desert dude
Well-Known Member
Very descriptive writing! My compliments!!
Confirmed: Fox News makes people dumb
- Thread starter deprave
- Start date
jessy koons
New Member
Wow! Dr. Kynes Greenhouse of Passion makes my Story About a Turd story seem trivial.
Most shows on TV these days are really lifeless and sad. Fox News is impossible for me to watch, CNN and every other news/entertainment program comes in at a very, very close second.
I think that the most poisonous broadcasts come over the radio in the form of rant/talk shows. When I've had the misfortune to be within earshot of that miserable droning I'm truly amazed at how truly unintelligent is almost everything the talker says. I do however get a kick from the commercials for Gold Bond ass creme and various other dainty products.
Most shows on TV these days are really lifeless and sad. Fox News is impossible for me to watch, CNN and every other news/entertainment program comes in at a very, very close second.
I think that the most poisonous broadcasts come over the radio in the form of rant/talk shows. When I've had the misfortune to be within earshot of that miserable droning I'm truly amazed at how truly unintelligent is almost everything the talker says. I do however get a kick from the commercials for Gold Bond ass creme and various other dainty products.
Dr Kynes
Well-Known Member
Greenhouse of Passion
Chapter Four
Veronica was excited, almost jubilant as she bounced down the ramp towards the car in long term parking. It wasn't much to look at, just an 1963 Oldsmobile Cutlass, with a midnight blue paint job of dubious quality. Earl Schiebe obviously made his money on this one. "Hey Boss, when you gonna get rid of this heap and buy a car that doesn't need a hand crank? You could get a nice Lexus or something for half the dough we spent on that suite!" Gyro remained silent, and stowed the briefcases in hidden compartment behind the rear seat. Veronica wasn't done yet. "Maybe it's time to shoot this old mare and look into a ride with some style, some comfort, an air conditioner, and just maybe a radio that doesn't play 8-tracks!" Gyro threw her a withering glare, and started the engine. He motioned for her to get in, and enjoyed the low throaty rumble of the no-longer quite stock 455 V8. Veronica slid into the passenger seat, and reached for the radio tuner, but with a grin, Gyro brandished an ancient cassette and smoothly slid it home. George Clinton, and Parliament Funkadelic filled the air, with the classic Chocolate City as they hit the I-15 south towards the California line. With a heavy sigh of relief Gyroscope was finally putting Las Vegas in his rear view mirror. The last eight months had been rough, and not in the way he was accustomed to deal with. Vegas had required too much snooping, too much legwork, and too many payoffs to find what they were looking for. By the time their target was identified, infiltrated, and destroyed, gyro was ready for a vacation. A couple months on the Sea of Cortez, fishing, drinking and maybe getting to know a few senoritas. Thats what he needed and for once, he was finally getting what he deserved. Veronica, as junior partner had to fill out the action reports, file them with central, and face her first real review, but she had to do all that alone. "She handled herself pretty good," Gyroscope thought to himself, "the pencil pushers and desk jockeys wont make a dent in that thick skull." His smile never reached his face, couldn't let a rookie think you were approved of anything. Six hours later, just as the desert was putting itself down for another chilly night, Gyroscope pulled into Barstow, and made the left onto state route 56. Before the sun had set, he took a left down a dirt track, and approached a locked gate, marked US Government Property, Use of Deadly Fore Authorized. A quick push on the 8-track's volume knob, and the locked gate slid to the left, on hidden rails, and the Cutlass rolled right on past. Driving through the outskirts of Edwards Airbase, Gyroscope made a right, and rumbled down a two-rut trail, not even glancing at the six foot by nine foot white painted sign marking the start of the live fire ordinance training range. Two miles of bomb craters, burned out vehicles, and unexploded ordinance later, gyro pull off the track, and drove towards an old test bunker set in the side of a small hill, with it's front facade blown completely away.. The cutlass purred throatily as he drove into the bombed out structure, then, with a press of the 8-track's tuning knob, the back wall sank into the ground, revealing a large subterranean garage, complete with service bays, auto lifts, and a pair of fuel pumps, illuminated by the dim orange glow of a couple bare bulbs.. Gyroscope pulled his cutlas into his parking space, and waited as the concrete and steel bunker wall rose back into position. He watched from the corner of his eye as Veronica, who had seemed increasingly nervous, and quiet throughout the ride, and for the last two hours had been uncharacteristically silent and twitchy, looked around apprehensively. Once the hidden garage was sealed, a steel armored door slid open at the rear of the garage, exposing an elevator. Gyroscope nudged his protege to get her moving, and steered her towards the elevator. "You been here half a dozen times kid, this time aint no different." he growled. The girl let our a squeak, and