8, Dysfunction
“I’m envious of the people who’ve never met you. They don’t need any headache medication from listening to your conspiracy theory bullshit.” Sergeant Schuman buttoned the top button of her bullet proof leather trench coat as she continued, “and besides, you’re actually a person who can do something about this crap. Quit speculating and go find this supposed wreckage. Get after it or quit your damn bitching, Doc.”
Special agent Dale O’Connor hiccuped as he set down his empty glass. “Driving to rural California to search for the well concealed crash site of an alien mother ship would interfere with my drinking time.” He refilled his glass as he added, “besides, it’s heavily but secretly guarded. There are hidden Mexican snipers all over that place. If you even show your face, your skull gets emptied all over the hot desert.”
Schuman shook her head and said, “Snipers? Trained by Mexican military on American soil? You’re a fuckin mess, Doc.”
“They stay alive by eating scorpions and cactus flowers, and have sworn to a life of protecting what they call in Spanish, The Gift.”
“I pity the mind reader who ever hears your thoughts.”
O’Connor didn’t argue. “Sarge, I’m telling you, they’re hiding the space vortex machine that could zap humans to the Andromeda galaxy in a matter of seconds.”
Special agent Bradley McVandalay had quietly entered the hotel room. He could see his friends bickering about something that was surely useless. “This room reeks of ammunition and whiskey.” He closed his eyes and took a deep whiff. “I like this. I have a good feeling about tonight.”
The downtown Bogota hotel room was filled with laptops, antennas, random cables, assorted firearms and a few empty bottles of Irish whiskey. All three agents loaded their hand guns with state of the art uranium tank piercing rounds, “just in case.”
General Rice was at a laptop checking spy satellite intel. She stared at the screen as she spoke. “Doc, I’m a high level general in the army with top secret intelligence clearance. I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of this mother ship wreckage.”
“That’s all you have to say, general,” O’Connor hiccuped. “I hear you loud and clear.” The general said nothing more as the three field agents concealed their firearms under their trench coats, then departed for the firefight that awaited them.
Half a mile away, agent Death spit on the sidewalk in disgust. “I want to make them suffer. Like, really suffer. I’d have no remorse killing them slowly, painfully, every single one of those greedy fucks.”
Agent Murdock loved her rants and egged her on as they walked together. “Death, the convenience fees are easier than not being able to get a ticket at the door.”
“Convenience fees my ass, Murdock! Thirty fucking dollars on top of the hundred and fifty dollars they’ve already charged me? That’s thirty dollars PER ticket, so fuck you if you buy eight, you can kiss another two hundred and forty skins down the drain!”
“You don’t have seven friends who’d go see that concert with you, no need to pretend.”
Death ignored Murdock as they approached a high end night club. “And you know the band isn’t making the bulk of that money. They’re the ones that should be getting paid, cuz they’re the reason the event is happening in the first place!” She clicked a button on her state of the art communicator watch and said, “broadcasting. Can you hear me?”
General Rice’s voice answered in their ears, “picking you up clearly. Go find some warring criminals.”
Death reached into her tight skirt pockets and grabbed a few bills of Columbian cash to pay the cover charge. She was dressed for a night of drinking and dancing, not a shootout, but she still had two concealed hand guns for when the time came. “Bands should get rich, not middle men, dammit. I fucking hate thieves.”
Murdock had to keep pushing her buttons. “Bands wouldn’t have the know how to throw big concerts, Death. They need the middle men!” He didn’t believe a word of what he was saying, but the entertainment value of watching his friend lose her shit was too much to pass up.
Death smiled widely and was calm as they approached the bouncers at the front door. “Murdock, I would tie those greedy ass middle men on a spit a mile above the Amazon forest and then light the whole place on fire. I’d slowly rotate each and every one of those fuckers whom you deem so necessary until they were cooked to a barbecued perfection as the trees burned hot below. Their screams of agony would be joy to my ears.”
“Global warming is a big problem, you know. You shouldn’t joke about burning the Amazon.”
