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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


"You look vaguely familiar..." Dave was saying as I came out the door of the office, as he lapsed into

unconsciousness.
I disregarded the man and went over to Dave, stepping over dog carcusses along the way. But he had a point, I

thought, glancing at the man: he did indeed look familiar. Dave had been savaged right proper, with his shellsuit now

torn and bits of blood and saliva all over. He looked like he had been stuffed into a running food processor. I

mused as I looked him over: did Dave deserve this? Maybe a little, I thought, remembering the faux trade center

complex on the hill, which still irked me in its very existence. Cemetary zombie, I thought, and looked at the man

again. I'll be damned. It was.
"Bill Hinzman?" I said, incredulous. I had seen him in Night of the Walking Zombies and in the Crazies, where he did

dual roles of camera operator and actor, proving himself with a sort of malevolent stare, a creepy walk, camera

proficiency and even some rifle skills. Dave would use him if he stuck around, I thought, and hell, they all stick

around. We could not get rid of many of them if we wanted. We had accidentally created a cult of mental retardation

in Piketown, naming a lot of the people Connor, which was a schizm with Fergal, anyways. All we need now: Dr.

Frankenstein from Day of the Walking Zombies, and Joe Pilato. Love that Joe Pilato. That big ham.
"I'm the very same" he said,smiling cheerfully, his aged face creasing this way and that, and thought of a fat pair of

buttocks squeezing into a tiny chair. "Cemetary zombie, academy award b*tch". This was new to me, for I had not

heard of him winning any kind of award, and it was a matter of scholarly debate as to whether he had ever been paid

for any of his film work. But times were changing for him. Dave would pay him, and make him a pet, like Fergal had

been before he "saw the light/went bad". "I saw this light blue fellow here being attacked by the dogs and I used my

weapon. I intended to scare them off. Don't they look scared?"
Was that a joke? I thought. Another crazy man with a gun. All we needed. And watching Dave's back. This increased

the odds of myself taking a bullet in the near future. But this was all impulse control and schizophrenia, all of it.

 And this guy was obviously one of Wusso's buddies, one Wusso had forgotten when he took his steps into the spotlight

of the film world. And why he was here on the grounds with the rifle in the first place was a matter for some debate,

too, and I'm sure Dave would not care; he would think it sort of a fortuitous miracle, like finding Fergal Stot was,

and all the other nonsensical things that had happened to us in the past. Personally, I thought the Illuminati was

sending these miscreants, helping to control Dave by dilluting his craziness with a sort of synthetic lunacy, which

others could readily see, but yet Dave was blind to it.
French and Burgersen came out of the office. You should have seen Burgersen's face; he couldn't help but crying over

the shotdead beasts. He had to turn away, looking at the sands of the artificially-level plain, like it would give

him some consolation, that unused emptiness, and I thought it was something like looking into any of our wretched

souls.
We all carried Dave into the office, his office, which consisted of a television a couch and a refrigerator. No desk.

 Not for the genius of David Pike. He did not want or need one. He would sit on the couch with telly going, and a

notebook pc propped on his thighs, in a prim and proper position, l"You look vaguely familiar..." Dave was saying as I came out the door of the office, as he lapsed into

unconsciousness.
I disregarded the man and went over to Dave, stepping over dog carcusses along the way. But he had a point, I

thought, glancing at the man: he did indeed look familiar. Dave had been savaged right proper, with his shellsuit now

torn and bits of blood and saliva all over. He looked like he had been stuffed into a running food processor. I

mused as I looked him over: did Dave deserve this? Maybe a little, I thought, remembering the faux trade center

complex on the hill, which still irked me in its very existence. Cemetary zombie, I thought, and looked at the man

again. I'll be damned. It was.
"Bill Hinzman?" I said, incredulous. I had seen him in Night of the Walking Zombies and in the Crazies, where he did

dual roles of camera operator and actor, proving himself with a sort of malevolent stare, a creepy walk, camera

proficiency and even some rifle skills. Dave would use him if he stuck around, I thought, and hell, they all stick

around. We could not get rid of many of them if we wanted. We had accidentally created a cult of mental retardation

in Piketown, naming a lot of the people Connor, which was a schizm with Fergal, anyways. All we need now: Dr.

Frankenstein from Day of the Walking Zombies, and Joe Pilato. Love that Joe Pilato. That big ham.
"I'm the very same" he said,smiling cheerfully, his aged face creasing this way and that, and thought of a fat pair of

buttocks squeezing into a tiny chair. "Cemetary zombie, academy award b*tch". This was new to me, for I had not

heard of him winning any kind of award, and it was a matter of scholarly debate as to whether he had ever been paid

for any of his film work. But times were changing for him. Dave would pay him, and make him a pet, like Fergal had

been before he "saw the light/went bad". "I saw this light blue fellow here being attacked by the dogs and I used my

weapon. I intended to scare them off. Don't they look scared?"
Was that a joke? I thought. Another crazy man with a gun. All we needed. And watching Dave's back. This increased

the odds of myself taking a bullet in the near future. But this was all impulse control and schizophrenia, all of it.

 And this guy was obviously one of Wusso's buddies, one Wusso had forgotten when he took his steps into the spotlight

of the film world. And why he was here on the grounds with the rifle in the first place was a matter for some debate,

too, and I'm sure Dave would not care; he would think it sort of a fortuitous miracle, like finding Fergal Stot was,

and all the other nonsensical things that had happened to us in the past. Personally, I thought the Illuminati was

sending these miscreants, helping to control Dave by dilluting his craziness with a sort of synthetic lunacy, which

others could readily see, but yet Dave was blind to it.
French and Burgersen came out of the office. You should have seen Burgersen's face; he couldn't help but crying over

the shotdead beasts. He had to turn away, looking at the sands of the artificially-level plain, like it would give

him some consolation, that unused emptiness, and I thought it was something like looking into any of our wretched

souls.
We all carried Dave into the office, his office, which consisted of a television a couch and a refrigerator. No desk.

