag tackle each other to the sandy ground next to the boardwalk and throw hard punches, none of that pulled punch bullshit that we see from WCF's resident fruit loops on SLAM- so called Hardcore Title challengers such as Purse and Oblivion and the false champion Logan. An emotionally wrought Lansbury intervenes, ceasing the commotion with some hard chops and stomps to the penises of both men. Both men lie on the ground cupping their groins, aching and wincing, cursing to damnation the God that invented hysterical old bitches. Swag and ZMAC hurl obscenities at each other between gasping breaths and strained groans. Swag further escalates the rhetoric.
Swag: You're paying to have that cum shot cleaned up, ZMAC! That ain't no kinda way to treat a man's ride!
ZMAC: My jizz has enhanced the value of your tacky, pimped out, piece of shit ride, you Marky Mark lookin honky motherfucker.
Finally after a fifteen minute respite, they return to their feet. Swag waves his firearm, setting off a gun battle in the streets between himself and ZMAC. The police officers flee in terror while the hookers and dope dealers stand their ground, armed to the teeth. Hot in the streets of Rio De Atlantic City, ZMAC dips behind Swag's piece of shit SUV as Swag crawls and huddles at the front. ZMAC flips the gun over and smashes in the side window pane, and starts shooting through the car.
ZMAC: You wanna fuck with me, Swag, you faggot ass mothafucka?! I'll show you who you're fuckin with.
ZMAC fires off a few shots as Swag jumps on top of the hood then onto the roof before dropping down onto ZMAC. They scuffle on the ground some more before D-LO pops his head out of the car to get their attention, scarfing down his last bit of burger.
Calzone: Targets on the move! Man, they're gone!
ZMAC and Swag scramble to their feet and rush over to Tina Machina and check her over for clues and damages. Calzone and Angela Lansbury get out to help inspect.
Swag: Paint is scratched. It's the slightest of marks but with such a ride like this, the whole thing needs to be redone in its original coat.
Calzone: What? What's that mean?
Swag: Means that Mister Cairo is going to have him some D-LO C-LO, cock fin soup.
D-LO stomps the ground like that same petulant little brat.
Calzone: AWW! Son of a bitch! I don't wanna lose my dick! I was just figuring out how to use it!
Angela Lansbury: Quit whining, you pussy! It might actually make a man out of you?
Calzone back hands the used up wad of tissue that is ZMAC's nightly poon, taking his advice and not losing face in front of them bitches. ZMAC pats his student on the back.
ZMAC: You did good. Enjoy those balls while you can.
Calzone's brain races with desperate thoughts and ideas. There must be a compromise. There must be!
Calzone: We have the car, so... we can just have it repainted?
Swag: No, that's not how Bobby would want it.
Calzone: Excuse me? You don't know him the way I know him.
Swag cocks an eyebrow.
Swag: Then you don't know him how I know him. You might know Bobby Cairo, the wrestler, the friend. However, I know him as a cold blooded killer.
ZMAC: Fuck that TEK, asshole. Is he in this match?
ZMAC: Well, fuck him, anyway.
Swag: Seconded. But thirdly, Calzone, Bobby will want whoever it is who stole his car to pay and pay with their lives. You may just think that this tiny, less then half an inch scratch is no big deal- but it is. If we don't go in there and get these guys- then Cairo's going to get you. However, if you're all set with the use of your wedding tackle, we can just drive Tina back to NYC and you can explain to your friend, that you think revenge isn't an important enough motive.
D-LO stammers for a reply.
Calzone: But- But I?
ZMAC: Another lesson in being a man. Revenge is the only motive.
Swag reaches inside of that Tina Machina poon and pulls out her keys then tosses them to Calzone.
Swag: So what's it going to be?
Calzone: Fuck, man. FUCK!
The group heads inside of the casino, a massive hub of a complex that seems to burp and hiccup with lights and noises at every turn, almost as an ancient mythological entity hailing from Hades far below. The group looks around, uncertain as to where they should proceed. They decide to fan out but without splitting up. After all, it shouldn't be too hard to find a six foot tall lizard man in Trump Casino. Hell, there's only two of them. As for Steve Orbit, there's only one place where a black man can safely go in a place like this- The boxing arena.
