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High Fantasy Modern Storyhour - The Long Road (updated December 7)
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<blockquote data-quote="RangerWickett" data-source="post: 2680891" data-attributes="member: 63"><p><em>October 30, 2005</em></p><p><em>9:11 am</em></p><p></p><p>Robert rushes the man who looks like George Clooney, getting close enough to strike the man with his stun gun before the assassin can shoot him. As he struggles for his life, he remembers that the mechanic who had been repairing the bus at the Renaissance Festival had looked the same, and that something had been off with the man's accent. He curses himself for not having paid more attention at the time, because he could have stopped the bomb, saved people's lives, and not be grappling on the floor of his hotel room.</p><p></p><p>Several shots pop off from the assassin's silenced pistol as the two struggle on the floor. Robert is unable to get his stun gun close enough to strike the man, and he in turn can't get an angle to shoot Robert. Finally, as they roll and slam into the desk next to the bed, the assassin drops his pistol and grabs with both hands for Robert's stun gun. Sharp jerking pain courses through Robert's body, and he loses control of himself. When he next is coherent enough to take in his surroundings, he has a gun pressed to his chest.</p><p></p><p>"Right-o, chap," the assassin says in a chipper, near-Cockney accent. "You're not the kid, so tell me where that bloke is, and you might get out of this alive, alright?"</p><p></p><p> </p><p><em>"Put a straight razor to his throat.</em></p><p><em>"He wouldn’t let him scream or holler</em></p><p><em>"Left him in a pile of blood,</em></p><p><em>"That killer Stakalee."</em></p><p></p><p style="margin-left: 20px">- Dr. John, <em>Stakalee</em></p><p></p><p> </p><p>The man who looks like George Clooney has one knee planted on Robert's stomach, has a silenced Walther PPK pressed to Robert's chest over his heart, and is casually twiddling Robert's stun gun in his spare hand.</p><p></p><p>Robert fully intends to kill this man, so he sees no reason to keep up his act.</p><p></p><p>"I'll help you if you answer a few questions," Robert says. There's no fear in his voice. The assassin looks almost frightened by that.</p><p></p><p>"Roit, then," the assassin says. "You aren't going anywhere, now are you? Ask away, chap."</p><p></p><p>"Why are you trying to kill me and the others?"</p><p></p><p>"You're just collateral damage." The assassin grins. "We're just after your friend."</p><p></p><p>"Really? That's helpful. Which friend might that be?"</p><p></p><p>"The kid," the assassin says. "American nipper, twenty-something, went to a private school in Southampton. And before you ask, I don't know why he's a big deal. We're just doing a job, and you and yours got in the way. Which one is he?"</p><p></p><p>"You don't know?" Robert laughs. "You are the most incompetent assassin I've ever met. Of course, you're the only one I've ever met."</p><p></p><p>"Who's pointin' the gun at whose f*ckin' chest now, is he?" The assassin thumps Robert in the solar plexus with the barrel of his pistol. "Now, my dear negro friend, which one is he, and where is he?"</p><p></p><p>"I tell you that," Robert says, "you've got no reason to keep me alive. Let's cut a deal."</p><p></p><p>The assassin ponders this, rubbing his stubble with the same hand he's holding the stun gun in. He nods.</p><p></p><p>"Next question then," Robert says. "We had your boy as a hostage with us. Were you planning on blowing him up on the bus too?"</p><p></p><p>The assassin looks confused. "What boy?"</p><p></p><p>"You know, the witch guy, dressed in a suit."</p><p></p><p>"What the f*ck do you mean, a witch? I'm not playing along with your Halloween sh*t."</p><p></p><p>"No," Robert says, pretending to be flustered, "not a witch like a costume witch like the Wicked Witch of the West. No, I mean, y'know, the guy, who cast spells, had the black cat that turned into a panther."</p><p></p><p>When the assassin doesn't say anything, Robert looks closely at the man. The assassin's expression is quite confused. Robert groans.</p><p></p><p>"Great," he says. "Just great. It's not just one group of people trying to kill me. There's two of you, and you don't even know about magic yet. D*mmit. That's just frikkin' great."</p><p></p><p>"Hey," George Clooney says. "You gonna answer me f*ckin' questions any time soon?"</p><p></p><p>"Alright, alright," Robert says. He has the man distracted enough now. "You can have the guy, seriously. It's not worth dying over. You let me up, I call my friend, tell him to meet me some place of your choosing, and then you let me go, alright? Now let me get my cel phone."</p><p></p><p>The assassin is wary. "Where is it? You can make a phone call just fine on the f*ckin' floor."</p><p></p><p>Robert sighs and nods his head toward the bed. "My jacket on the bed."</p><p></p><p>The assassin turns his gaze away for just a second to glance at the bed, and Robert surges into motion. With one hand he tries to bat the gun away from his heart, while with the other he pulls his straight razor out of his pocket and flicks it open, going for the man's throat. The assassin fires off a shot in surprise, but the bullet strikes Robert in the right collar instead of his heart. Robert's slash with the straight razor lands true, and blood sprays across him from the assassin's jugular.