 Not for the genius of David Pike. He did not want or need one. He would sit on the couch with telly going, and a

notebook pc propped on his thighs, in a prim and proper position, like a puritan woman, back straightened, buttocks

tightened, and tell stories that defied logic, defied the imagination. You could almost believe his lies because they

were actually too strange to be fiction, defying even the loose conventions of dreams and daydreams like a puritan woman, back straightened, buttocks

tightened, and tell stories that defied logic, defied the imagination. You could almost believe his lies because they

were actually too strange to be fiction, defying even the loose conventions of dreams and daydreams.
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Burgersen always dreamed of being an agent, but was not sure how to go about joining, because they did not advertise

signing up very well. So, he joined the military, and when that was done, he got his criminal justice degree, and

with that accomplished he went to a police academy. Within a few years, he found himself in line for promotion to the

federal agency of his dreams: the Federal Justice Bureau, which was easily one of the world's most renowned law

enforcement organizations.
All day, he practiced shooting his pistol at things and speaking foreign languages. Amongst the cadets, he was one of

the most promising in the crop. He had a criminal justice degree and an itchy trigger finger, but suprisingly good

aim that befuddled his overwillingess to shoot things. On the obstacle course, he shot all the targets, even the

friendlies, which showed his speed and accuracy. He took points deductions for the friendly fire, but with all the

other hits, he was always well ahead of the curve.
One day, the young Burgersen had a test of skill before him. He was put in a gloomy room with a chicken and told to

find a bomb. Although he was a bit befuddled, he knew his training would take over and guide him automatically to the

right course of action. Outside, the controllers watched him and talked amongst themselves.
Controller 1: "I hope he doesn't complain about his pay."
Controller 2: "Why?"
Controller 1: "If he takes one look at that chicken and says that its above his pay grade, we have to automatically

promote him to colonel."
Controller 2: "If he wines about his pay, we put him over us. Brilliant. What if he rapes the chicken?"
Controller 1: "He gets automatically sent to the intelligence department."
Controller 2: "Watch this. Its getting good."
Burgersen picked the chicken up and beat it against a table. He was saying something about the Geneva Convention and

American lives hanging in the balance, but the controllers could barely hear.
Controller 1: "That tears it. He touched the chicken."
Controller 2: "Whats that entail?"
Controller 1: "Field work."
Controller 2: "Wow. The agency was prepared for any outcome weren't they?"
Controller 1: "We were indeed."
Controller 2: "But, wait! He didn't find the bomb."
Controller 1: "It doesn't matter. He beat up the chicken."
Sure enough, the chicken lay unconscious on the floor, possibly dying and Burgersen gave the walls a prefunctory look,

as if the bomb was there. But no. Then he settled down and stood without moving, seeminly without seeing, a man no

longer with a mission, until the lights came fully on and he was led away to his new assignment.

Burgersen was an expert on David Pike. The agent had been there through it all, disguised as a squirrel in the

Buckettville Woods, as one of the Rizident Evol fanboys in the English tubes, and as a Connor at Pikestown, in the

shadow of the Okracabana. With this latest assignment, he cancelled his life insurance, divorced his wife, sold his

car and kissed any shadow of normalcy goodbye. One last loving letter to Mum, apologizing for all the lame gifts over

the years, though it was revenge for all the lame gifts she had given him when he was a boy. He resolved to die to

stop David Pike on this mission, no matter what. This time was it, the big one, the thrill of a Piketime. But first,

he needed to see all of the players, the bigger picture, because he would not throw his life away like a college boy

vacationing near the blue waters of Mexico, or a firefly in the face of the bug zapper. He would not be in vain; he

would do his duty and eventually, when the time was right, he would kill David Pike.
12/11/2014, 3:27 pm Link to this post Send Email to abaddon1215   Send PM to abaddon1215 MSN Yahoo Blog
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Mutiny on The Prince's Heir
Captain Smith sits in the large ship's dining area. He sips tiny mouthfuls of tea from bone china teacup whilst scowling at an old man, a cleaner who sweeps the floor. Young cabin boy, Perkins approaches. Out of breath, tired looking and shuddering from the cold sea air. He wears all but a pair of loose fitting underpants, punishment for supposed mutiny and conspiratorial dealings with the Peruvian intake. Captain turns his cheek as the boy approaches, not wanting to look at a 'traitor'. Perkins looks down at the ground, twiddling his thumbs, then rubs and caresses himself to try shield himself from the cold drafts that linger all around.
'Perkins, lad.' Captain said, keeping his eyes well away from the boy. 'Found Officer Taff, boy?'
'S-Sir!' Perkins replied, teeth chattering.
'Captain.'
'Yes, Captain, Sir.'
'Officer Taff?' Captain repeated, arms raised, still not being able to look at the boy.
'Yes.'
'Well, Perkins?'
Perkins licked his lips anxiously, then caressed himself more. 'There be rumours, Captain. Words gone round he fled in home-made dinghy.' Perkins said, knowingly lying as he saw the incident in the holding bay.
'Very well, Perkins..' Captain said, coldly, gesturing for him to leave with his finger pointed out towards the deck. 'You may leave.'
'Yes, Captain.' Perkins said weakly, rubbing at his belly while wandering away.
Captain pulls out his notebook and proceeds to write:
The case of the disappearance of Officer Taff has stirred rumblings of rumours and stories that I believe make believe and poppycock amongst my men. Gossips flies around that the man deserted my ship 'The King's Heir' and fled on a home-made dinghy. I believe this is lies. Rations for the mutineers have been halved again as of now. The said mutineers consist of Cabin boy Perkins, Officer Sebastian Flynn, Boatswain Hobbs, Chef Bunn, Master Billy Bryatt and Engineer Robert Quinn. These men are a threat to my leadership and captaincy of the ship. Through my investigations and interrogations of each of these men, I have found a conspiracy that beggars belief. They want my ship, but by God, they will not take it! Mutineers have been and will be routed out. Even if that means starvation. As well as this new story of Taff's escape, I have been told others. Some bizarre, like that he's assumed the identity of mildly retarded Peruvian and goes by the name Taffu. Another that Taff was eaten by the Peruvians. And lastly that he told Master Billy Bryatt that 'I'm going for a swim. Be back in five minutes'. This swim being in the middle of the Atlantic, mind you. An impossibility with a ship moving this fast. Knowing Officer Taff, I believe all these stories to be a nonsense created by the mutineers to trick me. Each mutineer comes up with different story. It stinks. All I have known is that Taff went into holding bay and didn't come out again. I'm outraged. I'm the first dammit. I'm the law here. I need the truth however hard. For all I know, I have a ship of more would be mutineers and the Puruvians may be in collusion with them, if not mutineers themselves. Lies aboard ship. I cannot take this much longer. It'll drive me to madness. I believe this cleaner, who as I write this, mops the floor is a mutineer also. An old one, mind you. Yet, a mutineer nonetheless. Two weeks and we'll be a port. The cargo/intake gone. I cannot wait. This misery will end. Each of the mutineers will hang as we anchor up. It'll send a message to the rest of the crew. You mess with Captain and you'll swing. The mutineers won't know of their fate, I'll leave that till the day itself but I can't wait for the day I tell these bastards and will smile as they quiver and !@#$ themselves as the gallows stand and I tell them 'For crimes against Captain and the ship 'The King's Heir' you are hereby sentenced to death for mutiny.'

