AL's SWC: Roberman vs Kramer

[Wesforce]

(Pt1 The start to my story for AL's comp. It's not much, but its a shot in the dark.)

Tuesday. Jagged Edge city. 4:54.Am.

New Jagged City was the name of the vast new redevelopment project that was replacing the old with the new, the have-nots with the haves, the dark with the light, the jagged with the smooth.

Oddly enough, the first thing they'd built was New Jag city Jail - a Giant, gleaming glass pyramid, topped with the Icelandic flag. Behind these smooth, gleaming walls, New Jag city's most dangerous criminals - among them a group of leprechauns, and over 10% of the city's population -there for the duration, or until they realised that glass could be broken quite easily..

Chief Brian O'Brien looked with consternation at the reports on his desk.

'Jesus Mary an' Joseph will ye take a wee look at this? The gob****es have gone and cut our budgets again, the noo. Have to cut the men's Guinness and potatoes rations a wee bit.'

The Leprechaun on his desk jumped up and down and shouted maniacally.

'HO HO! HEE HEE! HAR HAR!'

'Whats that ye say? I no be hearin' too well after the wee bairn got his hands on me shooter while I was giving the fair wifey a good-'

'I SAID TAKE A LOOK OUT THE WINDOW CHIEF!'

'Jings an' help ma boab! They no be escapin'? Och!'

But it was sp. