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Chicago 2007

Hallowed Be Thy Death

July 18, 2007 - Posted by Supreme Commander at 07:50 AM

Total Kill Count: 15
Current Kill Leader: Dos Lobos (3)

Usually this is the day I get all ominous and threatening on you, warning you about how if you are lazy, have pissed me off or if I just don't like the cut of your jib, I will unleash the Rogue Assassins on you come Monday. I go on for quite a bit about this, listing all the reasons why I might send them after you and so on...frankly, it's kinda boring...in the past I have made reference to having my assassins "space dock" you, "stomping you a new colon", "peeing on" you and "opening the fucking heavens and raining wet death on" you, among others.

Not so this day.

Christmas comes early this year...there's no time to foreshadow the deathiness that is about to descend on Chicago.

Agent White Noise, one of the elite players from San Francisco is arriving in Chicago tonight...and he's going to be paying some of you a visit.

Just in case you were wondering, he's not coming over to bring you cookies or give you handjobs or finger-pop you, no, he is looking to kill you (or, possibly, to ask you questions about strip clubs).

Enjoy.

In today's update...

Coyote (1) fucked up Smuuve's (0) game...permanently

Dos Lobos (3) are truly a pack of dangerous animals - two kills on one day - both Bing Cherry (0) and Raider (0) met a death at the end of the pointed liquid fangs of Dos Lobos.

Martin Levin (1) ID'ed Thick N Creamy (0) to death

Jewrookie (1) interrupted my 4am blowjob but, made up for it by busting a nut on Weezer (1)

The stories after the jump...

Jewrookie (1) interrupted my 4am blowjob but, made up for it by busting a nut on Weezer (1)

TARGET: WEEZER GOT BITCH SOAKED @ 9:21PM ON HIS WAY TO WORK HE GOT SERVED. PUNK ASS GOTTA LEARN TO STAY DRY ......BRING ON OUR NEXT ASSIGNMENT WERE ARMED TO THE TEETH AND READY FOR MORE BRING IT!!!

Death of The Moist

So there I was, 18.75 hours (appx) into the game and still without appropriate firearms... stupid as hell eh? Well whaddya expect from a 35yo pothead?

My head is just getting into the game. TOTALLY digging the paranoia, and this odd and somewhat forced agoraphobia sets in as I realize Im afraid to leave the house. First thought is something like "next year install conicle mirrors outside the door" drive-thru style. My brave lady goes to the car first and scopes out the scene, tosses me the high sign and I dash to the car gripping my bicycle squirt bottle in white knuckle fashion. My goal... to drop off the lady and do a little firearms shopping, and be off to the free-wifi-pub to map out my evenings agenda. With a quick smooch I boot the chick outta the car and Im off to Toys R Us in a flash. The result = very lack-luster selection of water guns. However in the event I needed an underwater propulsion unit for the pool Id have scored big. At this point Target pops into my head as actually having a decent amount of gear. So I stealthily high tail it over. As Im ambling through the store wearing my paranoia like a winter parka I sneak over to the toys section of the store. As I start to pass the toddler floating high chairs I have been trying to get back into for 33 years and round the corner past the water weenies I am graced with the welcoming face of an old friend. "Hey buddy... hows it goin? tag anybody yet?". We chat for a second discussing the selection and other potential stores for good gear, he mentions a bit about his target and how he intends to take her down (of course without giving any info away, we DO play by the rules fuckers). I show him the squeeze bottle I was using as a temporary "fits in my pocket without dripping and therfore appropriate for commuting". He mentioned that being a decent idea as he makes his way up to complete his transaction (he was also purchasing his firearm that day). As Im going through the selection I grab the couple/few I was interested in and mosey on over to the Mens Wear to peruse some slacks. Upon finding a new pair of inexpensive chinos (kiddin) I realize I neglected to grab hand grenades. On my way back to the water fun section my buddy walks back up lookin flustered, "I forgot to look for one of those squeeze bottles" while looking up and down at the items on the shelf as if it would have been located there. I mention I forgot something myself and turn to continue in my intended direction. I hear my buddy muttering something from behind me. "HEY dude... ?!". It is at this moment that my eyes slowly shut in embarrassment and humility as my back is peppered with a spray of 100% humidity. WHAT happened? The SUMMUNABITCH actually went up and bought the gun, most likely filled it at the water fountain RIGHT THERE IN THE FUCKIN STORE and casually made his way over to his good old friend... and shot me in the back, with a deafening little giggle like a 6yo learning to write his name with pee in the snow. As much as I would like to make excuses about Big Daddy being a naturally kind and disarming type of guy, in all honesty its my own ridiculously vacant pot riddin cob web buildin noggin that kept me from making it to the 20th hour. At the very least he saved me the $40 I was about to drop on firearms, which ultimately resulted in a free pair of chinos and a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup to moosh my sorrows into.

