The Amateur

New, From Jimcorp

jiiiiim — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 23:41:13 +0000

I have a new blog up, this time chronicling Rome: Total War. Find it here!

Epilogue

jiiiiim — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 20:51:22 +0000

So it is done.

Thankyou for your patronship, viewing several. In times to come, you will look back at this and think “404 not found, eh? Maybe I shouldn’t have left fifty years between visits.” For those of you who are new to this blog, it’s in the horrible reverse order that blogs seem to like so go here if you’d like to start at the first post, or use the handy-dandy list of episodes on the right (it kinda ruins the narrative flow to start at the end).

Thanks again and remember: Keep watching the skies. No, I don’t know what for.

XIII – Wrecked Hymn And A Dream

jiiiiim — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 20:32:03 +0000

The Amateur has not time to waste, the ranks of the assassins must be wiped clean. He looked for novelty places to go, places with a definite theme, places where murderers apparently congregate. His eye chanced upon a hippy party in California. Nature-themed decor, masks of the woodland creatures, hosted by an rich yet sinister eccentric. Perfect.

He waited at a bar inside a hollowed-out treestump, sipping teak mead and looking for the hired killer that would obviously approach him and ask him to come to a secluded room, or run to a position where they could be grenaded. He was not looking hard enough.

Lub-dup
So, here you are, “47″
How many times, that’s not my…where is here?
I wish I could be sure
The hell sort of answer is that?
Well we appear to be dead

Lub-dup
What?! Who are you? Who’s we?
I am you, you are me. We are….were…amateur
That’s The Amateur to you, buddy.
Well, quite

Lub-dup
Hang on, if I’m dead, what is this?
Possibly some kind of Limbo party
That was a low blow
Who knows how low I can go
I hate you

Lub-dup
I thought this was what you wanted, though
Huh?
We are…were…an assassin. A killer. You had sworn to destroy us
But I’m the good guy!
Look back. You’ve killed more than any of your “targets”. This is the most efficient approach to your objective

Lub-DUP
You’re beginning to sound like a twisted sort of conscience
That is one way of putting it. I am your professional conscience
Oh come on. That’s not a thing.
Initially, no
Initially?

Lub-DUP
You were becoming less focussed on the extravagant killing
Yeah but…
You were becoming more focussed on your objectives
Well…

LUB-DUP
You were becoming a Professional
The hell I am!
Your death is your objective. Accomplish it
Never!
LUB-DUP

The Amateur is NOT above metallic distraction.

The Amateur knows that every person he meets is an opportunity for new and interesting deaths.

The Amateur is NOT dead.

FIN

XII : Albino House

jiiiiim — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 23:19:04 +0000

The Amateur did not have long to wait for his next assignment. Driving home in the, uh, escape vehicle that he totally didn’t steal, he picked up the same rattling. He looked up – no dice. He pressed play on the stereo – nothing. He stopped the car and looked behind him. On the back was a nodding dog. The Amateur hates nodding dogs. The exploded remnants yielded this partially charred card.

This is it. The Amateur has a chance to take down the world’s most feared assassin, and his paymaster.
“Next stop, Washington! Amateur awaaay!” he cried, pointing his nailgun at the road ahead. Shame that said pointing stopped him from steering around that tree.

A hasty A&E trip and a thirty-hour coach trip later, The Amateur was there, with another tour party. He did so miss the tour parties.

One of the women breaks off to have a smoke behind the coach in this ludicrously small parking lot. Actually how the hell did the coaches get in here. Um, anyway. The Amateur takes the opportunity to plant explodium into her luggage. Worst case scenario (ahaha, because it’s a suitcase), she’ll ping something on the metal detector, get arrested for terrorism and create a bit of a distraction, this place looks very well-guarded.

Unfortunately she gets through just fine. This reminds The Amateur that he’s going to have to ditch Naily again to get through that dratted detector. Should be safe behind the coach.

Oh no, oh no, The Amateur is not having his nailgun taken by the more eagle-eyed members of the US military. Give!

Right, that solves the metal detector thing and hopefully a person can remain hidden behind that coach when a small gun could not. Hopefully. The Amateur decides to take in the enormous White House museum.

A magical three minutes of presidential portraits. Anyway, action time!

