Next Question!

So I've been trying to law low in the American southwest for a bit while all that nonsense with the Viet Cong and the UFC fans and the Indian reservation blows over. I had been camping out in the desert for a week or so, but I was running out of food and water, so I decided to drive my armored-personnel carrier into town and look for money and supplies. And I was really hoping to sell my services to the townfolk as a gunfighter/mercenary and maybe settle a dispute between rival gangs or take on a local railroad barron and his cronies.
But to my dismay I encountered nothing but technology and progress. The horse was replaced by the motor-car, the cell phone had replaced the telegraph etc. The Old American West that I had read so much about as a youth while imprisoned in Crete had not just shrunk, it had disappeared.

Pissed off, I went into a local watering hole that was nothing more than some college bar for young folk, and ordered a couple Long Island Iced-Teas.
"And hold the ice you son of a bitch!" I screamed belligerently at the bartender as he prepared my beverages.
I drank for a bit but was interrupted by a meat-head frat guy and a smarmy middle-aged man. They seemed intrigued by my appearance.

"What are you- in the army?" asked the meat-head.

"Yes, but not the American one." I responded.

"What army then?" prodded the meat-head.

"Well I sort of have my own. But I like it better that way- less rules."

"My name is Matt and I play football for the Trojans. This is my new agent Drew." replied the meat-head, as he introduced me to the smarmy older man.
The meat-head told me his full name was Matt Weiner or Leiner or something and I got a few pictures for the blog of him molesting the local bimbos. Matt muttered to me that he was going to be "the next Kyle Orton," and then walked off. So it was just me and Drew the agent.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to a line of coke on the bar that the agent was preparing to snort.

"Next question!" snapped the agent.

The agent then swallowed several pills of ecstasy.

"What were those?" I asked.

"Next question!" snapped the agent, as he injected himself with heroine.

"What's in the needle?" I asked.

"Next question!" snapped the agent again.

Then the agent pulled out a Terrell Owens bobble head doll and shoved it up his ass.

"What's that do for you?" I asked, as I calmly began to reach for my .45.

"Next question!" snapped the agent again.

I pulled out my .45 and stuck it in his chest.

"Now you're going to start giving me straight answers here, or I'm going to blow you away. You hear me chief?" I asked.


But before the agent could answer, the Weiner fellow returned and grabbed the agent by the arm and fled the bar. Matt looked back at me in total horror and tried to yell some apologies at me for the conduct of his agent. Incensed, I chased after them into the parking lot. They piled into a pick-up truck and sped off. I quickly reached for my stick grenade, lobbed it at them, and then hit the ground. But nothing happened. It was a bloody dud. Damn Gerry ordinance. Oh well. They got away this time but maybe we'll cross paths again- that's really all you can hope for.

We got UFC fans in the Wire!

So we dee-deed out of Vegas and flew back on the HIND to our base-camp in NorthWest Arizona. It used to be a Hopi Indian reservation, but back in 1989 Evan Belgium swindled the Hopis by trading them three hundred smallpox infected blankets, 200 St. Louis arch trinkets, grapefruit and soap-on-a-rope (what could be more worthless?), a used condom autographed by Chuck Berry, a baseball allegedly autographed by Christopher "Kit" Crokes (it was in fact a mere facsimile), and a box of Bluesfelter stationary, for the rights to the reservation.

Now the bigoted whites that rule America refer to these indigenous Indians as "Native Americans." Can you think of anything more demeaning and degrading than referring to these proud people as "natives?" Neither can I. Damn hate-mongers.

Anyway back to the story- so we swindled the Indians, stole their land, and moved in to set-up a mercenary training compound/fire-support base. When the Hopis realized the Crokes autograph was fake, they were hopping mad, and they said they'd sue us over it. But then they got preoccupied with another case involving peyote use for religious purposes, and never got around to taking us to court.

So on the reservation we set-up a garrison of 30 men, and Belgium constructed a series of fortifications, tents, and sandbags, surrounded by heavy concertina wire. We had one guard tower, an .88 battery, and a few lightly-armor APCs (armored-personnel carriers)with low-caliber anti-tank guns. Not much, but we couldn't go overboard on the firepower thing since we were trying to fool the American government by posing as a legitimate Indian reservation. We even put a few tee-pees and a cardboard saloon around the barracks, and cardboard indians and paper-mache buffalos around the wire. It looked really good although the paint on the buffalos was chipping.

Now after we landed, I waited a bit and then confronted McGelboim in the barracks.