Congratulations Mr Big Daddy you heartless bastard! Ill get you in another life.

Erotically damp, The Moist

Coyote (1) fucked up Smuuve's (0) game...permanently

It is my pleasure to report the wetting of one Agent Smuuve.

I began the hunt on Monday, spending a good deal of time hiding in the bushes across from broseph's house. That lasted for about 45 minutes, until the custodian of the building told me to leave...I switched positions and waited. Hours later, I said "fuck it" and left.

Tuesday it was too rainy.

Wednesday, I nabbed the sucka as he left for work. His extremely-stoned, Bluetooth headset-rocking, granola-eating upstairs neighbor fell into my web first, but we had a good laugh about the situation. Then it rained...perhaps a sign from God telling me to reach towards my full potential as an assassin. I can only thank Him for wetting me.

Then dude left his apartment, we locked eyes, and it was on. I pursued, and he might have saved himself if not for the inferior range of his weapon. He was using some little kids pistol, a little pink shark or dolphin, shapes typically reserved for man-hater dildos.

Some real Mickey Mouse shit. Better luck next time. Even having a work address in THE SUBURBS (an area clearly out-of-bound) couldn't save you.

Coyote

Dos Lobos (3) are truly a pack of dangerous animals - two kills on one day - both Bing Cherry (0) and Raider (0) met a death at the end of the pointed liquid fangs of Dos Lobos.

We found him at work, or so we thought, and stayed at Lemmings to have a couple drinks until he left. He finally took off, we tried to hurry out as unsuspecting as possible, by the time we reached the sidewalk he had left all sight, like a ghost.

We then proceeded to his house, we watched his door all night, tomorrow would have to be another attempt.

The next day Agent: Spec4 made a solo assassination attempt. The two then got into a 5 minute gun battle when Spec4 was caught spying the house of our victim. They both retreated....Dry.

I then met Spec4 at base to compose a plan. We decided i would try to deliver a pizza box that was carrying a loaded water weapon. if i squeezed on the pizza box our victim would be totally drenched. i rang his door bell, he refused to answer...."I'LL MEET YOU OUTSIDE!". Larkin comes out on his 3rd floor patio and demands to see the pizza. He throws out his gun and aims for me and i ran. I then go back to base to think of another plan. about 2 hours later i show up with my backpack full of ammunition and grenades. I hurl grenades at his patio to lure him out the door. Due to my severe night blindness i was spotted and had to abort.

3rd Attempt, SUCCESS. Spec4 and I tag team the mission and decide we would have to lure him out again. I then throw the only balloon i had onto his porch. i believe i hit his dog... Larkin never comes out to the patio, we decided we were going to watch him from the Walgreens on the corner. As we walked behind the alleys we notice a man walking, then i notice he had a Super Soaker. THATS HIM! Spec4 and I ran out of vision, he must have seen us too because he ran also. Spec4 then was informed by a witness that the target had run between the backyard and the garage. Spec4 followed his trail as i stayed and watched guard. After waiting 5 minutes i became worried about my partner. I approached the house and saw Spec4 running and shooting. The target then ran behind the house and i followed along the yard towards the street. I made several attempts to shoot and failed. Spec4 then climbed up on the garage roof of the target and had a clean shot. He Shoots....blanks....his gun ran out of water. The target then ran towards the side of the garage and shot in my direction but i had already given him a full blast to the face.....like i used to do to the girls in Highschool. We both walked away feeling dirty but refreshed and ready for the next lucky lady.

