Thread Killer: Reloaded

Scott Riggs ganará el Rookie de la concesión del año este año, esos 10 que el coche debe estar en carril de la victoria antes del extremo de la estación.
 
No, será Brendan Gaughan que gana el Rookie de la concesión del año. Kevin Harvick ganará el campeonato, Matt Kenseth es un conductor horrible.
 
As I write this, I'm naked in my jail cell listening to "Why Don't We Get Drunk And Screw" playing from somebody's radio somewhere. It's after 11:00. We're supposed to turn our radios off at 10. Somebody's not worried about it. Then again, I am in prison, so I guess following rules isn't the biggest priority with these guys.

Why am I naked you ask? I like the cool nights. The metal frame of my bunk feels good next to the bare skin on the backs of legs. Sometimes I sit here like this all night, listening to the snores of the captive animals in cages all around me. I know this sounds strange probably, but the night sounds are comforting. There's a single flourescent light that sheds a feeble and institutional glow across the wall opposite my bunk. Sometimes I see a shadow as one of the guards strolls by, but most of the time it's just a patch of artificial light splayed out across a wall that's all too real.

My name is a number now. At least as far as the citizens of the State of Kansas are concerned anyway. My parents named me Walter. Nice enough name I guess. Now most of the inmates and some of the guards here just call me Dead Man.

Oh, relax. I'm not on The Row. I haven't killed anyone or nothing. I'm in here because I lost a battle with the juice and took up a bad habit of driving drunk. True, it was usually in other people's cars, and the State calls that Grand Theft Auto when they catch you at it. I guess I must have boosted over a hundred cars in my life. It's easy money, and if you're particularly adept at it (and particularly bold) a man can make twelve, fifteen hundred bucks a week. Insurance companies are the biggest ones hurt by it, and tell me the truth - how much love do you harbor in your heart for insurance companies?

I got the name Dead Man when I was 19. Like I said, I always had a fondness for a bottle of good liquor, and I never did see too many bad bottles. One night I started out from a buddy's place walking. It was real cloudy out, no moon, and cold as hell to boot so I wasn't paying much attention to what all was around me. There's this great big graveyard back in Lancaster where I lived then. A man can walk around it or he can walk through it. I never was one to waste any steps so I struck out across that boneyard about two-thirds lit and looking for the rest. Next thing I knew, the ground wasn't where it normally is, and I'm laying in a new grave with my ankle singing Amazing Grace How Sweet The Sound. I quit trying to get out after a while, and laid down and went to sleep. Next morning I hear some people talking kind of low and I took to hollering. Three faces popped over the edge of the hole and one of them asked me what the hell I was doing down there. When I told him I was trying to get out, he looked over his shoulder right quick and asked another guy what we was gonna do, the preacher was already walkin' this way with some of the family.

Well, he took off to try and get the preacher and the grieving widow to take a powder for a minute, and one of the other guys told me just to sit still and keep my mouth shut, they'd get me out somehow. Few minutes later, he came back and dropped me one of those folding step ladders. I guess the graveyard keeps them in the sheds. I'd been there all I cared to be, and hopped my way up the ladder.

I crawled up over the lip of the hole just in time for the dead guy's kids to see me. Nice. They started squealing and hollering about the dead man coming up out of Daddy's grave. Twisted ankle or not, it was time for me to get gone. The name just kind of stuck.

I've been here for four years and change now. I'm supposed to get out in twenty months. They tried to give me the parole last August but I screwed that up easy enough. I ain't got nowhere to go, and a man has to be some place I reckon. Long as I'm in here I got plenty to eat and I'm dry when it rains and ain't none of it costing me a penny. So when they told me I had a hearing for the parole, I made sure I got caught with a sharpened ink pen casing. That don't go over too well in here, the parole was denied, and here sits I in my warm and cozy suite courtesy of the State of Kansas.

I work five days a week, same as most people. I ain't on the trustee list since the ink pen thing. That was the worst part of all that, but a man has to do what it takes sometimes. They took the mop out of my hands and gave me a shovel. It's hard work, but it's outside where I can feel the sun on my face so I don't mind it so much.

