Monday, April 27, 2009
Episode 6 - Enter Sandstorm
Weaving his way through traffic, Z could only focus on one thing: "How could they find out about Mayfield?" he asked himself over and over. "Someone must have talked."
He became so obsessed with the question that he almost didn't notice the red blip representing an incoming enemy missile on his radar until it was too late. He ripped the wheel to the left and sprayed his countermeasures, but they were of no use. The missile was too close: It was too late.
Z gripped the wheel and braced himself for impact, but then, with the missile nano-seconds away from his bumper, it exploded in midair. Just then a red Kawasaki Ninja roared past the left side of Z's Jeep. Before Z could even postulate who the mysterious rider was, he saw where it was going.
A Golden Eagle battlewagon was looming down on his position and he was wholly unprepared to defend himself. The battlewagon dwarfed the motorcycle as the sped toward one another in some cruel game of chicken.
But there was something else in the bike's path: a conveniently placed flat bed truck with the bed down, kissing the pavement. The bike's driver gave it another little burst of speed as it hit the truck bed, jamming all their weight against the handlebars as the bike left the ground. The nose of the bike slowly rotated downward as it arched through the air, reaching a point where it was pointed straight at the top of the battlewagon, the Golden Eagle vehicle's only weak spot.
So many rockets poured out of the front of the motorcycle that Z wondered how many a vehicle so small could fit. Deuce must have done his homework, he thought.
The flames from the exploding battlewagon came up and kissed the bottom of the flying motorcycle, the red in both embracing in a twisted dance of death.
The motorcycle completed its flip, landing something on the road. The driver deftly hit the the brakes, swinging the vehicle around and planting a foot to come to a stop. Only then could Z tell that the driver was a woman.
His eyes ran up the high heeled leather boots and the jet black jumpsuit as the driver removed her helmet to reveal shoulder length, sandy-blond hair.
"Who are you?" Z said out his Jeep's open window.
"Call me Sandstorm. Agent Sandstorm," the motorcyclist replied. "I was sent by -" but she was cut off by a loud explosion.
Both Z and Sandstorm turned to see a large plume of smoke coming from the direction of Mayfield.
"Let's go," said Z.
He became so obsessed with the question that he almost didn't notice the red blip representing an incoming enemy missile on his radar until it was too late. He ripped the wheel to the left and sprayed his countermeasures, but they were of no use. The missile was too close: It was too late.
Z gripped the wheel and braced himself for impact, but then, with the missile nano-seconds away from his bumper, it exploded in midair. Just then a red Kawasaki Ninja roared past the left side of Z's Jeep. Before Z could even postulate who the mysterious rider was, he saw where it was going.
A Golden Eagle battlewagon was looming down on his position and he was wholly unprepared to defend himself. The battlewagon dwarfed the motorcycle as the sped toward one another in some cruel game of chicken.
But there was something else in the bike's path: a conveniently placed flat bed truck with the bed down, kissing the pavement. The bike's driver gave it another little burst of speed as it hit the truck bed, jamming all their weight against the handlebars as the bike left the ground. The nose of the bike slowly rotated downward as it arched through the air, reaching a point where it was pointed straight at the top of the battlewagon, the Golden Eagle vehicle's only weak spot.
So many rockets poured out of the front of the motorcycle that Z wondered how many a vehicle so small could fit. Deuce must have done his homework, he thought.
The flames from the exploding battlewagon came up and kissed the bottom of the flying motorcycle, the red in both embracing in a twisted dance of death.
The motorcycle completed its flip, landing something on the road. The driver deftly hit the the brakes, swinging the vehicle around and planting a foot to come to a stop. Only then could Z tell that the driver was a woman.
His eyes ran up the high heeled leather boots and the jet black jumpsuit as the driver removed her helmet to reveal shoulder length, sandy-blond hair.
"Who are you?" Z said out his Jeep's open window.
"Call me Sandstorm. Agent Sandstorm," the motorcyclist replied. "I was sent by -" but she was cut off by a loud explosion.
Both Z and Sandstorm turned to see a large plume of smoke coming from the direction of Mayfield.