Dos Lobos (3) are truly a pack of dangerous animals - two kills on one day - both Bing Cherry (0) and Raider (0) met a death at the end of the pointed liquid fangs of Dos Lobos.

A celebration was in order. By 3:30 Bing cherry had tasted the saltiness of a Lobo liquidation and the time to relax and reflect was at hand. The company was exquisite, the liquor flowed freely, and there was even a long retired whore providing gum-jobs for Chex mix. Agent Dex was feeling especially relaxed and sated, as he had launched the money-shot that sent Bing Cherry to his knees. But Agent Spec4 was a bit drunk, and still hungry for more. With the dossier provided by Bing Cherry in one hand, and a road beer in the other, the stalk was on.

Being unfamiliar with the strange ways of the nine-to-fiver, Agent Spec4 wandered up and down the marks block for an hour or so to no avail. Suddenly, like a vision from god himself, it came to him. "I really need to piss" he said out loud. A disapproving glance from the soccer mom with the three-screamer stroller was enough to answer his impending question. Nature could not be answered in the great outdoors. Luckily a bar was within sight, and the thought of liquor and a bathroom was enough to see the distance quickly cleared.

The trials were many, between the stereo blaring John Mayer,the 5'6" bleach blond faux-hawked manager, and what looked like an underage bartender, the urge to liquidate was almost overwhelming. Imagining each in the bottom of the urinal was the only thing that kept that place dry. Someone needed to die, but these chumps weren't going to cough up a new target, so liquor was slammed, and an exit was made.

Back on the stalk, it began to rain, a shame, Agent Spec4 wanted to be the only one drenching Mr.John Angliss today. With a sense of failure coming with the rain, the decision to leave had been made, five minutes and then tomorrow.

The mark then arrived, picking up his mail from the porch, Agent Spec4 bolted towards him, guns blazing, but Mr. Angliss managed to make it in his front door. Agent Spec4 retreated a bit to the East, expecting retaliation from the second floor windows. Out came Mr. Angliss, but looking in the wrong direction, a water balloon was launched , but a bit short. Guns were blazed, but the range was too great. Agent Spec4 launched one last balloon, in an attempt to go through the mark's window. The balloon went high, but the water found its mark. John Angliss is dead, kill #3 for Dos Lobos. Your next.

Martin Levin (1) ID'ed Thick N Creamy (0) to death

I'm in a tree.

It's 6:16pm and I'm up in some terribly nice gentleman's tree. As city ordinance would have, I acquired his permission to be in this tree, scaring the hell out of his daughter in the process; a process which involved a fairly large gentleman dropping from a fairly large tree to make a fairly large request just a few feet from a fairly tiny girl. I don't have aniPod because an assassin needs to be listening at all times. I don't have a book because a book doesn't shoot 65ft at 1/2 gallon/second. I don't have targets because they, those that make up my target team, have not been to their home or workplace during any of my fairly protracted, highly obfuscated, visits. This is complicated by the fact that my kill-sheet reports the same address for both residence and business.

The local government knows nothing of their landscaping business. It is not listed in any certification or incorporation papers. It has filed for no bank account, incurred no debt and must rely solely on word-of-mouth advertising because it has not been in print. Ever.

Consider for a moment what type of localization can come from the provision of registered service. The paperwork is immense and its breadth spread wide. Were I not to have the incredible research power that I do at my hungry and flitting fingertips, a simple trip to the local city office would provide ample editorial should this service be valid in the eyes of the law. Apparently the company for which my team, in entirety, works is not. In my observation I have seen neither equipment or manpower to move it enter or exit the one and only location I have to go on.

I grow hungry. I haven't eaten since a light business lunch and haven't been in a tree since grade 7. At 8:30 I will order a pizza; not for me, but for the house. The house must be hungry too. I sympathize. I relate to this house with its droopy horizontal blinds drawn tight and its sputtering attic window air conditioner.

At first I thought it was an angry house. Indeed it looked like an angry house, its eyes slammed shut, growling into an empty night. Fortress-like it would spring into action, its motion sensing lights flitting on at the slightest movement, with the intention only of giving up its invader's whereabouts. I know because an hour before our kill call I was lying in the dirt next to it.

