Fanfiction: "Meanwhile, back in Stillwater..."
|2 years ago :: Feb 15 2012 - 7:04AM|
Meanwhile, back in Stillwater...
Synopsis: --:With the most prominent members of the 3rd Street Saints causing havoc in the city of Steelport, things have grown quiet around the gang's hometown. Bereft of its local celebrities, Stillwater suffers from a temporary loss of action and publicity, and soon all major news networks depart for Steelport as well, leaving those few Saints holding down the fort without news-craving spectators and a national audience. That is not to say that everything is peaceful in Stillwater, however. As a matter of fact, the still waters of Stillwater are in for some serious upstir.:--
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"The majority of our official accounts are still fried. The people at Ultor are working as fast as they can to unjam our money, but these Syndicate pricks have dug in deep. It will take some time before the corp will be up and running again. Therefore, all media projects aside from "Gangsters in Space" are put on hold."
|2 years ago :: Feb 15 2012 - 7:48PM|
This is great I don't know why anybody has commented. You should post in Krytics or Destroyers story there really good writers to.
|2 years ago :: Feb 16 2012 - 2:35AM|
Thanks Jikko! I appreciate you taking the time to get through it. When you have further comments about things you liked or didn't liked, just let me know. I suspect my habits when it comes to posting do not really fit well with forums. I am not good at writing short scenes, I always need bigger, closed sections before I feel comfortable posting it. The resulting text wall is then too long for many people's taste, I guess.
If anybody looks into this and has not read my story for other reasons, please feel free to tell me why. Maybe I learn something ;).
|2 years ago :: Feb 25 2012 - 8:54AM|
Eugene was bored. The inside of his car was dark, only illuminated by the soft glow of Wardill airport. They said that airports such as Wardill never truly slept, but at four in the morning Eugene was inclined to disagree. More than an hour had passed since he had seen any sign of movement. His head was pounding, and despite the growing pile of energy drinks on the passenger seat, he was close to dowsing off.
Languidly, he stared into the rearview mirror, his gaze roaming over the round faced Afro-american that he saw within the reflection. He was not pleased with what he saw. His big eyes looked weak and fearful, his full lips simple-minded and sad. The black hair that sprouted from his head in thick curls was cut in a short and unremarkable way, and the spotty beard added an immature and desperate element to his appearance.
Look at yourself, he thought grimly. You look ridiculous. Not like a gangster and certainly not like a Saint, no matter the color of the jacket you are wearing. At the same time, it was exactly that jacket that served as his greatest source of pride. He had been beaten and bruised that day, barely able to stand on his own to feet after somehow making it through the Saints' initiation ritual, when Miles had walked over to him and handed him the jacket. "Welcome to the 3rd Street Saints," he had said, passionless and empty, as if it was nothing special. To Miles it probably had not meant anything, but for Eugene this had been the best moment of his entire life. Never before had he felt such joy, such a feeling of purpose and achievement, and although he had tried not to, he had cried. The other Saints had pointed and laughed at him for that, but for the first time in his life, Eugene had not cared.
Big-E, they had grown to call him, but Eugene had no illusions about it referring to his toughness or importance rather than his chubbiness and body size. He knew that he was as small and insignificant as a Saint could be, but he was at least a part of the gang, of something big. To him, that meant the world.
He had volunteered for the job to keep an eye on the airport, taking pride in doing his part when everybody else thought it too degrading to bother. For three nights in a row now he sat huddled in his small rust-brown Ant and watched hour for hour how nothing of significance happened.
As the time passed, his headache was getting worse, and he decided to go for a walk, to clear his head and get some fresh air. Groaningly he opened the door and hauled his massive frame out of the unbefittingly small car. The night was quiet, save for the constant humming of the airport's ventilation systems and the buzzing of strained tube lights. Big-E strode over the parking lot, hands buried in his jacket pockets, a pair of binoculars hanging from his neck, his small gun tugged into the back of his wide jeans.