Perkins stumbles onto the deck, still grabbing at an apparent starving belly. Also stripped down to all but white briefs, Officer Sebastian Flynn. Sebastian holds onto the railing and looks a disheveled wreck of a man, as he stares blankly at the open sea.
'Officer Seb.' Perkins said, pain filling his words.
'Mutiny?!' Sebastian said, then laughing at the lunacy of the Captain and turning towards Perkins.
'Still at it, he is. Mutiny this, mutiny that. He won't stop.' Perkins said, saddened as a waiter wanders past with freshly roasted chicken on a tray. Undoubtedly the Captain's dinner. The smell wafting through the air of the food makes both Sebastian and Perkins salivate wildly like hungry dogs.
'We can't go on like this, lad. Why last week I was enjoying the finest Peruvian dishes, and now I'm reduced to state of a beggar eating crumbs.' Complained Sebastian.
'A biscuit a day.' Perkins said, desperation covering his face. 'It's all he'll allow me, Seb.'
'Now, now, lad.' Sebastian said, grabbing Perkins shoulder in consolation. 'We are all in the same boat, for want of better phrase.'
'No!' Shouted Perkins as the chef passed them on his return to the kitchens. 'No we are not!'
'Calm yourself, lad.' Reassured Sebastian, patting the boy's head now. 'When the time is right, this will end.'
'What do you mean?'
'You know damn well what I mean, Perkins.' Sebastian said through gritted teeth. 'He wants to tie his second to a post for no crime and starve my fellow crew, I'll give that !@#$ what he wants.'
'A mutiny!' Perkins gasped.
'Yes. A bloody good one too.'
The two quickly quieten up as the door to Diner area opens up, but sigh with relief as Chef Bunn wanders out. Another of the accused, he too wears little, a pair of briefs and the luxury of a white chef's hat. Though not much luxury too him as he shivers as the chilly sea air makes him shake as he walks out on deck.
'Some food, chef? A little of that chicken?' Perkins begged, stopping the chef with his hand.
'Listen boy, you wouldn't want any of that chicken, but take this.' Chef Bunn said, pulling a couple of crackers from his underpants, whilst looking all around so as not to be seen.
'Thank you.' Perkins said, grateful as he munched on one the crackers while passing the other to Sebastian.
'Thank you, Chef.' Sebastian said, looking at the cracker but unsure whether to eat it or not, as it felt soggy and smelt of the fat chef. 'Spare any of that chicken, Mr Bunn?'
'You wouldn't have wanted any. A captain's special. Only for him.' Chef Bunn said, smugly grinning as he turned his head back towards the diner and imagined the Captain eating it.
'What have you done?' Sebastian asked, smiling.
'I took a crap, mixed it with the stuffing and stuffed this special mixture in that roast chicken. That maniac's eating it as we speak.'

Captain sits at dinner table. He gleefully tucks into the roast chicken and then pokes at the stuffing with his fork, not knowing any the better.
'Lovely' Captain said. 'Nothing like a nice bit of roast chicken for the Captain.'
'Indeed, there isn't, Captain!' piped up the ships lone cleaner.
Captain scowls at the man. He lifts the tray with the roast chicken on and throws it at the poor man who whimpers as it hits him with ferocity.
'Captain!' Pleads the man.
'You are a mutineer!' Captain said savagely, standing and spiting food out to the floor.


Last edited by knights, 12/13/2014, 7:42 pm


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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Bill Hinzman - The revelation
I lay back on the couch. I shake at the thought of more dogs roaming my piece of heaven. I'm frightened, scared. I'm being stared down at by four men, two of which are close confidants, that being my so-called good friend Derek and my humble man servant Burgerson. Mr French is also there. I know little of this man but just as with the others, I appreciate his help in my desperate state.
'Would you like some water, boss.' French said, to which I shake my head and muffle grunts out disagreeably. I can't even talk I feel that much of wreck. My mind wanders back to the towers, the destruction of Building Seven and then the dog attack. Things were going well and now in the space of short time I've nearly been blown up and then eaten by rabid, devil dogs. Not to mention being pushed down a hill. I can't help but think Derek is somehow behind all this. Maybe he's in cahoots with that ghost, the dead man, our friendly nemesis Fergal Stott. His friend possibly. I sense Derek wants to kill me. They talk about me, including that other fellow, the big man. I don't know his name but Derek calls him Bill and talks of films. I want to get involved in the conversation, but can't. I try uttering, but nothing but muffled grunts comes out. Hearing isn't great. Maybe this is death. Maybe I'm dying. The big man kneels down beside me and grabs my hand. He glares at me and talks but I don't hear anything. I just see his mouth moving. It occurs to me this man is a good man. I sense I know him. We've met before. At another place and time. This explains how he saved me. It was fate. His name it occurs to me is actually Panther, not Bill. It's Panther.
'P-P-P-Pa-' I blurted, but not being able to get it all out.
This man was my saviour. Not just in this life, but in my past life. It is him!
'Panther!' I bellow, to the astonishment and confusion of the four men, especially my Panther, who turns his head to the other three and shrugs.
Suddenly I see it all. That past existence, clear as day. Myself and Panther in the Roman Colosseum in duels with swords and spears, on chariots wielding great irons balls on chains. My partner in these battles, my protector in times of needs. Then I see battles against those big devil dogs and the roar of Colosseum crowds as Panther beheads one and helps me back onto my feet. It all makes sense now. History repeating. There were lions too. Great beasts these were. I killed many. Panther even trained one to fight with us. We called him 'Timmy' this lion. He was hand reared and as tame as a small cat, but more lethal than the wild lions whilst in battle. I clearly remember him his jumping up and biting man's head off. One bite and the head was gone.
Big giants, small midgets, fat men, skinny men, woman – we fought them all. And won. Me and Panther were wildly famous. Even the great Roman leaders and senators sung our praises. Children Idolised us, men wanted to be us, women wanted us. Panther was a hero to them and I just as he. My name was Antili Marillius. I was a brutal man. A feared man. I remember it so clearly now, the men I struck down with my blade and then the streams of blood that spewed as I slit their through and severed the heads. I held the heads aloft and tossed them to the crowds that were baying for blood. My weapon of choice of course though was the Pike. It makes so much sense to me now.
Ultimately the last memory of this life is a sad one, as an evil cabal of senators conspired against and made myself and Panther fight to the death, against each other in the greatest fight of all the gladiatorial games. Again, clearly now, I see the sword I thrust into Panther's heart. 'Are you happy now, mates?' I shouted to the senators, before throwing myself at Timmy and commanding him to eat me. I weep as these memories are refreshed.
'Panther? Is it really you?' I ask the tall man who still kneels beside me. I caress his cheek as tears well and fall from my eyes. 'Don't you remember?'
'YES. ' Panther replied, nervously as Derek smiled. 'I am he.'
'Lift me, Panther.' I ask the great man.
'It would be a pleasure.' Panther responded, bowing his head in tribute to me.
'Piggy back, Panther.' I tell him, pointing to his shoulders. Derek laughs. I hate him more. Yet Panther will protect me.
'This is ridiculous.' Burgerson said, shaking his head.
'Don't listen to that man, Panther.' I said, sneering at Burgerson.