That first night, and beyond.

That first night would describe the coming days in an almost complete replication. The kill call came at 12:01am. At 12:04am a pizza was delivered to the angry house, which blasted the deliveryman with inquisitive pools of maize addled linger light. There were no lights within, only without. An hour of hiding and I peeled away. No one was there. No movement. No lights. No nothing. Just that angry house.

In that time I was approached by a cat, who peed on me, a vicious hand full of insect life and an extremely large gentleman who noticed me and took great offense that my hiding place not only just outside of my targets' home/business/winter vacation shack on the even years, but also that it was directly in front of his girlfriend's house. A sensible response, to be sure, and one to which I paid heed.

After bearing witness to a striking and successful kill by Eternitygirl, I was inspired. Monday night would be different. Monday night would bring contact. Monday night would bring a battle unheard of in this city's history. Monday night would bring a kill worthy of those the Venerable Commanders who assigned me this target in their infinite wisdom and universal cock-dominance.

Monday night would bring nothing at all.

A renewed sense of purpose lead me to employ those social engineering skills handed to me from a black-hat past and after a brief encounter with the brother of my targets, to this day the only person I have seen step foot into that angry house, I gained permitted entry into the crazy-cat-lady-next-door's screened-in porch; a vantage point from which I had clear firing access to all entrances/exits and visual protection from the age-dirtied screen. At 6:15 I dug in and didn't leave until 3:30am Tuesday. No one was there. No movement. No lights. No nothing. Just that angry house.

I returned Tuesday morning to the same angry empty house. After an hour of hiding in the bushes across the street it was made clear that if anyone were to leave the house, having never gone int, they would have no vehicle to drive; surely not a landscaping vehicle. On my way from the scene I grabbed a rental slip from the house across the street. They are renting a room. I might want that room.

Tuesday evening starts the same, excepting the fact that I will not let this pass. This house has been empty for nearing 72 hours, leave brother-not-playing, and it is beginning to wear on me. I course the neighborhood. The Mexicans on the corner have never heard of my targets, but they don't seem to have heard of much that hasn't ethanol. They want to help me kill these guys, though, and I am not entirely certain that they understand that I mean to do so with a water gun. The lady across the way will put her dog away so as not to blow my cover. The large gentleman who was unhappy about my proximity to his girlfriend will now keep an eye out for me. The kids at the Lutheran center, who will be there until midnight, will also keep an open eye. They have my cell number in one hand, the bible in another and the will to persecute their fellow man coursing throughout. I've met with the man renting out the room, but he is adverse to letting me 'try out' the room for a few hours. I am somehow not at all surprised. All that is left is my hiding spot.

Though I am certain that this angry house will spend another evening empty, and that at all is unnecessary, I am an assassin and must do as an assassin does. A few kind words and a terrified little girl later and I am in a tree.

I am in a tree.

As expected, hours pass. The Mexicans are keeping watch for me but have been drinking since before I took purchase in my cliched, but effective, hunting blind. At 8:30 I call the pizza place. Maybe a legit attempt at contact will proved some response; any response. Estimated time of delivery: 45 minutes.

It is now that my feelings toward this house begin to change. Could it be that it's angry facade and blinding lights are neither angry nor blinding but instead protective and welcoming? Could it be that the neglect suffered by this house at the hand of those who have purported to spend most of their lives within it has brought a sense of mortality and loneliness to it? I know from the public record that it does not belong to those I am after. I know also from the public record that it is not rented, at least not in a manner that can be taxed. Perhaps the spurious lives of those that inhabit it, when they inhabit it, have served to bend its will and rend its woodwork in such a manner that its lonely cries are seen to the outside as vehemence.

My gift to this house is a tubby little man with an uneven mustache and a pizza heating bag. He interacts with the house as you would expect, rapping on the door and looking in the windows. When he calls me I tell him that he needs to come around to the back. Ignore the 'beware of dog' sign, I tell him. I know he can because that poor yapping mutt inside has been the only noise to come from the place since I got here. He fitfully ignores the sign and continues his pleasant and aromatic assault on the until-recently-angry-house, my new friend in this game of assassination.

