SF2007

Acta Est Fabula.

February 12, 2007 - Posted by Supreme Commander at 10:02 PM

And so it ends...

I'll keep this short. I'm dead.

Here (thanks to NightThrasher's command over the English language and non-laziness) is how it happened:

It wasn't easy, but I did it. Down to the last 2 this time last week, Agent Mildred and I took turns to hunt each other for alternating 24-hour periods. Neither of us were able to liquidate the other, though there were some close calls.

On Saturday The Supreme Commander rolled into town to sort the shit out. And sort it out he did (although there was plenty of shit to sort and it was a messy job and there was actually more shit heaped on the other unsorted shit during the shit-sorting process.) We had to hunt the Supreme Commander. Whoever got him first would win. The race was on.

The SC let us know he was planning a shopping trip to the Westfield Mall in Downtown San Francisco. I expect he was in the market for a new velour tracksuit and perhaps something lacy for Mustache. The place was teeming with operatives. I had 6 dogged spotters on the ground and Mildred had dozens. My trusty and observant sidekick, Agent Release The Hounds eventually found Supreme with a couple of bully-boys waltzing through Nordstroms. RTH immediately called me with the special concise cryptic phrase we had devised for this exact situation, containing encoded identification and location references.

"Holy shit dude, fuck I think I've found him, aah, aah, in Nordstroms, next to the fucking whatyamacallit, the door"

"Are you sure it's him?", I replied, as I began a heart-racing dash through the mall.

"Well I dunno, but there's a guy here with a full length fur coat, slicked-back hair, aviator sunglasses, commando pants and two motherfuckingly nasty bovver-boys and he's walking around like he's the Queen of Sheba, oh, and he kinda smells of onions."

"Onions. That's him. NightThrasher inbound. Over."

Alas when I caught sight of the evil threesome it was just in time to see them enter the elevator up to Nordstroms. A brilliantly cunning move, and easier on the thighs than the stairs.

"Shit!" I said. "Fuck."

"Fuck" reverse-echoed Release The Hounds. "And Shit!"

I put out an APB to all my nefarious assistants the old-fashioned way. I yelled at them across the atrium.

"Everyone to Nordstroms, take different floors, I'll be in lingerie on 6."

I'm not quite sure when the numerous security guards in the mall cottoned to our presence, but it may have been at that moment.

Supreme Commander claims he saw me pounding my fists in frustration as he hid camouflaged, in a rack of women's fur coats, while I was maniacally and frantically running around the huge store. Running up the down-escalators, and down the up ones, for dramatic effect. (You can knock over more shoppers that way).

The ever-vigilant Release The Hounds found him again. This time I gave him more compelling reasons to not lose the commander, involving threats of nutsack electrocution and very large quantities of cold custard.

"Stay on him like yellow on tennis balls. Or is it green?"

Agent RTH was true to his skills, and were it not for a minor incident involving a devious henchman, a body check, a mad diarrhea-dash from SC, and afore-mentioned henchman falling into and knocking over a makeup display, and the Nordstrom security, and the eviction of RTH, and the police being called... then I'm sure he would NOT have lost SC once again. But he did. The ephemeral, ethereal and unethical SC gave team NightThrasher the slip twice in one day.

"The old Green-Apple-Splats dash to the bathroom with the trusty makeup-display trashing maneuver. Clichéd SC, but it worked. Touché."

"This fucker is good." I shouted to myself. "So that's how it's gonna be huh? Time to turn up the heat baby! Time to cook your goose motherfucker. Time to bring the Thrash."

I slowly and serenely scanned the faces of each of my unflinchingly loyal cohorts. Agent "The Comatizinatorizer" Anaesthesia, Agent "Shit-Faced" Shillelagh, Agent Release The Hounds, Agent Hockey-Stick Foreplay, and Agent This Girl Who Is My Ex-Girlfriend's Roomate.

"Let's go get some beers at that Thai place up the street." I barked.

The Supreme deigned to call me during the ensuing hiatus, while I was getting myself outside a large plate of Pad Thai and drinking ratpiss beers. In the course of our convivial conversation I learned that Supreme was of a similar gastronomical mindset but was instead sucking down a little sausage with his brew. Team NightThrasher significantly overtipped the waitress for dramatic effect, made a hurried exit and hailed a cab. I culled our numbers by two so we could all fit, and quickly pitched their bodies into a dumpster. Working on the sausage clue we made a dash to Schroeders then every Irish pub in the vicinity. Just as I was sticking my head into my fifth consecutive sausage hole I received a text stating the window was closed, and that more information would come at 8.30.