“Dammit Murdock, this is MY hateful fantasy. Go fuck yourself!” The bouncers took their cover charge and allowed the two white Americans into the club.
Across the street on the roof of a three story building, agent Lorenz ruffled her long blond hair. “I always thought their red sauce didn’t have enough spice to it. Just bland, damn near like a kid eating paste.”
“I don’t know, honey,” replied her boyfriend and fellow sniper, Jack Miller. “I’ve had meals there where it was too spicy as opposed to not enough.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing as too spicy for you, dear,” she joked. Everything they said to each other was just another excuse to dirty flirt. “But back to the restaurant, that kind of makes my point. They’re inconsistent and I don’t feel that my hard earned money as a cold hearted killer should be spent dining there in the future.”
“Your self awareness never ceases to amaze me, my love.” Miller took note of the light breeze and relayed the information to Lorenz so they could plan their shots accordingly.
On the opposeite side of the club, Blacktide and Blitz were in separate getaway cars. “I’ve never eaten at that Italian restaurant, Lorenz,” Alexi Blacktide said to her wristwatch communicator. “I’ve heard they have hot bartenders, though.”
“I’m the one who told you about the hot bartenders, Lex,” Emerald Blitz muttered. She’d slept off a long hangover and felt better, but still felt a bit groggy. “The tall one didn’t charge me for the second bottle of wine. I don’t remember anything after that, and I have no regrets.”
“Nice work, friend.” Special agent Alexi Blacktide watched a swarm of fireflies do their arial dance in front of the windshield and her A.D.D. kicked in. “Have any of you ever really considered the awesome reality that we are actually star dust?”
Lorenz could be heard laughing. “Let me guess Lex, you saw a shooting star?”
Blacktide laughed. “Nope. Fireflies. Sorry to tune out. What were we talking about… oh yeah, hot bartenders. You know what, I’ll give that place a shot if y’all wanna eat there again.”
Miller snorted. “We’ll join you for a drink, but their food is hit and miss.”
“Well as long as you don’t miss, we’ll be drinking there by this time tomorrow,” joked Blitz in their ears.
A half hour passed. Blitz and Blacktide relayed the information that a limousine had arrived in the alleyway from behind the club, then exited a couple of minutes later. Rice was looking through satellite data to see where the limo had come from when Lorenz spoke up. “I see three zombies walking up the sidewalk that look remarkably like our team,” she joked.
Schuman’s voice giggled in Lorenz’s ears. “Doc won’t shut up about intergalactic travel.”
O’Connor’s voice interrupted them, “it’s extra galactic travel, god dammit! It’ll lead to global peace and drinking with aliens.” He got professional. “What’re we walking into, Lorenz?”
She answered, “Death and Murdock are already inside, but haven’t relayed any recon yet. All we can hear is the music. It sounds fun, actually.” She spoke quietly but her ear piece communicators picked up everything perfectly. Miller and Lorenz had a complete one hundred and eighty degree view of the front doors from the high priced Bogota night club. She hit a button on her scope and a little red dot from a laser pointer appeared on O’Connors chest.
“Remind me not to piss you off, ever.”
“You’ve gained weight, Doc,” Lorenz answered. “Have you been hitting the all night diners on your benders lately?”
“Ha!” The volume compressor in their ear pieces distorted O’Connor’s laughter to a manageable volume, but the sound quality distorted heavily. “Sorry about that, friends,” O’Connor apologized. “Lorenz, this trench coat makes me look fifty pounds heavier, and the explosives I’m carrying sure don’t help slim me down.”
“Nope,” replied Lorenz. “Your trench coat isn’t what makes you look fat. I was talking about your face.”
“HA!” All three of the street walkers were laughing now.
“Get your shit together, agents,” barked Rice in their ear pieces. “The satellite info shows the drug lords getting out of the limo fifteen minutes ago. If Death hasn’t contacted you yet, we might have to wait.”
“I hate waiting,” Lorenz muttered.
“You are an instant gratification girl if I’ve ever met one,” joked her boyfriend.
