[When last we left our heroes... Captain Tincap
was still cooler than a frozen cucumber on a cold day in winter, Private Party
blew up a dog as well as a couple holes in an alley wall, Private First Class Session
had a face sodden with paint. With a whizz and a splash, we slip back into the mind of our hero, Private Chat
0927 Hours – Operation Flawless Victory
Private Chat - Alpha Team Bravo Special Ops Company War Hero Salute
26km East of the Baddistan border, the town of Ra's Al Ghul.
Private Chat reloaded his M16, since he had already fired 3 rounds. Then it was time to sprint like hell down the alley since it looked empty. Thankfully, his team didn’t think this was retarded, let alone reckless, and decided to join him on his merry jaunt into the blinding light of the empty streets of Downtown Ra’s Al Ghul.
“Let’s get to work.” Private Session murmured, as he pulled a ham sandwich out of his knapsack and nibbled on the corner.
“Me balls are blistering for some hot dog good old time shooting by my good savage Lord!” Private Party whistled, as he leapt in the air and performed a signature Fred Astaire heel click.
Captain Tincap got on the radio, “Golf S-22, we’re going to need a clean sweep of the area with your shooty planes, check the sonar for mines, and get me some jalapeno relish. This is excellent barbecue weather.”
“Roger that Sierra Cosworth,” Golf S-22 chattered “sending in the hot sauce and mystery jets now. Stand by, over by that blowy newspaper.”
“Roger that Golf S-22,” Tincap bellowed. “Over And Out. Oh wait! Damn, I already said Over And Out. It’s bad form to get back on the radio.”
Private Chat bounced into the next clear alley and sprayed bullets at some distant locals. Luckily, they happened to be heavily armed terrorists, so that was alright then.
“Giddy up!” Party yelped, as he somersaulted into a spread leg crouch and blew an empty bean tin into a rusty mesh fence with a blast from his SPAS-12.
“Hooray.” Session mumbled, as he hopped on a ledge, skittered along like a wet rat chasing a cascading cheddar slice, flew through the air with the grace of a ballet dancer, pulled a hunting knife from behind his ear and opened a terrorist from sternum to throat with a sweeping upward strike, before delivering an unnecessary suplex.
Private Chat threw away his special issue, state-of-the-art assault rifle and ripped one of the terrorist’s dusty AK-47s from his twitching grasp, before somehow reloading it.
“Hold up padres,” Captain Tincap babbled “here is our contact.”
Tikelykov emerged from the shadows like an emerging shadow, smoking a lean cigarette and looking particularly Russian and dissident in his white vest, stonewashed jeans and brooding goatee. He slung his AKS-74U over his shoulder and gave Tincap’s team a careful sneer.
“Zo, you are the contacds thad thingk yoo can infitrade der researching baze?”
“Holy hell!” Party smirked. “Your accent is hilarious
“I do not like your tone, komrade.” Tikelykov leered. “But, you hav an honest face. You cannot lie to me with that face. Come, join me down this other alley.”
The team followed Tikelykov down the other alley.
“Nice alley.” Session whispered in appreciation.
“In our country, we call this a ‘Pause in the Action’” Tikelykov gestured. “It will give you the chance to reload.”
“You don’t need to reload a knife.” Session hissed, pulling the ham sandwich from his pocket to snatch another bite.
“You are crushing my buzz.” Captain Tincap intoned, spinning circles with his forefingers. “Are we nearly there yet, Tikelykov?”
“Yes.” Tikelykov sighed. “The door. Here. The only door here.”
Tincap looked at the only door at the end of the alley, right in front of him, and narrowed his eyes.
“Careful you don’t make a powerful enemy, Tikelykov.”
“I’ll be sure of that.” Tikelykov chimed, as he ushered the team into the apartment building. Shuffling up two floors, Tikelykov gestured at the smeared window. “Over there, is the secret research base.”
The view shocked the team into forgetting that Tikelykov’s accent had completely faded.
Lightening struck the corners of the imposing, towering factory. As the clouds loomed over in the distance, the gleaming pink neon glow of the ‘SECRET RESEARCH BASE’ sign bloomed over the rickety Baddistan tenements, shanty houses and chic coffee shops.
“Okey dokey.” Tincap slurred, as he slung round his shoulder bag, pulled out a cheap laptop, blew some sand off the lid, and pressed and held the power button on. The familiar Windows startup chime echoed through the abandoned flats.
“Right. Chat, I want you to contact Golf-22 and move around the mystery jets.” Tincap chimed. “Meantime, I’ve got a bottle of rum here that hasn’t had the cap torn off yet. Challenge accepted, Mr spread out bat on the label.”
Private Chat nodded in approval, picked up the laptop, and gawped at the graphic elderly threesome on the front screen.
“Close that.” Tincap said, as he snatched the computer from Chat’s hands. “Close that error pop-up too. No, I don’t want to update Flash right now. Ok, wait for RealPlayer to load. Hang on? Has it frozen? Give it a minute. Right, now there should be a shortcut that says ‘Mystery Jets’. There it is.”
Tincap clicked the icon, then clicked it again. Nothing happened.
“H-hold on...” Tincap stuttered. “I’ll double click it faster.”
Tincap clicked the icon, then clicked and dragged the icon to the middle of the screen.
“Come here...You sneaky bastard.” Tincap squeaked.
Tincap finally opened up Mystery Jets.exe
“Yes! By Zeus, I’ve got this fucking thing open!” Tincap blinked, lobbing the laptop over to Chat, hauling the bottle of rum out of his knapsack, spinning the cap off and drilling half the bottle in four large gulps.
‘MYSTERY JETS’ was emblazoned on the laptop screen in Spectrum ZX-like red-on-black glory.
“Give them hell, soldier.” Tincap swaggered, as he thudded into a corner of the corridor, licked his thumb and started peeling the label off the rum.
Chat started pressing the buttons and pointed the green ships to lob yellow balls at the nasty red squares.
Out the window, the pyrotechnic display was earth-shattering and awe-inspiring as chunks of the research base flew over the town of Ra’s Al Ghul aplenty.
“Blammo!” Party screamed, like a caffeine-buoyant 6-year-old birthday hero gobbling a pizza pie while following the exploits of duelling anime robots in glorious high definition in a hot dark hotel on a Friday night.
“Captain Tincap, Sir.” Session whispered. “Permission to speak freely.”
“You have permission to speak. Loose as a summer ham.” Tincap whimpered, tipping his hat over his eyes.
“This is meant to be a rescue operation.”
“Blammo!” Party chirruped, eyes agape, wiggling all jazz hands agogo.
“Aw, alright.” Tincap sighed. “Call off the Mystery Jets. Press Control Alt Delete and close all the Processes. Reboot to start and leave it on the user screen. Look! My icon is a bunny!”
“Ohhhhhhhh.” Party sulked, scuffing his heel on the floor. “Shoot.”
“Captain,” Session murmered. “Let’s rappel out this window, and go rescue this scientist.”
“Okay okay. Jesus, don’t be so uptight
.” Tincap muttered, guzzling off the remainder of the bottle. “Now help me up.”
“Yes Sir.” Session whispered, shedding a single tear.
“You guys.” Tikelykov muttered. “You guys are...different.”
TO BE CONTINUED
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