I retooled my Twitter tale a bit. Enjoy the fancy new transitions.
Day three in the field, and I’m still pumped. I’ve got my own set of armor and everything. Calling it now: 2055’s my year.
My partner (Viola) said I can’t take notes on my phone, since the company’s tired of dealing with leaks. But a notepad’s fine.
This armor’s amazing. Green and yellow don’t look great together, but the bulk makes people pay attention.
Besides, the colors distinguish us from state cops. I don’t miss that gig. Government work’s for bums.
I got bullshit pay, bullshit hours, and called a bigot for taking care of business. Anyone with a brain goes private. So I did.
It was the right move: Tower Security has an office bar. I’ve already got a nice buzz going.
Shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. Still excited, just hungry.
We’re filling in for the DEA today. Viola says they’re our best customer.
Bet I could’ve joined the DEA. The paperwork can’t be worse than the NYPD: they made me fill forms to get pens to sign more forms.
Man I’m hungry.
We’ve been parked outside this shitty apartment building for two hours. Still waiting for orders.
I’d complain, but we’re making 200 an hour. I’d sit on a grenade for that money.
Viola’s got some kind of African bread thing. I should try breaking off a piece, real casual.
That’s a no. Now she’s all pissed off.
Screw it, I didn’t really want that stuff anyway. What kind of bread doesn’t have crust?
Smells good though.
I hope I don’t have to work with her much longer. If she won’t share her food, she definitely won’t watch my back.
Viola’s getting a call from the brass. I don’t see why *she* gets to use her personal phone.
God, they are dragging out this call. Why not just send us in? I wanna try out this revolver.
They say the DH6 is our emergency option. I disagree. It has exploding bullets, why would I bother with anything else?
The half of the call I’m getting is boring as shit. Something about a warrant.
Are we going to need a warrant every time we do a raid in a white neighborhood? I swear, red tape follows me everywhere.
I hope the punks inside are armed. After three raids, I still haven’t had a chance to shoot this thing.
Oh shit, we’re going in five minutes! This is gonna be good.
Viola asked if I’m writing a book, and I told her that’s not my scene. No one else needs to know my business.
I should’ve said yes. I’d have looked like a warrior-poet type of guy. They do well on dates, I think.
Nah, just remembered Tower’s sexual harassment policy. I’m not sure what a “chemical attitude adjustment” is, but I don’t want to find out.
This helmet’s ventilation isn’t great. I’m leaving it behind.
Showtime! Time to make an impression. Back in five.
My ear my fucking ear those fucking fucks almost bit off my goddamn ear
Feeling a bit better. Not sure if the nano-whatever gel is working, but the painkillers sure are.
I’m waiting for Viola to check if I’m fine. But she’s just jawing with the brass again. Asshat.
Anyway, this shitshow wasn’t my fault. We had a bad tip.
Well, the government agency that hired the company that hired us had a bad tip. Same result.
You wouldn’t know it from the “crackhouse chic” look, but this basement is less of a drug lab and more of a cult.
Of course, we didn’t know that going in. We were prepared for a normal breach and clear.
Viola took point, and said I could toss in the flashbang and EMP grenades. It sounded like a good plan.
We kicked in the door, exposing a room full of very fat and very naked men with “K” tattooed onto their necks.
They were chanting before a painting of an old guy in Grandma’s glasses. He had the boardroom lich look.
The chant went something like “Lord Koch, we bow to your will. Please make us kings.”
There was probably more, but our entrance ruined the mood.
I choked. I was ready for a roomful of bangers, not an eyeful of cellulite. And I guess the cult thing was weird too.
Viola didn’t. She kneecapped the closest nutjob and ordered the others to get down.
Half of them complied. The other half charged.
Now, I’d faced kids with knives. That was half of the job back on the NYPD.
But I’d never been charged by a naked man armed with a ceremonial songbook. That set off an entirely new part of my lizard brain.
I pulled my head out of my ass, and fired seven warning shots with the RH6.
(We call them warning shots until the first confirmed fatality.)
Only two warning shots missed. Personally, I’d call that a good fucking ratio. Especially since I hadn’t used the damn thing before.
One hit the painting of their god. Which caught fire once the bullet exploded.
Viola sprinted for a fire extinguisher, leaving me to keep the surviving nutjobs under control.
That went well, for about thirty seconds. Then one jumped on my back.
I heard the words “Preserve me, Lord Koch” in my left ear. Then the pain started.
It took at least three pistol whips to knock him off, and two more to pacify him. I’d be surprised if the gun still works after that.
This fucker had some pre-war shit done to his teeth. Four matching rows of metal incisors that spun like drills.
A goddamn land shark. I disarmed him by kicking out said teeth.
The fight went out of the others. Which was good, since I only had one more ear.
Then Viola and I got to spend ten minutes zip-tying the survivors. Who were still fucking naked.
When I called her out for ditching me, she asked what happened to my helmet. Some fucking people.
What kind of partner’s more interested in playing firefighter than watching your back? This building can’t be that flammable.
The worst part? No drugs. And believe me, I was in the mood for a hit. I had to settle for the painkillers in my belt.
I need to wash this armor. It smells like sweat and crazy-person blood.
One of the survivors is mouthy as hell. He’s looking for converts.
Personally, if I was zip-tied in a room full of my dead and maimed friends, I’d be quiet. But some people love their voice.
Until cleanup gets here, I’m his captive audience. Now I know more about his bloody cult then I ever wanted to.
They’re called Orthodox Kochians, and they worship some dead billionaire that didn’t even become president. Go figure.
Crazypants says Koch was “an incarnation of the spirit that hands down the divine right to rule.” Whatever that means.
They’ve got beef with a group called the Reform Kochians. Odds are they planted the bogus tip.
I asked him if the Reform Kochians wear clothes. He refused to answer, which says a lot.
None of this information makes me feel any better about my ear.
I hope someone recorded the raid. It’s good for Tower’s rep when a raid video goes viral.
For all the NGO tears, there’s a distinct bump in profits. Clients like to know we’re not afraid to put a crowd down.
A promotion would make this nonsense worth it. More money, better armor, and I wouldn’t have to take Viola’s shit anymore.
This phone call is never going to fucking end, and this freak is never going to stop talking.
Unless he falls down a taser a few times. In fact, give me a moment.
I guess this is just another job. Boredom followed by bursts of painful activity.
At least I got to shoot someone today.