Plus, there ain't no telling what a man digging around in the dirt out in the middle of nowhere might happen to find. And should that man also happen to be a fair to decent actor, and not mind doin' a little surface bleeding now and again, he might be able to get it inside with him.

Guard coming.
 
Oh geez, then I noticed Richard Gere break through the cell window. I watched him as his beautiful movie actor face and finesse came through. The Millenium Falcon he now piloted suspended outside of the prison.

"Hey son, you need a lift," asked Richard. "These walls arent meant for someone as valuable as you!"

"Sure!" said I. "Can we stop by McDonalds on the way?"

"Cant, I'm a buddhist, we dont eat meat." Richard responded.

"Oh, then that sucks." I said I as I climbed into the Millenium Falcon.

Suddenly, footsteps, more loud footsteps, and the sound of gunfire. The guards were now aware! They entered the scene and began firing. Richard was struck three times with paintball bullets, and he collapsed to the ground.

"BEN, NO !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I cried. I shot several of the guards and boarded the Millenium Falcon.

The Millenium Falcon then left the scene, it was being shot at, and it took heavy damage. We were happy to get out alive I guess, however the unfortunate capture of the greatest actor alive lessened the mood. Little did we know, that we had opened the door to uncertainty.
 
If there is one thing I never could stand, it's cream of mushroom soup. That stuff doesn't even remotely resemble anything I'd ever put in my mouth. I don't want to eat any dish that incorporates it either.

But there I was, face to face with some chicken and mushroom disaster that looked to all the world like it had already been eaten once. No getting around it, I had to eat this crap. I mean, a man doesn't meet his fiance's parents every day, and while I wanted to build a lasting relationship with these people almost as much as I wanted a good case of whooping cough, I did want to get naked with sweet little Melissa later. So hand me a fork and don't ask me if I like it.

Nice place they have, though, I have to admit. Not at all what I expected. To hear Mel tell it, she came from abject poverty or something. I was plenty apprehensive about this little adventure. Alcoholic mother, a father who beat the snot out of Mel when he wasn't too busy losing his paycheck at a poker table, and an older brother with more issues than Sports Illustrated. I was ready for Charlie Manson to open the door, but at least these boneheads kept up appearances. Nice little nondescript house set tastefully back from the street behind hedges that were well acquainted with clippers. Jesus, Mary and Joseph the carpenter it was almost enough to make a man vomit.

So was the damn chicken.

We talked during the ordeal, but I could tell that most of it was forced and very rehearsed on their parts. What was I majoring in (Marketing), what did my folks do for a living (Dad's a welder, Mom teaches sixth grade math), do I have any brothers or sisters (not anymore), what's the capital of Pakistan, you know the drill. And the entire time, Mel is sitting there beside me just as quiet as a churchmouse. I know she had to be cracking up inside, but would she even try to bail me out?

Finally, after what seemed to me to be at least enough time to invade a small Arab country, Mom-O got up and began clearing the dishes away. Mel almost launched herself out of her chair, gave me just the most polite little peck on the cheek you ever saw, and went toward the kitchen to "help". Gee, thanks again sweetie, and remind me to repay you someday. That left me alone with Pops and Junior.

Ethan, the younger and more screwed up of the two, was staring at me with avid loathing. Maybe we were keeping him from something. Hanging by his toenails from a birch tree or something, hell I don't know. Mel had told me some of his more humorous escapades, and I didn't find them overly funny. She loved him, don't get me wrong, but she also knew he wasn't exactly right upstairs. He had this bad habit of robbing the corner market. They all knew him, and more often than not the cops were on their way by the time the poor schmuck walked in the store. I asked what would happen if he just went in to buy a Milky Way, and Mel got all teary eyed and told me that wasn't funny and it took me over an hour to get her to be OK again. I still wondered, though.

Finally her old man broke the awkward silence by asking me if I played cards. Mel had told me he might, so I responded that I only played Solitaire. "You mean you never learned any other card game, son?" he asked me. "No," says I. "My folks were kind of funny about cards in the house. I never saw the harm, but they blew a fuse if they ever found any."

