How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy (t3knomanser) wrote,
How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy

Your dose of Pulp Heroism

I'm not sure what this story is, other than pure pulp heroism. I mean... well, our Hero repeatedly survives odds that are usually reserved for bad action movies.

Jake crouched behind the bar, as a cascade of glass, booze, and bullets fell
around him. He checked his ammo belt, and found it woefully empty. He had two
revolvers, six shots each, and there were currently thirteen people shooting at
him with small SMGs.

Not the best day on earth. Still, he hadn't caught a bullet yet, and had no
intention of changing that. He flicked his eyes up to the few shards of barroom
mirror still clinging to the wall, and got a fix on where people were in the

"Well, fucitol," he spat, and pointed his revolvers at the bar, while eying the
mirror carefully. He pulled both triggers, and two holes exploded in the bar,
and two of the shooters fell.

He smiled wryly. There was a reason he used big bore revolvers- not good at
going through armor, but there was more momentum in them for busting through
cover. These saps were using lightweight SMGs, probably teflon coated, which cut
through kevlar like butter, but when they hit something solid, the lead just
splatted uselessly.

That's at least a good theory. But there were a few holes in the bar that he
hadn't put there. Luck however, was on his side, and none of those holes had
turned into holes in him. Still, not a good time to dawdle.

Six more shots, six more shooters drop. Three of them got bold, and started to
advance on the bar. They dropped as well. One shot left, and the two remaining
shooters started to look antsy. Time for the bold move.

He leapt up, and popped the one on the same side as his loaded gun, and stared
down the other. The effect was stunning enough to get him with his finger off
the trigger. Staring down the barrell of a gun the size of your finger when it's
being wielded by an obviously crazy person has that effect.

The effect is lessened if you know it's empty of course, but Jake was hoping
this person hadn't been counting. Thin lipped, he tried to look tough. Clint
Eastwood tough. "Go, asshole. Tell your boss what happened. Unless you want a

Inwardly, Jake cringed. Third nostril? He couldn't help but think it was a
stupid thing to say. Even so, it had the desired effect. The shooter turned tail
and ran.


Two weeks later, Jake was starting to think that drinking was going to be bad
for his health. This realization descended upon him when that last shooter, Mr.
Thirteen, as Jake was coming to think of him, pressed the muzzle of a 9mm
Beretta into Jake's back, while Jake was sitting at a bar, tipping back some

"Hey cowboy, remember me?"

Jake calmly downed a shot, and gestured for the bartender to refill it. Then he
nodded. "Yup."

"Barkeep, don't bother pourin' this guy a new shot." He rammed the pistol into
Jake's back roughly. "I've got all the shots he'll need ever again."

The bartender stepped away from the two of them. "Listen buddy, take it outside.
No trouble in my bar."

Jake rolled his eyes. He wondered why it was that whenever these shooters showed
up, bad cliche's followed. He also wondered why these shooters were so fucking

"Your mother called out your name when I was fucking her last night." Jake said,
again gesturing for that extra shot. "Just thought you should know." In the
split second it took Mr. Thirteen to search through his mental database of
cliched responses, Jake spun on the stool (he _always_ preferred bars that had
swiveling stools, though he never thought this had anything to do with it),
grabbing the gun as he did so, forcing it down and away from him. It went off,
drilling a hole in the wooden floor. With a twist of his hand, the gun fell from
Mr. Thirteen's grip and clattered to the floor.

Jake held his hand, bending the thumb back in a painful lock. "Listen, fucktard,
let me make this clear. I'm not going to bend over for your boss. He can whine
about revenge all he wants, but we beat him. And I've trashed every thug that's
been sent against me. Hell, I killed tweleve of your buddies last time. Go the
fuck away." Jake twisted his grip roughly, and the crack of a breaking thumb was
audible over the groan of pain that escaped Mr. Thirteen's lips. "We clear on
this? Or do I have to break the other nineteen fingers?"

He stood up, still holding the broken thumb, grinding the bones as he did so. He
slipped one foot behind Mr. Thirteen's and used his free hand to push him over
in one swift movement. Before his ass even connected with the floor, Jake
scooped up the gun that he had dropped.

Jake was disgusted with Mr. Thirteen, but became disgusted with himself when the
bartender smashed him in the back of the head with something heavy. Reeling,
Jake turned, just in time to catch a sap to the face.


When Jake came to, he was tied to a chair, unarmed. "Fuck," he muttered, "this
is really cliched. Why the fuck aren't I already dead?"