</p><p></p><p>He shoves the assassin off him, grabbing for the stun gun while the British man struggles to staunch the gushing blood from his throat. A moment later, Robert wrests the stun gun free and slams its business end onto the assassin's temple. The man goes limp, but to be safe Robert gives him a few more jolts.</p><p></p><p>Sagging from the gunshot wound he's only now feeling, Robert picks up the assassin's pistol, considers if it's worth the trouble to try to interrogate him, and then fires two shots into the man's head.</p><p></p><p>Then, with practiced ease, he puts down the gun, goes to the bathroom, and looks for his forensic gloves.</p><p></p><p style="text-align: center">* * *</p><p></p><p>The directions Terry got take them to Decatur Street in the French Quarter, inside a small bar, and then through a door into, amazingly, yet another bar.</p><p></p><p>"Is there an office upstairs?" Terry asks the bartender.</p><p></p><p>The man nods, not bothering to look up from his work. Alongside the rows of bottles behind the bar is a plaque, upon which is mounted a shotgun.</p><p></p><p>"This place rocks, Terry," Scarpedin says.</p><p></p><p>Terry follows a point from the bartender to an inconspicuous doorway. Behind the door is a short staircase up, stopping right in front of a door that looks like it's out of a 30s detective film. The frosted glass window reads, "Brief Marketing Management. 9:30 am to 1 pm."</p><p></p><p>Belladonna checks her cel phone, then shrugs. "We're early."</p><p></p><p>"I'm gonna get some whiskey," Scarpedin says.</p><p></p><p>John frowns. "Let's just go knock and get this over with."</p><p></p><p>"Why you gotta be a killjoy, man?" Scarpedin sighs. "You need to lighten up."</p><p></p><p>"Don't be so hard on him," Nathan says. "The man's obviously in denial about his angelic parentage."</p><p></p><p>Terry smiles and leads the way. The five of them crowd up the narrow stairs, and Terry knocks. A moment later a shadow falls across the window from inside, and a woman says, "Brief Marketing Management. I'm sorry, but we're closed today."</p><p></p><p>"I'm Terry Abrams," Terry says. "I called just a while ago."</p><p></p><p>A pause, then, "Just a second."</p><p></p><p>She walks away from the door, leaving them waiting on the landing. From downstairs in the bar they hear a phone ring, and then a moment later they can vaguely hear the woman asking over the phone about them.</p><p></p><p>John mutters, "She sounds flustered. Are you sure these people can help?"</p><p></p><p>Scarpedin laughs. "Of course they can help. They're the Men in Black. Dammit, I should've brought my black sunglasses."</p><p></p><p>"It's probably just a front," Terry says. "Keeps curious people away. I hope."</p><p></p><p>The door opens, and a red-haired woman in a black suit greets them. She's small and looks nervous, and is the only person in a rather large reception room. A pair of couches line the walls, along with a bookshelf of thick, droll-looking texts. Across from the couches is a fine desk, and behind it is a hallway. There are no windows, just an overhead fan with low-wattage bulbs.</p><p></p><p>Once they're all inside, she closes the door behind them, then sits behind the desk.</p><p></p><p>"Welcome to the Bureau for the Management of Magicks," she says. "How can I help you?"</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="RangerWickett, post: 2680891, member: 63"] [i]October 30, 2005 9:11 am[/i] Robert rushes the man who looks like George Clooney, getting close enough to strike the man with his stun gun before the assassin can shoot him. As he struggles for his life, he remembers that the mechanic who had been repairing the bus at the Renaissance Festival had looked the same, and that something had been off with the man's accent. He curses himself for not having paid more attention at the time, because he could have stopped the bomb, saved people's lives, and not be grappling on the floor of his hotel room. Several shots pop off from the assassin's silenced pistol as the two struggle on the floor. Robert is unable to get his stun gun close enough to strike the man, and he in turn can't get an angle to shoot Robert. Finally, as they roll and slam into the desk next to the bed, the assassin drops his pistol and grabs with both hands for Robert's stun gun. Sharp jerking pain courses through Robert's body, and he loses control of himself. When he next is coherent enough to take in his surroundings, he has a gun pressed to his chest. "Right-o, chap," the assassin says in a chipper, near-Cockney accent. "You're not the kid, so tell me where that bloke is, and you might get out of this alive, alright?" [i]"Put a straight razor to his throat. "He wouldn’t let him scream or holler "Left him in a pile of blood, "That killer Stakalee."[/i] [indent]- Dr. John, [i]Stakalee[/i][/indent] The man who looks like George Clooney has one knee planted on Robert's stomach, has a silenced Walther PPK pressed to Robert's chest over his heart, and is casually twiddling Robert's stun gun in his spare hand. Robert fully intends to kill this man, so he sees no reason to keep up his act. "I'll help you if you answer a few questions," Robert says. There's no fear in his voice. The assassin looks almost frightened by that. "Roit, then," the assassin says. "You aren't going anywhere, now are you? Ask away, chap." "Why are you trying to kill me and the others?" "You're just collateral damage." The assassin grins. "We're just after your friend." "Really? That's helpful. Which friend might that be?" "The kid," the assassin says. "American nipper, twenty-something, went to a private school in Southampton. And