I write classic "good vs evil" creative writing pieces with smart twists inspired by vintage action cinema, gaming, and heavy metal.
Zero-Dark-Thirty. My GPNVG was showing me around a very posh gated community whose infiltration would be impossible during daytime since an average person would stick out like a zit; to be promptly escorted out after the fact by security. That or shot on sight considering the aforementioned are trigger-happy, undisciplined chimpanzees in rent-a-cop suits that were clearly hired because they don't ask questions.
An operation like this thrives more on loyalty and secrecy after all. Who would have thought that a kid in his late teens could buy himself a private army of gun-wielding psychopaths to patrol his glitzy compound? Well, this kid has not only won the genetic lottery but also, threw away half his winnings through poor choice. Had he not made deals with a radical Middle Eastern terrorist group, I won't even notice him. Lord knows he would not know what poverty was had he focused on pimping his cookie-cutter acoustic guitar ballads that told teenage girls what they wanted to hear.
This kid's rise to global girl appeal also coincidentally, accompanied the spike of missing person cases where most of them got intercepted by police at the airport; bound for unstable countries like Iraq, Chechnya, Dagestan, and Tajikistan; as read on their tickets. That was the best-case scenario whereas the worst case was where such a person got either detained as a failed suicide bomber, discovered to be brutally slain by what looked to be a shamshir; a traditional Arab sword, or even read about on watchdog media where stories described a cavalcade of gruesome ritualistic abuse.
Police and even federal agencies were at a total loss where every lead turned dead and all trails freezing instantly, therefore, I had to think way ahead. My good friend who worked at a check-in desk secretly sent me a copy of an e-ticket bound for Afghanistan; payment information included and thus, I got the name of the buyer; while they were on a rotation where different people buy the tickets from different devices; this particular guy was also the kid's liaison with the local terrorist cell leader.
By day, the liaison was an owner of a popular game and hobby store, as I came to know after tailing him through money transfers and email exchanges that scheduled meetings. I also came to know more about our teen pop sensation; he is the embodiment of the Russian saying, "Tis greed that killed the Friar." He sold out everything he knew and loved; his country, his faith, and even his future for instant gratification.
The kid was an addict to many things; drugs, gambling; real money, and video game loot boxes alike, as well as female attention. The money was coming in but not fast enough for him to satiate the former so, he accepted an offer from his former classmate; a Pakistani exchange student whose entire lineage were terrorists since his father was a cell leader.
Converted to a different religion, had his whole family murdered in their beds, and composed his music to be crammed with subliminal messaging, emotional hooks, and manipulative lyrics while having a social media team conversate with his fangirls through private messages and comments; obviously in his name. This way, the terrorists had more recruits at a faster rate to a point where they insisted he paces himself since many lonely girls were fast-tracking to indoctrination almost weekly.
PP-19-01 Vityaz SN
Cliched as it is, the email conversations I've intercepted disenchanted our pop star of all the Hollywood magic his fangirls were spellbound by, this kid was a paranoid, narcissistic wreck who believed his existence was a miracle and that he deserves deification for breathing air. A weak-willed, scared junkie who practically, needed drugs to maintain mental stability; even shooting his game console in a fit of rage; as he confessed to his liaison when the latter enquired about his wellbeing; imagine being an addict this far gone.
Now, I'm the ambulance he desperately needs where the cure is housed within a Russian PP-19-01 Vityaz SN suppressed; a submachine developed by the Russian special forces to dispose of such degeneracy fueled by radicalism. The weapon's selector switch on semi-automatic, I hugged the wall to maintain cover and slowly, moved towards the compound. Gun-wielding chimpanzees were lazily patrolling the territory; almost shooting at their own shadows with their Tec-19 SMGS while checking in on their radios.
"All clear." were the last words of a heavily accented guard as a 9x19mm bullet put him down; I moved as fast as possible yet maintaining my cover and my aim; desperately looking for more guards before they could initiate another radio check. Wish granted as one turned a corner, almost opening fire but ultimately, 2 shots to center mass calmed him down. Taking off my GPNVG, I made entry through the back door; this house made a college dorm look like a monastery; tacky posters of Al Pacino as Scarface, garishly painted walls, and a strong smell of alcohol, trash and even rotting fruit.
"Huh?!" I heard down the hall accompanied by a charging handle ratchet and what I assumed to be Arabic cursing. My cover's blown, time to start shooting. Untrained and undisciplined, more guards showed up and practically sprayed bullets all over the room where none even flew past me.
Shifting to full-auto, I eliminated the threats where one of them didn't even reload; continued to squeeze the trigger long since his ammo ran dry. More footsteps came running towards me from what seemed like the entire compound; the loudest being from the staircase. Grabbing the first guard that came down the stairs by the barrel of his AKM; turning his entire body to face his friends. Using him as a human shield, I blindfired my Vityaz into the group. Throwing my shield at them, I put my gun on safe and let it hang.
However, before I could switch to my sidearm; 2 more terrorists showed up. Thinking on my feet, like initiating pull-ups in boot camp long ago, I jumped to grab the ceiling light. Donkey-kicking the first guard in the chest, I finished his partner with a spinebuster. Marble floor and physics did the rest.
To my surprise, bootleg Tony Montana showed up and like Al Pacino's character, his entire face pale from cocaine and carrying a gun. Guess the drugs made him brave once in his pathetic life. However, his grip was weak and his body even more so; I was able to slap the gun out of his hands. A gold-plated Mac-10. Our pop star was coked out of his mind, just kept trying to swing at me weakly.
On-reflex, I blocked his exaggerated hook and threw him into one of the pillars holding this hole together. I'm positive that I broke a few ribs with the salvo of machinegun punches. Grabbing a handful of his hair, I pulled him all the way up the stairs to the closest window. Just for him, I brought along a cord with a noose. Tying one end of the cord to a pillar and putting the noose on him; I threw the teen pop sensation out of the window, cord still attached. Face full of glass, choking on the rope and wetting himself; this degenerate died struggling.
[Writer's note: I actually love the movie Scarface.]
© 2020 Jake Clawson