'Panther' I said, as he lifts me up and I grip my arms around his chest for the piggyback. 'I need some black face paint.'
'Why do you need this, Mr Pike?' Panther responds. I laugh.
'You were a black man, Panther. Don't you remember?'
'Oh yeah.' He said.
'And some gladiatorial battle dress. Leather preferably. You liked that. Tight leather dresses were your thing.'
'Ah, Okie-dokie, Mr Pike.'
Derek, French and Burgerson stare at us, looking shocked, but obviously envious of my past friendship with the great Panther. I hiss at Derek as he tries to say something. Panther heads for the door. Derek follows. He looks furious. I suspect he's jealous, so hiss again. Being psychic, I'm sure he know of my past life with Panther, the man he calls Bill. Burgerson and French laugh for some reason. I cannot fathom why.
'And a lion.'
'A lion?'
'You remember little Timmy?' I asked, as we leave for the open air.
 'Of course, I do, Mr Pike.' Panther chirped back. 'Of course, I do. Timmy. Yep, good old Timmy. Hell of a guy, he was. I often think back to those times with Timmy.'
'Mr Hinzman!' Derek shouted angrily, looking appalled for some unknown reason.
Panther proudly turned to him and jutted his jaw out, just like he did whenever he'd fight an opponent in the Colosseum. It is Panther. There is no doubt now.
'Back off, Okra!' Panther said, shoving Derek away, much to my delight. It was as if Panther had channelled his past strength. The shove was forceful. Only a great gladiator could pull that off with a man on his back. I grip him more tightly and hiss at Derek again.
'Huh.' Derek said, now agitated, pushing Panther back. 'What are you playing at?'
'He pushed me down a hill, Panther.' I whisper, so as not to let Derek hear. 'He tried to kill me.'
'Did he now.' Panther said back, scrunching up his face and staring Derek down.
'The dog's were him too.' I whisper again. 'He and his friend, Fergal Stott are out to kill me. He's illuminati too.'
'Tried to kill him, did yah?' Panther snarled to Derek.
'Never would I-' Derek blurted.
'-Lies!' I cut-in, shouting at the top of my lungs.
Suddenly Panther drops me carefully to ground. I sense the battle of Pikesworld will shortly commence. Panther stares Derek down, again jutting out his jaw. I see panic in Derek's eyes. He fumbles around in his pockets for some reason. He pulls something out. A piece of paper. I see it briefly, a beautiful lady in a dress is on it and some words I can't make out.

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Panther gasps and holds his hands to his head.
'What is that Derek?' I utter, laying out on the grass, unable to stand, still in much agony.
'He knows.' Derek said, pointing at visibly shaken Panther.
'That's John.' Panther said, melancholy in voice. 'It can't be.'
'It is John. Now stop taking the fool for a ride. Quite literally.'
Derek takes Panther aside, they wander up the path. Panther examines the paper with the picture on and I hear a howling cry from Panther. What has just happened, I wonder to myself. A minute ago, Panther was about become that gladiator reborn, now he cries like a baby. Strangely, Derek cries too. I don't get it. I was anticipating the rebirth of Panther, but he's let me down.

Burgerson and French stand at the entrance to my hut, or lair as I fondly call it. Burgerson sensing my pain and desperation, grabs for my wheelchair and brings it out. Burgerson approaches as Derek and Panther natter away, but too far away for me to hear. I believe Derek has brainwashed or maybe hypnotised my dear, dear Panther. This makes my pain even more intense. I feel betrayed both Derek and Panther now. Derek is more than likely offering Panther Illuminati membership. I despair at the thought.
'Mr Pike.' Burgerson said, walking up with the wheelchair.
'Yes, Darling.'
'Your wheelchair, Mr Pike.'
'Careful, my loyal Burgerson.' I said, as he helped me up into the wheelchair. 'I need some things for that man. Take notes, Burgerson, please... Firstly, Black face and body paint.'
'Black face and body paint, yep.'
'Then the finest gladiatorial battle dress.'
'Gladiator clothes.'
'No, Burgerson! Battle dress!'
'Yep. Battle dress.'
'A sword and maybe a chariot.'
'Sword and Chariot, yep.'
 'And a lion or two.'
'Two lions.'