scrambled for the elevator. "Easy for you to say boss, you already got the job." She chewed her lip and looked around the elevator as if seeking an escape. "Kid," he said, "they got this whole facility wired for video and sound. If they're watchin' ya now, you're washing out." Veronica straightened up and swallowed audibly. She then whispered to her mentor, "Do you think i blew it?" Gyro burst out laughing and punched he shoulder playfully. "Fuck kid, every time they start blowin shit up topside, the lights go out. that's why we gotta ride so deep! nothing more delicate than hydraulics and incandescent bulbs works up here." He waited till she had her shit together, then pushed the bottom of a pair of buttons on the elevator panel, and the doors slid shut. After a moment, the elevator car started descending, picking up speed, until as best gyro could figure, they were dropping maybe 30 feet a second. Gyro counted down, and as always, reached 42, just before the elevator car began slowing. After another six seconds the elevator thumped to a stop, and the doors slid open to reveal a long brightly lit corridor, lined with rather prosaic office doors. With only the slightest nudge, and a whispered "It's yours kid, Fucking Own It!" to his student, Gyro watched as she steeled herself and went to face the review board for the first time. Veronica stomped down the corridor, like she was the Chair-Girl of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Gyro chuckled as her commanding demeanor, and Fuck-Your-Shit-Up attitude sent functionaries and deskjockeys scrambling to get out of her way. None of them seemed to realize they were fleeing before a 19 year old girl in a pretty sundress. "Fuckin useless bureaucrats." he muttered "I cant believe these clowns get paid more than me." Gyroscope moved through the underground base, towards the locker room.
After a mission this long, Gyroscope was looking forward to finally shaking off his code name and slipping into one of the many backstopped identities he had carefully sculpted for himself over the years. For the next two glorious months he would become Enrique Mendoza, citizen of the great nation of Mexico, and resident of Baja California, with a little house on the Sea of Cortez, a fishing boat, and a cooler full of beer. Already becoming Enrique in his mind, he thought dreamily of the sun drenched leisure awaiting him, as he removed the clothing and equipment that this silly gringo Gyroscope had to carry, and slipped into the simple functional garments that would serve him for the next several months. Simple cotton chinos, leather sandals, a crew necked T-shirt emblazoned with a faded logo of a World Cup long past, a tan cotton sport jacket and a well worn panama hat completed the transformation. So complete in fact, that he almost didnt understand the words some gringo was saying behind him. Enrique no habla engles, mi amigo! After a second, his reverie was broken, as the words were repeated, "Gyroscope! Sergeant!! Snap to!" The persona of Enrique disappeared into the mist, as Gyro turned, and saluted the colonel standing behind him. "Sir! Sorry sir, just getting a jump on my leave..." "Stow it soldier! Nobody goes on leave till somebody cleans the piss off my shoes!" Gyro hadnt fallen for that one in a long time, and didnt even start to look down for the urine he knew was entirely metaphorical. Thats how it goes in the service, when the flag officers get a bug up their ass they kick the field officers who then kick the sergeants. Sergeants didnt have anybody to kick except the rank and file, and kicking them never cleaned up a drop of piss, not even metaphorical piss. Time to put his survival training into action, Escape and Evade! "Sir!! if you could describe the perpetrator, i shall ensure that he cleans your shoes without delay sir!" The colonel wasnt amused, and raised up a colour laser print. "Why describe him sergeant, when i got his MOTHERFUCKING PICTURE RIGHT HERE!!!!" Gyro glanced at the photo on the printout only briefly. It doesnt take long to recognize yourself, even with senior field officer spit in your eyes. The colonel shoved the printout into gyro's chest and stalked away, as he left he shouted over his shoulder "Go back to Vegas, find out What Where When How, and With Whom you screwed the pooch, and FIX IT!!!!!!" Those last words hung in the air like a palpable doom. Back to Vegas. Fix it. "Damn!" Gyro thought furiously, "Just once I'd like to get out of that damned town clean." Thats the way it is in Vegas. Even just a few hours there and you stop noticing how wierd the whole place is. A resort town in the middle of a desert so inhospitable, even the vultures vacation in Detroit. Spend a few weeks and youll stop even seeing the streetwalkers, gambling houses all night buffets. Spend a month, and you wont notice the drive through wedding chapels, and even Wayne Newton starts sounding like a good idea. After six months Gyro had to stop himself from listening to Celine Dion piped into the strip, live from her theater. Eight months and you might take up baccarat or slot machines. and from there, its all over. Thats Vegas. A place where you can get almost anything you want, but most people who go there pretty much just wind up standing over a sewer grate flipping quarters in. Vegas. An entire city built around a cheap carnival midway, and hookers. Theres not even a teacup ride.