Guards seem to have the run of the place so The Amateur moves noisily and obviously through the East Wing without arousing suspicions. Ooh, a trellis.

The Amateur continues across the roof, pausing to allow a fellow nailgun-wielder time to just look out of a window into the rain for two sodding minutes oh god the arm-induced cramp move!

To get into the West Wing, you need either an agent or a keycard so The Amateur’s next job is to find one of those. Watching people come and go from the roof he sees the evil assassin’s paymaster leaving the Wing with a small yappy-type dog.

The Amateur prepares swiftly, racing downstairs past curiously lax security right into the central room

Basically every second thing is a flag. It’s so no matter how you’re photographed in here, you end up looking patriotic. Now the central room has a tiny passage linking it to the next room, which seems a good place to hide a body. And here comes the man himself.

The Amateur is not adjusting his collar there. Newly-equipped with West Wing keycard and matching suit…

…the designers of this house did pretty damn well, there’s no corpse-caskets at all, so he gets stowed under a window with a “do not disturb” sign. Also, naked. The Amateur heads in to find his assassin.

The Amateur believes he is getting close and sure enough, the Oval Office is occupied.

He is good. He doesn’t try to seduce The Amateur, or offer him a crazy duel, he just explodes the door and runs away. Taking inspiration from Chumbawumba, The Amateur gets up again and gives chase. Surely he’ll make some kind of cinematic error.

The fire alarms are blaring and this means everyone is flooding into the bits of the house they previously were ignoring, which means they’re finding certain suspicious-looking bodies. The, uh, the vice-president one in particular gives them a bit of alarm. However, The Amateur is nothing if not good at running and makes it to a vantagepoint where he can just see the top of a bald, badly-toupéed head.

Now if The Amateur were to stick his head out there it would likely return with an extra sinus so what other option is available…throwing stuff! After twenty or so coins he accepts that it’s going to take heavier firepower. Never take a nailgun to a gun fight, they say, but this isn’t a gun fight now.

It’s a fire fight. Tipping the part of his head where a hat would be at the nailgun-wielding decorators that run in to investigate the noise, The Amateur sets a course for freedom!

With that assassin down, and Mr 47’s friends apparently already taken out, there can’t be many more.

XI : A Theme Too Far

jiiiiim — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 00:34:18 +0000

The Amateur stumbled from the Shamal looking for a means of escaping this wretched city. His minivan had apparently started the long journey home without him and his money was still in his room. Sighing resignedly, he stuck out a thumb in the time-honoured fashion of the hitch-hiker. A car immediately stopped next to him. The Amateur dived in to find the driver separated by an opaque partition.

“You’re the only one left now 47…”, began a familiar, hated voice
“I’m not 47! I want out of t-”
“…all our agents are dead by now…” continued the voice
“Good! Assassination is not a game!”
“…we don’t know if this mission is a set-up but it’s sure to be crawling with enemy agents…”
“Are you even listening to me?!”

The Amateur shot a couple of nails through the forbidding plexiglass. Peering through the holes, he could see nothing but a tape-recorder on the driver’s seat.

“…good luck 47. It’s been quite a ride.”
*click*

The Amateur tensed in anticipation of the thing self-destructing but it turns out that only happens in a certain genre of movie. Retrieving it and flipping it open, he found this design on either side of the cassette.

He was the only one left, she had said. The Amateur approved of the thinning of the ranks of the trained and homicidal. But there would be enemy agents at the party, she said. That would never do. The Amateur would end this proliferation of the shadowy and the violent, and he would start here. Consulting a brightly-coloured “You Are Here X” map, he saw the party was just two blocks away.

The guard on reception was only too eager to go and spend a few minutes looking for a non-existant suitcase in a tiny shelf-less room, which gave The Amateur plenty of time to sneak down to the adjacent underground car-park.

The guards here were numerous but not very far-sighted, allowing The Amateur to creep around the perimeter, eventually coming to a prop van. Armed with the knowledge that any costume has a use *somewhere*, the Amateur donned it, dropping his nailgun temporarily on the basis security guards rarely respond well to guests with firearms.