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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Interlude: Near Bucketsville Maryland
"Have you ever smelled a dead body burning?"
"Can't say as I have, Sarge" I said. "I'm pretty scared." And I was. We were both staring ahead at the landscape for any sign of movement.
"That's natural, Podewsky" said the Sarge. "Just don't waste your bullets."
"Sure, Sarge" I said. I had heard it a thousand times already, but I knew it was not wasted breath. Out here, you were always in danger of losing your head, firing off all your rounds too early, then being useless for the rest of the engagement, standing there with an empty gun, trying to find a cooler-headed soldier to buddy with just to cover your stupid ass.
"Should have been with us clearing Diznyworld. The sh#t was thick. The ba$tards were eating the lions and tigers in the Lion Elder section." He grimaced and stopped for a moment, biting his lips. His eyes never lost the horizon for a minute, but it was like he was seeing that chaos, that which he talked about, instead of the quiet, green wasteland ahead of us. "Somehow some of the rides were still going, with zombies walking around under them like tourists. I'll never look at Martel the Mouse the same way ever again. He was a symbol, dammit!"
"I watched his tv show when I was a kid" I said.
"We all did, kid" said Sarge. He was a big man and covered in a month's dirt and sweat, like the rest of us, needing a shower, a shave, and a hot meal. We were here for the duration, however, until the objective was achieved, and we were getting closer, day by day advancing on the target.
It had taken four months of solid death squad missions to clear peninsular Los Flores of the undead. They gave the squads loads of ammunition and bite-proof leathers. Videos got out: soldiers feeding the squirming undead to alligators, pitching them into swimming pools and lighting them on fire. It was all in good fun, bringing levity to a tense situation, but public opinion began to turn. The American people were at once sickened, outraged but also strangely assured. You must remember this was Florida, and Florida had been written off by most Americans at this point, left to the zombies. It was industry that wanted a zombiefree tourist zone, so they came up with the idea of blue-watered Los Flores, which their clever rebranding of the lost Florida.
The corpses of the undead and their victims were incinerated during the house by house sweeps. They tried baited traps ahead of the lines, but none proved effective. The simple hunt and feed instinct of the undead foiled them in that way, though largely, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. All an alert soldier had to do was stand there and wait, with weapon at the ready, and the undead would come with only that nagging hunger driving them, pushing them to destruction.
But here we were now in Ohio, in the wilderness near a lost town-one of the few-and we were waiting to engage what we knew was ahead. We expected a total loss, but there was always the aggravation of survivors to deal with, to call a chopper, nursemaid them on the military dime until they were released into the living wild. We were getting ever closer to the town, seeing smoke in the distance now, knowing from that things had gone horribly wrong there, and it would be our job to clear out the mess. It as always our job to clear out the mess.
Sarge gave a signal over his shoulder, and we rose to our feet, advancing, eyes open, nerves on end. We advanced to the treeline-what would be the Bucketville Woods, those on the outskirts of the city, and stopped, getting our bearings, looking into the darkness of the woods, the shadows, for any signs of the undead. The undead frequently harassed wildlife, trying in vain to catch squirrels and other animals by hand, which was next to impossible for the shambling undead: they had no speed you see. The animals just ran away, never knowing the what or why of the disturbance.
-END INTERLUDE
12/15/2014, 3:28 pm Link to this post Send Email to abaddon1215   Send PM to abaddon1215 MSN Yahoo Blog
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Earlier:
"Let me explain the motive of the world to you, sweet Okra. Let me make all clear" said the old French woman with the smushed schnauser face.
I'm thinking to myself all along that if I'm to have a true out of body experience, at least let me see some boobs, and hopefully not hers either, not some long, hanging, bonewhite, fleshbags covered in the marbled striping of purple blood vessels and the standard two horrid driedup poocolored areoli.
So she wanted to explain the world: big whoop. I did not need to know such things, I thought then. All we wanted was some grain of truth, some daylight, even in the gloom of the tubes, to break the obscurity of lies that clouded 7/7. And here I was about to be treated to this bird's theory of the whole world. What I really wanted to do was nick a warm loaf of bread, but here I was harangued by the only french woman in country that neither bread, wine, nor cheese. Maybe she ate rats that she had caught while clamoring about on all fours.
My attitude not withstanding, it just did not wash anymore that women had nothing postitive to contribute other than physical charms. So I stood there like I was listening to her, but all the while I was imagining what fun could be had further down the lane, like the loveshack that the workers used on the fringe of Pikeworld, where estrogen ran free and women ruled. Yes, it was even ran by an older bird who would chase the odd bloke out with a broom. Why a broom was such a bother, I don't know, but it worked. Helvetica Kovacs, she was: the only thing between the workers and unrestrained temporary love-a regular dionysan orgy.
A lost look came over the French woman's face then and I was instantly angry, thinking she was making fun of me, where, in reality, she had just stopped talking, having explained the whole world while I was trying to kickstart a wetdream and some petty larceny in my head, and now she was waiting on some response from me, interested in seeing how a man like me reacted to the truth.
My stomach growled loudly, breaking loose the silence between us, rising between us in the intervening space. Believe it or not, the woman still did not offer me any food, nor was there any laying about to steal. Even after she told me she was a fan of the show.
-END INTERLUDE(DEREK'S REMEMBRANCE)
12/15/2014, 3:30 pm Link to this post Send Email to abaddon1215   Send PM to abaddon1215 MSN Yahoo Blog
 
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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


Dealey Plaza, Pikesworld
'It's very easy to judge, Derek.' I said to him, as he pushed me in my wheelchair through the half complete recreation of Dealey Plaza. 'This, another reason they will come!'
'I think it was Marilyn Monroe.' Derek said sarcastically, folding his arms and leaving me at the pilot controls of the wheelchair.
'We'll never know, Derek. We'll never know.' I said, pointing at the almost complete Texas School Book Depository. ' It wasn't Oswald though, I can assure you.'
'You have bold plans, Dave.' Derek said, following me down the street toward the direction of the grassy knoll.
'Yes, bold indeed. Think of the books that could come of this. Replicas of the world trade centre, Dealey Plaza. It's unheard off. They might think me mad, but I'm a visionary.'
 'A visionary?'
'Like Isambard Kingdom Brunel himself.. But with shades of conspiracy. We could have more too. A true scale model of other false flags sites. It's genius.'
'Stupid.' Derek said, sighing. ' And what other false flag sights?'
'Er, Sandy Hook school.. The Boston Marathon bombing finishing line site.' I said back, proud of more great ideas.
'Sandy Fuckin' Hook! Do you ever stop!' Derek scoffed, walking away. I'd hit a raw nerve. Derek would never have it that these events were stage managed and were done using crisis actors. It'd fooled him and a lot of other people, but not me. Perhaps there inclusion as recreated sites might be too soon, in reflection. Too soon for him anyway. Though with Dealey Plaza and the world trade centres it would be fine. Enough time had passed and these conspiracy had been accepted as fact by the masses. My plans for these sites are simple. For five days of the week, people could wander freely in the replicas, but on the sixth day there would be a wonderful playing out of the conspiracies as I believed they had really happened. 9/11, the JFK assassination. Truth be told, I haven't thought this out too well, as I can't say who carried out both conspiracies for sure, but I'll make something up soon enough. Maybe a ufo comes down in Dealey Plaza killing Kennedy and then I'll explain in 10 hour lecture how this was done using primitive 60's cloaking devices. Thoughts turn to the twin towers. How the heck do I replay that event for the masses watching on Manhattan Hill. !@#$. This is my big Pikesworld selling point and I'm !@#$ clueless. Doubts are setting in. I can't help but think this whole thing might be a giant waste of time and money. Maybe holograms could be used for the world trade centre experience. Yet, then the other theorists would moan and they'd think I believed in their 'no plane' hologram theory. Damn it. Aliens or reptillians killed Kennedy and those buildings were brought down by controlled demolition. But how do I make my towers come down in controlled demolition fashion without damaging them. !@#$. I give up.