"That so," he said. His eyes started darting around like a drunk looking for a bottle. I sure didn't want to keep him from his nightly round of poker. I didn't even want to be here. For all I cared he could take Slappy the Wonder Pigeon there with him and get ghost right now.

"What happened to your brothers and sisters," Ethan droned. God help me, he sounded like a record on the wrong speed. "You said you didn't have any no more. What happened to them?"

"I had one brother. He was killed in a train wreck. Amtrak derailed. It was twelve years ago. I really don't like to talk about it if it's OK." Amtrak my ass, but that one usually stopped the questions.

"I don't remember any train wrecks twelve years ago," he comes back with. "I think you're telling tales."

I froze in the act of placing the napkin beside my plate. Why was my hand straying toward the .25 in my pocket?

"It was in Arizona," I replied. "He was coming back from a basketball tournament in Tempe. The train derailed, and he happened to be on his way to the head when the wreck happened. At least that's what one of the survivors said she thought he was doing. Killed fourteen people, and my brother was one of them. Life sucks sometimes." Keep it up, buddy, and it'll be fifteen and sixteen, I'll take Daddy out too.

Just then, Mel and her mother came back in, laughing at some funny story I would never know enough about to find the humor in. Mel saw the look on my face I think. She instantly gave me a look that said, Not yet.
 
Raining again. Figures. Most summers you could expect a drought for most of the growing season, but not this year. Of course, most years I don't lose everything I owned and decide to take off walking.

It all started with that damn dress. Lydia, my recently crowned ex-wife, brought it home last week from her latest excursion in Hannah's Boutique. I always thought the least old Hannah could do is name the store after me or Lydia one, God knows she kept the old crow in business. She buzzed her way past me in the hallway, chirping merrily about how I simply had to see her new dress. I made some comment about being more interested in watching her try it on, but Lydia never slowed down. Subtleties were usually lost on Lydia.

Resigned to my fate, I plopped down in my recliner and opened the beer I had retrieved from the kitchen. I had spent the morning in Judge Faulk's court arguing with the district attorney on behalf of my client, a child raping weasel of a man who finally got caught with his hands in the wrong pair of pants. Hey, I knew the little turd was guilty, the D.A. knew it, the judge knew it, Connie Chung probably knew it. But somebody has to be there to make sure the State doesn't ramrod these people, and it paid the mortgage rather handsomly to boot.

Lydia emerged from our bedroom, and I turned to do my duty and ooh and ahh over the latest addition to her wardrobe. No way could I have been prepared for what I saw.

Lydia was standing there in the same hallway our daughter Whitney had taken her first steps in. And standing right behind her was a man. A big man. Lydia had apparently let him in through the door in our bedroom that gives onto the flagstone patio in the back yard. The man standing behind my wife of twenty-two years was holding a knife long enough to gut hogs with.

"How do you like it, darling"? she snarled. "Stunning, isn't it? A real eye opener, wouldn't you say?" She reached for the man, and found his empty hand. She placed it just above the cut of her bodice and rolled her eyes back longingly to look at him. His hand began to steal down the front of the new ****tail dress Lydia had on. Her lips parted, and the man standing behind her stared at me as if daring me to do something about it.

I was speechless. My thoughts were racing faster than I could ever have imagined possible. But I could say not one word. The highest paid attorney in town, a man who made a good living using pretty words, totally mute while some electrician or mechanic or tree trimmer or whatever pawed my wife not twelve feet away.

"You had your little fling, now I'll have mine. Oh, did you think I didn't know? Come on Glen, give me some credit. You didn't exactly take every precaution when you and that floozy you were crawling all over booked the weekend in the Poconos. Why, all it took was a few tears, a high riding skirt, and some story about Whitney and that nice young paralegal nearly split his jaws telling me where you were. After that, another phone call to your old buddy Martin Walker confirmed it. There was no conference that weekend. Martin always goes with you. Should have clued him in, Glen.

