“Just a friend, you say? That’s our song.”
“No, I don’t think so. I never liked that song. If we do have a song, it’s definitely not that one.” Despite her protests, she’s relaxing and enjoying herself. It’s a good sign.
“It’s probably the ray affecting your memory. You love the awesomeness that is Biz Markie.”
As we sit there and engage in witty banter, I see where my life is headed, and for the first time I’m more hopeful than bitter. I always thought I was just one unlucky break from being the next Lazarus Patterson.
Well, screw him! He can keep his suit and the teams of engineers that built it. I like mine better. The money? I’ll have enough. Who cares if the rest of the world doesn’t know or even care that I’m the real hero? Stacy does and that’s all I need.
Chapter Six
Riot Duty is Like Going Back to High School
Naturally, by the end of the next week, I’m already rethinking my decision and reconsidering a life of crime. Once again, I’ve found a way to go against the grain. Here I am, trying to get on the “straight and narrow,” and everyone else has turned into a mass of strung out, petty criminals. Finally getting a paycheck is even more ironic because money doesn’t seem to be worth anything right now.
Shaking my head at the foolishness of it all, I turn my attention to the problem in front of me. Riots have turned a good portion of Charlotte, North Carolina into something resembling a third world country and three guesses who they want to lend a hand?
On approach, I notice that what little had been left in the superstore from when the insects had taken over, has been looted and the folks left around are enjoying a good old fashioned four alarm fire. A ring of overturned vehicles blocks the two fire engines that are trying to get close to the Wal-Mart and a ragged line of a hundred or so cops and National Guardsmen are making a half-assed effort to drive off about five hundred shouting delinquents.
I’m somewhat torn. Drive them off and they’ll simply reform elsewhere and burn some other place to the ground because it doesn’t have any food inside. It almost makes me miss the bugs … almost. When the hive mind was in charge, trucks just dumped grain and other food at places where the “drones” were working and that was that.
Take away the mind controlling part and people weren’t so inclined to put in a hard day’s work and the infrastructure of the country collapses like a house of cards. The mass of sheep out there want to be able to go to the drive thru or have that pizza delivered. Unfortunately, gas is being hoarded. Fuel is being hoarded. Hell, I’m sure toilet paper is being hoarded and as a result hardly anything is making it into the major cities. Anything that does usually is ambushed at the city limits by these “checkpoints” that are popping up.
To the survivalist whack jobs out there, this must seem like a wet dream come true. Then again, I have a secret base with a large freezer filled to the brim with frozen waffles, shelves stocked with toilet paper, and other things. So what exactly does that make me?
Hovering over the crowd, I toggle my external speakers and pull up an audio clip of the same spiel I’d given a hundred different mobs in a hundred different cities. “Please cease and desist. Return to your homes. Follow the instructions of your local authorities for the duration of the crisis.”
That gets the “boos” going and my threat assessment software begins tracking all the projectiles incoming. Mostly it’s just empty glass bottles and garbage, so I sit there and take it and let the pissed off mob expend a little energy.
I’m only carrying a twelve round magazine of tear gas grenades and the day just started. It’s going to be a long one. Resisting the urge to just “gas and go,” I catch one of the liquor bottles and toss it into the air. My helmet mounted force blaster tracks the target and I vaporize it just as
“No, I don’t think so. I never liked that song. If we do have a song, it’s definitely not that one.” Despite her protests, she’s relaxing and enjoying herself. It’s a good sign.
“It’s probably the ray affecting your memory. You love the awesomeness that is Biz Markie.”
As we sit there and engage in witty banter, I see where my life is headed, and for the first time I’m more hopeful than bitter. I always thought I was just one unlucky break from being the next Lazarus Patterson.
Well, screw him! He can keep his suit and the teams of engineers that built it. I like mine better. The money? I’ll have enough. Who cares if the rest of the world doesn’t know or even care that I’m the real hero? Stacy does and that’s all I need.
Chapter Six
Riot Duty is Like Going Back to High School
Naturally, by the end of the next week, I’m already rethinking my decision and reconsidering a life of crime. Once again, I’ve found a way to go against the grain. Here I am, trying to get on the “straight and narrow,” and everyone else has turned into a mass of strung out, petty criminals. Finally getting a paycheck is even more ironic because money doesn’t seem to be worth anything right now.
Shaking my head at the foolishness of it all, I turn my attention to the problem in front of me. Riots have turned a good portion of Charlotte, North Carolina into something resembling a third world country and three guesses who they want to lend a hand?
On approach, I notice that what little had been left in the superstore from when the insects had taken over, has been looted and the folks left around are enjoying a good old fashioned four alarm fire. A ring of overturned vehicles blocks the two fire engines that are trying to get close to the Wal-Mart and a ragged line of a hundred or so cops and National Guardsmen are making a half-assed effort to drive off about five hundred shouting delinquents.
I’m somewhat torn. Drive them off and they’ll simply reform elsewhere and burn some other place to the ground because it doesn’t have any food inside. It almost makes me miss the bugs … almost. When the hive mind was in charge, trucks just dumped grain and other food at places where the “drones” were working and that was that.
Take away the mind controlling part and people weren’t so inclined to put in a hard day’s work and the infrastructure of the country collapses like a house of cards. The mass of sheep out there want to be able to go to the drive thru or have that pizza delivered. Unfortunately, gas is being hoarded. Fuel is being hoarded. Hell, I’m sure toilet paper is being hoarded and as a result hardly anything is making it into the major cities. Anything that does usually is ambushed at the city limits by these “checkpoints” that are popping up.
To the survivalist whack jobs out there, this must seem like a wet dream come true. Then again, I have a secret base with a large freezer filled to the brim with frozen waffles, shelves stocked with toilet paper, and other things. So what exactly does that make me?
Hovering over the crowd, I toggle my external speakers and pull up an audio clip of the same spiel I’d given a hundred different mobs in a hundred different cities. “Please cease and desist. Return to your homes. Follow the instructions of your local authorities for the duration of the crisis.”
That gets the “boos” going and my threat assessment software begins tracking all the projectiles incoming. Mostly it’s just empty glass bottles and garbage, so I sit there and take it and let the pissed off mob expend a little energy.
I’m only carrying a twelve round magazine of tear gas grenades and the day just started. It’s going to be a long one. Resisting the urge to just “gas and go,” I catch one of the liquor bottles and toss it into the air. My helmet mounted force blaster tracks the target and I vaporize it just as
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