before you ask, I don't know why he's a big deal. We're just doing a job, and you and yours got in the way. Which one is he?" "You don't know?" Robert laughs. "You are the most incompetent assassin I've ever met. Of course, you're the only one I've ever met." "Who's pointin' the gun at whose f*ckin' chest now, is he?" The assassin thumps Robert in the solar plexus with the barrel of his pistol. "Now, my dear negro friend, which one is he, and where is he?" "I tell you that," Robert says, "you've got no reason to keep me alive. Let's cut a deal." The assassin ponders this, rubbing his stubble with the same hand he's holding the stun gun in. He nods. "Next question then," Robert says. "We had your boy as a hostage with us. Were you planning on blowing him up on the bus too?" The assassin looks confused. "What boy?" "You know, the witch guy, dressed in a suit." "What the f*ck do you mean, a witch? I'm not playing along with your Halloween sh*t." "No," Robert says, pretending to be flustered, "not a witch like a costume witch like the Wicked Witch of the West. No, I mean, y'know, the guy, who cast spells, had the black cat that turned into a panther." When the assassin doesn't say anything, Robert looks closely at the man. The assassin's expression is quite confused. Robert groans. "Great," he says. "Just great. It's not just one group of people trying to kill me. There's two of you, and you don't even know about magic yet. D*mmit. That's just frikkin' great." "Hey," George Clooney says. "You gonna answer me f*ckin' questions any time soon?" "Alright, alright," Robert says. He has the man distracted enough now. "You can have the guy, seriously. It's not worth dying over. You let me up, I call my friend, tell him to meet me some place of your choosing, and then you let me go, alright? Now let me get my cel phone." The assassin is wary. "Where is it? You can make a phone call just fine on the f*ckin' floor." Robert sighs and nods his head toward the bed. "My jacket on the bed." The assassin turns his gaze away for just a second to glance at the bed, and Robert surges into motion. With one hand he tries to bat the gun away from his heart, while with the other he pulls his straight razor out of his pocket and flicks it open, going for the man's throat. The assassin fires off a shot in surprise, but the bullet strikes Robert in the right collar instead of his heart. Robert's slash with the straight razor lands true, and blood sprays across him from the assassin's jugular. He shoves the assassin off him, grabbing for the stun gun while the British man struggles to staunch the gushing blood from his throat. A moment later, Robert wrests the stun gun free and slams its business end onto the assassin's temple. The man goes limp, but to be safe Robert gives him a few more jolts. Sagging from the gunshot wound he's only now feeling, Robert picks up the assassin's pistol, considers if it's worth the trouble to try to interrogate him, and then fires two shots into the man's head. Then, with practiced ease, he puts down the gun, goes to the bathroom, and looks for his forensic gloves. [center]* * *[/center] The directions Terry got take them to Decatur Street in the French Quarter, inside a small bar, and then through a door into, amazingly, yet another bar. "Is there an office upstairs?" Terry asks the bartender. The man nods, not bothering to look up from his work. Alongside the rows of bottles behind the bar is a plaque, upon which is mounted a shotgun. "This place rocks, Terry," Scarpedin says. Terry follows a point from the bartender to an inconspicuous doorway. Behind the door is a short staircase up, stopping right in front of a door that looks like it's out of a 30s detective film. The frosted glass window reads, "Brief Marketing Management. 9:30 am to 1 pm." Belladonna checks her cel phone, then shrugs. "We're early." "I'm gonna get some whiskey," Scarpedin says. John frowns. "Let's just go knock and get this over with." "Why you gotta be a killjoy, man?" Scarpedin sighs. "You need to lighten up." "Don't be so hard on him," Nathan says. "The man's obviously in denial about his angelic parentage." Terry smiles and leads the way. The five of them crowd up the narrow stairs, and Terry knocks. A moment later a shadow falls across the window from inside, and a woman says, "Brief Marketing Management. I'm sorry, but we're closed today." "I'm Terry Abrams," Terry says. "I called just a while ago." A pause, then, "Just a second." She walks away from the door, leaving them waiting on the landing. From downstairs in the bar they hear a phone ring, and then a moment later they can vaguely hear the woman asking over the phone about them. John mutters, "She sounds flustered. Are you sure these people can help?" Scarpedin laughs. "Of course they can help. They're the Men in Black. Dammit, I should've brought my black sunglasses." "It's probably just a front," Terry says. "Keeps curious people away. I hope." The door opens, and a red-haired woman in a black suit greets them. She's small and looks nervous, and is the only person in a rather large reception room. A pair of couches line the walls, along with a bookshelf of thick, droll-looking texts. Across from the couches is a fine desk, and behind it is a hallway. There are no windows, just an overhead fan with low-wattage bulbs. Once they're all inside, she closes the door behind them, then sits behind the desk. "Welcome to the Bureau for the Management of Magicks," she says. "How can I help you?" [/QUOTE]
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