There were two lifts. One went down to the hell party in the basement, the other went up to the heaven party on the top floor. The Amateur hoped that, about half-way up, there was a rockin’ limbo party but apparently not. Carefully inspecting his pure-white costume, The Amateur decided to heed the words of Yaz and surmise the only way was up.

Much more efficient than a Stairway to Heaven, anyway.

Some of those costumes look *very* uncomfortable. Not to mention…hey, wait, that guy is inappropriately attired.

Ooh, it’s one of The Amateur’s “targets”. The Amateur wishes him well on his upcoming arms deal. We’re going after bigger fish here. Bigger, murderous fish. Also, not fish, or that big.

The bartender is eager to tell The Amateur that the singer is (a)hot (she looks cold) and (b)got her job due to the previous incumbent dying suddenly. The Amateur recognises the hallmarks of the assassin trying to be stealthy straight away. He stands at the bar, figuring it is only a matter of time until she tries to get him into a secluded location for stabbing.

Lady, you are an idiot.

One down. A laptop in the same room reveals that there is one more agent around, and he is at the hell party. The Amateur has a brief look around but there doesn’t seem to be anything else of interest up here, and returns to the carpark.

WHAT. WHERE IS THE NAILGUN. The guards have nicked it! This calls for a daring inflitration of the guard compound!

Thusly retrieved, The Amateur decides like hell is he going to let poor Naily get abandoned like that again and finds a side-route around the guards with their fascist stance on concealed weaponry. Turns out there is a staircase to hell. A, uh, guarded one.

The Amateur’s fists are stinging from the number of be-masked people he’s had to punch. Hopefully the guy with the horns won’t be a nuisance in that regard. The Amateur picks up something non-attention drawing and makes his way out into the party.

Assassin #2 announces himself. The Amateur tried hard not to laugh as the inside of the mask would get too moist from the exhalation. A deep concern.

He challenges The Amateur to a duel, and leads him to an apparently sound-proofed room. A choice of weaponry is put on a table and the assassin scampers off. The Amateur knows what he needs, thanks.

And the reason The Amateur is cowering thusly is because Smuggy McShooty over there chose a semi-automatic rifle. Nevertheless, through a system of hiding and creeping, The Amateur lines up the killing shot.

Nothing to do now but enjoy the party. Wooo!

The other of his “targets” is periodically to be seen dancing upon the balcony. Go lady go!

Amazing show, this. Oh…oh shit. That’s what that rigging that machine did. The Amateur feels he should inform her boyfriend as, frankly, nobody else seems to have noticed. The guards won’t let me into his private room but luckily, that is to say freakily, there seems to be a viewing room of some description. A shot ought to get his attention.

…
Ah crap, guards coming. Into the closet!

You know, perhaps it’s fate. Regardless, The Amateur will not break down as he has these last few missions. He will treat them as collateral to his ultimate goal of killing the enemy agents and, God willing, ridding the world of assassins. For a bit.

Let’s just see what they do now.

X : Muerta Las Vegas

jiiiiim — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 23:06:29 +0000

It had been a month or more since The Amateur’s last mission. He was beginning to hope the syndicate had gotten the message but if there’s one thing The Amateur has learnt, it’s that one should never begin to hope. That and you should not get your car repairs done at a garage which didn’t appear to be there yesterday. When The Amateur had located the rattling sound as coming within the fluffy dice astride his mirror, a single tap knocked them open and out fell this card.

Three people to save before they send someone else against them and a free week in Vegas. The Amateur mobilised grudgingly.
The Amateur unfolds himself from his minivan hacking and coughing from the thousand-mile trip. Apparently something bad happened here as the air is practically orange, but the fireworks are nice.

Well by nice, The Amateur means shit. Um. The Amateur heads inside the hotel Shamal where some kind of Egyptian robot speaks their welcome speech to the air where The Amateur was only a few seconds before but he has no time for this, he must check in! The check-in desk is manned by the same robots but The Amateur successfully retrieves his key without wrenching off a head and revealing the truth. The pacifism has side-benefits. The Amateur peruses the shows available on his stay.

Wait, what? “See this card? Defensively naíve but strong in the tackle and OH LOOK IT’S GONE!” While The Amateur ponders a longer routine on this subject, a limo pulls up outside the hotel and…who is that…

It’s the science man he was meant to kill! The Amateur will act as a guardian angel but instead of wings he is bald. Spotting that his “real” bodyguard doesn’t seem keen on following him into the lift, The Amateur starts humming I Will Always Love You under his breath and dives through the doors in time to join him for the trip. Two men enter!