"I know you it was you McGelboim...you left Mills out there to die at the hands of those animals...and the Viet Cong. We don't leave men behind. Ever." I said.

"It was either I save myself, or I die with Mills- so I saved myself. Mills was sacrificed. Are you prepared to sacrifice the lives of any of your men, McStallen?
How many? One? Two? Twenty?
Lives will be lost in this sort of business.
And if you don't have the stomach for it, now is the time to let me know." lectured McGelboim.

"How dare you speak down to me McGelboim!" I yelled, and charged him with my K-Bar.

We started tussling on the ground and gashed each other with our K-Bars, but we were interrupted a few moments later by Evan Belgium--

"I hate to disrupt your sword-fight, but we're under attack! We got UFC fans in the wire! They followed us right through the desert! They're over-running our base camp!" explained Belgium.

McGelboim and I quit wrestling and put on our helmets and flak jackets. We got outside and looked around- incredibly enough there were masses of these blood-thirsty animals laying siege to our base.

I pointed to the HIND. "Belgium- you get that chopper in the air and start laying down some suppressing fire. McGelboim- get in the guard tower and start using that 'fifty' on 'em. I'll take some men and fall back to the command bunker- that's where we'll make our final stand." We parted ways and I grabbed some munitions and any mercenaries I could find and raced to the command bunker. There were about a dozen of us holed up in the command bunker, and we were quickly besieged by hundreds of KFC fans and Viet Cong.

Though lightly armed, the UFC fans were an imposing lot, and worthy adversaries. Many had taken 5 or 6 gun-shots already, and were still standing. Most had bits of their face and brains missing, and their eyes were blood-red as they closed in on us like undead zombies.

Inside the command bunker, our morale was getting low and our ammo was dwindling.
"I'm out! I'm out!," yelled Tshimnaga Bradley, as he threw his SAW to the ground with disgust.
"Yo tambien!," exclaimed Juan Boca as he tossed his M-60 to the ground.
"Don't worry guys- you're with Audie 'friggin' Murphy tonight!" yelled Bunny as he ran out of the command bunker firing his shot-gun at the UFC revelers. We never saw Bunny again.
Otis carson turned to me and said, "Oh crud McStallen, it's now or never..."

I agreed. So I called in one last time to Belgium.
"Belgium- this is Bravo-Six- They've over-run the base- For the record, it's my call! Dump everything you've got left on my pos! I say again, expend all remaining in my perimeter!"

"Roger that Bravo-six, get them in their holes and stay down, this is going to be a big one." responded Lux- err -Belgium.

And with that, Belgium dropped the HIND's massive pay-load on the base camp, explosions and flames ripped through the base, and everything went black for me.


I awoke early the next day in the heavily damaged command bunker. There was alot of blood and crying, but most of us had survived thanks to all the fortifications. But when I emerged from the compound I saw first-hand the true magnitude of the devastation. Bodies, smoke, heaps of twisted metal, and fires were everywhere. The bodies were mostly just UFC fans- I didn't find any of the Cong- and you never do- I learned that the hard way when I was an "advisor" with the ARVN.

Eventually, I came upon McGelboim, who was badly wounded and sitting atop a heap of bodies of former UFC revellers.
"Get me a medic, boy." McGelboim commanded.

I just shook my head and raised my AK-47 at him. He looked angry for a second, but then he relaxed, because he knew what was coming, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it. Now was my chance to get him back for Mills...



But there had been too much killing already, and I just couldn't do anymore. So I threw the assault rifle at him and walked off. It was his lucky day.

One of the APCs was still in usable condition, so I grabbed some rations and hopped in. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I needed some time off. Some time away from all the death and destruction. A vacation from the slaughter.

So I sped off humming a Steve Winwood song. I wasn't sure which one it was, but I think it was the one in Back To The Future when Michael J Fox is on the skateboard in the beginning. It didn't matter.

But once I got about a mile away from the camp I eyed a few severely wounded UFC fans limping along the side of the road, screaming for help. Evidently they had escaped the attack. Evidently...Despite my recent apparent catharsis, I yelled "Bloody Murder!" and ran them down and crushed them like the dogs they were with my APC. Old habbits die hard.

UFC 67 Part III -The First Casualty of War is Innocence; the Second, is Hyman Mills

So I fumbled my sub-machine gun, and Frank Trigg got with-in striking distance of me with his knife. Luckily, I had the foresight to place McGelboim in the crowd as a sniper. A former marksman in the Mossad, McGelboim promptly took out Trigg with one shot from his Mannlicher-Carcano bolt-action rifle, and Trigg fell to the ground and died in my arms just like Anwar Sadat had 14 years ago.