Gyro kitted himself back up and headed past central's briefing room. If he was gonna get out of Vegas and into Baja, he needed data, and he needed it fast. Down a short flight of stairs and into Nerdvanna, at least thats what the field agents called it. Every square inch of the place was packed with electronics, gadgets toys and such. Most of the denizens of this part of Central Command never left the base. Not that they couldnt leave, they just rarely did. The were Geeks. They spent their days playing computer games, monitoring network traffic and basically keeping their eyes on every shady corner of the internet. They were OK dudes once you got to know them, but some of them were kinda creepy. Each one sported a graveyard tan, from the fluorescent lighting of their tomb. They all had the slightly sickly pallor of somebody who spends too much time sitting at a computer terminal, and not enough time talking to girls. Very few of the female operatives ever came down here. One whiff of estrogen and most of the nerds tried to pull their heads into their turtlenecks. Most. There were a few, a revolting few who tried to "turn on the charm" but they left everyone in the splash zone covered with a miasma of desperation, fear sweat and Jergens lotion. Thats where Gyro was headed today. He had to visit NoDrama. NoDrama was the Nomme du-Dweeb of Central's high preist of geekdom. The nerd who put the Racy in conspiracy theories. His primary task was operational security, he patrolled the web searching for even the barest hint of a rumor of the secret project Gyro had dedicated his life to. It was NoDrama's second passion that confused and angered so many. During his downtime, he would prowl the back hallways and dark corners of the internet, and indulge in the fine art of "Trolling". Creating conspiracy theories each one more insane than the last, and where conspiracy fever was at it's height, he would throw it all in reverse and become the "voice of reason" deriding his victims as basement dwellers, and usually sexual deviants. The top brass didnt like NoDrama's hobby, but as long as he kept the secrets secret and the cover stories fresh and believable, he could do whatever he wanted in his off time. To keep this fiully self contained world of geeks and nerds (they preferred the term Otaku) happy, once you stepped into Nerdvanna, all military discipline went out the window, metaphorically speaking. As soon as you passed through the two stage airlock doors, and entered their domain, one was immediately struck by how little this place looked, or smelled like a military facility. The only uniforms in sight were from Star Trek, or occasionally, Battlestar Galactica (both old and new), and the only weapons were connected to game consoles. the walls of the central common area were plastered with posters, pages from tech magazines and skimpy pinup girls. Gyro would almost feel at home, like an old school mechanics garage, except the pinup girls were Japanese style cartoons, and occasionally, robots. One of the denizens of this haven for adult teenagers looked up from his HotPocket and recognizing Gyro, jerked his thumb in the direction of NoDrama's suite. Gyro knocked at the door, and heard a muffled, "Fuck Off!"shouted from deep within. Gyro took this as an invitation, and strode into NoDrama's lair. The smell was intense, overpowering, and almost narcotic. Nodrama was wearing his plasticized butchers apron emblazoned with a gigantic cannabis leaf, latex gloves, and wielded a pair of razor sharp shears. "Fuck Gyro, get in here and close the damned door!" After entering, NoDrama indicated with a wave of his hand, the large stack of cannabis flowers he was manicuring in preparation for drying. With a nod, Gyro donned an apron of his own, and settled indian fashion onto the floor. NoDrama and Gyro quietly trimmed and clipped the fragrant herb for several minutes in silence before NoDrama proffered a prepped bong shaped like Thompson sub-machine gun. With a chuckle Gyro accepted the offer, and smiled.. "You know its against regs to keep your weapon loaded on base!" Gyro sparked a lighter, and covered the carb hole."Ill just empty this thing, you know, for safety." After several more minutes of passing, and sparking, the dangerous device was rendered inert, it's payload reduced to ashes. with a satisfied little cough, Nodrama and Gyro went back to trimming this latest harvest. Gyro was impressed, the nuggs were heavy and resinous, the scent was making him delirious, and his shears, latex gloves and apron were soon covered in sticky residue. after an hour or so the last nugg was trimmed and hung to dry in the curious contraption NoDrama had fashioned out of an old plastic water drum, and some hinges fans and military issue shoelaces. After his prized crop was stowed carefully in the drying chamber Nodrama and Gyro stripped off their aprons, and placed them carefully on a small table for the laborious task of rolling the