One man leaves!

Then The Amateur leaves another floor down, content in the scientist’s safety on the eighth floor. He finds his room with a lovely balcony view. And a lovely view of balconies.

Hmm, wasn’t Schmutz staying over that way? The Amateur had better warn him too. No point trying the door or knocking or whatever, The Amateur knows by now that will never work. Now a perilous journey around the outside of a hotel, that’s foolproof. Preliminary investigations reveal that the people in the rooms on the way might object to a man of the night wandering through their property so The Amateur finds a safe way to distract them.

Look, it was either that or start a fire, and The Amateur is above that. As people panic and gather in the lobby, he leaps, rolls, ducks and, uh, sidles across. Now what was the reason Schmutz was wanted dead. Oh yes, the briefcase.

It contains some manner of sensitive material. Maybe if The Amateur were to destroy the material, he could prevent people from coming after him in future. He fishes out a explosive mine, places it in and prepares to blow the charge when suddenly footsteps sound the return of the Hendrik. The Amateur leaps into a wardrobe, getting only a few coathangers in the unmentionables. By the time he’d regained his breath, the South African was gone but, uh, so was the briefcase. Oh this is not going well, if The Amateur detonates it now it’ll take out whoever is near! The Amateur hurries downstairs to see if he can head him off before collateral gets involved. Turns out the robot wasn’t lying, they do have many fun attractions here.
Drinking!

Gambling!

Lock-picking!

…additional gambling!

But The Amateur cannot settle and a thought strikes him, what if he is in the private lounge. As he thinks this, a tired-looking security guard comes running to the lifts with a briefcase. For the greater good, my friend, The Amateur has to stop you.

Unfortunately all it contains is diamonds. Well maybe The Amateur can return them to Schmutz in exchange for the material and detonate it somewhere safely. He’ll just check this VIP area…

Okay, okay, you don’t want The Amateur on your premises, don’t push him, DON’T PUSH HIM.

The lesson here is not to put a pressure-sensitive detonator in a top pocket as it is prone to being triggered by over-zealous bodyguards. It’s too late, the suitcase is gone but so, from the looks of the remains, are two of The Amateur’s “targets”. Oh cruel and melancholy fate, he must warn the Scientist and convince him to leave, maybe get him a false beard and enormous sunglasses. Oh he’s got a beard. Do they sell bald chin caps? The security guard from the lift gets him to the eighth floor but the police are not budging. Nobody allowed up here. The Amateur offers him the diamonds and is outraged to find this the policeman to have a hardline stance on bribery.

The Amateur hopes no-one needs to use that lift in the near future. He should be fine though. Okay, so the scientist has security guards all around. Why must he make it so difficult to defend himself. It’s looking like the balconies again. The Amateur will need a keycard…

…and an empty adjacent room. Time to play pin-the-syringe-on-the-oblivious-man.

Okay so good news, The Amateur makes it across to the science-man’s balcony. Bad news would be he has a guard watching the balcony. Grumble.

Oh dear, they’ve spotted The Amateur. Fibre-wire at the ready! Save the scientist!

Oh for the love of…why does The Amateur not watch where he’s pointing that thing. The Amateur has to get out of here. Away. Far, far away. He is not safe.

Maybe he’ll use the other lift…

IX : The Bell Tolls For Thee

jiiiiim — Fri, 09 May 2008 22:06:18 +0000

The Amateur’s assignments do not stop. He has no way to inform head office of his pacificistic vow, you see. A Fed-Ex or Other-Leading-Brand postman delivers the next parcel. Are they trying to set The Amateur up as some kind of monster? ARE THEY?!

Man, check out those jowels. The Amateur cannot refuse the offer though, they’ll just send another, less awesome hired killer. He must travel to the sticks and warn them! To the Amateurmobile! The bus driver is only getting a little tired of The Amateur saying that when he asks what ticket he wants. He even smiled weakly this time.

Upon arrival, a sign warns The Amateur that trespassers while be shot, as we shoot those trespassers that trespass against us. And lead us not into the waters, where there are alligators. These guys are trying to shoot them.