With Trigg neutralized, I turned my attention to the Octagon. The Civil Servant now had Mills in a full-body anal suplex and was preparing his finishing move. But I opened up with my sub-machine gun and clipped the Civil Servant and the ref. At that point several of Trigg's henchman as well as some of Crotop's goons and some assorted members of the crowd all started firing on each other and into the Octagon. I dodged the gunfire and ran into the Octagon serpentine and pulled Mills out.

Fortunately, I also had an emergency escape plan- I set-up a rendezvous point outside the arena, and Evan Belgium and Bunny were going to fly in on Belgium's HIND and pick us up and get us back to their base camp in Arizona.

So I radioed to Belgium, "Ripper Bravo Six- Be advised we got beaucoup mayhem in here and everything's gone to hell- We need that evac pronto! Bravo Six out!" Belgium told me to hang in there and that he'd be there in five minutes, so now we just had to get out of the bloody arena.

Mills had taken a few slugs and was bleeding profusely. To calm him, I said "Just hang in there Mills- bird's on the way!"

"Oh yahh!" responded Mills, before he passed out from blood loss.

Some of the gunfire died down and began to give way to a giant no-holds barred melee. There was blood and body parts flying in every direction as members of the crowd tore each other to pieces like animals. There were some explosions and lots of smoke, but I was able to make my way toward the exit carrying Mills on my back, firing at anyone in my path with my .45 -better stopping power than the sub-machine gun. Then I eyed one of Crotop's henchmen in the stands getting ready to fire on me, but I shot first and dropped him with a single shot to the head.

When I got to the exit I bumped into McGelboim and gave Mills to him.
"You and Mills haul ass to the chopper- I'll cover you!"

So McGelboim took off with Mills, and I laid down some covering fire with my sub-machine gun for a minute or so- I went through two clips and then figured it was best I get to the chopper as well.

I got outside and met up with everyone around the HIND, which had just landed in the rendezvous point. But then two pick-up trucks came roaring down the road right at us, concentrating heavy automatic weapons fire on our position. We took cover around the HIND and returned fire. From the cock-pit, Belgium fired a rocket and took out one of the trucks, but the other sped closer to us. I could see the Civil Servant at the wheel, with that blasted maniacal grin of his, driving the pick-up with one hand and firing an uzi with the other. He was yelling something about Smush Parker and diversity jurisdiction. The Bastard.

Bunny fired his shot-gun into the Civil Servant's pick-up truck. He hit the Civil Servant right in the face and the Civil Servant's head blew apart, and the pick-up truck sped out of control, crashed into a parked petroleum truck, and went up in flames.

"Oh man- you see that head come apart?!" inquired Bunny excitedly.
I just shook my head. "The Civil Servant's not dead. You can't kill him. But he's out of the picture for now- that's the best we can do." I responded.

We all got back in the chopper and McGelboim gave a thumbs up to Belgium and we took off.
I was relieved, but then I looked around for a few seconds and realized Mills wasn't on board.

"Where's Mills?" I asked everyone.

"Dead. The Cong got him." responded McGelboim tersely.

The "Cong?" I was shocked. I looked back solemnly at the arena as we flew off, thinking about all the unnecessary violence and death that had just occurred. Why god? Why?

But before I could finish blaming God for all my problems, I saw this strange lone figure- way off in a far corner of the parking lot- running for his life. It was Mills- covered in blood, and being chased by dozens of Crotop's henchmen, some UFC revelers, and a handful of Viet Cong, who seemed a bit out of place all things considered.

"We still got a man down there- its Mills! Turn this crate around and head back!" I yelled.

Belgium nodded and turned the chopper around and headed back towards Mills. Belgium unloaded on Mills' pursuers with the 30 mm cannon and rained bullets on most of the pursuers. I grabbed the .50 cal on the door and took out a few others. But before we could get close enough to pick Mills up, a few of the Viet Cong caught up to Mills and shot him up real good. Mills threw up his arms in silent agony, and then fell to the ground. Dead.

Belgium looked down at Mills, mumbled "Poor bastard," turned the helicopter back around, and we headed back to the base camp.

I leered at McGelboim and he stared back at me for a second or two, and then looked away. Something was rotten and when we got back to base camp I was going to find out exactly what the hell was going on. Mills had been sacrificed, and I needed to know why.

UFC 67 Part II- Ground and Pound!!!

