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fat people will be the first to go when SHTF...
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I am liking this story - keep it coming!
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. ..... Chapter Three Bill was sitting at the desk in his room, trying to concentrate. Bob and Ed the half-wit were carrying on a lively discussion in the hallway and although Bill had his door closed; he couldn’t help hearing it all. The knob-gobblers had him upset enough, that he felt that he might jump through his own anus and disappear. Wait a moment! Was that psychotic ideation? Well no, he knew very well that the action wasn’t physically possible. It was a metaphor—a hyperbole, if you will… Bob worked for a construction company. He always wore his brown uniform—on duty, and off. They let him drive the company truck home at night. The best Bill could tell, Bob functioned mainly as a gopher. His position was much like a trustee’s. Bob was convinced that he was some sort of assistant foreman though. Ed rode a bicycle remarkably like Peewee Herman’s. He had a waspish disposition and he wanted to be left alone. Most folks left him alone; since a simple “good morning” would get you a fierce cursing. Bob was only marginally smarter than Ed though. He lived with the persistent illusion that he and Ed were friends. “Ed, how much do tomatoes cost per pound?” Bob asked. “Bob, yoo thupid haf-wit! Why don’t you weave me awone? How in hell would I know what tomatoes cost?” Ed was tongue-tied. “No Ed, I want to know how much tomatoes cost, per pound?” “Leave me alone!” “Tomatoes Ed.” “If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll slap you!” “Per pound Ed.” They went on that way interminably. First Bob would say “Tomatoes.” His tone seemed to say that he could understand Ed’s hostility, had Ed thought that he was asking about oranges, turnips, parsnips or dingle-berries, but that in this context, “tomatoes” made it a perfectly reasonable and inoffensive question. Then Bob would say, “Per pound.” He seemed to imply that asking the price per kilogram, ounce, or carat would have been offensive indeed, but that “per pound” made the question innocuous. Finally Ed put an end to the chuckle fest by taking his bicycle into his room; and slamming his door closed hard enough to shake Bill’s fillings. Steve was standing out in the hallway shadow boxing. He had a set of brass knuckles on each hand. At eight ounces each, the brass knuckles probably added enough resistance to help the muscle tone—a bit. Bill had to admit that Steve’s boxing form was decent. Bill steeled himself and walked up to Steve. “Take the knuckles off. I want to show you something. Here let’s put this one totally to one side. Now put the other in your jacket pocket. Try to put your hand in the knuckle and bring it out quickly, as if for a punch. “Do not actually hit me. This is a demonstration.” Bill got up too close, in Steve’s face. He trapped his hand in the jacket pocket early on. He neither threw nor tripped Steve. He simply used very mild hand pressure to waltz the man all over the hallway. He used no more pressure than one would use on a dancing partner. The whole scheme worked because he got Steve off his center of gravity and kept him there. As he released Steve unexpectedly, he said, “Quick now, come out with the knuckles.” Steve, who had never managed to get his fingers into the holes during the unexpected dance, fumbled yet some more. “Come into my room for a moment,” He said to Steve. He took the brass knuckles and clamped them in a small Pana-Vise. He left the bridge between the middle finger and the ring finger; but he ground the other two bridges out with a Dremel Tool. “It will still be plenty strong; but you’ll have a good bit more room for your fingers. That will make it so much easier and faster to slip them on. Tarnation! I wish that I had a Milling machine. This would go so much faster. We’ll get him done though.” Bill let Steve try on the altered brass knuckle. “It’s way better!” Steve enthused. Bill took the weapon back from him. “I need to borrow this for awhile,” He told Steve in a tone that allowed no argument. “You can have it, if you’ll fix me a couple more like that,” Steve said. “Okay, but not today. I’m off to see the Wizard.” **************** ****************************** ************** People who’d sell steroids could put you in touch with someone who sold hard drugs. Someone who sold hard drugs could put you in touch with someone who sold Guns. Thus one unreasonable prohibition led to a total lack of respect for the law, and a thriving black market. Bill had long ruminated about Kurt Saxon’s famous dictum: “When someone tries to buy Guns with gold, when the transaction is over, one party will have the Guns and the gold.” That sounded remarkably cynical and clever. In actuality though, it wasn’t true. There was a certain honor among outlaws. Baring outrageous provocation or potential for profit, most of them were willing to trade value for value—most of the time. It behooved a man to be cautious though. Bill thought Kurt Saxon was another chucklehead. The man admitted to being a former Nazi and a former Satanist. He’d also managed to blow all the fingers off his left hand, bollixing with a pipe bomb. Still, even a blind hog finds an acorn every now and again. *************** ***************************** **************** The “gangsta” dude had on an oversized sweat suit. He had gold teeth and a big auto pistol in a shoulder holster—probably a nine-millimeter. At first he tried the gangsta rap with Bill. But after a few moments, he dropped the pose. When he wasn’t playing a role, his voice had the mellow deep tones of a Shakespearean actor. Somehow he flashed on the fact that