I wave Derek goodbye. He wanders up on the grassy knoll now and hops over the picket fence. He ignores me. I scowl at him and shake my fist. I feel so alone. I sit in my wheelchair in the middle of the road where an 'x' marks the spot where Kennedy will be killed by the aliens. This place is silent and eerie. I sit back and close my eyes, just as I did in my world trade centre seven replica. For a moment I feel as if I'm back in time and in the motorcade as the president's car is zapped by the aliens ray gun. That's strange. I hear a cracking sound. I ignore it. My imagination it is, I have to believe. I jolt my head back imagining I'm the president as the magic bullet hits. I grab at imaginary brain matter and see Derek beside me in my minds eye, screaming in a purple dress and jumping up screaming 'They've killed him'. Then I hear it again. Bang! That's a gunshot! Oh crap! That was a gunshot! I open my eyes again, look all over. I turn the wheelchair around and look up to the Texas School Book Depository. Clear as day, I see my nemesis again in the open window where the pasty Oswald was alleged to have been. Then in the corner of my eye I see a figure lurking around the picket fence. Must be Derek, I think. No, it isn't. This guys black. Oh crap. I'm cornered. Is this the crossfire moment? Will they both shoot me.
'YOU DOWN THERE! LISTEN BOY!' Fergal Stott bellows from the Texas School Book Depository.
'Me.' I mouth, looking down at myself.
'YEAH, YOU!'
I nod my head. I'm try to remain calm and calm Mr Stott. I fear a repeat of World Trade Seven. I hold my hands up in surrender.
'Please, I've got children.' I lie, hoping to mislead him.
'Children, eh?!' Stott shouts down, his voice echoing.
'Yeah, I got kids.'
Stott begins to laugh. An evil, great, belly laugh this was.
'He lies.' Another older, Irish voice shouts. I've heard that voice before, but can't pinpoint where and when in the past. Stott has an accomplice though, which makes me even more terrified.
I turn my head all around but can only make out the black fellow, behind the picket fence and the voice didn't come from that direction.
'Shall we kill him, Connor!' Shouts Stott.
'No!' The Irish voice demands. 'When the time is right, we do the deed, Fergal!'
'Yeah.' I mouth, staring back to the Texas Book Depository. Fergal Stott peers out. He holds a rifle and takes aim. At me.
'I won't shoot you, Pike!' Fergal shouts down. 'But listen good, as in good tradition, I'll spoil and sully these dreams of yours.'
'What do you mean!' I spit back, clutching the arms of the wheelchair in anger.
'This here book depository of yours, Mr Pike! You've a thousand or so books here!'
'It's a genuine replica of the interior of building!' I shout back.
'One match, my lad!' Stott replies, firing the rifle at my wheelchair. The bullet hits the chairs battery and makes me jump out of my skin.
'What do you mean!' I said back, panic filling my words and trying desperately to move the chair, which is stuck and motionless.
'Ha ha, I fancy me a book burning!' Stott shouted back, tossing the rifle from the window. I see a flash of light and then it clicks . He's burning down my Texas School book depository. I faint.

On waking, the street is filled with plumes of black, arid and cough inducing smoke. I ache all over, my electric wheelchair is a powerless as I. I will surely die soon enough, overcome by the smoke. Stott's wish realised. I can't help but be torn with emotion though as I see the building burn. He's right. He has ruined my dream, or part of it. At least the twin tower still stand. You can't replace the Texas School Book Depository though. I tilt my head back in the chair and accept my fate, as it is thus. I will be dead soon enough. My breathing is shallow and unable to move for the sheer agony of my injuries, I can't do a thing. A tear drops from my eye. I'm defeated. Pikesworld is no more. David Pike is no more. Death will arrive shortly. After that, only heaven, hell or the ether. Or maybe nothing, which really isn't that bad when you think about. Yet, then I think more as the smoke becomes more unbearable and my lungs burn, my breathing more and more shallow. I desperately gasps for clean air, but it's not there, just the smoke. I'm done for. Panic sets in. I fan the smoke with my arms and hope it will clear, but it won't. I know this. I secretly hope for escape from death but know my fate is sealed here in this moment. Suffocation. I feel weaker. The seconds seems like minutes. I shuffle my body weight in one final attempt to try and push the wheelchair over, but I'm so weak it barely nudges a millimetre. The chair weight is comparable to a ton of bricks. I cannot move, I cannot scream, I cannot breathe. This is my final act.

Am I dreaming? Is this heaven? Is this elysium? Is my mind gone? From the mists of smoke, as if in ultra slow motion a figure moves forward with tough, leaping strides. It's at this moment, I hear the great battle score from the film Gladiator play out in my head. The figure is a giant of a man. As he nears and makes his way through the smoke I see he's a massive black man. Is it death himself? No! He carries a sword and shield. He's dressed in gladiator battle dress and Roman strap sandals.
'Who are you?' I said weakly, then coughing madly.
'I am Panther. Son of an African sheep farmer, hero to a million Romans.' He said, picking me up and carrying me away from the smoke filled street.
'I knew you'd save me.' I said, crying.
I hear Derek, as I begin to fade out in Panther's arms. He keeps nagging at Panther, calling him Bill. He said that John is here. It's at this moment, I'm dropped abruptly to the ground with a painful bump. I yelp. I gaze up. I take a deep breath of clean air and my lungs feel immediately soothed. I'm laid out in the car park behind the picket fence. Around us a car park filled with cars from the 50's and early 60's. A woman appears in a odd dress. Derek welcomes the woman to Panther. Panther hugs the woman. Although as the lady gets closer, I see she has a moustache.
'John!' Panther said, hugging the strange looking lady. The face vaguely familiar to me now.
'Bill!' The woman cried back, beginning to sob hysterically.

The couple are odd to say the least. Bill Hinzman, blacked-up and dressed as a gladiator and John Wusso, now a transvestite plasticine artiste. Dave drops his head back into the dirt, disturbed by the vision before him and Derek cannot help but hide his childish giggles behinds his hand.