"So I called some more of our friends, and finally Gloria Pruitt...you remember Gloria don't you Glen...her husband died a year or so ago...Gloria put me in touch with this fine young man. He helped her when she found out about Bill's secretary. He specializes in recreational accidents, you know. Bill always enjoyed sky diving. Hope that last jump was fun. Well, I called him up and explained my problem, and we met over lunch...and things...a few times. He agreed to help me out with you. Been skeet shooting lately, Glen?"

I just stared at Lydia. The Good Hands fellow had at least taken his hands off her, which was good. He also still held the knife, which wasn't so good.

"So here's where we stand, Glen. I'm feeling rather generous this afternoon. Really in a giving mood, if you get my meaning. And I'm going to give you the choice. You can get out of that recliner right now, walk out that door in the clothes you stand in, and keep walking, or my new friend here can make sure they find your body on the firing range at the club tomorrow morning. If you contact me, or Whitney, he'll find you. I probably don't need to mention that when he does things will not go well for you. I'll even give you a minute to make your mind up."

"No," I replied. My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth, and the word sounded forced. "I don't need to think about it, Lydia. I'll go. I'm sorry for hur..."

"Spare me please. I really don't want to hear it. Just go then if that's your decision. My new life as a very wealthy woman is waiting."

"There is one thing I am going to do before I leave, and I hope you won't stop me. We had some good years together, and if this is really over I want to end it like we started it." I stood up, and removed the wedding ring from my finger for maybe the fifth time in twenty-two years. Most of those times had been to have it cleaned. Most. I eased toward the desk that stands in the entryway, opened the center drawer, and placed the ring on top of the papers and collected debris that was already there.

"Remember that, Lydia? That's where your ring was the night I asked you to marry me. Maybe it's silly, but I want to put it back there now."

"OK, OK, whatever. It'll be in a jewelry shop this time tomorrow, but if it makes you feel better to get all sentimental, by all means cry me a river. Now get out of my house Glen. My house. My bank accounts. My cars, my summer cottage, my daughter's life, all of it. Take whatever money you have on you, maybe you can get a bus ticket. But know this. When that door closes, you are dead to me, to Whitney, and to the life insurance company. Good bye, Glen."

So I left. I've been walking ever since, too. I had a little over three hundred dollars on me that night, and I've spent it on a pair of sneakers and food. I'm saving the rest. I should need it in about another week, ten days tops. That's how long I expect it to take me to get to Moline. I'll get there, and use what money is left on a pistol and a box of ammunition.

Lydia always was just a little flighty. I can't tell you how many times in twenty-two years I nagged her about leaving the telephone book opened in the drawer after she looked up the number she wanted. Little stuff like that, you know how it goes.

And according to her address book in the drawer of the desk, Gloria Stouffer, once known to the world as Gloria Pruitt, lives in Moline.
 
Then Johnny Depp, who was out partying with his friends entered. He told me that he would not refuse a favor on the day of his daughter's wedding. Of course I thought, his daughter was only five, was Johnny drunk? Yes, he was. Johnny immediately sat down on the couch and waited for his intoxication to settle. Little did he nor I know that the effects would last hours. Of course, what could hurt Johnny? The great actor who had roles in Platoon, Sleepy Hallow and Pirates of the Carribean sat on the couch passed out like Marlin Brando after a 2 minute exercise regiment.

Johnny was a strange guy, high school dropout, started his own rock group before knowing what the third amendment was about. However, he found a huge break in Hollywood where the directors seemed amicable at the young man, despite the fact that he had tattoos, long hair and the beard of Peter the disciple. I always knew Johnny as a nice man, he turned his life around after he was arrested for thrashing his hotel room in Paris, settled down and raised a family. What was once a high school dropout with only two dollars in his pocket turned into a high school dropout with millions of dollars.

Then, my old friend Jay from the war came. Unfortunately, he was missing his left eyelash. He lost the eyelash when it was bitten off by an angry turk in a bar fight in Ankara. Nevertheless, Jay was in high spirits. I had not seen him since the great war when we destroyed two armor divisions with a single mop, yes, a mop. That mop was enshirned in gold and now sits outside of the house where Linda, Correy, Johnny and I reside. The Medal of Honor that I earned sits on the mantle next to the fireplace. I planned to give it to my friend Sean Combs who I met while he was pointing a pistol sideways at a convienience store owner however, he was modest at the time, whether it was from the effects of the intoxication he experienced at Macy's Bar last night or he was just plain stupid still remains a mystery to me.