Hours pass. The pizza man has gone, a fresh pizza lost to the cause. It has grown dark and all but the lonely house have rolled to life with the gentle burn of incandescence that marks the passing of the sun. My new friend sits alone, a vacuum to the light about it and with no reprieve, as I have tested and learned the range of its motion sensors.

Apophys and collision.

At my knees, in the tree with me, is my weapon of choice: A modified Arctic Blast whose safety valve has been replaced with binary epoxy and whose ram tank has been reinforced for pressure. The trigger guard has been shaved slightly for a smoother action, the grip increased and its center of gravity shifted with a weighted ballast where the easy-pour-spout used to be. It can fire twice its stock distance, float gingerly between hands and leave a welt at close range. It has a name:

Apophys, the Dire Maul of Anacreon.

It is 10:45 and I do not believe any longer that this is an adequate use of my time. I will instead return to my headquarters and use the vast resources spread before me to locate and preempt my own assassin. Such a task would be more fulfilling than another hour in this tree, staring sympathetically at that house.

A small drop from the tree and a few blocks later I am at the blue line station. I am angry. I want this. I want to be in this. I want to find an adversary and fight. I want a fair and balanced chance to match wits and water. I want to fight and I want to win. The train is not coming and this adds to my disdain.

In a rage I leave the station. I will get a taxi and begin my hunt for my assassin. As though by way of fate, however, there are no taxis available. They are all filled, you see, with the drunken masses returning from the Cubs game.

THE CUBS GAME!

There is absolutely no way in hell that my targets would laugh in the face of the spirit of this contest by going to so viable a kill zone as a Cubs game, right? And if they did, they wouldn't finally return to the lonely house would they?

Einstein said... possible/probable... you get it.

I run back to the lonely house, park myself between two vehicles and wait. Mere minutes later an SUV pulls in. Two people hop out. This is not happening. This cannot be how it ends.

I slip toward the figures standing beside the SUV and begin my assault. Just as my finger licks the re-sprung trigger of Apophys I realize that these people are not my targets at all. They are an older couple. My mind is reeling. What is going on? The woman, presumably my targets' mother, smile widely. She knows that she has sprung the trap. She knows that I am squarely in the middle of it and she is proud of her sons' cunning maneuver.

I am too.

A water balloon whizzes past my head and impacts a tree 15 feet to my left. I duck and run toward the source of the toss, a stout guy with big arms lobbing bombs the way you would think a linebacker would if the ball was accidentally snapped to him.

Their balloons are not so much balloons as tiny rubber bags filled 1/4 of the way. They bounce when the hit the ground, roll when they hit a wall and hurt like hell when they hit flesh and this guy will not stop the barrage. Another, a rare case, explodes on the ground behind me, missing me as I make my charge at the car they are returning to with calculated vigor.

I fucked up. I should've waited. I'd been waiting for more than a day in aggregate, why not a few more minutes? Why not until I identified my target completely? I fire wildly at the closed car. My index finger hurts for it. It is useless, but it feels good and Apophys is happy to oblige and indulge.

My rage peaked I retreat. Arms out, prostrate, and weapon at an impossible ready disadvantage I back away and slip behind a largish vehicle half a block away.

The stout one lobs another. It is thrown high into the air and it floats there for what seems like minutes. I roll to the right and rush the vehicle again but, as physics and all rational laws of distance would have it, am impotent in my attack.

Another retreat, this time far less dramatic, has me standing in the middle of the sidewalk at the end of the block, testament to my unwillingness to let this end here. They, as I had hoped, drive away. I sprint to my lonely friend who eagerly lights my way and I dive into the neighbors yard where I lay in wait. I have been waiting for this. This has to happen.

Almost 10 minutes late 2 guys cross the driveway I am hidden next to. Again I slip forward but am held by the lesson learned by the parent trap. I wait and am better for it, as these gentleman have no connection whatsoever to this game. The stout guy behind them, however - the one who has spotted me - does.

Another balloon, this time without the lingering lumber lob of the preceding. It is a direct hit, as though fired by a cannon. It tears into my shoulder like sandbag filled with lead bullion and drops to the ground in tact only to softly burst a full second on the ground.

I need to see your ID.