Last edited by knights, 12/21/2014, 4:48 pm


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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


The Potato Mutiny
'He'll kill us all!' Perkins yells out, from amidst a huddle of Peruvians in the holding bay. The Peruvians are in a mad panic. Two days without food, not even a spud. The lack of potatoes has caused outrage. Murders have occurred for want of them. Who's doing is this? Why it's Captain Smith, of course. Now accusing his Peruvian intake, all one thousand men of being mutineers. This as well as fifteen more of his crew. Smith trusts no one. Punishment abounds and no mercy is given. Starvation his sole weapon, he rules with an iron fist. He has but five members of his crew that he trusts now, all useless and lowly brown-nosers who seek promotion and wealth. All five of these men guard and protect the food canteen. There are a hundred thousand potatoes in there, but not a single one left in the holding bay.
Sebastian Flynn stands on the storage locker in the holding bay. The eyes of everyone on him and he raises his fist in protest. A triumphant chorus of starved and sickened Pan Pipers play out an old-time Peruvian war anthem.
'Do we fight?!' Flynn said to the near thousand strong crowd below him. Not many understand his words, but his body language says all that needs to be said. This is war on Captain Smith.
'YES!' They shout back unison, with cheers of joy and anger.
'FOR POTATOES!!' Sebastian said, riling up the crowd into ecstasy for the thought of lovely, succulent raw or cooked potatoes. Sebastian signals to another of the rebelling crew and gives a signalling gesture with a nod of his head. The mutiny has begun.
A small peruvian boy grabs at an life-size effigy of Prince and tosses it onto a just lit bonfire. Cheers roar through the entire holding bag as the effigy burns, but panic consumes them all as the entire holding bay slowly fills with smoke.

Sebastian will lead an effort to quell the flames of the bonfire. Teams of Peruvians gather pails of water and try their best to quell the flames but it's too late. The fire rages and smoke becomes intolerable. They exit the holding bay in their hundreds, people are trampled to death, a mass frenzy of crazed Peruvians head up to the main decks upstairs. If a mutiny will happen, it's now. Yet, with a fire raging out of control, soon enough there might not be a ship for a mutiny to occur. The King's Heir is hundreds of miles away from land, still drifting in the middle of Atlantic. A tragedy of epic proportions may soon happen. Time will tell. Heroes are made in moments such as these.

'The Peruvians are rioting, Sir!' Chief Engineer Samuel Moore said, approaching a bewildered and frightened looking Captain on the main deck as hundreds of the Peruvians seep through the doors and take in deep breaths of the Atlantic's sea air. Smoke billows from above. It's apparent to the Captain that the ship is in serious jeopardy. Roused from his sleep, Captain wears purple pyjamas and striped white and purple nightcap. The time is approximately 2am. If a disaster is to occur, this is the worst time for it.
'Where's the smoke coming from!' Captain screams at the man, holding his arms out as the smoke appears on the top deck. Several of the Peruvians encircle the Captain as he rages at the engineer. 'Why are these people not in the holding bay?'
'The smoke's coming from the holding bay, Captain. They got angry after you took the spuds away.' Samuel said, then throwing a rusty spanner to ground completely outraged by the Captain's stupidity. Samuel screams into the dead of the night, knowing of the coming tragedy. His eyes capture the face of an armless Peruvian, who if the ship sinks won't stand a chance. The poor Peruvian's face makes Samuel gasp in horror. He jumps up onto the railings, pulls out a revolver and shoots himself in the head. Samuel body flops down into the cold sea. Howls from scared Peruvians echo all over the top deck of the ship. Fear heightened more so, as the smell of burnt timber wafts up and the smoke begins to get thick and black in colour. Several Peruvians throw themselves over the sides of the ship and into cold water, carrying anything that may float. Captain stands still encircled by a gathering crowd of Peruvians near the bow of the ship.
'Do what you will!' Captain said, pushing the Peruvians away as the gather around him. 'I'm the first, damn you!'
'So, you're a the man they call 'Prince,' eh?' An elderly Peruvian man with Santa Claus beard said, prodding Captain with his index finger.
'I'm captain!' Prince said, overwhelmed by emotion, tears falling from his eyes. 'I am Captain of the King's Heir. It's my ship. MY SHIP, DAMN YOU! MINE!'
'This ship will sink, Captain.' The old man continues, prodding again. 'Soon enough, you and your precious ship with be five miles down at the bottom of the sea bed.'
'This won't sink!' Captain barks back, indignant. 'It can't. It just can't. It's my ship. Nothing can sink my ship. We've been far and wide, me and this ship. Nothing can sink her.'
'There's a raging inferno down there, Captain. I don't think you understand.'
'I do understand, Father [sign in to see URL] hundred thousand potatoes for the men that puts the blasted fire out!' Captain said, looking at the crowd that gathers wanting his blood. 'The canteen and all the food you can eat. Save the ship! All the food you want!'
'We will try,' the old man said, 'but you must play a concert for the men.'
'A concert?'
'Music man Prince, you are. Music man Prince.'
'I'm Captain!'
'Captain of the seabed in one hour, unless you play concert.'
'A concert, yes. As Captain.'
'As Prince.'
'Okay.' Captain said, gulping, relenting at the bearded man's demands. 'Very well.'

The fire burned for a whole hour. The Peruvians showed heart and courage. Despite flooding the holding bay in their battle to put the fire out, the ship remained stable and seaworthy. Throughout the morning, the Peruvians gorged themselves silly in the food from the canteen. Mostly on potatoes, admittedly.
For his part in the events that transpired, Sebastian was quickly charged with high treason by Captain and will be held prisoner, then summarily executed by hanging when the boat docks at Pikesworld. Bolivar Alboss, the bearded, elderly, Peruvian man who led the Peruvians in their battle against the fire was awarded the highest honorary commendation that Captain could give, 'Heir of the sea, First Class honours' as well as a role aboard ship as an all-the-year-round Father Christmas.
For just the relief of being saved from death, some semblance of order has emerged again. After playing a full hour long set of Prince songs for the Peruvians, Captain has calmed beyond measure. Forgiving the so-called mutineers, the thousand or so Peruvians, as well as the twenty odd crew he's got respect and has become a much loved captain. With less than a week until the ship will dock at Pikesworld, the future seems unexpectedly rosier than the days before.

Last edited by knights, 12/31/2014, 6:05 pm


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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


What cool story! I especially liked that twist at the end, I could almost see Captain Smith as he performed his concert. emoticon

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Re: Mike Daydreams More TIL5 Goodness...