residue from the shears and aprons and gloves into finger hash. while they plucked, rolled and worked the residue Gyro Filled his friend in on his problem. NoDrama nodded, he was already in the loop on this latest fuck-up. NoDrama quickly filled Gyro in on what he knew. Somebody somewhere had let something slip, most likely a low level trainee trying to chat up a broad. This fuck-up hadn't died off like they usually do, it had fallen across somebody's desk someplace in Washington. Some jackass at Homeland Security had caught wind of something, and unlike their usual tactic of waiting for shit to blow up in their faces, then blaming the local cops, this jackass had started sniffing around. Once one jackass starts sniffing, all the others will of course join in, just in case theres a chance to steal some credit or get his name in the papers as a hero. Homeland Security's investigation turned up nothing, of course, their nerds were cut rate amateurs compared to NoDrama and his crew. Somebody hadn't bought the cover story though, and it wasnt a government agency. The NSA's top secret project codenamed Blue Whale had been sifting through every byte of data traveling though the world's internet telephone and satellite systems since the mid 90's. It was coming up with tiny snippets, and tantalizing hints that somebody had their nose in Central Command's business. None of it had yet been traceable, and none of it was conclusive, but the squints were sure, somebody was sniffing around, and had been for months. The picture of Gyro, and the address of the Golds Gym on Flamingo, was all they had turned up so far, and they didnt even know who sent it. Gyro examined the picture again, paying particular attention to some faint horizontal lines on either side of his head. The image was a closeup, providing very little context, but something in the image struck a familiar chord. "The fucking CAB!!" The cab had been equipped with an antiquated rear window defroster, the sort with visible wires embedded in between the layers of the safety glass. Wires that would leave horizontal lines in the background of any picture shot in the back seat. "That fucking prick! I knew something was up with that dick!" Gyro wracked his memory and recalled the hack license, "Carruthers! Yeah! Robert Carruthers, with two R's! That's who we are lookin' for!" As NoDrama tucked the last tiny ball of finger hash into a plastic pill box, he turned to his computer. "I'll have it for ya in just a minute." he said, almost cocky in his demeanor, and since he had already penetrated the security in Nevada's stat licensing board, he was rightly confident. Ten seconds later, his terminal made a quiet beep. NoDrama's fingers danced across the keys as he issued numerous commands, and killed several processes. "Well, bro. I gues we're on the right track. There he is, Robert Carruthers, independent cab driver, he has a hack license in Vegas, with an ex-wife, ex-house, ex-car, and two ex-kids in Winnemucca, Oh hey, and an ex-dog! Funny thing is, once i started snooping, a quiet little program slipped ion a backdoor built into all these government systems, that's none of the suits think we know about. It didn't get anything except the contact data and IP address from a collection agency in Sioux Falls, but I got their balls in a sack!" Gyro waited for NoDrama to finish his victory dance, after several disturbing seconds, NoDrama wound down and pressed the print button on his terminal. "I know you old timers don't use PDA's or smartphone s so ill Fred Flintstone it out for ya. Here's the address, and map. Jacksonville Oregon, about 4 miles west of Medford, Maybe 12 hours in that souped up Chevy Nova you drive." Gyro gave him a scathing looks and muttered, "It's a Cutlas, Poindexter!" NoDrama Threw a bag of Doritos at Gyro's head with a curse, "Fuck you man, If anybody finds out my real name ill never live it down asshole!" Gyro Chuckled and caught the salty projectile with one hand, then tore it open with a flourish. "Tell ya what "NoDrama", drop a couple nuggs in my travel bag and nobody will ever know your dirty little secret." NoDrama eyed his Friend suspiciously, and reached into a nearby drawer. He extracted a large exquisitely carved and figured cigar humidor, then unlocked it with a small key hanging around his neck. After pondering for a few seconds, he passed over to Gyro a large baggie stuffed with green and purple buds, each one scintillating with crystallized trichomes and delicate brightly colored pistils. Gyro grinned and took the weighty sack, then turned to leave. NoDrama may be a geek, but he sure could grow the shit out of his dope. Things were looking up. He wouldn't have to go to Vegas after all, he had a fresh supply of sweet grass, and if he played it right he could find the leak, and plug it either with a fistful of government cash, or a GI issue .45 slug. Either way he just might be in Baja by the end of next week if he was lucky.