My arms in the air I shout, "That was a hit!" The stout one returns, "Yeah, I could tell I got you with that one. I didn't' even know if that was you, just a silhouette." "You have 24 hours", I say, "can I please see your ID?"

The stout one instantly complies. His ID is right and proper and I am prepared now to make my way home. He asks me for mine and I brandish it easily. I have made first contact and am satisfied with it. I know my targets intimately now and am prepared to to whatever it takes to challenge every second of their lives from 24 hours on. As a matter of course:

"I need to see [Name Withheld]'s ID as well."

The skinny one, whom I have only seen laughing at me from the passenger seat of his brother's car, and who looks strikingly like Jake Busey were Jake Busey to walk around on his knees, is the team leader and I am requesting to see his ID.

"I think he's up here", says the stout one, "he doesn't have it on him."

I am sent reeling. Did he just say that his team leader does not have his ID? Team Leader?

"It's ok, though, 'cuz I got you."

Refer for a second to your rule books. It is not ok. This is a direct violation of the rules. I don't want this. I want a kill. I want an actual kill. I want a take-down, a battle, a fair fight. To think that this team would be compromised by failing to follow the rules is ridiculous.

Is it though? The information they provided did not reflect their person or whereabouts. The only contact information provided the Shadow Government was not adequate even for first contact, let alone a fair hunt. They were brazen in their deference to the rules from the application process. I am, regardless of these facts, willing to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Before I can make a statement mini Jake Busey is running down the street. I politely discuss nothing with his brother as we await his return. 3 or so blocks his brother tells me. If it is even in the car, he parked 3 or so blocks away.

A short while later the skinny one returns with his ID. Returns. Returns because he did not have it with him while participating in an assault.

I check to see that it is valid and leave to a chorus of smack talk. They want me to bring them Little Ceasars next time. They think my little gun is cute (Apophys is neither little nor cute), they wish me better luck in getting my ass handed to me next time. I have walked away with the interest of the spirit of the game in mind, regardless of the tactless asshats I have faced this evening.

A short while later I make an appeal to the Shadow Government itself. I want a suggestion. Do I fall staunchly to the rules and take my first kill - my FIRST kill - as a technicality? A bitch move? Or do I continue the hunt having compromised my position with targets unwilling to respect the spirit of the game?

I tell them that I don't want a kill from this. I don't want a loss for anyone and I don't want a bitch move to be my legacy. I just want a fair target willing to play this game with self respect and honor and an observance of the rules. They respond, in their wise and venerable manner, with understanding but a firm grasp of the realities of this situation. I am left with the following:

It is established that the team leader of my target team did not, at the point of assault, have in his possession his ID. It is recognized that this is a clear violation of the rules and as an attacker I have the right to call him out on it. It is also established, however, that doing so with no other impetus than a kill would be a bitch-ass move.

Before I can make my decision, however, the Shadow Government wants me to have all of the information available at my disposal. I am giving the following:

To: Supreme Commander From: [My Target Team] Subject: STUNNED BIATCH FYI
Frank or Tom or who ever the hell is stalking Team Think 'n' Creamy got
stunned on Tues. at 11:23 pm. He got stunned like a biatch, shat himself
and wouldn't stop crying.

Also, what is the ruling on splatter from a water balloon. I thought the
website said splatter from a balloon is a valid kill, but the official rule
book says nothing. WTF!

A little clarification for everyone might be a good idea.

Cordially,

Agent Orange
Team Think 'n' Creamy

Decision

Hadn't I been giving them the benefit of the doubt? Hadn't I spent untold hours outside of an empty house, a house yet to actually be tied to them, without once complaining or calling foul, never questioning their veracity? Hadn't I offered myself up fairly when hit? Shat myself? Wouldn't stop crying?

Well, that helps the decision making process. It looks as though I just took out team Thick 'n' Creamy. It looks as though I, in the face of their obvious cock-bitery, even had the respect to spell it right.

I've got a new target now. He actually lives at his address and has a job. A job where he actually spends time. Though I hae made contact already, he is slick and has evaded my first attempt at locating him on the move. I am envigorated by the hunt. My assassin is on my tail and I'm on my victim's. This is how the game is meant to be played, no?

See you on the game grid.

Martin Levin

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