"Let's go," said Z.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Episode 5 — They Call Him Nefarious
It was unusual for Z to be surprised. For a moment, he thought perhaps he had carelessly forgotten an important detail. The thought quickly left, however, as he assured himself he never misstepped and was always right.
"Put down your gun, Robertz. You think I couldn't see you? You think I don't know what you're planning to do? All this time I had thought you were more perceptive than that. It seems you're just as clumsy as those fools you're trying to protect," uttered Nefarious D. Scott as he grabbed the gun from Z and tossed it across the room.
"Scott, I'm not going to discuss this with you. Shut down your operations before I do and destroy you in the process," replied Z.
"Well, let's see if your body is a strong as your self-confidence. Take care of him boys. I've got fieldhouses to blow up." Scott cackled as he slipped out of the building. Several white and blue uniformed henchman rushed from doors with knives and baseball bats.
Preparing for a melee with the henchman, Z spotted his Desert Eagle across the room. Running and sliding across the well waxed floor, he grabbed his gun and unloaded his clip at the oncoming men. They fell helplessly before reaching him.
"Looks like it's going to be another easy year at conference," Z spoke to himself.
Without further hesitation, Z ran out the door and across the compound's yard. He could see Scott in the distance. He could tell Nefarious was only a few hundred meters ahead. The blood rushed to his veins. His fist clenched as began his running toward him in an all out sprint. The whoosh of passing trees was deafening like the sound of spinning helicopter blades. As Z closed in, he received a text message from headquarters reading: GOLDEN EAGLES CLOSING IN ON MAYFIELD. GET TO LOCATION IMMEDIATELY. SCOTT IS TRAP. DO NOT ENGAGE. DO NOT ENGAGE.
Frustrated by his orders, Z grumbled and raced back to his vehicle and sprayed gravel as he sped off toward Mayfield.
"Put down your gun, Robertz. You think I couldn't see you? You think I don't know what you're planning to do? All this time I had thought you were more perceptive than that. It seems you're just as clumsy as those fools you're trying to protect," uttered Nefarious D. Scott as he grabbed the gun from Z and tossed it across the room.
"Scott, I'm not going to discuss this with you. Shut down your operations before I do and destroy you in the process," replied Z.
"Well, let's see if your body is a strong as your self-confidence. Take care of him boys. I've got fieldhouses to blow up." Scott cackled as he slipped out of the building. Several white and blue uniformed henchman rushed from doors with knives and baseball bats.
Preparing for a melee with the henchman, Z spotted his Desert Eagle across the room. Running and sliding across the well waxed floor, he grabbed his gun and unloaded his clip at the oncoming men. They fell helplessly before reaching him.
"Looks like it's going to be another easy year at conference," Z spoke to himself.
Without further hesitation, Z ran out the door and across the compound's yard. He could see Scott in the distance. He could tell Nefarious was only a few hundred meters ahead. The blood rushed to his veins. His fist clenched as began his running toward him in an all out sprint. The whoosh of passing trees was deafening like the sound of spinning helicopter blades. As Z closed in, he received a text message from headquarters reading: GOLDEN EAGLES CLOSING IN ON MAYFIELD. GET TO LOCATION IMMEDIATELY. SCOTT IS TRAP. DO NOT ENGAGE. DO NOT ENGAGE.
Frustrated by his orders, Z grumbled and raced back to his vehicle and sprayed gravel as he sped off toward Mayfield.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Episode 4 - In the Belly of the (Golden) Eagle
Starting at the source was always Z's style, so he decided to get right at the heart of the matter and head to the Golden Eagle's lair on the East Beltline.
Despite their grandiose entranceway and clocktower that looked eerily similar to one on another college campus in the Grand Rapids area, the Golden Eagle compound was particularly difficult to infiltrate. Robertz jammed the accelerator and the Jeep roared passed the inviting entrance and around the corner.
The compound was just in sight up the street when Z parked the car. He casually walked up the street and the skirted along the chain link fence, waiting for the opportune moment. Finally in the split second that spotlights were not illuminating the ground on the other side of the fence, Z deftly jumped up, grabbed the top of the fence and nimbly navigated himself over the barbed wire.
