Blood Bath (Mac) review
"If he had known it was going to be the last day of his life, Norbert Fitzsimmons wouldn't have gotten out of bed. On the way to his dead-end job at the State Institution for the Criminally Mentally Retarded, he pondered working on getting a GED in the hopes of someday making Manager at the Cheapo Music down the street. Before punching in, he chugged down the rest of the bourbon slug he prepared for breakfast; unsatisfying, but it had to do. Today was going to be an important day for the inmates ..."
If he had known it was going to be the last day of his life, Norbert Fitzsimmons wouldn't have gotten out of bed. On the way to his dead-end job at the State Institution for the Criminally Mentally Retarded, he pondered working on getting a GED in the hopes of someday making Manager at the Cheapo Music down the street. Before punching in, he chugged down the rest of the bourbon slug he prepared for breakfast; unsatisfying, but it had to do. Today was going to be an important day for the inmates at the SICMR -- their annual visit to the petting zoo followed by a hearty feast at Chick-Fil-A. Fitzsimmons peeked into the communal shower room and could clearly see the lonely jailbirds were anxious to fondle all kinds of wildlife. It was his job to chauffeur the inmates to and from the petting zoo. Today, he felt uncommonly nervous. It was a kind of third sense. He would have done anything for another dose of the sauce, but they were already starting to pile into the 'Tard Wagon. It was going to be an agonizing six hours.
The moron behind him would not stop flicking his ear. Fitzsimmons could vaguely recall that he was in for selling "original" copies of Final Fantasy Tactics on Ebay by scrawling over the green Greatest Hits band with a black marker. "You're in for life, buster," Norbert uttered under his breath while the two guards on board attempted to subdue the aggressive simpletons having a nipple-tweaking battle in the rear. The road before him stretched in a perfectly straight line to infinity; nothing but barren wasteland surrounded them for miles. Fitzsimmons licked his lips and peered at the action from his rearview mirror. He was turned on by the shenanigans and if the state had given the institution a newer bus, he would have put her on cruise control and joined in. Wasn't a bad idea, really, he rationalized. There was a sharp, sudden pop from one of the tires as he began looking for an object to prop the accelerator open. His eyes snapped to the road, any semblance of cool professionalism tossed out the window.
"Shpadoinkle," Norbert groaned. Their plan was perfect. Had he been paying attention for the past half-mile or so, he would have easily seen the gunman beside the road, with his Uzi steadied unwaveringly. As it was, he had a blown tire and he was in charge of steering a 12-ton hunk of metal on a level course. He might as well have been drunk, blindfolded, and had Jorge the Peruvian donkey pimp stick a few scorpions down his pants for good measure. The 'Tard Wagon skidded for a few football fields on its side before finally stopping with one last backfire.
Dozens of society's rejected let out fevered huzzahs, while they were struggling to exit through some of the broken safety glass windows. Meanwhile, the seat had a death grip on Fitzsimmons. He couldn't feel the lower half of his body, and he was crestfallen to see both guards were dead while the 'tards all emerged unscathed. "Only the good Lord knows what those freaks are capable of," he whispered to no one. "And may He help all whose paths they cross." The CB radio under the dash caught his attention, and quickly picking up the dangling reciever he spoke deliberately, calmly, as if he was a horrible voice actor.
"Attention, attention. Anyone out there, this is an emergency. We were going to the petting zoo. All the 'tards, they're escaping. I think they're packing heat. Really, this is of the utmost importance. Like, I'm not even joking."
The sun through the cracked windscreen was suddenly blotted out by a huge, leering figure. He wore a black beenie, which hugged his bulbous head like a condom. The plaid overshirt he wore over his sweat-stained wife beater suggested a kind of haute couture redneck. The oaf sneered a glorious, prizewinning sneer, to which Norbert oozed into the reciever, "Ohgohohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod." It was the guy who took down the 'Tard Wagon singlehandedly. The redneck's face was full of sick satisfaction, and the sneer was still on full display. Norbert would have complimented on the sneer had his mouth not been abruptly pumped full of Teflon-coated .45 calibre ACP rounds.