Chapter Four
Veronica was excited, almost jubilant as she bounced down the ramp towards the car in long term parking. It wasn't much to look at, just an 1963 Oldsmobile Cutlass, with a midnight blue paint job of dubious quality. Earl Schiebe obviously made his money on this one. "Hey Boss, when you gonna get rid of this heap and buy a car that doesn't need a hand crank? You could get a nice Lexus or something for half the dough we spent on that suite!" Gyro remained silent, and stowed the briefcases in hidden compartment behind the rear seat. Veronica wasn't done yet. "Maybe it's time to shoot this old mare and look into a ride with some style, some comfort, an air conditioner, and just maybe a radio that doesn't play 8-tracks!" Gyro threw her a withering glare, and started the engine. He motioned for her to get in, and enjoyed the low throaty rumble of the no-longer quite stock 455 V8. Veronica slid into the passenger seat, and reached for the radio tuner, but with a grin, Gyro brandished an ancient cassette and smoothly slid it home. George Clinton, and Parliament Funkadelic filled the air, with the classic Chocolate City as they hit the I-15 south towards the California line. With a heavy sigh of relief Gyroscope was finally putting Las Vegas in his rear view mirror. The last eight months had been rough, and not in the way he was accustomed to deal with. Vegas had required too much snooping, too much legwork, and too many payoffs to find what they were looking for. By the time their target was identified, infiltrated, and destroyed, gyro was ready for a vacation. A couple months on the Sea of Cortez, fishing, drinking and maybe getting to know a few senoritas. Thats what he needed and for once, he was finally getting what he deserved. Veronica, as junior partner had to fill out the action reports, file them with central, and face her first real review, but she had to do all that alone. "She handled herself pretty good," Gyroscope thought to himself, "the pencil pushers and desk jockeys wont make a dent in that thick skull." His smile never reached his face, couldn't let a rookie think you were approved of anything. Six hours later, just as the desert was putting itself down for another chilly night, Gyroscope pulled into Barstow, and made the left onto state route 56. Before the sun had set, he took a left down a dirt track, and approached a locked gate, marked US Government Property, Use of Deadly Fore Authorized. A quick push on the 8-track's volume knob, and the locked gate slid to the left, on hidden rails, and the Cutlass rolled right on past. Driving through the outskirts of Edwards Airbase, Gyroscope made a right, and rumbled down a two-rut trail, not even glancing at the six foot by nine foot white painted sign marking the start of the live fire ordinance training range. Two miles of bomb craters, burned out vehicles, and unexploded ordinance later, gyro pull off the track, and drove towards an old test bunker set in the side of a small hill, with it's front facade blown completely away.. The cutlass purred throatily as he drove into the bombed out structure, then, with a press of the 8-track's tuning knob, the back wall sank into the ground, revealing a large subterranean garage, complete with service bays, auto lifts, and a pair of fuel pumps, illuminated by the dim orange glow of a couple bare bulbs.. Gyroscope pulled his cutlas into his parking space, and waited as the concrete and steel bunker wall rose back into position. He watched from the corner of his eye as Veronica, who had seemed increasingly nervous, and quiet throughout the ride, and for the last two hours had been uncharacteristically silent and twitchy, looked around apprehensively. Once the hidden garage was sealed, a steel armored door slid open at the rear of the garage, exposing an elevator. Gyroscope nudged his protege to get her moving, and steered her towards the elevator. "You been here half a dozen times kid, this time aint no different." he growled. The girl let our a squeak, and scrambled for the elevator. "Easy for you to say boss, you already got the job." She chewed her lip and looked around the elevator as if seeking an escape. "Kid," he said, "they got this whole facility wired for video and sound. If they're watchin' ya now, you're washing out." Veronica straightened up and swallowed audibly. She then whispered to her mentor, "Do you think i blew it?" Gyro burst out laughing and punched he shoulder playfully. "Fuck kid, every time they start blowin shit up topside, the lights go out. that's why we gotta ride so deep! nothing more delicate than hydraulics and incandescent bulbs works up here." He waited till she had her shit together, then pushed the bottom of a pair of buttons on the elevator panel, and the doors slid shut. After a moment, the elevator car started descending, picking up speed, until as best gyro could figure, they were dropping maybe 30 feet a second. Gyro counted down, and as always, reached 42, just before the elevator car began slowing. After another six seconds the elevator thumped to a stop, and the doors slid open to reveal a long brightly lit corridor, lined with rather prosaic office doors. With only the slightest nudge, and a whispered "It's yours kid, Fucking Own It!" to his student, Gyro watched as she steeled herself and went to face the review board for the first time. Veronica stomped down the corridor, like she was the Chair-Girl of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Gyro chuckled as her commanding demeanor, and Fuck-Your-Shit-Up attitude sent functionaries and deskjockeys scrambling to get out of her way. None of them seemed to realize they were fleeing before a 19 year old girl in a pretty sundress. "Fuckin useless bureaucrats." he muttered "I cant believe these clowns get paid more than me." Gyroscope moved through the underground base, towards the locker room.
