Political Humor

This week our very own Cajun Cop, JumpOut, tazers the whacked-out world of Mild Max.  Next week Elm lends her talents to this ongoing political satire novel.

Chapter5: Escape from the Kill Zone

Seeing no immediate danger above ground, I cautiously eased myself out of the sewer. I turned back to give my new pistol wielding lady friend a hand up. I’m nothing if not a gentleman. Immediately a terrified look
surfaced on her tough, yet feminine face. She screamed and was yanked back into the darkness of the sewer.

“Holy shit!” I said out loud, as if someone would hear me. A flash of questions hit me momentarily. Who was this chick? What did she want with me? Why shouldn’t I leave her to whoever or whatever just caused us to prematurely part company? Okay, so I’m nothing.

Well, the only way to find out the answers to these questions would be to follow her into the blackness. I wasn’t doing anything at the time, and this was the first broad I had seen in a while that I might be interested in rolling around naked with. What the hell, right?

With my mind made up, and set on violence, I reached into one of my jacket pockets. I keep a couple of flashbangs for emergencies, and this seemed a grand occasion to burn one.

I banged the hole (sorry but these are the kind of bad internal puns that surface when you’ve worked too long in a city where flitters do all manner of distasteful things in public, but will publicly behead you if you dare utter a joke that offends them). I made sure there was a round chambered in my boomstick, and entered the -suddenly and
briefly illuminated- sewer.

When I jumped down into the sewer, I took a quick look around in the quickly dying light of the spent bang. I could see in the distance a figure lying on the dank sewer floor and my damsel in distress running back toward me.

When she reached me, I fired a round down the tunnel where she came from in hopes of slowing down any possible pursuers. I helped her up to the surface, and moved the manhole cover back into place.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

“No thanks to you, you freakin’ moron! I told you to shut the fuck up!” She shouted.

“I just saved your shapely ass! A little gratitude would be nice.”

“Saved me? You think your flashbang saved me? I’ll have you know that I can take care of myself, and that it was a well placed brachial stun, and a well placed bullet that saved my, as you so colorfully put it, shapely ass. All your flashbang did was give me a mark to run to, and for that thanks, but it was your loud mouth that got me in that situation in the first god-damned place.”

“Whatever.” I mumbled in a tone that sounded like a whimper from a dog that had been kicked too hard…or not hard enough. “What do you want with me, and where in the hell are we going, anyway?”

“I’m taking you to see my employer.” She replied.

“Well, that answers a lot.” I said, with the sarcasm of a crippled, Vicodin addicted doctor. “Who is your employer, and what do they want with me?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.” She grumbled. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get the hell out of here in case those beastly fuckers, can open manhole covers.”

We started walking. “Who says I want to meet your employer? What if I don’t want to go?” I asked. Not that the answer would have mattered.

“Jesus! What are you, like seven? Do you ever stop asking questions? Are we there yet?” She mocked in a tone reminiscent of an annoying child. “The answer should be evident, Mr. Observant policeman. We know you were going to leave the city. So did they apparently. You know the dangers out here. If you want to hack it alone, fine. If you come with me to meet my boss, you’ll have someone of a capable sort who has an interest in keeping you alive, at least till we make our destination.”

She stopped. She lifted a white tarp she was using to camouflage a shallow pit covered with plywood. Beneath the plywood were two, small dirtbikes laying on their side.

“Where did you get those?” I bubbled in amazement. “Wait, who is ‘we’ and who are ‘they’?”

She stood her bike up. “These will outrun the Segways, and huffys.” She stomped on the kickstart. The engine growled with all the ferocity of a chainsaw on steroids. “Now shut the fuck up and follow me.”

If you are interested in writing a chapter, to help Max along his southward journey, please head to Mild Max.

This week’s installment of our on-line political humor novel is written by that Southern Bell, Snig of Snig’s Spot.

Next week Alex L will take the helm, then our very own JumpOut. If you’re interested in writing a chapter, check out Mild Max for details. Come on, you know you want to.

Ch 3: Shorts in a Snowstorm

I calculated how long it would take me to reach the six inches to where I’d laid the shotgun down, turn around and blow whoever was behind me away. Longer than it would take for them to pull the trigger. Apparently whoever it was, was reading my mind.