This was becoming a mental marathon. This was the lowest point in the game for me, and I nearly gave up. In fact, if it weren't for a soul-stirring, heart-warming speech, delivered by Agent Shillelagh, at that precise point, I believe I would have. Standing defiantly in the rain, and making references to Irish Heritage, The Souls of Our Fathers, and the Integrity of the Common Man, his poetic words lifted my spirit, and I was renewed once more. As a dotcom yuppie from New Zealand, I had no idea what he was talking about, but his tears and dedication moved me nonetheless.

I became a frenzy of activity. In one hour I culled my team by another two, went back to NTHQ, changed clothes, cleaned my guns, paid a few bills, walked the dog, thought about going back to college, tore back to Agent Shillelaghs place, AND found a parking spot in Hayes Valley on a rainy Saturday night. By the time Supreme's text-clue arrived we were sitting in The Shillelaghmobile, bristling with weapons, and revving the engine primed for battle.

The clue was as follows.

Next to its faux antiquity, youth and science triumphs. Arches of swans with the Lions at Bay cast a final shadow.

This was getting all Da Vinci Code and shit.

"I'm Tom Hanks Motherfucker!" I screamed. "Shillelagh, make haste to the Palace of Fine Arts and we shall kill tonight"

"And I'm not fooken Meg Ryan!" added the slightly confused Shillelagh.

Shillelagh then drove calmly and serenely to the Palace of Fine Arts, obeying every law of the road, showing courtesy to other drivers, and completely stopping at every stop sign. We made the 3 mile trip in a little under 5 minutes.

Arriving at the final arena Shillelagh slowed and I drop-rolled out of the car onto the road. I furtively entered the park. It was lashing with rain and the ground was sopping and muddy. My heart was in my mouth as I waded through the knee-deep water, all the while peering into the gloom and constantly flinching from the rain in my eyes.

Suddenly to my right I spotted the Muzzy Commander all stealthing it up behind a massive Corinthian pillar. He saw me too and pulled a diminutive piece from his robe.

"What you gonna do motherfucker?" Queried MC.

Note that super-soakers have a safety valve on them, which open and release when the pressure builds up to a dangerous level. The safety valve on my weapon was securely glued shut with epoxy resin. I could pump this gun up so much it would start to creak in protest. It was quite scary to hold, but it gave me a couple more feet.

"This." I replied, and unleashed a mighty torrent on the MC from an unfeasible range.

"Oh." he replied.

On through the wind and rain and dark I went. I made for the main Cupola. It seemed to me that a man with Supreme's flamboyance would be nowhere else. Peering around a huge stone column I looked into the cavernous space. There he was, in all his glory. Standing, floodlit, arms raised, imploring the very gods themselves, in the center of the mighty dome. He seemed 8 feet tall and invincible and I did shake in my boots at his visage. The image of the mighty paragon, in his purple suit and fur coat, will be forever burned in my mind.

He had a lone guard, but I guessed there would be more miscreants lurking in the shadows.

I reached down deep into the barren cupboard of my soul for the courage that was then required of me. I fossicked around in the refrigerator of valour, and looked between the cushions on the sofa of daring. I even tipped out the contents of the drawer of spunk, in the nightstand of temerity where I chuck any spare grit and fortitude, and my keys, when I get home from boozing. I would need every last ounce of audacity to attack this apotheosis of humanity.

I managed to scrounge up enough bravery, which allowed me to temporarily abate the terror-shakes and initiate an attack.

Cue slow-motion sequence.

I ran at him and his defender, letting out a great ancestral war cry which shook the walls of the mighty edifice. I launched a wayward bomb and he did respond in kind. I leapt over the exploding ordinance, remaining dry, and continued towards my quarry. The guard then fired a watery stream in my direction, the avoidance of which required immediate and hurried lateral movement. Again I was still dry. At this point SC hit the change-tactic button and ran screaming from the Palace. I made after him like a guy who's just spent 4 weeks of his fucking life in total obsessive paranoia about a water-pistol game that took over his life and really wants to win and now if he runs fast enough he can and it will be over. That's pretty fast. Supreme's fur coat began to loom closer in the night as I closed the distance between us. When within range of my customized not-safe-for-children-nor-adults water pistol, one of NightThrasher's fingers moved in the moonlight.

And StreetWars SF 2007 was ended.

At his death knell Agents appeared out of the stonework, and somewhere in the dark and stormy night, in the great city of San Francisco, 8 swarthy assassins stood huddled under a great copper dome, and did drink a toast to fear.

Comments

Post a comment

Contact your Shadow Governement Official: liveinfear@streetwars.net