Bill wasn’t taken in and he’d abruptly dropped the act. He’d told Bill that the gold teeth were removable fakes. “It’s for business purposes,” He explained. “How would people recognize me without my disguise?” He led Bill into the basement of a deserted factory building. While the upper floors were tumbledown, the basement was well maintained. There was an iron door with a couple AK bearing sentries taking passwords in a vestibule inside. Inside was a space roughly fifty by fifty. On one side of the room were Lathes and Milling machines. On the other side were long rows of hardwood-topped worktables, with plenty of vises and reloading presses. The gunstore proper was in a little twenty by twenty-five foot alcove, in the corner most distant from the entrance. The shop wasn’t quite jam-crammed full of firearms. Nonetheless, there was a respectable number of Guns. Bill was a bit surprised to see that the handguns were displayed in glass cases—just like a real gunstore. “I had a gunstore before the ban. After the ban, I still have a gunstore,” a grinning dude wearing a shop apron told him. “The only difference is that now I can be arrested for minding my business. Most of the display cases are from my old shop.” Bill decided that he liked the man, as he shook his proffered hand. Still, he didn’t trust anyone without reservation. There was no sense in dropping your pants and bending over. If someone was going to take advantage, Bill meant to make them work hard for it, at the very least. He saw row after row of Glocks and Berettas; Sigs and Walthers. All except the Berettas had plastic frames. Bill sighed wearily. Then he saw something across the room. “Let me see the nickel Model 27,” Bill said. The N Frame Smith and Wesson .357 had an eight and three-eights inch barrel—a bit larger than Bill wanted, but the Gun was a beauty. Someone, doubtless someone like Bill, who never hammer cocked a double action revolver, had bobbed the hammer. The barrel was Mag-Na-Ported, and the butt had been cut down to K Frame round butt configuration. Bill had large hands, but he preferred the round butt to all others—as did a noticeable number of other folks, with many different hand sizes. Now Bill was not at all sure that he could have named a brand of Gun, or have even a clue what a Model 27 might be—if someone had asked him before he’d laid eyes on this one. He definitely couldn’t have told someone how to check a used revolver for serviceability. But once he had the long barreled .357 in his hand, he deftly opened the cylinder. He pushed the extractor rod a few times, to assure himself that it worked freely. Then he spun the open cylinder slowly. He peered down the bore, using a thumbnail to reflect light down the bore. He tried the action. He was pleased that someone had taken the time to put in double action only lockwork. “I’ll let you have that for twenty-seven hundred,” The dealer said. “Why so cheap?” Bill asked. “Nobody wants a revolver anymore, except old guys like you.” Bill was a bit taken aback by that. It wasn’t vanity. He simply had not consciously considered his age. He thought of himself as a regular person. Old people were a special subset of humanity that he felt no particular allegiance to. As he thought about the long mane of silver hair and the crow’s feet at the corner of the eyes of the man who always stared back at him from the mirror, he was forced to conclude that he was indeed old. How peculiar. He took the time to reflect that his gym exploits were even more remarkable in that context. The dealer took his hesitation as a sign that Bill thought the price was too high. “I’ve got a nice vintage Safariland shoulder holster for the Gun. I also have three speed loaders for it. I’ll throw all that in, and a hundred and fifty rounds of 158 Grain Jacketed Hollow Points—all for twenty-five hundred.” “Let me see the single action,” Bill said. “That’s a four-and-three-quarter-inch EMF .357,” The dealer told Bill. “You know that they don’t have a transfer bar—gotta carry the hammer down on an empty chamber.” Bill wondered if he looked stupid, since the man felt it was necessary to tell him such basic facts. He didn’t take offence though. Too much data is rarely the problem that too little is. Bill placed the EMF beside the Smith and Wesson. The three Safariland speed loaders; three fifty round boxes of ammo; and the Safariland shoulder holster were all lying forgotten for the moment on the counter. He got the clerk to bring him a double barrel twelve-gauge shotgun. It had eighteen inch barrels; a padded but youth-sized stock and it was coated in frosted hard chrome. Bill haggled for enough rounds of 00 Buckshot and Slugs to fill a fifty-five round nylon bandoleer, along with a box of high base number sixes. “How much for all that?” Bill asked, gesturing at everything inclusively. The man was a bit surprised. He hadn’t really expected to sell more than one Gun. “Four thousand for all of them.” “That’s one hell of a bargain in today’s money.” “Tell you the truth, I don’t think I’ll ever sell the .357s, if you don’t buy them. Most folks think the .357 is obsolete.” “Chuckleheads!” Bill Remarked. ************ *************************** **************** Maybe setting Steve up to loan him the brass knuckles hadn’t been all that inspired an idea. Now Steve was convinced that Bill was some sort of martial arts master. He’d firmly made up his mind that Bill had something to teach him. He was determined that Bill was going to teach him. Steve had settled in for the long haul. He was respectful, and rarely obtrusive. But he did occasionally remind Bill that he was patiently waiting to begin his apprenticeship. He had even started calling his stars “Shaken.” Bill was forced to revise his opinion of Steve somewhat. Steve was young, and