"We all know the bengalaas is the most noble beast in existance!"
-Johnny_Vegas
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| Heaven and Hell | | | Author: | | | IP: | bgm-24-9XXXX | | Date: | 01/26/01 11:01 | | Game Type: | Other | | Labels: | none | | Report Rating: , # of Ratings: 1, Max: 6, Min: 6
Lifetime Rating for SlingsNArrows: 6.2000 |  | The 300 E Class Mercedes Benz, gleaming purple, wide and long with matching colored leather seats. Just a hint of chrome above the headlights and on the grill. Little wind shield wipers on the head lights. Safest car ever sold in America if you look back on the twentieth century statistics books. Not a bad ride, not at all. Kind of a fitting vehicle to ride to your death in, friends at your side, guns blazing. The sides, they'd accept the punishment of several bullets of most any caliber before the bullets start wizzing through the driving compartment.
The windows, we'd have finished modifying them by then, would all be just slightly open, except for the driver's of course. The slope of the car in the front and back lets you move the now bullet proofed windows down just a little to gain a decent arch of fire. The sun roof? Not worth the risk, just seal it up. Who needs a sun roof to ride into hell?
Find a pair of old winter tires, the studded ones that tear up the road if you leave them on in the summer. When destruction is your aim, never underestimate the value of flying tarmac. It really does wonders. Who'd drive? You'd like to. So would I. I'm bigger and the men surrounding us like me better, so I guess I will. Ain't anarchy great?
Besides the Merc, we've got a corsica and a civic. I couldn't quite decide what to do with the civic, since it's basically made of recycled paper I didn't really think it'd be right or wise to send men into the town in that. But, we don't have enough to be leaving people behind and we gotta get there somehow. At least it's fast, some ghetto punk years ago no doubt stole some money to fund its supercharging. Strap some sheet metal onto the sides and fill it with six guys and maybe we can bring it around behind one of the buildings during the fire fight and just have it crash through a window or something. Never underestimate the value of flying glass.
The Corsica? A little more reliable than its sportscar twin the beretta. Manual gear shafts don't survive so well now that nobody learns to drive cars much. A steady engine, the weakest of the three since the civic is somewhat beefed up. Seats five, but we haven't got enough bullet proof glass to do more than cover the merc and the front windshield of the civic. Basically, what I'm saying is, it'll be a death trap even if the merc goes in first to soak up fire. But hey, fuck it, people die. God knows our families did.
You don't want to take my orders, you think driving the cars up the towns one street and shooting the hell out of the wooden buildings is a bad idea. Why? I'm not sure. You claim it's because your kids could still be alive. But, I'm pretty sure no child I raised would be caught living while his mother was raped. If your child's alive, is he worth saving? I know I made out your wife's screams last night. Trailed off around 4, right?
Ya that's right, shoulder the shot gun and go along with the plan. You don't really have anything else to offer besides a burning need for justice and revenge. I can understand, but hey, you were the one who lead these people out to engage the bandits away from town. "Stray bullets will hurt our families" you said. Well son, bad choice. I could hear the bandits take your women and children all the way from my junk heap out here. It was loud. I drove in and started picking them off with a scavenged smart rifle at around 2500 yards. They took the hint and they've stuck inside ever since. Good thing, otherwise they'd know we've got nothing long range left to fire.
Gangland style from now on, primitive aim, fast fire, drive by, no plan after the start, just react. It's tough convincing your boys to take a shot gun over the hunting rifles they prefer. They got fat and lazy picking off people in the hills. Now they gonna learn what it's like to see who can shoot first and widest.
Car's are about ready, I'd better inspect them real quick, some of these townies so crazy they might be a little rushed to get to the killing. Heh, well, I don't admire their restraint, but at least they cared. Work's alright. A little shoddy, but nothing that'll cost us much. Hmmm... one of those old Guzies per car, two shot guns too. Never underestimate a little old fashioned street mortar flying round. Works wonders on a ply wood building full of trash.
Ok boys, we all ready? Get the guns situated right. No dress rehearsals. Hey, I remembered your daughter, she used to come help me fix electronics I couldn't fit my hands into. Nice kid, kill some people for her, alright? That a boy. Corsica's loaded, they're ready. Civic's pulling out, driving wide with the setting sun at their backs to hide them a bit.
One strip of town, one strip of road, around fifteen exfathers, exhusbands, and one junk yard hermit. Fourty bandits? less? more? driving right up the middle of them, placing ourselves right in their center where were are totally flanked. Well, chances are they won't pierce the cars with their fire right off the bat anyways. Just hunting rifles after all. In the car, belts on, but only for the drivers.