"Oy! Johnny, wake up !" said I.

Johnny continued to sleep while he clutched a teddy bear, almost a cute snore came out of him. It began to rain outside and I noticed that three men with a barrage of baseball bats and signed Sandy Kofax memorabilia emerged out of three black cars and were now heading towards the front door. I grabbed my Browing Automatic and made my way to the front door. I looked through the looking glass and I noticed one of the men. He was very familiar, I gasped and put my hand on top of my mouth.

It was... It was.... Tom Berenger!

I loaded and ****ed the Browning Automatic. Tom in a very demanding voice demanded that I open the door.

"No, I shall not!" responded I. I grabbed two shotguns from my closet and began loading them, the butt of the second shotgun had the initials J.D. I quickly remembered it because Johnny Depp, a group of Romanian gypsies and the state of Oklahoma's AA group came with us on a hunting trip last year. We managed to bag that same angry turk that attacked Jay.

The door immediately slammed open, Tom Berenger, Nathaniel the weird little elf and Monica Belluci entered, with machine guns at the ready. I lept behind my couch, and immediately they started firing, bullets rittled my entire house. Then I realized "Hey! This day is better than most!"
 
Thank you old buddy :cheers: . Back to the story shall we?


It seemed almost as if Tom Beringer, Monica Belluci and the little elf known as Nathaniel would never cease strafing my house. The bullets had hit the silver star I earned in Spain, the photos I had with President Roosevelt when I had dinner in the oval office, and that shoe that belonged to Magic Johnson. Finally, a bullet strayed off course and hit this collage of photos I collected of Edward James Olmos's keyster and Robert De Niro's bald shiny head. I grew angry and grew into a rage. Jay immediately leapt behind the couch with the remington shotgun he grabbed from the table.

It was like old times, it was like when we fought valliantly at Bastogne. Yes, we were one of the "bastards of bastogne" as the media nicknamed us that fought off eight german divisions simultaneously until General Patton graciously liberated the city from Peiper's 5th Panzer group. Ironically, what I had flashbacked to reminded me of when Jay and I found and gunned down twelve german soldiers trying to wage an ambush on our commander's forward position, and that mop we threw that single handedly destroyed the entire German eastern front. Jay and I both laughed, however, I saw him cough, he spat out a trace of blood.

Quickly, I turned him over onto his side and found that he was wounded. I thought Jay would survive this, he was tortured for days on end as the Turks forced him to watch endless videos of the Starlight Vocal Band as their cruel method of torture. I was wrong.... my friend Jay died in my arms like so many of our friends before us. It took me back to that day when Jay and I were resting in a church in St. Mere Eglise in France, to take a brief respite from the war, only a day after we had broken through the german lines during the great invasion. We were both young second lieutenants and we had promising careers. Jay had talked to me about Stephanie Thompson, his high-school girl.

Funny, he mentioned it then, because only 18 months before, Stephanie and I after the football rave party had a very close meeting in the backseat of the car as a result of what we labeled "The Jim Carrey Juice." After a couple helpings of that likeness, Stephanie and I thought our first child Anne Coulter Terrance would have been born a dimwit. Nevertheless, Anne was a bright child. Jay didnt know that Stephanie and I had married secretly. Jay had died without knowing, I could careless however, he was a bastard in some respects.

Then it hit me, I still had a battle at hand. Bullets were still landing over me, an endless waltz of strafing fire. I clutched the browning automatic pistol which had almost been stuck to my hand the whole time, as the three took a brief moment to reload their submachine guns, I rose from my hiding place and had enough time to let off two rounds. Both rounds struck Nathaniel the little elf in the eye, upon instant contact, he was dead. Tom Berenger let off two more rounds before ordering Monica Belluci to retreat, likewise, he did the same. But they all forgot one thing.... their signed Sandy Kofax memorabilia.