he was ignorant; but he knew how to be both polite and persistent. He wanted to learn very badly. Too bad that Bill wasn’t a martial arts expert. All that he really knew about the martial arts was that most folks over complicated them. Learn the basics of human anatomy. Learn which way the major joints are meant to move; and the places in their range of motion where the leverage worked against them. Trap a client’s joint where it was weak, and force it against the grain. Simple really. Learn where the body is weak. Learn how to pack a reasonable amount of force into your blows. Strike the client’s weak points—again, very simple. Learn how the body balances itself. Strive to keep your balance, while trying to force the client off his. There were a few other rules, but they were all very simple—sometimes difficult to implement—but simple in concept. Come to think of it, maybe he was a martial arts expert. Maybe he’d start turning Steve onto a few techniques, while testing his integrity. It might come in handy to have someone that he could trust guarding his back. Guarding it from what though…? .....RVM45 |
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Great story - I am hooked
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You Bastard what a damn good way to keep us in suspense Im Hooked
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Very good so far!
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Always do the right thing.
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more more more
great work btw |
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awesome - the real survivors are "fanboys"
keep it cranking! |
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The further into the story we get, the wackier it becomes.
Its definitely not your run of the mill SHTF story. Im diggin it so far |
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Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats. --H.L. Mencken
Meatspin got me banned at ARFcom. Who woulda thought hardcore shemale porn in GD was a bad thing? --eesmith4 |
Outstanding. Not your average "millionaire with a survival bunker" tale.
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Very interesting story please keep it going.
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I'm hooked
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What happened?
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Thanks...
been a long day and I needed something to read... even better when it was this good. Damn, Steve... f'n traitor! |
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Nice job
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cool - welcome back
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great chapter - the fountain of tyr
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Good job. Keep it up.
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this story kicks ass!!
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Another good chapter.
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Expanding insurgent minds,one round at a time.
AZ, USA
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Awesome job,keep 'em coming!
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"Let's have a party with beer...and chicks...and guns...and fire trucks!"
"To those of us who defend it,life has a special flavor the protected will never know." "Never fear a man that breathes the same air as you"<BR |
+1 |
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Great work! Can't wait for another chapter
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one of the best, thought provoking stories in a long time.... understand the balance thing though... Best wishes on getting published |
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A virus ate my computer back sometime in the middle of last Summer. I should be getting a new oe soon. In he meantime, I 've only been on the net at odd intervals; on barrowed machines. I only read your PM yesterday...
#1 You're right, I did get confused desribing the Sword Fight. #2 I had largely forgotten "Fugue". I had gotten into a bad rut, of only approaching the writing in pieces that I could finish n on day: Start in the morning; finish by 1:00––2:30 in the afternoon; And surfing back and forth the rest of the day, looking for responces. I make up a lot of the plot elements on the spur of the moment. Once I have full-time access to a computer; I think a bit of judicious rewriting would probably be in order––now that I know much of what's coming; I can foreshadow it. And the story could use some more chapters and closure. So don't despair; though it'll be a bit yet. Wrote this as a PM to cpasr––but it's not really all that private––and some others may wonder about the story from time to time... RVM45 |
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Update Please
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more would be really nice
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Update please !
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I just re-read this...
remarkable how life imitates art... |
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“Now I will tell you the answer to my question. It is this. The Party seeks power entirely for its own sake..." - George Orwell, 1984
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nice necro.
I forgot this even existed Attached File I don't think any more updates will be forthcoming |
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Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats. --H.L. Mencken
Meatspin got me banned at ARFcom. Who woulda thought hardcore shemale porn in GD was a bad thing? --eesmith4 |
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