As soon as his feet touched the ground he was sprinting toward the nearest building, his finely toned legs pumping evenly with tiring. He flattened himself against the wall of the building. The entire maneuver had taken less than 10 seconds.
Not even breathing hard, Z slid along the wall to the nearest door and quickly picked the lock, wondering with a grin when the GE's were going to get a better security system. He slowly swung the door open and pointed the Desert Eagle into the darkness inside.
Stepping through the door, suddenly he felt the unmistakeable sensation of cold steel on the back of his neck.
"Guten abend, Herr Robertz," a voice said from behind him.
Despite their grandiose entranceway and clocktower that looked eerily similar to one on another college campus in the Grand Rapids area, the Golden Eagle compound was particularly difficult to infiltrate. Robertz jammed the accelerator and the Jeep roared passed the inviting entrance and around the corner.
The compound was just in sight up the street when Z parked the car. He casually walked up the street and the skirted along the chain link fence, waiting for the opportune moment. Finally in the split second that spotlights were not illuminating the ground on the other side of the fence, Z deftly jumped up, grabbed the top of the fence and nimbly navigated himself over the barbed wire.
As soon as his feet touched the ground he was sprinting toward the nearest building, his finely toned legs pumping evenly with tiring. He flattened himself against the wall of the building. The entire maneuver had taken less than 10 seconds.
Not even breathing hard, Z slid along the wall to the nearest door and quickly picked the lock, wondering with a grin when the GE's were going to get a better security system. He slowly swung the door open and pointed the Desert Eagle into the darkness inside.
Stepping through the door, suddenly he felt the unmistakeable sensation of cold steel on the back of his neck.
"Guten abend, Herr Robertz," a voice said from behind him.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Episode 3 - Lock & Load Mother F@#&%$
As Z drove to the nearby weapons cache, he pondered the implications of his new mission. He knew this one would be the most challenging he'd ever attempted. The Golden Eagles and their tyrannical leader, Nefarius D. Scott, had been recruiting foot soldiers globally. Some, as intelligence reported, had traveled from the far reaches of Africa to assist in this latest plot. Rarely did he doubt his own ability to complete a mission but he knew that if for some reason he should slip on this one, not only would he be released from the agency, it would cost the lives of many saintly people, quite possibly his own.
He shook these thoughts from his mind as he pulled up to the clandestine weapons cache. Concealed from the public, the building was surrounded by towering pines and could only be identified by a faded sign out front reading "Dominican." He swiped his ID card at the door and entered without hesitation.
"What's up, brotha?" greeted a black man from a well lit room inside."Deuce," replied Z, "I need some new firepower. The PP7 locked up on me when I was in Tubingen. I can't risk it this time."
"Aight. Well, the best I have to offer is this fine-lookin' Desert Eagle," Deuce said, as he pointed to a lustrous silver pistol on a table covered in with an assortment of weapons.
Deuce watched idly as Z picked the gun up, pointed it at the wall, and examined the barrel carefully. After a few moments of studying it, with a note of satisfaction in his voice, Z said,"Perfect. I'll need the usual side order as well."
"Ha, it's in the bag, man. Now go get those motherfuckers."
He shook these thoughts from his mind as he pulled up to the clandestine weapons cache. Concealed from the public, the building was surrounded by towering pines and could only be identified by a faded sign out front reading "Dominican." He swiped his ID card at the door and entered without hesitation.
"What's up, brotha?" greeted a black man from a well lit room inside."Deuce," replied Z, "I need some new firepower. The PP7 locked up on me when I was in Tubingen. I can't risk it this time."
"Aight. Well, the best I have to offer is this fine-lookin' Desert Eagle," Deuce said, as he pointed to a lustrous silver pistol on a table covered in with an assortment of weapons.
Deuce watched idly as Z picked the gun up, pointed it at the wall, and examined the barrel carefully. After a few moments of studying it, with a note of satisfaction in his voice, Z said,"Perfect. I'll need the usual side order as well."
"Ha, it's in the bag, man. Now go get those motherfuckers."
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