We ran into all sorts of trouble on our way to Las Vegas- a Peruvian destroyer in international waters, a Miriachi band of Zapatista rebels in Chiapas, and finally a few truckloads of Minute-Men in Arizona --and so the trip took alot longer than expected and we got to KFC 67 about 20 minutes before it was supposed to start. There was a huge line to get in, so Mills and I decided to go in around the back thru the handicapped entrance. We pushed a bunch of wheelchair bound invalids and retards out of the way as we sprinted up the ramp.

But one of their handlers or trainers or whatever you call them, looked over and scolded us, screaming, "Are you guys crazy?? These poor people are disabled and you're pushing them over and trampling them?!"

Angered, I whipped out my sub-machine gun. "Shut-up you!...or I'll give everyone here some real disabilities!" I yelled back.

To show the handler I meant business, I fired a sub machine burst into the air, but Mills looked at me disapprovingly. "They're callin' the cops McStallen. Callin' the cops..." warned Mills.


When we got near the ring we were approached by a big fellow named Cahill, who was a notorious Las Vegas gangster and former button-man for the Ruggeri family.
"Mills is scheduled to fight Frank Trigg's protege tonight. We don't know much about the guy, but we hear he's nuts-- real basket-case-- gotta be to train with Trigg I guess- but the fix is in, RIGHT...?" questioned Cahill.

I nodded.
"One by one, our old friends are gone. Death -- natural or not - prison -- deportation. Hyman Mills is the only one left -- because he always made money for his partners." I said.

Cahill smiled, shook my hand, and walked off.

So then I told Mills to put on his diaper on and get ready for the match.
And the blasted arena was loud as hell with all the cheering and roaring from the crowd, but I could make out one distinct voice from all of that...

"What is this Mills nonsense? I can't believe I have this match with Mills! I mean really, who is this Mills character? I mean Mills, he is in bad bad shape- he has totally let himself go and certainly is no natural athlete. Plus he is lazy like Brian- he does not have the self-discipline to have a routenized and consistent workout schedule. This will hardly be a contest....Shiiiit...."

That voice. I recognized it immediately, and so I slowly looked over and caught a glimpse to confirm things... Sure enough it was the Sacramento Civil Servant, alive and well, and preparing to enter the octagon to fight Mills.

I grabbed Mills and poked his neck with my K-Bar.
"Situation's changed Mills-you can't take a dive. You remember that bloody Sacramento Civil Servant fellow I was telling you about? ...The guy who traded Steve Smith for a bag of peanuts in that fantasy keeper league? ...The guy who burned up that titty bar in Mogadishu? ... And the guy who I think is some sort of super natural demonic spirit put on this planet to plague humanity? Well that's the son of a bitch you're fighting. And you've got to kill him tonight-- because he needs to die." I explained.

"Bastard- that was my favorite titty bar in all of East Africa! I'll waste him!" exclaimed Mills.

Then the ref signaled for the fight to start, and both pugilists immediately charged each other throwing flying hay-makers. Both punches missed, and the combatants collided with each other and fell to the ground, locked in a strange wrestling position.

For the next fifteen minutes the pair appeared dead-locked in a disgusting orgy of Kamasutra-esque grappling and body-locking. Finally, the Civil Servant finally seemed to get the advantage after performing a near flawless reverse anal lock on Mills.

"Check the oil!" yelled one of the spectators.
"Kill him Tony! Kill him! Blood! Blood!" yelled another.
"Release Barabas!" yelled still another.

Mills was barely conscious and taking quite a licking- I knew he couldn't hold out much longer. Then the Civil Servant ripped off Mills' diaper and began to pummel him with it.

"Ground and Pound! Ground and Pound!" chanted the bloodthirsty crowd.

I figured it was now or never- I had to intervene. So I reached into my duffel bag for my sub-machine gun, but at just that moment Frank Trigg charged at with a knife...

UFC 67 Part I -The Fix Is In

Crotop was really worked up at me after I blew the Hyman Mills hit. So some of Crotop's underlings grabbed me on the street and then grabbed Mills at his hotel and we were taken back to Crotop's compound. Mills and I were forced to sit down, surrounded by skinnies with AKs and itchy trigger-fingers, while Crotop began another lecture. He once again presented me with a task, and once again threatened my life if I refused or failed

"I need you to fix fight. Mills- you will fight. McStallen- you will train. You are going to fight match and lose on purposes. I will bet against you and I will win lots of money. If that goes well, your debts is forgiving and I will let you go. But if not- and if you messing up again- sniper in building will blow your heads up." explained Crotop.

"But I'm a Quaker- I don't fight- not even for my country or my family!" exclaimed Mills.