Rev the engine, dusk is falling but no lights. The studs on the tires toss a little sand onto the hood and grill of the corsica as it pulls into line behind us. Worn leather grip of the wheel, a machine built to last. Thirty years is a good run, for it or for me, who needs longer? Picking up speed, no need for brakes yet.
Getting near the town, so the shooters open their windows. That's when it hits us. Dried blood, the old kind, the half clotted kind, the smell of every kind of blood you could imagine or remember. Some still oozy in the shade, somewafer thing flakes where the sun had spent the day. Didn't matter, it all smelled. Smell made me think I was bleeding inside already, one of the worst feelings I've ever known. Hi hell, we've come calling.
Guns ready, people tense, flick on the high beams and hit the short circuit we made to trigger the car alarm. Never underestimate a little sound and light. The Road is gravel in places, tarmac in others. The Guzi in the passenger seat opens up, and I tense my arm on the emergency break. Shot guns gouge holes in the plank walls as I hit the hand brake. Tires were overinflated to around 70 psi for this. Slam the wheel to the left and the car spins it's tale around, the excess air forces from the tires and leaves them about the right pressure. Smugglers turn. Our trunk and back wheels sweep up onto the side walk as we spin and knock a whole in the wall of the flimsy building. Release the emergency break and floor the gas, I leave my smugglers turn 180 at around 45 mph. Behind me I leave holes. Hopefully some bleeding ones.
Return fire now. Bullets ping off the paneling and the glass. How can these men live with the stench of this blood? Corsica speeds by, bullets smashing through the windshield and into the driver and front passenger. It flies into a building. Two of the people in the back seat roll out of it before it hits a support pole, one of them with his gun. Cost efficient, there goes one building of em.
I'm doing figure eights now, spinning my tires and keeping the window slits moving a little erratically. Some bandits flee from a building, the Civic rolls out through the front of the building behind them. Interesting, wait, what's that gaping hole in my windshield? Hey, what happened to my front passenger's neck? How heaven can turn to hell.
Time to bury this hatchet of a Benz deep in one of these buildings. I scream and the two people left alive in the car pop their doors and roll out onto the street. I doubt either survives and bullets smack against the trunk and something drives seat cushion stuffing at me from the back seat. In the building now, bodies everywhere. They even raped the dogs. Looked to me like they'd been forcing some of their beastiality on one or two survivors. I ran the two girls over, and the dogs with them. They looked like they would thank me for that. I had a pistol in my belt, but a wheel in my hand, so I figured I might as well stay in the car. Whatever had punctured my window seemed to be across the street.
Sometimes you gorge yourself on food until it makes you sick. Well, you can do that with death too. I puked and drove. I hit anything I could. The window to my left shatter, can only take so many impacts I suppose, so I spun the car around and went in reverse. The building began to fall, so I hit the pedal again and back out into the street. The boys from the civiv were working together as a team. They were flanking some men wearing wiggs of fresh blond curls. These freaks had old fashioned tommy guns, the simple stuff just doesn't break.
That's about when something came through my front windshield from one of the upperstory windows of a house across the street. It struck me on the top right of my forehead, and I died. The Benz slammed into three of the civic guys now that I couldn't control it. I think I had been trying to put it behind them to cover their backs, but you know... I was dead, so whatever.
When I said we were driving into heaven and hell, I hadn't really meant it. I figured just the hell part, but why not toss in the last part for tradition's sake, right? Well hell, I'm so right that the only times I'm wrong is when I think I'm wrong but I'm actually right. I was in heaven. Deformed and disfigured souls of women, men, children, demons on earth, they all flowed upwards, so slowly.
I felt a tug, almost questioning, and I said no. What's it worth to always be happy? Nothing. Give me a new body please, a new life, there's stuff left to be done and things left to be seen. The last of the townies died, and thirteen blood soaked bandits staggered out of the remaining houses. Their eyes were centered on two things. Their own mysteriously intact skin or the destroyed water pump that my car had blown through. No water left, used up all they'd brought. Last of the sun sank down and they smelled the blood.
Gloating, my eyes moved to the ascending families. They didn't want to face anarchy anymore, they were going home. I thought about waving. But I didn't want them to know just how many of those children were actually mine through affairs with their wives. When a man with a hole in his head can still chuckle, you know it's time for him to forget his past. I hope I find my junkyard in my next life, where else can you find a car to ride into heaven and hell?
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