The Pike Menace
68-years-old, semi-retired, divorced, balding, grouchy, uptight, arrogant, self-important, self-righteous, knows it all, is always right and quintessentially old-school English. Meet Bill. Owner of the guesthouse 'The Hill State Manor'. With its 10 rooms, with en-suite bathrooms and coming with free full English breakfasts, this is a place that might seem like your average guesthouse, but with Bill in charge it is not. You see Bill Blighford has a habit of frightening people away rather quickly. Often walking around his establishment completely unclothed, this self-styled 'Guest house naturist' doesn't keep his patrons for long. Peep holes in the showers with eyes peering through have been rumoured of. A time when he exposed himself to a small child, merely by accident, has led to visits from local police. A secret room, discovered to contain an array of bondage gear have been heard of. Lewdly touching a young chamber maid, forcing her to flee in terror. Arguments with guests over how they eat their breakfasts, how loud their room TV's are, how late they get back in the hotel. He's described by most as simply just rude. For a while he was the talk of Walnut Road. Rumours flew around about him, some true, some made-up. This alarmed him so much, he dared not venture outside the door for several months about a year back. He was often seen at the curtains during this time, twitching them and gazing out at carefree tourists. When spotted by them, he'd often expose his bare buttocks on the window panes, much to the unsuspecting tourists horror. For whilst he looks mild-mannered and caring, he isn't. He's a bastard and proud of it. Conscientious, he doesn't know the word. He cares little to nothing about others and only for himself.
At first Bill was happy when the other nearby guesthouses closed. First went the 'Sundown Lodge,' then 'Excalibur House'. The guesthouses were closing for some reason. Maybe it was him, he thought. Then the other three guesthouses on Walnut Road closed one-by-one – 'Moon Rose, The Wicker Inn, and The Robin and Holly.' All of a sudden his was the last guesthouse standing. Business boomed for a while, but he still managed to scare off most this new trade with his odd and unusual ways. The buyer of the other guesthouses, knocked them down quickly for whatever reason. He thought this was most strange, as he hadn't been told by anyone what was happening. Though, who would tell him, he was a weirdo, that people kept away from. Then on a dreary, cold, wet and dark winter's evening a man knocked on the door to The Hill State Manor. The truth of matter was the other guesthouses has been brought out by a rich man he was told. The man, David Pike, had plans for the area, that would transform it into a enormous theme park. It wasn't just Walnut Road either. Properties deemed in the way, had been brought out at exorbitant prices all around the local area. Whenever someone wouldn't budge, the price for their home, hotel or land, was raised to the point where they wouldn't say no. One hotel went its original sale price, whilst another of similar size, sold for a figure close to a million. Money was no object to this Mr Pike. He wanted the land. On being offered a reasonable sum of money for The Hill State Manor, Bill had only one reply. At the door of the guesthouse, he told the estate agent to wait a moment, then returned with his bedpan filled with a week's worth of urine and threw at the estate agent. In no uncertain terms, he would not sell. Pike was outraged, sending the buyers in offering double, triple the original offer, but Bill wouldn't give in.
'I won't sell. Never. Now leave me alone, or I'll come down there and stick something up you.' Bill said, hanging up the phone as the buyers resorted to calling him day and night. Eventually he just pulled out the phone line.
Pike had no choice. The guesthouse would remain. It'd be in the outskirts of the Pikesworld anyway, he thought. No where near any of the main attractions.
Soon enough, this troublemaker would be gone, Pike mistakenly believed. Bill wouldn't capitulate though. Even when Pike's workers moved in, erecting massive brick walls that surrounded the guesthouse, Bill was very blasé. He did toss buckets of piss at the workers that veered to close to his property, but facing the Goliath of Mr Pike and Pikesworld gave his life some excitement, after years of self-abuse and loneliness. The bricklayers were relieved when the wall were complete, several went off work with post traumatic stress, great was the pressure of working around the mad guesthouse owner. It wasn't just buckets of piss that made things difficult. For about three weeks, to torture them, Bill played a vinyl record 24/7, over and over – Huey Lewis and The News' song The Power of Love – at full volume. Often as it played, he walk naked out into his garden to water his plants but when finished he'd start his nude solo aerobics, which were a ghastly sight to anyone building the wall. After the work was done, Bill took a sledgehammer to the wall, citing that the wall obscured the sun. Mr Pike was so outraged, he sent in more bricklayers to finish the job, adding several feet to the already 10-foot high wall. Realizing that he was powerless, Bill did give in with regards to wall, but wouldn't be moving any time soon.
For months, Bill looked out from his windows that overlooked amusement park. A complete recreation of Dealey Plaza was being built on the other side of the wall about a quarter of a mile away. He shouted curses at the builders, but was unheard. He played his music loudly again, but that too went unheard. Angered he couldn't annoy anyone of the builders or at least throw bucket of piss, he went back to running the hotel. Visits became fleeting. About three guests a month, at the last count, down from around thirty on the last year around this time. Though these guests didn't stay for long. A night at most. Probably scared away by the odd man inside. Yet, two new guests arrived together soon after. Despite Bill strolling around naked, they didn't care for the odd, old kook. And for all his attempts at rousing arguments, the two just didn't care, laughing him off and they stayed on. They'd been there for weeks now. Bill had it in head that the two were a couple of old homosexuals, but couldn't say for sure. One night he did see them sneak over the wall with a rope and grappling hook to enter Pikesworld, which he thought strange. On their return he confronted them accusing them of all manner of gayness, then they revealed all to him. These men were allies. They were as much anti-pike as him. His loneliness had ended. After a few days, he entered the fold. They hatched plans together and their targets to begin with were the attractions in Pikesworld. Then later, the death of Pike himself would come. Along with who Bill believed was Pike's gay lover, Derek Okra. For with no women around them, Bill believed them to be homosexuals. In fact, for all Bill knew, and for some weeks he believed Pikesworld itself was some homosexual retreat and the gay mafia had wanted to him out of his beloved guesthouse. His two guests soon dispelled this nonsense and explained that Pikesworld was in fact the creature of a mad man and a wild imagination, with not one hint of homosexuality, but much conspiratorial paranoia.
In the hotel's guestbook, the two men who Bill had become quite fond of had put their names down as Fergal Stott and Connor Davis. Over games of scrabble, drinks of proper English tea and chats about how to deal with what Bill called 'The Pike Menace,' the three men had become unlikely friends.

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