The fresh air did his bursting skull little good, but he still enjoyed being in the open for a change. His eyes roamed over the slumbering cityscape, gazing upon the desolate highway and the towering shadows of skyscrapers and apartment buildings in the distance. Somewhere among those, the real Saints were now either sleeping or still partying. The thought brought a weak smile to his lips.
"Don't worry, brothers," he slurred. "Big-E got this one."
On his way back, his bladder made itself noticeable. Silently cursing the energy drinks, the sad looking giant walked over to some trashcans nearby and pissed against the wall of some maintenance building. Even the drizzling sound of his own urine sounded soothing to him now, and in his exhausted daze he was so enthralled by it that he did neither saw nor heard the shadow that descended from the night sky unto the landing strip. Only when he zipped up, he heard the chirping sound of rubber tires hitting the ground.
Startled, Big-E rushed around the building, his weariness all but forgotten, his mind racing. Sweat ran into his thick brows. He had looked over the flight plans countless times. There was to flight scheduled to arrive now.
And yet, as the landing strip came into view, he saw the huge black hulk of the plane that had just landed. Chinese or Japanese letters were painted unto its side, and already ground personnel in overalls was swarming around it, watching as the cargo thatch slowly opened. Big-E cursed silently and waited.
From within the cargo hold came a long and echoing grumble as countless engines roared to life within a matter of seconds. A muffled voice bellowed something that Big-E could not understand, then the grumble swelled to a deafening and buzzing scream as pair upon pair of yellow-clad bikers darted out of the plane's belly and disappeared into the night.
Big-E watched the spectacle frozen with fear, eyes widened and mouth agape. This could not be happening, he told himself, his mind wandering on the brink of panic. Every fiber of his body wanted to run away, to instantly drop his colors and hide in the deepest hole he could find. Yet, despite himself, he somehow summoned the resolve to ignore his fear. The others must know, he thought grimly. Drawing strength from his devotion to his fellow Saints, Big-E's body began to tremble as he fought to overcome the fear that now struggled to hold him paralyzed. Finally, he turned.
The pressure of a blade being pressed against his throat stopped him dead in his tracks. Big-E gulped, waves of nausea washing over him, drowning his new-found courage instantly.
Before him stood a strikingly beautiful woman. Her slanted eyes and delicate features made her Asian decent undeniable. Silky black streaks of hair framed her face, with the rest being knotted and tied into two tight buns. She wore a kimono that hung invitingly loose around her shoulders, over a formfitting latex suit that stretched around every inch of her body below the neck, and whose shimmering blackness contrasted harshly with the bright yellow of her robe.
The geisha's ruby lips purred a few words in Japanese. Big-E did not understand a thing, but the soft, soothing tone in which the words were spoken nurtured the hope that he would somehow make it out of this alive. He wanted to believe this with all his heart, but then the geisha's eyes glinted with a cold and unforgiving spark, and in those eyes Big-E foresaw the fatal move. He tried to utter a "no", but the swift cut drowned his voice in his own blood, and all that came out was an ugly burble. He staggered back and collapsed, desperately trying to stem the tide with which his life was flowing from him, but his strength faded quickly, and his struggles ceased. As darkness engulfed him, Big-E sent a last delirious warning to his homies, a warning that would not be heard until it was too late. Even as his eyes went dead, the dreadful message remained written all over his distorted features...
The Ronins were back.
|2 years ago :: Feb 25 2012 - 10:08AM|
Very well done. I noticed a few minor spelling errors in the first post, but they were easily overlooked due to the engrossing story. I like the use of original characters and think you developed them well. I hope you continue to post more of this and soon.
|2 years ago :: Feb 25 2012 - 10:25AM|
I love it. Time to toot my own horn, I'd like to give you critisicsm but I feel that my reading level is very high whereas my writing ability is incredibly low. So any mistakes that might have been there were overlooked as they did not stop the flow of my reading and I'm not seasoned enough writer to see where you could have added detail or it's not grammaticly correct or something along the lines of that.
|2 years ago :: Feb 27 2012 - 12:20PM|
The next morning, Duke sat at his favorite bar in Barrio, a joint going by the name of 'Cachonda'. It was close to 'On Track', right on the edge between Encanto and Ezpata. In the past he had often been criticized for favoring this place over others, but Duke had stuck with his decision. The 'Cachonda' maybe did not feature live music or karaoke like the 'El Hombre Bar' down the street, but the prizes were decent, the interior was cozy and bright, and most importantly its windowfront allowed to have a much better eye on the streets.