The Amateur has seen a dragon fly, a horse fly, even a corpse fly, but he’s never seen an alligator fly, so he goes over to offer them some tips. Several impassioned minutes later, they’re still shooting into the air so The Amateur decides to save the by now dozens of birds they’ve probably hit, throwing their guns at the alligator.

They don’t seem overly concerned as The Amateur was very careful to do this while they weren’t looking. In fact, they take on a much more amiable air, and decide to spend the rest of the night mocking the alligator. The Amateur has made a difference already with his no-killing approach! He snaffles a wedding present and makes his way to the party.

Okay so this guy objects. The Amateur wonders why he does insist on wearing the same suit to every damn mission. It always gets lost, it costs five thousand dollars to retrieve, it’s very itchy and it’s never enough to get inside any building. On the other hand, capacious pockets. Anyway, The Amateur decides to knock the guy’s lights out.

After doing this three or four times he figures Surly McGuy is getting pretty fed up, and throws a coin down to lure him into a corpse-bin room. He is perfectly fine, don’t worry. The Amateur used clinically-approved horse sedatives. Also, if The Amateur was going to have his clothes, he’d be best off in a warm bin environment. Time to take in the par-tee.

The Amateur thinks this looks fun.

Fine, fine, The Amateur will have to formulate a plan that doesn’t involve dancing his way into the nation’s hearts. The mansion is heavily guarded and they’re not convinced by The Amateur’s dunagrees and bow-tie, they want an invite or something.

How to get by without causing a fuss. The Amateur at last realises that the ringing sound is the bell announcing the marriage and not tinnitus brought on by years of inexpert firearms useage, and that it gets people’s attention. Perhaps he could…replicate that. With subtlety.

That should do it. The Amateur joins the fleeing people and runs into the house undetected as the guards are sprinting blindly towards the source of the explosion. Now The Amateur does not still have full access and only one bomb left, aas the upstairs are guarded heavily. He’s in, though, so it’s time for a little exploration.

Nice choice of canapés but the piano is unfortunately not in the air above a man he has to kill. Not that that is desirable now. The Amateur retires to the bathroom, practically running into the groom. Hurriedly, The Amateur explains that he had a present but it exploded and he can see the groom reaching for something metal and gunny.

The Amateur drags him into a stall to ponder what to do next. More importantly, what the groom is going to do when he comes to. On the day of his wedding, he has deserted his bride with no warning. There is surely no future for a man like that. Best that The Amateur puts him out of his misery and seeks to make recompense to his father. Time for the poison syringe.

Uh-oh, the bride. Act casual, act natural, act..wait, no, that would be acting like a killer. Act unnatural. The Amateur rotates on the spot wildly, getting reasonably dizzy. The bride runs off to fetch a guard. Possibly she’s seen the blood on the floor. The Amateur can see the writing on the wall. The Amateur sprints up a spiral staircase to find a window leading to a greenhouse.

Never let it be said The Amateur would let the possibility of falling to his death interrupt his fleeing. He makes it through the greenhouse before falling off the roof and breaking both legs. Just about enough left in them to walk perfectly normally though. The Amateur realises he’s in a graveyard now, which means his friend, the shovel, is close at hand. Maybe he can help bury the son to win back the father. The father, however, is more than a little apprehensive of the spade, and another scuffle occurs.

Oh dear oh dear. There is now only one course of action. The Amateur must dispose of the body humanely and tactfully. However he does not seem to be able to dig with the spade he has. Maybe if he…helped the collapse of the walls a little.

And now he can flee. Objectives met despite his best intentions. Oh they’ll pay for turning him into this. They’ll pay. Ooh a guy with sideburns.

How was The Amateur not able to work him into his masterly plot. Perhaps he could…have the sideburns? For disguise? Oh he dropped a key. To the priestmobile home!

The Amateur is going to hell.

VIII : In Spades

jiiiiim — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 21:07:34 +0000

The Amateur was settling in for an all-night Scooby-Doo marathon, so that he may shout names and pull faces at Scrappy-Doo, when suddenly he picked up a sound near the door. A bell ring to be precise. Well the Amateur isn’t that easily fooled. At the end of the marathon, he found this sheet slid under the door, clipped to a “you were unable to receive this parcel” card.