I stepped on his career stats book on my way out of the house, I was intent on chasing them. Suddenly, I was kicked in the backside and I landed in the bushes. As I struggled to get up, he spewed an irrational however hilarious comment while aiming to punch me in the eye. It was... the robotic Danny Devito, and he was no longer a renaissance man, but a renaissance man out for revenge.

I didnt get it, what did I do to deserve his wrath? It seemed he was ready to finish me off. He had prepared that silver boot which gave my ribs quite a beating.

Suddenly, Johnny Depp, despite being groggy and incoherent from that night of partying and endless binge drinking found it within himself to grab hold of a rocket launcher.

"Heyyyyyyaa, gettt downnne if ya don wanna be hurt!" remarked Johnny. He squeezed the trigger and out came an explosive shell. Lucky for me, I had already ducked long before Johnny had fired, I ducked exactly when he appeared with knowledge in hand the damage he could do while he was intoxicated.

Then, I saw a huge fireball and the robotic Danny Devito was no more. However, Johnny struggled to get on his feet. I ran to him and tried to help him up.

"Johnny, you ok," I asked. " C'mon man, we got a party to go to!"

"I think I've had enough partyin for the past 40 somethin years, I think I'll take a permanent vacation, a reallll long vacationzzz if ya ask me." replied Johnny. He collapsed to the ground and let out one final breath. I sobbed, however until I felt a faint but still active pulse, he was still alive, however he would need medical treatment that would be out of this world. I limped over to the metallic remains of the robotic Danny Devito, I found a significant part that read:

Michael Bolton Singing Group

I dropped the metallic object and I cursed the name. I cursed it for all the world to hear:

"BOLTONNNNNNNNNNNNNNN !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
 
Arright, let's continue the story shall we?

It was 9:30 PM the next night. I was at a bar in downtown Vegas, it was raining outside, pouring. No, it didnt feel like the start of summer because it rained like dogs and cats. It had rained for the past couple days and Las Vegas was pretty much taking the brunt of a little rain stream.

As for me? I was dealing with the brunt of losing Jay, my best friend from the war, Johnny Depp, who I formed a friendship with after I almost ran him over in Berlin and of course, the worst thing to ever happen, the disappearance of Stephanie. I felt like drinking away my sorrow. I bought a single bottle of ale from the bar, and I sat on the stool on the front table. A minute went by, two, no three, four, then I noticed I've been there for three hours, sucking on a bottle that had been three hours empty.

"Heyya, you still sucking out of that empty bottle?" asked a patron who sat two chairs down from me. "When you're done, I got a whole lot of bottles in that trashcan you can suck the marrow out of!"

The whole bar then took it's attention away from the basketball game and focused their attention to laughing at me. The brunt of the world somehow pressed on my shoulders again until finally, the bartender interrupted.

"Hey, you shut up over there, get back to your damn basketball game and sip your damned tea!"

The patron who insulted me was about to respond, that is, until the bartender readied a sawed-off shotgun. The patron assimilated with everyone else almost immediately, and diverted his thoughts back to the game.

"Sorry mac, but these people just seem to get on your craphole sometimes." said the bartender to me.

"No Problem," I added. A minute or two passed until I saw a Silver Star that read "for conspicous gallantry in the face of danger, in the mediterranean sea" framed just above the bartender's station.

"Sicily?" I asked, referring to the war that is.

"No, Monte Cassino." responded the bartender.

I nodded, and I put two dollars on the table. I then left the bar with the blessings of the bartender. The raining somewhat stopped, and I decided to put the umbrella in the coat. As I did that, a policeman walking on the beat caught a glimpse of it. He may have thought I was putting away a weapon or something else. He gave me a grim look and he just kept on walking. "Damned Pig," I thought.

I grabbed my lighter and I wanted to smoke a cigarette, although I never had before. Finally, a man in an overcoat and a tophat just leaning against a building wall spoke to me.

"Hey kid, those things are bad for you, put them away."

Before I just dropped it, I had barely put the cigarette in my mouth. "What the hell is it to you, you the safety inspector or something?" I asked

"Yes, as a matter a fact, I am." he responded. "Oh, and your pants are on fire."