Technically speaking, neither Encanto nor Ezpata were of any business to Duke. They were both taken care of by Tazz's people, but due to an utter lack of watering holes and restaurants in the factory district, the crews that operated there often fell back on Barrio to hold their meetings.
Duke also came here in his free time as well. His aura healer happened to be just a couple of hundred meters away from the 'Cachonda'. All this spiritual stuff was not really his kind of thing, but this one girl he had dated somehow managed to get him hooked on this ****. Duke figured it was the way she had always moaned her pleas and advice into his ear after they had ****ed. He must had been in a very suggestible state of mind then. He had to handle it so the gal, as crazy and naive as she might have been in some aspects, she had known how to manipulate people. To this very day he could not stop worrying about his chakras and astral body and ****.
But today Duke was here on official Saints business. He was a couple of minutes early for a meeting with Zane, the factory's district handler, and passed the time with sipping at a glass of water, slowly emptying a bowl of cashew nuts and starring passively at the TV set into the bar-board.
Susan Wasp was on, the news reporter Felicia considered to be a potential threat. Duke was not sure he liked that thought. First of all, the woman was very attractive, in an upright, innocent kind of way. It proved a nice point about the different kind of beauties in existence, Duke thought. With her fawn brown hair and professional clothing, Wasp sure as hell was not some sex bomb or bed bunny, but she did emanate a sort of high-class beauty. She was a woman that a man could long for, rather than lust after, given that this distinction made any kind of sense at all. Secondly, her looks left aside, she also happened to be not that bad a reporter, which made listening to her actually kind of interesting and pleasant, despite the fact that every third or fourth sentence she uttered indirectly blamed the Saints for every existing problem the city had.
She was right on most accounts, as far as Duke could tell, but he felt no remorse. When it came to the ugly truth hiding behind the actions of men, he was something like a self-taught expert. Over the years, he had had ample opportunities to observe the world's true face, both in the dark corners of the streets and on distant battlefields. If there was one thing he had learned, then it was that civilization and morality were nothing but empty talk. People were like dogs, and morality was a self-imposed leash, worn proudly as long as it was convenient and kept alive by a network of lies, masks and pretense. The true rulers of the world though, were all wild dogs who had discarded their leashs to roam free. They still looked tame and docile when it suited them, soothing the masses of house dogs by looking like them, but in truth they were ravenous and merciless. These few strong preyed on the weak, and the house dogs were too damn stupid to even notice it. They only thing they feared were wolfs. They feared them because they did not fit in, because their ferocity was apparent for all to see, threatening to expose their view of the world as the conceited lie it was. Wolfs did not hide their true nature, and that was the only difference between them and the wild dogs.
Duke was such a wolf. He was not different from the investment banker, the politician or corporate media executive that paid for Susan Wasp's so called truth-seeking. They all took what they wanted, when they wanted it. Duke only undertook no effort to make the people believe differently. He was a predator, and all those little waggy-tail dogs better got out of his way.
Gritting his teeth, Duke lowered his gaze and took a deep breath, trying to quell the growing irritation in his guts. When that did not help, he switched to the next best thing. With a brief gesture he summoned the bartender and ordered a proper drink.
Zane arrived a couple of minutes later. He strode into the bar with his usual bouncy walk, his head swaying from side to side, his chin slightly raised. His face was angular, the narrow eyes set beneath thin brows. His short scruffy beard, while actually being well developed, still looked very patchy due to his bright blond hair. He wore a purple summer shirt over a white T-shirt, black cargo pants and worker boots. His head was covered by a black beanie with white stripes. Two leather wristbands accompanied the black flame tattoos on his forearms.