Finally, The Amateur would be able to pick locks at the speed of Geoff Houdini, or Geoff Blaine. In fact that was probably the same guy, he wasn’t as good as the people he named himself after. And now the Amateur would be part of that heady showbiz world. But first, to business without Show. The giver of the card had clearly raked through Muldoon’s facebook to find the most classy picture out there. To the Missippissi!

Upon arrival, The Amateur noted that the cargo-workers had been playing too much Tetris, and decided to ascend the box ramp they had laid on with huge manly strides. Once upstairs he met the first of what would be many, many sailors with their back turned to him.

Incidentally, The Amateur cannot help but notice how ridiculously musclebound every single man on this ship is. This is because of his fine sense of vision, context and placement, not because of Gay. Well, unless they were to proposition him with an adorable little candle in a bottle.

The Amateur is not made of stone. Shame he’s unable to proposition or, indeed, see. Next to the wonderful bottle is an engine room key, so The Amateur has his next location.

As part of a test, The Amateur resolves to see exactly how much noise you can make before it filters through those fearsome earmuffs. Basically, it turns out a lot. After stealth-shovelling a member of the Gator gang (five to go!), and two inquisitive engineers, including one Benny Hill chase down a corridor, The Amateur successfully gets behind and spades a sailor. He comes across a waiter of some description who is smoking. The Amateur, infuriated that his message is not getting through, puts it out for him.

A couple of sailors later, The Amateur realises there’s no-one but that original engineer left on the bottom deck. In many ways, he has only himself to blame, The Amateur would have picked that level of noise or lack of it straight away. Or the sound of a fire extinguisher being stealthily wielded.

The Amateur then begins the long process of throwing everyone overboard. He is keen to point out that he didn’t actually kill anyone yet, that blame rests with the Misspississippi. Also that he found a shortcut to avoid dragging bodies down stairs.

The Amateur wonders if there is much ship left to go.

Bugger. Better get on with it. The Amateur devises a 6-step plan to clear the ship of occupants in a co-ordinated and organised fashion.

1. Look through keyhole of door. If target is facing away, go to 3

2. If target facing door, open door and, in full view of said target, throw coin at some surface in the room. This will distract them

3. Run at target and batter about the head with fists or shovel, trying to avoid getting shot.

4. Change clothes with the newly-unconcious mariner, to throw the investigators off the scent.

5. Drag them through what is probably 18 miles of corridor to the nearest railing.

6. Toss into the Msizpippee. Chalk up another accident and tut at the Health and Safety Board that thought this cruise was a good idea.

But The Amateur does not wish you to think he is a purely brutish creature. He keeps two shots of subtlety about his person at all times, to deploy in emergencies.

Well, one shot now. By the time the third deck is empty, The Amateur has acquired a master keycard to get in any room, a VIP pass to quantify exactly how important he is, a bitchin’ tuxedo for swanky purposes, and a profound hatred of people who do not stay in rooms with sea views. Up to deck four, then.

Ah geez. The Amateur could well do the same here. That is, after all, how he earned the title that came with the answer phone, but something stirs within him, the memory of that little bottle candle, the thought, the love, the care…The Amateur resolves from this day forth not to kill for the sake of killing. These people shall be free! Free from his reign of terror!

The Amateur heads up to the top deck, to apologise personally to Captain Muldoon, but is accosted by another waiter, who is very insistent he can’t come this way. A struggle ensues, and…he may have fallen into the mxikixsipppi.

The Amateur, feeling super-guilty, is in no mood for the taunts of this Gator gang dude, but he wont’ let up and soon enough he, too, is tumbling into the drink. The Amateur will make up for this, he must! In the kitchen he espies a giant cake.

The Amateur must confess his fingers twitched here, imploring him to fill the cake with explosives but The Amateur held firm. A cake must be a delicious cake. And what is he doing with all these guns! Ugh! Into the river with you!

Well, uh, maybe not the Nailgun, that’s got sentimental value. Skipper Muldoon seems happy to receive the cake, and all is well in the world, when suddenly The Amateur hears choking noises and rushes in to perform the heimlich maneuver.

