Political Humor |

Welcome to Chapter 2 of the on-going saga of Mild Max. Today’s installment of this online political humor novel was supposed to be written by JumpOut, but Obama’s Brown Shirts have wrecked his computer.  We look forward to seeing  his twisted political humor here real soon. So for today anyway, your stuck with me…again.

We have a new  Mild Max blog.  It’s really nothing more than a calender. This way you can see who will be writing what chapter and also get a chance to put yourself on the list.

Chapter  2: Click

As the pink mist settled to the ground, I knew the decision had just been made for me. I’ve seen what a shotgun can do to a man’s head before, but never the head of Bruce, the significant other of guy who hired me. OO buckshot at close range will kind of mess-up your day.

How he ever got into my room, with its heavy steel door locked from the inside, was a mystery. What wasn’t a mystery was what was going to happen in a very few minutes when the boss and his flitter friends found Bruce’s brains sliding down my wall.

I looked down at the all but headless corpse. It was dressed in strips of studded black leather and little else. I picked it up the gun lying on the floor next to it. It was an old Taurus 41 caliber revolver. A nice enough round, but the shiny finished, short barreled, five shot pistol was better used as a conversation piece than a serious weapon. Still, in a pinch… I stuffed it into one of my jacket’s deep front pockets.

That pocket was empty. The other ten or so were filled with all kinds of little goodies. I’d had this jacket sewn around some body armor. A little heavy, it’s waterproof, ballistic cloth outer shell protected the insulation and the body armor under that, protected me. It ‘d saved my sorry butt on more than one occasion.

Looking back down at the body, I knew this was no social visit. I tried to think back to what might have possessed him to try to kill me. Who knows? I probably pissed off someone. Got a knack for doing that.

I had three things going for me. First was that I was always prepared to get out of anywhere, fast. My overwhelming desire to not end up the way Bruce did, meant I always slept with my shotgun across my chest, boots on and my rucksack packed. You were a fool not to, and fools didn’t live very long in this part of town. I planned on living, for a little while longer anyway.

Secondly, I had a plan. If you can call running as fast you can a plan. The third thing I had going for me was a destination. I knew how to get out of town. Not that it’s all that hard to get out. Nobody cared if you left. Everyone cared if you tried to get in.

So I ran through the dark, snowy streets of San Francisco.

The angry shouts, gunfire and high-pitched screams, that echoed through the burned-out buildings and down the rat infested alleys, could only mean that they had discovered the mass of goo that was Bruce, from the shoulders up.

The rest of the night was a blur. I ran out of breath long before I ran far enough. I slowed a bit and pushed on through the back streets and overgrown parks. I remember that there was some weird shit going in the old Holy Cross cemetery on the outskirts of Dalyville. The demonic howls, loud moaning and bonfires were enough to keep me to the shadows.

It must have been about 1 AM when I hit The Barrier. Frisco sits at the ass end of a narrow point of land. On one side of the city is the Pacific Ocean, on the other is The Bay. The five mile wide Barrier cuts the northern end off from the rest of the world.

The Navy shipyard in Alameda is across the bay. When they abandoned it, a bunch of us went over there. We found enough of the crew still hanging around to help us bring back a lot of firepower. Everything we couldn’t load on the ships, we blew up.

Frisco became a military power overnight. A lot of the hippies didn’t like what was happening to “their” city and began causing trouble. Funny how violent people can be, who preach love and peace. Like they really changed anything. We just shot a few of ‘em, and the rest scattered like rabbits.

The barrier is not just the wall and old Navy gun emplacements, it’s a wide strip of barren land on either side. Getting up to the Barrier wasn’t a problem. Getting the couple hundred yards across the other side alive -or not wishing you were dead- would be.

One of those guys who went over to get the ships was a friend of mine. I use the word “friend” only to say that we wouldn’t try to kill each other if we met in a bar. He made his living getting people and goods into and out of the city. His name was Cutter, and he was a Koyote.

Cutter was pretty easy to find, since he was looking for me too. He’d heard what happened and knew I’d be heading his way. I guess business was slow. Being a friend, he only charged me the going rate, not the “I’m frikkin’ going to die if you don’t help me” rate.

I shook his hand, right before he closed the well camouflaged door at the end of a series of low, wet tunnels, which zigzagged across the open stretch of land on the southern side of the wall. I continued to crawl for what must have been an hour. Through busted concrete and twisted metal, through dead bushes and broken glass, until I couldn’t go on any farther.

Wet, exhausted and freezing my Jennys,  I had to take a break. Wouldn’t you frikkin’ know, just when I decided I’d found a good place to rest for a few minutes, I heard a click.

It’s one of those sounds that sends lightening bolts running up your spine, into your fingertips, and your fight or flight response into overdrive. It took everything I had not to move. I knew that sound all too well. It was the sound that woke me tonight and started all of this. The sound of a revolver’s hammer being placed into mess-up your day mode.

The story so far:

Chapter 1: Behind Thunderdome