Crotop socked him in the gut. "Mills, a Quaker don't go around a village cutting off heads and shit, or mowing down prairies dogs with a suped-up golf cart."

"Hey, those rats were mucking up one of the sand traps!" exclaimed Mills

Crotop socked him again. "Mills, you are truly a disgrace." he said.

"Leave him alone!" I yelled.

Crotop stared me down. "OK Mr. Tough-guy- now I punches you too."
And the bugger wound up like a Slavic Pop-Eye and decked me. I just kept my mouth shut from that point on as Crotop outlined the plan...

Mills and I were to go to UFC (Ultimate Fighting Championship) 67 and pose as a fighter and a trainer. As the trainer, I had the responsibility of shaving Mills' back and chest before the fight. Besides that, all I had to do was sit in a chair near the ring for a couple minutes and make sure Mills took a fall. And all Mills had to do was put on a diaper, walk out into the octagon, and let someone kick the crap out of him. And that was it. We didn't know who Mills would be fighting, but Crotop explained it would "probably just be some ass-hole with a shaved head in a diaper."

Mills asked a follow-up question. "That fighter will probably be queerer than a Wausau plumber! What if the bastard tries to sodomize me out there?"

Crotop responded, "Well if and when that happens, you TAKE THE PAIN!!!!!....TAKE THE PAIN!!!!!"

Shiiiit.... UFC 67: THE ULTIMATE REVENGE. Now I'm not sure what exactly the participants are attempting to get their revenge upon, but I suspect they are trying to exact revenge on everyone who has picked on them their whole lives by putting on a diaper, stepping in a ring, and murdering a complete stranger who has done no wrong by them.

The match is in a week in Las Vegas Nevada (USA) so I'll have to sneak back into the States through its unsecured southern border, dodge the minute-men, doctor up some paperwork, and then pose as a trainer. Should be fun and hopefully I can catch a UNLV game out there -although it's not the same without Tark.

Not to digress too much- but about 10 years ago in Malta I killed an innocent bystander in a shoot-out at a market following a botched assassination attempt. The poor bastard looked exactly like Jerry Tarkhanian and for a second I thought it was, and that I had killed a legend through my negligence. So I grabbed his wallet and checked the ID- luckily the fellow's name was something like Anton Buttigieg or something. What a relief.

I'll write more from Las Vegas

Killing Hyman Mills

So I couldn't get Crotop a girl, and I went back to his compound a little dejected and expecting to be executed. I walked into his office and took a seat across from him at his desk. He was sipping on some borsh and cleaning his .45. I told him I couldn't find him a girl, and he looked at me somewhat sympathetically.

Then he rose to his feet and we talked...

CROTOP
Well McStallen, Did you see that old friend and business partner Hyman Mills is in the news? The superior court of Michigan turned down his request to live there as a returned Quaker. His passport's been invalidated except for Somalia. Mills is holed up in a heavily guarded hotel in Mogadishu. Mills did all my taxes and all the book-keeping for my mercenary work, and I think he's going to rat me out in order to get back into the United States. So I want you to sneak into that hotel and kill him. If you do that, we're even.

McSTALLEN
Ole moneybags Mills? He's a sick old man-his medical condition's reported as terminal -- he's only gonna live another six months anyway.

CROTOP
He's been dying of the same heart attack for twenty years. I want you to finish him off.

McSTALLEN
Crotop that's impossible -- if he is going to cop a plea, they'll turn him over to the Internal Revenue, customs, and half the FBI. It'd be like trying to kill the president -- there's no way we can get to him!

CROTOP
McStallen, you know you surprise me --if anything in this life is certain-- if history has taught us anything-- it's that you can kill anybody.

That Crotop is one stubborn Moldovan Bear. So I did what he said and went to find Mills and kill him. I went in through the back and was pleasantly surprised to see the hotel was unguarded. I snuck into Mills' hotel room and the whole place was a huge mess- beer cans, cigarette butts, AK-47 rounds, and golf balls everywhere. I caught Mills sleeping in bed- he was covered in vomit and beer and mumbling in his sleep about some Emerson kid never calling him back.


I couldn't bring myself to shoot someone who was passed out, so I shook him a bunch of times and tried to wake him up. But he was out cold and didn't budge. I fired a few AK-47 bursts in the room, hoping the gun-fire would wake him up, but it didn't work either. I shook him a few more times and then punched him. Still nothing. I punched him in the face again and chipped a tooth. Still nothing. So I urinated on him and left. Crotop will be pissed, but I live by a code of ethics, and I don't kill women, kids or people that are passed out unless it's by accident.