"Whoa Nellie!" howled Sheriff Angus Beefpacker, who was listening in while enjoying a Short Stack at the Red Falls IHOP. His eardrums hadn't been ringing that hard since the Disaster Area concert of 1978. He vaguely remembered something about a trip to the petting zoo, but never had he fully grasped they were dealing with semi-dangerous felons until that exact moment. "Well, I do declare," he uttered while staring into the horizon. "Being the only law enforcement official on this side of the Wakathookie River, I oughter do a thing or two and learn 'em some respect."
The dimwitted horde found themselves marooned in the desert. The ones who didn't immediately throw temper tantrums made a huddle and decided to journey to nearby Red Falls, on account of lack of snacks. "Look, they have a Dairy Queen, Damien! All we have to do -- now look, what have I told you about taking Little Damien out in public," said a vigilant 'tard to the inmate rubbing himself against his orange jumpsuit. Meanwhile, the Mysterious Stranger was passing out AK-47s and TEC-9s with filed down barrels. "What's this?" cried the resident Jew. "Y'think I'm some kind of fagel? The last time I fired a gun was in Jules Fieffer's apartment in 1959. I recall I was with some acid dealers from Princeton."
"Quiet down, Shylock," he oozed in his Clint Eastwoodish gravelly drawl. Due to his high charisma they hushed like crowds at a PGA tournament. "This struggle extends far beyond getting an ice-cold Blizzard with some curly fries. You punks are luckier than you will ever fully realize. What Uncle Sam did to me and the rest of Tango Company in Da Nang is without a doubt the most heinous atrocity committed against mankind. And I remember Kris Kross and that fiction you call The Holocaust. You're lucky that you don't have radiation blisters over 90% of your body, and Agent Orange still lingering in your bloodstream, slowly eating away at your larynx. I was one of the lucky ones. I only have to sit down to pee and have occasional acute sinus headaches. But that doesn't mean we can forget what happened that disgusting October night in The 'Nam. Today, followers, we will liberate that picturesque hamlet known as Red Falls from the clutches of The System. Tomorrow, I expect us to march on Casper and force 'em to turn Wyoming into an independent country. We will elect a cabinet and all that other stuff the day after tomorrow.
"Any questions?" Melvin Rowsdower, the DDT junkie, asked whether the AK-47s could be traded in for coloring books after The Revolution. The Stranger solemnly nodded his approval. "Everything we know will change."
Angus Beefpacker was running for his squad car when he was inexorably siezed with a sudden spasm of the bowels, and dove back into the restaurant. Luckily, the gentleman who graced the washroom with his presence beforehand left behind a mildewy issue of Shooting Times and three cigarette butts in some warm Jagermeister. He had time to masturbate twice to a field-stripped M82A1 before heading out again.
He was loaded, but not as hammered as he was during his 10-year High School reunion. The cons had only seconds to hide behind the numerous static objects nearby. To Sheriff Beefpacker they looked not totally unlike grainy QuickTime animations. With the M16 he stashed in his breast pocket, he was able to mow them down like ducks under a fullisade of 5.56 mm rounds. Outlandish fountains of gore arced through the snippid Autumn air with each follower of The Stranger getting ventilated. Beefpacker was a patient man even while under the influence, and when the two of them emerged from their roosts within seconds of being shot with nary a wound, they had no time to do much of anything before getting third, fourth, and fifth airholes drilled free of charge.
The first encounter lasted merely seconds, but Beefpacker's finger still twitched on its own volition. Who were these people who could survive a direct hit to the cerebellum, and yet their comrades stand up moments later with the zeal of a new recruit? Moreover, their rigid, unchanging patterns made it effortless to keep them at bay. They would be known simply as The 'Tards throughout the annals of history for centuries. Mere words were not appropriate to properly summarize their unreasonable enthusiasm to be executed. Oddly enough, they had managed to take over the entire town while he was struggling against middle age as well as a rapidly diminishing erection. There was no choice other than foolhardy direct action.
