So me and my droogs were out lookin’ for a good time y’know. We was bored and it was getting’ kinda late, so I thought I might as well get some work done. We finished up our milk and bade our goodbyes. They were doubtlessly off to get high and commit some acts of senseless violence, but me, I had a method to my madness. I had sold my soul to the feds in order to support my habit. So I stopped by my drop box and there it was: a list of people who needed a little talking to-signed by the man himself. John Ashcroft had slated three houses for me to hit that night.
I made my way out of the downtown, careful not to steer too close to the whores or the night stalkers. People gave me my space. Nobody messes with those upon whose head the consent of Big Brother has been placed. Thank God for the Patriot Act I thought as I entered a fairly poor looking neighborhood, and continued to carry myself as though I really belonged there. I checked the paper one last time and then calmly approached the house bearing the correlating number and rapped loudly on the door. It was a small, decrepit looking house-looked almost like straw.
“Open up and let me in!” Nobody answered for a second and then I heard a distant reply muffled through the doors.
“Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!”
God those unshaven barbarian pigs really pissed me off. They didn’t even eat pork for Christ Sake! Who did they think they were dealing with? Girl Scouts? My street name isn’t the Big Bad Wolf for nothing y’know? I wasn’t used to putting up with this kindof shit.
“Dude, I will blow your frickin’ house down if you do not open up right now.”
“Do your worst,” came the closer, angrier reply.
This little punk had obviously never dealt with the likes of me before. Nobody leaves their hat on during the national anthem and goes unpunished. Not in this fine country: we’ve got a frickin’ war to win. His house lasted about two seconds. If he’s lucky he died in the collapse.
The second house was a solid-looking wooden structure. The little communist who lived in there obviously had never heard the legend of the Big Bad Wolf either. Well, I showed him what happens to those who dare to even think about the word assassinate: can’t be too careful with psychotics like these. Two houses down, and a nice big fat commission.
I stopped short at the last house. It was a big solid brick structure in the midst of a real nice neighborhood. These folks had money. And architecture even I couldn’t mess with. I tried, I really did, without even warning them. But no matter how hard I huffed and puffed the house would not come down. Tabernac. So I crossed the street to this phone booth and punched in the code number at the bottom of the sheet. It didn’t even ring once before they answered.
“Yeah, this is Bravo Bravo Whiskey. I got a brick structure protecting a batch of godless unpersons and I can’t overwhelm the structure on my own. Request backup immediately.”
Then I hung up and walked away without even waiting to even hear an answer. Within seconds I could hear the sound of the black helicopters but I didn’t even turn around. They would be able to find and pay me. They always did.
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