Chapter X: "El Mustachio- Killer of Men"
The Vapor Kings and Co. make their way into the boxing pavilion, joining the packed house of hustlers, big wigs and whores, just in time for the main event of the evening to get under way.
Calzone: What is this shit?
Swag: Just be quiet and follow me and ZMAC. He might be a punk ass sissy bitch but he knows his way around seedy establishments like this.
ZMAC: Don't hate the player. Hate the game, my nig.
Ring Announcer: In the blue corner, standing at six foot, four inches tall, weighing in at two hundred and forty one pounds... The Atlantic Hammer.. Morris Lottz!
The crowd cheers. Bitches throw their bras and panties into the ring, which are quickly ushered away by the ring card girl with a kick from her high heeled shoe.
Ring Announcer: And in the red corner.. from Guadalajara, Mexico... Standing at an impressive two foot three, and weighing in at a slim and trim twenty nine pounds...Los causa de muerte de los hombres.. He is... EL MUSTACHIO!
Swag: A rooster? Shit, even I never seen nothin like that before.
ZMAC: El Mustachio, legendary cock fighter. Undefeated. Scalp this fool in under ten.
The crowd is confused, hissing and booing. A chicken? Naw son. This is El Mustachio. Morris and Mustachio approach each other, Mustaschio strutting around, doing his pre match war dance, per usual. Morris doesn't take this seriously and how can he? Morris chases the rooster as it scuttles around the ring, Rocky II style.
El Mustachio smells blood. He needs it. He craves it. And just as fast as the bell rang, it chimes again. El Mustachio the winner. 17 to 1 odds. Not a bad pay day but in the hatred teeming from the spectators, Angela gets a glimpse of something most un thick- El Chupacabra and Steve Orbit, trying to sneak out the side door before anyone noticed. Well Murder, she wrote saw it. She tips off the boys to follow. They spread out and make their way through the casino in the general direction that the lizard beast had gone. All too eager and frightened patrons point the VK's in the right direction when finally they regroup, standing in front of a set of metal double doors in the Casino's sub-basement. On the count of three they bust in, guns a blazin- looking around, they are shocked at what they see.
Calzone: Koko? Koko B. Ware? Really? We've been chasing your haggard ass this entire time? Shit, if I'd known that I'd have been throwing crack rocks at chu.
Koko sits at a shabby card table wearing an unkempt suit, surrounded by Japanese businessmen.
ZMAC: Oh SHIT! Koko B- Motha Fuckin' Ware! This is the guy! I dropped freebase with you back in the 80's.
Swag Wilson scoffs in utter disdain.
Swag: Now he's just a washed up degenerate gambler.
The Birdman sighs, laying his cards out on the table, both literally and figuratively.
Koko: Yah, ya caught me. I stole that fine ass Tina Machina, but I had a damn good reason- I had to settle some debts with the Yakuza.
ZMAC: Shit, that ain't no businessman. That's Taka Michinoku.
Calzone takes aim.
Calzone: Then you know that this is strictly business, Taka.
Taka: You play. If you win- you takey takey. You lose- we- choppy choppy.
Calzone: My pee pee. I got it.
ZMAC: Funaki's here too?
Koko: What do you say, Calzone? Care to play a little Russian Roulette? Or are you a pussy?
Calzone goes to step up to the challenge but is halted by ZMAC.
ZMAC: No. This is my contact. He fucked up. I'll make it right.
ZMAC sits across from Koko as Taka loads the gun.
Calzone: Standard rules, ok?
ZMAC: Na, son. Honey Badger Rules. Six chambers, only one blank.
A strict specter of alarm crosses Swag Wilson's face. He taps ZMAC on the shoulder. ZMAC glances at him, then hurriedly looks away.