Beefpacker could not sit still for a moment. Barrelling into a new arena immediately after completing the old one, it was soon evident that there were 'Tards holed up all over Red Falls. "Let me at 'em!" bellowed the sheriff. He was so heavily intoxicated that he did not notice the M16 was out of ammo until he had drawn the Mac-10 from his left snakeskin boot. He felt very invincible as he gunned down the same four 'Tards repeatedly, or at least until he heard the dull click signifying an empty chamber. The only weapon he had remaining was a tiny pistol with an effective combat range best measured in inches. He bought it in Tijuana thinking it was a cigarette lighter, and was rather surprised when he shot off one of his fingers while trying to burn unsightly digit hair.
Desmond, a convict, had been hiding behind the same garbage bin for the better part of a day. The Stranger's orders for them to quietly sneak into the town seemed sensical back at base camp, but in the heat of battle, things like strategy were very unimportant. "It looks like a Nicuraguan Death Squad just wiped out Lance and his crew outside the Orange Julius," said Wendell, who had appointed himself Official Advance Recon Scout. He was armed with only a knife, and had managed to hide inside the storm drain. "Wait, my mistake. It's the fuzz."
Desmond steadied his TEC-9 and slowly peeked out. The scout was aware before Desmond had even gotten a decent look at their unseen attacker. "It's your turn after Freidrich gets killed, idiot! I thought we had discussed this!"
"Yeah? Well, excuse me for having the balls to go against the grain every now and then," Desmond snarled with fervor uncharacteristic of his meekish self. As a gesture of defiance, it was not among his most profound. He had a second to draw a bead on the sheriff before his chest exploded into a vermillion flash, crimson spattering every surface within ten yards. Desmond could feel his lungs deflate and shrivel up like mylar balloons. He fell to the wet earth, short of breath, the world spinning, his ears throbbing, pulsating. There was barely enough strength in him to allow a downwards look at the dime-sized hole coarsing out his lifeblood onto cold, unfeeling pavement. Time ceased to exist. Staring at the cosmos above, Desmond realized that the universe works on a scale beyond any possible human comprehension. Also, he discovered that he made a simple error by appearing on a predictable schedule, and using a bright orange jumpsuit to blend into an urban environment was not prudent either. His 'Tard brethren would also stumble upon this epiphany upon their final, fleeting moments.
Angus Beefpacker was also on his last legs. The surly Advance Recon Scout he stumbled into managed to get in a lick before being decapitated by a very well-placed pistol round. Unfortunately, his femoral artery happened to be cut during the ordeal, and he was now trying to hold back a shower of blood that would satisfy fans of Takashi Miike. He fired ineffectually at his surroundings, knowing full well that he was going through his death throes. A lucky shot happened to shatter a window of a warehouse nearby. A huge, garish donut suddenly appeared as if sent by God. Beefpacker was overcome with emotion. "It's the Giant Floating Donut, I'll be damned. Legend has it that every cop sees it before going down in a blaze of glory." He did what any normal human being would, and shot at it until his final clip emptied.
The slash across his thigh had been healed. His life had been extended by decades. The infernal chattering of the 'Tards was finally quieted. Angie Dickinson was attractive again. Of course, it might have very well been the warm Jagermeister. He didn't care when a slug tore off his left ear, or when a three-round burst to the Achilles' Tendon finally brought him down. "My life has been unending monotony up to this point," said the Sheriff proudly. "The good Lord willing, I'll finally see an end to it."
Needless to say, The Stranger didn't get past Gillette before two brave mall security guards, aged 16 and 72, ran him out of town on a rail. Nobody has seen the guy since. Some maintain that he started a software company that made horrible shooters to sell at Wal-Mart as part of a "20 games for $10" package. Since he'll have no more impact on anyone else's life, I think this is the best place to end the story.
Community review by johnny_cairo (February 13, 2005)
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