Shit, the rest of the gang might be choking on this deadly cake, or worse have the hiccups. The Amateur has heard that being upside-down can help them.

The Amateur administers this treatment to the whole gang and helps himself to some payment. If he’s not going to be killing people for money he needs to make ends meet somehow.

Awaaaay!

VII : Snapneck Mountain

jiiiiim — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 20:24:18 +0000

The Amateur often visits a local animal rescue centre, to laugh at those less fortunate than himself. This time he found himself staring at a crow with an injured wing, and idly reaching for his nailgun, when he saw a message tied to its leg. After shooting it in a stealthy and subversive manner, he retrived this card.

On arrival by friggin’ speedboat, The Amateur was distinctly unimpressed by the party before him.

After making small talk with all and sundry and noting they felt the party was more exciting than he could perceive, the Amateur spotted it – the lift upstairs. Stealthily, he stayed out of the view of the camera above it and waited for someone important-looking to get in. The Amateur followed them and tried some fishing, using a specially weighted fiber wire. Fortunately the ride lasted just long enough for someone to take the bait, it’s always awkward to explain a pair of legs disappearing into the ceiling.

Snazzily attired with luminescent heart (like the care bears!), The Amateur commenced preparations for partying, walking into the party’s Santa.

He was drunk, out of order, and wouldn’t hand over his costume willingly. The Amateur could do a better job – no, The Amateur will do a better job. It’s time to SAVE CHRISTMAS.

After posing for Action Santa shots such as that above, The Amateur decides what he needs is a grotto, a location where he can dispense presents and spread goodwill to all men (and a few lucky women). His first choice of location fulfills the brief but is a little depressing.

Goodwill should not fall out of a delicious bottle! Even thought the tips are good and the other barman keeps giving out aphrodisiacs. Ah, nothing more christmassy than a parade of old men and cold women. But wait, what’s that over there?

Only the symbol of care and love and peace! Grotto this way! The Amateur is filled with promise as he walks into a cave-type location, dimly lit, gaudily decorated, with pixies darting about being pursued by, uh, old men. Boldly, he tries a door.

The Amateur wants to try another door but the pixies guarding it make it very very clear they’ll fill his stockings with lead, and that is only meant to happen to bad boys and girls. But wait, what’s this?

The Amateur has discovered the grotto! He carefully garottes the snooping photographer and drags him through the waterfall, out of view. Time to find the elves. The Amateur engages his binoculars, as they’re only small.

The Amateur is eager to discuss Grotto policy so follows the elf into the business room. “Men are so easy”, says she, and The Amateur makes a note to target men as his primary consumer when suddenly he realises that OH GOD SHE HAS A GUN. The Amateur reaches into his bag of goodies and finds a Mr Knife action figure.

That wasn’t an elf. That wasn’t an elf at all. Walking out, The Amateur finds himself on the set of The Snowman. He looks up.

He looks down.

The Amateur can’t think of a way to use this. Honest.

Edging along the mountainside, The Amateur finds the staff floor, who he figures might know he’s not the real Santa, though he is clearly a better Santa. A suited guard runs out to see what’s going on, The Amateur uses one of his old coins distraction clips to tempt him near the edge and then throooows him off the cliff.

Okay so it’s going to be hard to get his suit. The Amateur proceeds inside to clean up.

The Mr Knife action figures are very popular this year! Inside and through a balcony overlooking the main party, The Amateur finally finds some videotape to record The Great Escape on, for motivational viewing for his next scrape.

The Amateur reluctantly gives up his Santa gig temporarily to enter the next part of the complex, as security guards are getting increasingly suspcious of Santa and it’s doing nothing for the magic of Christmas. He wanders through a set where girls in Santa hats are doing tasteful things when suddenly…

The grotto! The Amateur never stopped believing! Inside is his first, and sadly only customer.

“And what do you want for Christmas, …old…man?”
“What the hell are you doing here”
“A..a speedboat you say? Well there’s one down here!”

“And what about you, little doggy?”
“Yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap yap…”
“A speedboat too? Just eat this speedboat sausage!”

The Amateur heads back to the comforting warmth of his Santa outift and goes to the party to dispense more presents.

That guy certainly looks like he wants a Speedboat. But how to get it to him. Think, The Amateur, think…downstairs!