"What the hell are you talking about, I--", then I noticed, my pants were really on fire.

He grabbed a fire extinguisher and put out the ember. "Get lots of those and the amount of seeds you can plant in someone is out the window!" he remarked. I didnt know whether it was serious or not, however, it just so happens that the next day I would be taking a trip to the doctor to have a check on my "seed count"

I emerged out of Doctor Milligan's office. He was a weird guy, a Harvard graduate, Ph.D, had degrees in various fields of medical study, however I rarely saw him for anything, matter a fact, until then, I haven't been to that office since 10 months back when I needed to get my ankle operated on so I could be accepted into the Army. Nevertheless, that guy scared me, he had more hair on his arms than Chewbacca and Harrison Ford put together. I was happy to get out of that office, very very happy.

As I opened the door, I saw someone who I didnt expect to see, it was William Fichtner. Who? Well, he's starred in various roles in Armaggedon, The Perfect Storm , Pearl Harbor and Blackhawk Down. Arright, fine, no one knows him, he's probably a bum. But it was the guy who sat next to him that I really didnt expect to see, it was that man who extinguished the blaze that nearly consumed my dockers.

"Hey kid, you shouldnt be walking around stangely like that." He remarked, or something to that effect.

"What the hell are you talking about, I'm walking just fine!" I added. Then I noticed, I was walking from side to side, it wasnt a strut, it was more like drunk walking. How the hell could the guy do that? I rubbed my blurry eyes and the mysterious man who could point out things I was unaware of due to my drunkeness was someone who I didnt expect the voice would be....... someone, who would make a normal person quake in his boots and excrete in his underwear due to fear.... it was... it was PAUL NEWMAN.

He took off his sunglasses, and glared at me with those intimidating eyes of his. I asked him for his autograph and he approved of it.

"Sure wish that Johnny has a speedy recovery!" he remarked.

That was the last time I would see Paul Newman until later on. I intensified my search for my long lost love Stephanie, all that I got out of the intensification was meeting Ronald McDonald who gave me a job handing out pens to kids on the street corner. When McDonald went to pay me my daily salary, I kicked him in the backside. The kick knocked him to the ground, and then I spat on him and ran.

End of Chapter 2
 
hey what's going on here? you two staying out of trouble?
 
Yes I was but not this one...didn't think the last one ended fair... but what the heck I am here...
 
For the record, my contributions are not related to one another. Just whatever comes rolling off the fingertips.

I am, however, considering fleshing out the one about the attorney and sending it to an amateur writing contest. I liked it as I was writing it.
 
Ok, here goes chapter three.... lots of punctuation errors, but who cares?

I entered the bar on the corner of 57th and Washington, as I walked, I saw the bodies of dozens of patrons, several with weapons. One had been lucky enough to have some of his brain particles on the wall. Who could've done this, no wait, the question could also be... what? It also looked as if the victims had no time to retalliate, there were no bullets near the entrance walls.

How would I know you ask?

Simple, I have seen it before, in the street-to-street fighting in Bastogne. I saw a couple Germans who were killed during the fight, I knew they had no time to beat our troops, who were mostly armed with the infamous Thompson sub-machine guns.

"Poor Kraut bastards" I thought as I passed each of their bodies.

****

However, back in the bar, I eyed the bartender, he was shaking...... slowly, he was wiping off this mug, with the scratches on the mug, it looked as if he was at it for awhile. He was pale, very shaken, he was a medium-built man, bald head, mustache, almost looked as if he could be a banker.

"I'll order a --"

Before I could finish my order, he then fell over, landing on the counter. I moved him over his side and found that he had three bullet wounds to the back. A normal man would've screamed in terror, however, I saw this all too often, it never terrorized me anymore, I know it will someday, however I've seen so many dead, innocent, guilty, enemy or ally to even know which from which anymore. With his body on the counter, I just sat down on a stool, reached over to mix my own drink, and of course I went on with the deed, I just drank a shot of Coca-Cola mixed with Pepsi-Cola, for that was always my favorite combination.

"So, just got here?" said a mysterious voice.