After a mission this long, Gyroscope was looking forward to finally shaking off his code name and slipping into one of the many backstopped identities he had carefully sculpted for himself over the years. For the next two glorious months he would become Enrique Mendoza, citizen of the great nation of Mexico, and resident of Baja California, with a little house on the Sea of Cortez, a fishing boat, and a cooler full of beer. Already becoming Enrique in his mind, he thought dreamily of the sun drenched leisure awaiting him, as he removed the clothing and equipment that this silly gringo Gyroscope had to carry, and slipped into the simple functional garments that would serve him for the next several months. Simple cotton chinos, leather sandals, a crew necked T-shirt emblazoned with a faded logo of a World Cup long past, a tan cotton sport jacket and a well worn panama hat completed the transformation. So complete in fact, that he almost didnt understand the words some gringo was saying behind him. Enrique no habla engles, mi amigo! After a second, his reverie was broken, as the words were repeated, "Gyroscope! Sergeant!! Snap to!" The persona of Enrique disappeared into the mist, as Gyro turned, and saluted the colonel standing behind him. "Sir! Sorry sir, just getting a jump on my leave..." "Stow it soldier! Nobody goes on leave till somebody cleans the piss off my shoes!" Gyro hadnt fallen for that one in a long time, and didnt even start to look down for the urine he knew was entirely metaphorical. Thats how it goes in the service, when the flag officers get a bug up their ass they kick the field officers who then kick the sergeants. Sergeants didnt have anybody to kick except the rank and file, and kicking them never cleaned up a drop of piss, not even metaphorical piss. Time to put his survival training into action, Escape and Evade! "Sir!! if you could describe the perpetrator, i shall ensure that he cleans your shoes without delay sir!" The colonel wasnt amused, and raised up a colour laser print. "Why describe him sergeant, when i got his MOTHERFUCKING PICTURE RIGHT HERE!!!!" Gyro glanced at the photo on the printout only briefly. It doesnt take long to recognize yourself, even with senior field officer spit in your eyes. The colonel shoved the printout into gyro's chest and stalked away, as he left he shouted over his shoulder "Go back to Vegas, find out What Where When How, and With Whom you screwed the pooch, and FIX IT!!!!!!" Those last words hung in the air like a palpable doom. Back to Vegas. Fix it. "Damn!" Gyro thought furiously, "Just once I'd like to get out of that damned town clean." Thats the way it is in Vegas. Even just a few hours there and you stop noticing how wierd the whole place is. A resort town in the middle of a desert so inhospitable, even the vultures vacation in Detroit. Spend a few weeks and youll stop even seeing the streetwalkers, gambling houses all night buffets. Spend a month, and you wont notice the drive through wedding chapels, and even Wayne Newton starts sounding like a good idea. After six months Gyro had to stop himself from listening to Celine Dion piped into the strip, live from her theater. Eight months and you might take up baccarat or slot machines. and from there, its all over. Thats Vegas. A place where you can get almost anything you want, but most people who go there pretty much just wind up standing over a sewer grate flipping quarters in. Vegas. An entire city built around a cheap carnival midway, and hookers. Theres not even a teacup ride.