All the guests have gone upstairs now so there’s pretty much only santa-hatted guards and a laser tripwire fence around. The Amateur must remain the only Santa at the party, though.

Onwards and upwards.

The Speedboat’s down here guys! The Amateur runs to the boat to make his escape with all his satisfied customers. He can’t see them though, they must be below-deck. Away!

VI : Fat Tuesday

jiiiiim — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 18:51:46 +0000

The Amateur often considers taking in some high culture, shortly before breaking down in a coughing and/or laughing fit and going to somewhere cheap, and today it appears his reallocated kids meal card paid dividends, for on the reverse…

The Amateur is glad to see that he has been given the correct tools for the job, for once. None of these fancy dual-action pistols with magnum ammo, laser scopes and extra gun, also he can’t afford it. Kid’s meals aren’t that cheap. Carefully hiding behind his adventure puzzle page with dot-to-dot lion, The Amateur saw a briefcase switch hands and knew at once that he must have the rent-money within.

How hard can it be to get it without alerting any suspicions, anyway?

Ah. It’s that fat Tuesday. Fortunately the bright-red-costumed-highly-visible-bird-dude likes to visit a corpse bin in an abandoned, stinking alleyway.

The Amateur likes the feathers, he feels they contribute to his manly fear aura, and certainly help him blend into this place with its idiots and students.

What the hell is that? What the hell is that? Jelly? A Zoom bar? A cascading pie chart of the woman’s dignity over time?

Above all, the Amateur is sworn to protect the secretary to Mr Interior himself, who is, due to the way the crowd moves around it, apparently mowing down half of New Orleans in his armoured float.

Don’t fuck with Mr Interior. He seems safe enough in his fortress, so The Amateur heads down to the local salsa club, where they deny him entry. It’s the same story at the rock club, and the blues club, as some edict has been issued across N’orleans that says “We don’t serve people dressed as crows”, and, let’s be fair, they basically ask that you assault and assume the identities of their patrons.

In The Amateur’s defence, he was drunk and standing by a bin bigger than he was. So a brief Bar Guide to N’orl’ns :
1. Blues Bar – Best music. Best hats. Not so keen on the glasses. Food facilities spoiled by lack of chef.

2. Salsa Bar – Tries too hard with the music. Worst hats. No glasses. Food facilities spoiled by stabbed chef.

3. Rock bar – Rubbish music. No hats. No glasses. Reasonably gay posters. Food facilities spoiled by chef being punched and thrown into a freezer.

Having instigated the great chef drought of ‘08, The Amateur heads back to the Blues club, through the kitchen and upstairs, past the waiter screaming obscenities that there’s four hundred pounds of shrimp going off and he can only make soup, and to a little investigatin’.

“Looks like Crow’s on the menu”, quips The Amateur. Not literally, that would be disgusting. Nevertheless, The Amateur misses the scratchy feel of low-budget synthetic feather on skin, and yearns for a club where he will be accepted as such. Leaping out of the building’s fire escape, sustaining only internal bruising from the fall, The Amateur sees such a club.

The Amateur proceeds up a fancy spiral staircase where another man-crow lets him into a small room containing a black man-crow, who gestures at the briefcase. The Amateur needs this briefcase! It’s going to put his kids through college! The man is quite firm with his request though, and, sobbing, The Amateur prepares to detonate the remote bomb he puts in all of his savings accounts, when suddenly a thought strikes him. Kill him non-explosively and you keep the diamonds. And probably kill that yellow man-crow that watched you do this.

Heading out into the cold N’o'l’ns air, The Amateur thinks it should be an easy job to find the last of his three crows, and what better or more tasteful way than wearing the crow-costume of her recently deceased boyfriend. He’s wrong, it takes forever, but eventually she is spotted.

The Amateur thinks there is something highly disturbing about that costume, and reading her bio, finds that her first kill was made nailing a man to the ceiling. The Amateur thinks this is the time for…nailgun snipe!

The Amateur will be honest, this took forever. And she got a few shots in herself, but mostly she couldn’t shoot to save her life, and both guns were basically silent so it was merely a minute-long epically incompetent duel. And the Amateur won. The Amateur makes good his escape while the cloud of feathers are settling, out of n’o'ns forever.