ZMAC: It's not your cross to bear, Wilson. This was never your cross to bear. What would you know about it anyway? I stare into the eyes of death every time I look in the mirror. An immortal coked out zombie who can't let himself be. I bite the bullet and what- it kills me? No, I kill the bullet. This bullet represents no more of a threat to Zombie McMorris than Weslow, Cooper or Valintine. Just another jobber who thought he could make a name for hisself against The Duke of New York.
Koko: My nigga, what is you ramblin about?
Calzone: Shut up, B. Ware. It's your fault he's in this mess to begin with.
Taka loads the the other remaining chambers and spins the gun on the table.
Taka: Koko go first.
Koko pops open the chamber and gives it a spin. He cocks the hammer.
Koko hands the gun over to ZMAC who then opens and spins the chamber.
ZMAC: It's one out of six, right?
Koko: Yah, that's right. You got a one out of six chance of not killing myself.
ZMAC: Better odds than I had at breakfast.
ZMAC takes aim..
Koko falls to the floor.
ZMAC gets up and stands over his body.
ZMAC: Fuckin tweeker junkie, motherfucker. That's for givin me Bubblegum Schnapps that time back in '86.
Calzone stands over the repugnant, stankin corpse of Koko B. Ware and mean mugs the fallen WWF legend.
Calzone: How does it feel, B. Ware? How does it feel to suffer the wrath of The Vapor Kings, you washed up piece of shit jobber? I told you that you were a dead man.
Swag: When did you do that, D-LO? We were standing here this entire time and I didn't hear you say that.
Calzone's face drops. He hangs his head and slumps his shoulders.
Calzone: Shit. Shit! SHIT! I had this whole great line planned out and I fuckin forgot to say it to the asshole before ZMAC shot him.
Swag: Never mind that. We got the car back. We killed one of the perps. Cairo is gonna want proof that Koko is dead. We need to snap a photo.
Calzone: Oh no problem.
D-LO pulls out his cellphone.
Swag: Not like that, you idiot. You never take a picture of a guy that you just killed and put it on your cell phone. You know how incriminating that is? Use this.
Swag reaches for the inside pocket of his sport jacket and pulls out a Kodak disposable camera.
Calzone: I didn't know they still made them shits.
ZMAC grabs the camera from Swag's hand. Swag immediately pulls up on him and they stand eye to eye, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife, but still not as thick as the thickness.
Angela Lansbury: Boys! Boys! Settle down! Remember two things- 1) there's still a Chupacabra on the loose and 2) Angela Lansbury is gonna need more of that ZMAC poon smashing ecstasy sooner rather than later.
D-LO slurps the last of his strawberry milkshake and stares stupidly at Swag and ZMAC.
Calzone: Is one of you guys gonna snap the photo so we can get Bobby's ride back to NYC? We're running out of time and I'm not trying to lose my Johnson, especially now that the job is done.
ZMAC: You'll keep your cock and balls, D-LO. This time. Not because I like you. Not because I'm paid to look after you. Simply because The Honey Badger makes it so. The Honey Badger murdered Koko B. Ware in cold blood and The Honey Badger will photograph his festering corpse. Shit, he looked more dead when he was alive than he does now to be honest.
ZMAC snaps several photos of Koko's body from various angles, even positioning his body in humorous poses, one with a fake mustache and a Derby hat, and another with the Angela Lansbury poon slathered on his face.
ZMAC: That's good. We have enough. Rest in peace, Koko. You weren't such a bad guy. In a different life we could have been friends. In this life I murdered you. Ain't that somethin about a bitch named Twilight?
The Vapor Kings head for the door when Taka grabs Calzone by the arm and hands him a briefcase.
Taka: Here. This your now. Black man left it but he dead now. This your. You go now. No choppy choppy your pee pee.
D-LO smiles, straightens the collar of his shirt and glances down at the briefcase. He shakes it but it produces no sound. Has a decent weight to it. Could be money or dope? ZMAC nods at Taka and Funaki. The Vapor Kings hit the road, cruising through the Atlantic City boardwalk before hitting the turnpike, making the trek toward NYC and Mayor Bobby Cairo's humble communist abode.