Gyro kitted himself back up and headed past central's briefing room. If he was gonna get out of Vegas and into Baja, he needed data, and he needed it fast. Down a short flight of stairs and into Nerdvanna, at least thats what the field agents called it. Every square inch of the place was packed with electronics, gadgets toys and such. Most of the denizens of this part of Central Command never left the base. Not that they couldnt leave, they just rarely did. The were Geeks. They spent their days playing computer games, monitoring network traffic and basically keeping their eyes on every shady corner of the internet. They were OK dudes once you got to know them, but some of them were kinda creepy. Each one sported a graveyard tan, from the fluorescent lighting of their tomb. They all had the slightly sickly pallor of somebody who spends too much time sitting at a computer terminal, and not enough time talking to girls. Very few of the female operatives ever came down here. One whiff of estrogen and most of the nerds tried to pull their heads into their turtlenecks. Most. There were a few, a revolting few who tried to "turn on the charm" but they left everyone in the splash zone covered with a miasma of desperation, fear sweat and Jergens lotion. Thats where Gyro was headed today. He had to visit NoDrama. NoDrama was the Nomme du-Dweeb of Central's high preist of geekdom. The nerd who put the Racy in conspiracy theories. His primary task was operational security, he patrolled the web searching for even the barest hint of a rumor of the secret project Gyro had dedicated his life to. It was NoDrama's second passion that confused and angered so many. During his downtime, he would prowl the back hallways and dark corners of the internet, and indulge in the fine art of "Trolling". Creating conspiracy theories each one more insane than the last, and where conspiracy fever was at it's height, he would throw it all in reverse and become the "voice of reason" deriding his victims as basement dwellers, and usually sexual deviants. The top brass didnt like NoDrama's hobby, but as long as he kept the secrets secret and the cover stories fresh and believable, he could do whatever he wanted in his off time. To keep this fiully self contained world of geeks and nerds (they preferred the term Otaku) happy, once you stepped into Nerdvanna, all military discipline went out the window, metaphorically speaking. As soon as you passed through the two stage airlock doors, and entered their domain, one was immediately struck by how little this place looked, or smelled like a military facility. The only uniforms in sight were from Star Trek, or occasionally, Battlestar Galactica (both old and new), and the only weapons were connected to game consoles. the walls of the central common area were plastered with posters, pages from tech magazines and skimpy pinup girls. Gyro would almost feel at home, like an old school mechanics garage, except the pinup girls were Japanese style cartoons, and occasionally, robots. One of the denizens of this haven for adult teenagers looked up from his HotPocket and recognizing Gyro, jerked his thumb in the direction of NoDrama's suite. Gyro knocked at the door, and heard a muffled, "Fuck Off!"shouted from deep within. Gyro took this as an invitation, and strode into NoDrama's lair. The smell was intense, overpowering, and almost narcotic. Nodrama was wearing his plasticized butchers apron emblazoned with a gigantic cannabis leaf, latex gloves, and wielded a pair of razor sharp shears. "Fuck Gyro, get in here and close the damned door!" After entering, NoDrama indicated with a wave of his hand, the large stack of cannabis flowers he was manicuring in preparation for drying. With a nod, Gyro donned an apron of his own, and settled indian fashion onto the floor. NoDrama and Gyro quietly trimmed and clipped the fragrant herb for several minutes in silence before NoDrama proffered a prepped bong shaped like Thompson sub-machine gun. With a chuckle Gyro accepted the offer, and smiled.. "You know its against regs to keep your weapon loaded on base!" Gyro sparked a lighter, and covered the carb hole."Ill just empty this thing, you know, for safety." After several more minutes of passing, and sparking, the dangerous device was rendered inert, it's payload reduced to ashes. with a satisfied little cough, Nodrama and Gyro went back to trimming this latest harvest. Gyro was impressed, the nuggs were heavy and resinous, the scent was making him delirious, and his shears, latex gloves and apron were soon covered in sticky residue. after an hour or so the last nugg was trimmed and hung to dry in the curious contraption NoDrama had fashioned out of an old plastic water drum, and some hinges fans and military issue shoelaces. After his prized crop was stowed carefully in the drying chamber Nodrama and Gyro stripped off their aprons, and placed them carefully on a small table for the laborious task of rolling the residue from the shears and aprons and gloves into finger hash. while they plucked, rolled and worked the residue Gyro Filled his friend in on his problem. NoDrama nodded, he was already in the loop on this latest fuck-up. NoDrama quickly