“Miller, Lorenz, cut the shit!” ordered Rice. “We get one chance to clean up this mess. Don’t fuck it up!”
“Boss,” asked McVandalay through his ear communicator, “aren’t we technically mercenaries for this job? Which means we don’t officially answer to anyone?”
“Well technically… yes,” she answered, “but we all still took an oath to protect the constitution whether we’re on the tax payer dime or not, which that oath might not mean shit to most of our elected officials these days, but it still means that we can’t be douche bags. Kill the right bad guys, get out and get on with it.”
Special agent Bradley McVandalay had been silent, taking in the surrounding scenery as they approached the night club. A block away, he looked down a dark alley and stopped. “Here, gang.” He motioned to Schuman and O’Connor to follow him, then stepped into an almost pitch black alleyway.
A figure was casually walking towards them. A familiar voice spoke. “We got a situation, gang. They’re watching me and Murdock.”
“Death!” said McVandalay. “What’re you doing out here?”
“Ditching the guys watching us for a quick breather. Murdock and I split up when we got here. I hit the dance floor. The music is straight up fire! But we’re being watched by at least ten men, maybe more. Murdock knew it too, but then a good looking woman offered to buy him a shot, so he’s either oblivious, drugged, or dead.”
“Par for the course with that asshole,” muttered his best friend, Dale O’Connor. “If he’s dead, it serves him right. If not, Bradley or I will find him and straighten him out.”
McVandalay asked, “how’d you end up in this alleyway, Death?”
“There’s a secret door behind the dumpster that leads out from the kitchen. I slipped out at the exact second you looked down the alleyway.”
Schuman grunted, “I love that you’re an owl who can see in the dark, McV.”
“It’s a gift,” he answered. “Shall we sneak back in that way or go in through the front door? Your call, Death.”
“Sneak back in and split up. If they don’t know you’re here, you could neutralize them one by one while I dance more.” She turned and headed back towards the secret door. “I’m not shitting you, the music is fire. The DJ is amazing but my gaydar says you boys are more his type than I am. Oh, and try to hold off blowing this place up if you can, Doc.”
“I’m just here for for the booze,” O’Connor joked.
The secret door opened and a bouncer walked out. He couldn’t see the four of them in the dark. McVandalay stepped up to him and knocked him unconscious before he’d even known what happened. “Damn,” said Death, “they’re looking for me. I best go give them something to look at, then.”
The agents snuck in the secret door. They could hear the music from the far end of the kitchen, but off to the side was a set of stairs that looked like it descended several stories down into the earth. They heard faint sounds of shouting from the stairwell. Schuman and O’Connor nodded at each other and headed down the stairs while McVandalay disappeared into the kitchen. Agent Death made her way back to the dance floor.
The shouting became louder as Schuman and O’Connor got further down the stairwell. Then, a sudden cheer filled the air. They approached a door that was shut and locked. Schuman knocked twice and stepped back. A Spanish voice came from the other side of the door asking, “password.” Schuman didn’t wait to answer and simply kicked the door hard. It buckled instantly and fell over on whomever was behind it. She held her hand guns in both of her pockets and stepped into he room to see that it was simply an entryway to a much larger room that lay beyond. Her jaw dropped, her eyes got big and her skin tingled. Her heart raced and she started to shake with excitement. She looked at O’Connor and simply muttered, “bare knuckle boxing.”
“Fuck,” O’Connor groaned. He lifted his communicator wristwatch to his mouth. “Doc here, we have a very real problem, gang. Schuman found a bare knuckle fight and she’s already being pulled to it like a moth to a flame.” He lowered his watch and snapped at Schuman, “no! Do not take off your trench coat and go in there! Sarge! No!” He lifted his communicator and said, “I’ll do what I can, but this complicates shit immensely.” He grumbled to himself, “I wish I was in the California desert, looking for the mother ship.”
In the distance, ten strong latino bouncers who were trained in Brazilian jujitsu started to make their way towards a white woman moving with the groove on the dance floor while a skinny latina muchacha with large boobs did another shot and flirted heavily with a now drunk and possibly drugged white man at the bar.