As Zane approached, Duke allowed himself a glance out of the windowfront. On the street, he could see two of Zane's crewman that had joined Duke's own entourage, watching out for their leader as well as his treasured Voxel convertible that was now parked next to Duke's Bootlegger. He smiled to himself. The two of them would never be ambushed completely unprotected in some club.
"Hey there, you old mongrel," Zane shouted boisterously as he walked towards the bar. Duke rose to meet him, and they exchanged a friendly greeting, slapping their hands and banging their shoulders together. Then they sat down, and Zane ordered a drink on his own.
"How is it going?"
Duke smiled. "I am thinking about getting a dog."
"A dog?" Zane asked, giving Duke a skeptical glance. "What on earth do you want a mother****ing dog for?"
"I don't know. The subject just happened to be on my mind a lot lately."
"Yeah...right. Whatever man, get a dog. I am not here to judge."
"No, you're not. You are here to talk about business," Duke stated with a hint of sharpness, starring at the TV and sipping at his rum. "So what's the problem?"
Zane did not answer right away. Without ostentation, he took a look around, scratching his left ear. Satisfied about the lack of curious eyes and ears, he moved in closer and lowered his voice. Duke found the gesture both commendable and ridiculous at the same time. The Saints practically ran this joint. Still, one could never be too careful.
"Remember when I told you that in order to increase our production rates, we would need to move, or at least expand our facilities to another location?"
Duke nodded. He did remember. Sort of, at least.
"Well, get this," Zane went on. "It just so happened that I found the perfect place for the new lab. It is a run down family house down at the old paper mill. Like I said, it's perfect! Secluded, inconspicuous and best of all adjacent to an abandoned flower shop with several battered but operable greenhouses."
"Sounds good. Where is the catch?"
Zane grinned wryly. "Well...about that. The place is not really unoccupied right now. Some stubborn old granny has barricaded herself in and simply refuses to move out."
"So what? You need me because you cannot take care of some senile woman by yourself?"
"That hurts, man. Of course I could clip the old hag, but I thought this would be a good opportunity to test a few of the altar boys. You know, see what they are made of, and since you told me you wanted to inspect the new troops..."
"You called me to come along, " said Duke, completing the sentence.
Zane nodded. Duke gave the idea some thought. It was about time he got to see the newcomers in action, but an old woman? He chose to voice his doubts.
"And you're sure this old woman will not make it too easy on the rookies?"
"Oh, definitely not! Seriously, you have not seen this dragon. She is like the mother of all granny nightmares. When it comes to her home, she is adamant. Probably has nothing else left in her life, you know what I'm saying? The rookies will not scare her that easily."
"All right, Z," Duke replied, slowly growing to like the idea. "This actually could be kind of fun. Let's watch the boyscouts help the elderly. But you drive."
Zane shrugged, and already reached for his keys. "Sure, but why?"
Duke drowned the rest of his drink, then reached for the bowl in front of him. He threw a hand full of nuts into his mouth and held the bowl tightly pressed against his body.
"I am too busy to," he simply said, still chewing.
|2 years ago :: Feb 29 2012 - 8:14PM|
Really liking your story man. I think there was a slight mistake in the first chapter when referencing Johnny's funeral in Stilwater. zbut other than that, keep it going son!
|2 years ago :: Mar 1 2012 - 1:17AM|
Thank you Komatoze, I'll intend to. Johnny's funeral in Stillwater was no mistake. I simply thought that Johnny was such an important person for the Saints, that even those that were not in Steelport would feel the need to say goodbye. Therefore, there were too remembrances; one in Stillwater, and the one in Steelport and one in Stillwater. But by all means, stay sceptical and ask questions when they arise.
|2 years ago :: Mar 2 2012 - 8:04PM|
I understand where you were going with the two rememberances in each city. I was referring to the part where Tazz said "Johnny's remembrance in Steelport was blown to pieces." Killbane attacked the Saints in Stilwater on a newly built bridge dedicated to Richard Hughes. I could be reading it wrong though so if I am please let me know. Not trying to be critical of your story or anything bro.