filled Gyro in on what he knew. Somebody somewhere had let something slip, most likely a low level trainee trying to chat up a broad. This fuck-up hadn't died off like they usually do, it had fallen across somebody's desk someplace in Washington. Some jackass at Homeland Security had caught wind of something, and unlike their usual tactic of waiting for shit to blow up in their faces, then blaming the local cops, this jackass had started sniffing around. Once one jackass starts sniffing, all the others will of course join in, just in case theres a chance to steal some credit or get his name in the papers as a hero. Homeland Security's investigation turned up nothing, of course, their nerds were cut rate amateurs compared to NoDrama and his crew. Somebody hadn't bought the cover story though, and it wasnt a government agency. The NSA's top secret project codenamed Blue Whale had been sifting through every byte of data traveling though the world's internet telephone and satellite systems since the mid 90's. It was coming up with tiny snippets, and tantalizing hints that somebody had their nose in Central Command's business. None of it had yet been traceable, and none of it was conclusive, but the squints were sure, somebody was sniffing around, and had been for months. The picture of Gyro, and the address of the Golds Gym on Flamingo, was all they had turned up so far, and they didnt even know who sent it. Gyro examined the picture again, paying particular attention to some faint horizontal lines on either side of his head. The image was a closeup, providing very little context, but something in the image struck a familiar chord. "The fucking CAB!!" The cab had been equipped with an antiquated rear window defroster, the sort with visible wires embedded in between the layers of the safety glass. Wires that would leave horizontal lines in the background of any picture shot in the back seat. "That fucking prick! I knew something was up with that dick!" Gyro wracked his memory and recalled the hack license, "Carruthers! Yeah! Robert Carruthers, with two R's! That's who we are lookin' for!" As NoDrama tucked the last tiny ball of finger hash into a plastic pill box, he turned to his computer. "I'll have it for ya in just a minute." he said, almost cocky in his demeanor, and since he had already penetrated the security in Nevada's stat licensing board, he was rightly confident. Ten seconds later, his terminal made a quiet beep. NoDrama's fingers danced across the keys as he issued numerous commands, and killed several processes. "Well, bro. I gues we're on the right track. There he is, Robert Carruthers, independent cab driver, he has a hack license in Vegas, with an ex-wife, ex-house, ex-car, and two ex-kids in Winnemucca, Oh hey, and an ex-dog! Funny thing is, once i started snooping, a quiet little program slipped ion a backdoor built into all these government systems, that's none of the suits think we know about. It didn't get anything except the contact data and IP address from a collection agency in Sioux Falls, but I got their balls in a sack!" Gyro waited for NoDrama to finish his victory dance, after several disturbing seconds, NoDrama wound down and pressed the print button on his terminal. "I know you old timers don't use PDA's or smartphone s so ill Fred Flintstone it out for ya. Here's the address, and map. Jacksonville Oregon, about 4 miles west of Medford, Maybe 12 hours in that souped up Chevy Nova you drive." Gyro gave him a scathing looks and muttered, "It's a Cutlas, Poindexter!" NoDrama Threw a bag of Doritos at Gyro's head with a curse, "Fuck you man, If anybody finds out my real name ill never live it down asshole!" Gyro Chuckled and caught the salty projectile with one hand, then tore it open with a flourish. "Tell ya what "NoDrama", drop a couple nuggs in my travel bag and nobody will ever know your dirty little secret." NoDrama eyed his Friend suspiciously, and reached into a nearby drawer. He extracted a large exquisitely carved and figured cigar humidor, then unlocked it with a small key hanging around his neck. After pondering for a few seconds, he passed over to Gyro a large baggie stuffed with green and purple buds, each one scintillating with crystallized trichomes and delicate brightly colored pistils. Gyro grinned and took the weighty sack, then turned to leave. NoDrama may be a geek, but he sure could grow the shit out of his dope. Things were looking up. He wouldn't have to go to Vegas after all, he had a fresh supply of sweet grass, and if he played it right he could find the leak, and plug it either with a fistful of government cash, or a GI issue .45 slug. Either way he just might be in Baja by the end of next week if he was lucky.
abandonconflict
Well-Known Member
I didn't even read it. I mean thanks for the time and effort to share and all, but I'm here to troll Faux Nooz viewers and like, it's cool if you want to counter by thread jacking with this wall of text but um, yeah...
Dr Kynes
Well-Known Member
character development, thats what it's all about! I'm no stephen king, i gotta write this shit myself.
Harrekin
Well-Known Member
You an anti-Zombiest?
You have a talent, don't let it go to waste!!!