Sitting behind a teak desk was the Boss, flanked by several toughs, including
Mr. Thirteen, who's hand was bandaged up. "Well Jake, I'd have to say that's
because when you're alive, I can use you as a bargaining chip."

"Then why all the shooters trying to kill me?"

That put a pause to the conversation. Apparently, the Boss was ignorant of his
comic book villian nature.

"See, here's what always happens. The villian tries to kill the hero, fails, but
ends up capturing him. Instead of killing him outright, the villian's greed or
stpuidity, or whatever takes over, and they attempt to hold the hero- and the
hero escapes, often killing, maiming, or at the very least, foiling the villian.
You should have killed me."

The Boss picked one of Jake's revolvers up from his desk, and leveled at him.
"Perhaps I should take your advice."

"Perhaps, but it's already too late. You let me regain conciousness. You're
fucked now." Jake checked the strength of his bonds, to discover that "Tying
People Up 101" was the only course that these guys had paid attention to in
Villain College. He could escape from the bonds- given enough time, and room to
move. He had neither.

"Oh really?" The Boss leaned back in his plush chair, and lowered the revolver.
"And how exactly, are you, unarmed and tied to a chair, going to thwart me?"

"Well, the first step, obviously, would be to escape my bonds. This one is
posing the biggest difficulty at the moment; this is the only thing you haven't
screwed up so far." What Jake didn't add is that "Searching Prisoners 101" was a
class his thugs had definitely failed- the small knife he had secreted on his
person slid into his hand, and he began sawing the bonds.

"Once that's done, I'm going to have to exploit the fact that you've got half a
dozen guys with SMGs."

"Exploit?" The Boss waved his gun without a care in the world. Jake would have
to clean his weapons a dozen times just to get the stupid off of them. "I would
think that half a dozen men with SMGs would be a problem."

"Nah, this room's small. They'll be as likely to hit each other as they are me,
especially if I can create a cross-fire situation. And I think you realize that
getting my guns back from you will not be a challenge so much as a special

The Boss laughed, just as Jake freed his hands. Mind you, his legs were still
tied, but no stupid villian was dumb enough to let him cut himself free in plain
sight. Still, he could work with this.

"Man, I do have to say though, your dad's ass is so tight, I'd think he was a
virgin if I wasn't paying five bucks to bugger him." Once again, the snide
remark, delivered in an offhand manner, had the effect of making people pause,
just for a moment. These guys were way to touchy- real pros wouldn't bat an eye.
Of course, real pros would have killed him already.

In that split second of confusion, Jake pinwheeled his arms forward, and pushed
with his legs. There was almost no leverage, but just enough to send him flying
forward a few feet, landing face down. When the first shots flew through the air
where he had been a moment ago, he pulled himself under the Boss's desk and
bucked the chair up. It was a good chair, and held against the massive weight of
the desk, and the desk bucked up as well. One solid push and it fell over into
the Boss's lap.

For a moment, the heavy desk was serving the same purpose as the bar did a few
days before. The light rounds that were being fired at him couldn't penetrate.
However, Jake was now between the two wings of three thugs, and muttered an "I
told you so," as one of the Rambo wannabees let the drift from firing on full
auto drag his barrell up and saw one of the other toughs in half.

The Boss was pinned beneath the desk, and the hand holding his revolver was
pinned on this side of the top. Jake wrenched it free with the thumb
breaking manuver that Mr. Thirteen experienced.

Jake flipped himself over so that the chair was between him and the floor just
as one of the toughs got positioned for a clear shot. Jake's gun roared and his
head vanished. Jake did a crunch, and dropped two rounds on the side where three
were still standing, and dropped back down before they could even register that
his head was up.

The Boss started kicking him in the head, but pinned as he was, it didn't have
much effect. Jake turned his grip on his knife and did another crunch- this time
his gun roared at the man on the right side, and the knife planted itself in the
throat of the other man- Mr. Thirteen to be exact.

"Goddamn, I hate that shit."

"You are a dead man!" The Boss yelled, starting to edge his way out of the desk.
Two rounds went into the legs of his chair, breaking them free from the chair.
They slipped easily off of his legs, leaving just tangles of rope about his

"Yeah, yeah. I warned you, didn't I?"

Jake stood, dropped a round into the Boss's skull, retrieved his other gun.
Sure, now he was in the heart of the Boss's mob stronghold. Any moment, hundreds
of thugs would storm in, guns blazing. There would be grenades, tear gas, body
armor. He had fifty rounds left for his guns.

Jake smiled a lopsided grin. "I live for this shit."

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