I turned around, and within a small matter of time, I drew out my trusty browning automatic and held it to the figure's face. He was shrouded in darkness, that is until someone turned on the light.


****
"Hey, is that better?" asked another mysterious voice.

I stayed my sidearm and found out that the mysterious figure was Charlie Sheen, and he was carrying an Thompson sub machine gun. The person who turned on the lights was Liv Tyler. Wow, I had recognized her face. I mean, how could such a horribly ugly man like Steven Tyler be the father of a hottie? Who knows, I was just affixed on Liv's figure.

"Hey, Hey, are you alright, you even paying attention?" said Charlie Sheen as he snapped his fingers in front of my eyes to make sure I was paying attention.

"Yeah, I'm alright, what the hell went on here?" I asked

"How the hell would I know?" responded Sheen with bloodshot eyes, whether it was from hitting the you-know-what or whether he had just been doing a patrol, who they hell knows what he was previously up to. "Just wanted to make sure you were alright, I'm part of your friendly community watch team!"

Sheen or as he was called in some parts of the world "Carlos Ramon Rodriguez Estevez" walked out of the bar still keeping the thompson close to his side. As he walked out, two duranged fans were screaming "CHARLIE !!!!!!!!! HEY CHARLIE, LEMME GET YOUR AUTOGRAPH MAN !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I heard a few more duranged fans approached Carlos. Suddenly, I heard a few bursts from the thompson sub machine gun and then people screaming "AHHHHHHH GET HELP!!!!!!!!! WHY CHARLIE? WHY ?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! CAN you still give me an autograph?"

"Hey, dont you be asking for too much, now get your chicken wuss, wise-crack, crazy headed foolish selves out of here!" screamed Charlie, a couple more bursts from the thompson sub machine gun and then the mob of duranged fans was sent running.

****

Then, it was just me and Liv Tyler, she walked to me in that sort of attractive way that you'd want a hot chick to walk to you. I just cant explain it. She unbuttoned her shirt, put her hand on that special area which I prefer not to mention at this time, and asked me "Is it hot in here?"

"Hell yeah...." I responded, we began to kiss until suddenly....

****

I woke up from the dream and Liv Tyler was right in front of me.

"Hey? Did we just finish?" I asked. "If we did, then gee, that was quick!"

"Finish what? Oh, wishing Johnny a speedy recovery?" Liv asked. "Yep, we did, I'll see you boys later."

Oh man, there, I missed my chance, then I remembered... Stephanie. I just leaned back and took a deep breath. However, I noticed a kiss mark, some lipstick on my collar, same color lipstick that Liv was wearing.... wow..... dreams actually do come true !

I was sitting in a chair just a short distance away from Johnny who was hooked up to a couple machines, he was resting in the hospital. He had that long hair and the mustache, man, he could've looked like Randy Johnson or even worse... Alan Jackson. I suddenly felt thirsty and I went down to the hospital lobby, I left the room and asked the guard nearby "Guard Johnny well, ya hear me?"

After he acknowledged, I went down the stairs, and saw the female receptionist, she had red hair, reminded me of Stehpanie somewhat.

"Hey, any place I can get coffee around here?" I asked.

"There's a coffee machine in the back, but it's broken." The receptionist responded. "Hey, you want to come on back, and join me in... fixing it? It's the best type of coffee you'll ever have."

She started to unbutton her shirt.

"Sure! I exclaimed." I went around with her to the backroom, and I stayed there having the excitement of my life for four long hours.

Yep, excitement alright, I was fixing the coffee machine. Fixing things was a hobby of mine ever since I worked on my father's indy car every year before he raced in the yearly grand prix. When it was all done, I was very very excited. I poured my own cup of coffee and the receptionist was right, it was the best tasting coffee I ever had.

"Thanks for fixing the coffee machine!" exclaimed the receptionist, she gave me a kiss, no, not any ordinary kiss, but on the lips.

"Anytime baby !" I responded with glee. I sure could've used a couple more of those.

I went back to the room Johnny was in. I sat back on my chair and kept my watch on my good friend, Johnny Depp.
 
..... what the hell was that? :p

Just kidding, very good story my man !
 
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