“Don’t even try it… ” For once in my life, I did what I was told.

“Get up nice and easy- keep your hands where I can see them.”

I remember thinking to myself that has to be the most effeminate voice I’ve ever heard on a guy as I turned around. I had my butt cheeks clinched together out of reflex.

I almost relaxed when I realized I was looking at what appeared to be a woman over the cold steel. Mid-20s, long dark hair, and oddly enough, shaved legs. I did my best in the semi-darkness to discern whether he or she had an Adam’s Apple.

Around these parts, things were seldom what they seemed and it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that this was some dude wanting to be a lady. Whether a he or a she, the shorts during the lovely snow we constantly had was a dead giveaway- Californian by birth, that I could be sure of. Didn’t matter if they were wearing a parka too, they’d be in shorts nine out of ten times.

Once again, someone was reading my mind. “I am a girl. I was born a girl, live as a girl and like boys. Any questions?”

I had questions, plenty of questions…but I knew better than to ask any of them. There are times that the only answer is, No ma’am, which was my answer to her.

“Are you a…”, I began to ask, but she immediately cut me off. She continued to train the gun on my nose as she fished around in her pocket for something. She produced a piece of paper, looked at me, back at it and back at me again. She smiled slightly and eased the hammer back into place, lowering the gun and re-holstering it.

I started breathing again.

“I was really hoping that was you I started following back at Holy Cross Cemetery,” she said.

I was slipping. I should have known I’d grown a tail, but I didn’t. I’d been bouncing too long at Thunderdome. I was too out of practice. I almost didn’t hear her when she asked how much Cutter had charged me. I rattled off some figure, my mind elsewhere like thinking about who the Hell was this chick, how’d she managed to tail me when I hadn’t even planned on going anywhere earlier, and for what reason?

“That son of a bitch! He charged me three times as much!”

“Yeah, Cutter is a son of a bitch. That’s for sure. Now, since you seem to know who I am, how about you tell me who you are?”

Whoever she was, at least she was easy on the eyes. It was sort of mesmerizing to see a real woman -especially one with shaved legs. At least I knew for sure she wasn’t some hippie biker bitch. Like the legendary hippies of the 60′s, real hippie biker bitches never shaved their legs.

About that time we both heard them. Shouts of, “Someone’s over here! It’s got to be him!”, were getting closer.

She turned out the flashlight and asked if I wanted to live to see tomorrow in a hushed voice. “If you do, come with me now,” she’d said.

I had two choices- ignore her offer and stand my ground and fight- most likely to my death, if I was lucky.

She stood up and started off toward a shack at the edge of the wall. I thought about my odds for a brief moment. Die eventually at the hands of an angry mob of homospecials or possibly die eventually at the hands of a beautiful woman?

The choice wasn’t too hard for me to make. I grabbed my gear and followed her through the rubble to the door of shack and we disappeared inside just as the flitters reached the spot we’d just been standing.

She was feeling around on the floor of the darkened shack. She asked if I’d had breakfast yet. All I could think was what an inane question that was considering all that the flitters had split up and were kicking over everything they could and tossing Molotov cocktails into any semi-standing buildings trying to flush me out.

No, I’d not eaten and I wasn’t even remotely hungry. Had she lost her damned mind? I was beginning to wonder if I’d made the right decision just as she snatched something up from the floor.

“In here! He’s in here! Bring the real fire power!” I heard just as she jumped in the tunnel beneath the trap door she’d just opened.

“Come on!” she hissed at me.

I thought about it one last time- stay and fight or go with her? There was what appeared to be a partial case of dynamite on the floor near what had once been a window, probably left behind by some schmuck who couldn’t carry it all or who planned to come back, but never made it.

That could help me I remember thinking.

And that’s when the Molotov cocktail landed just inside the window.

The tunnel shook from the explosion just as I slammed the trap door shut above my head. Dust and small rocks rained down on us.

“Do you think you could move any damned slower?” she asked. “I was told you were a professional.”

A professional? Oh geez. I realized I was looking at her back as she making her way down the tunnel. I started following her, thinking I still didn’t know her name, but at least the flitters thought I was dead…

The story so far:

Chapter 1: Behind Thunderdome

Chapter2: Click

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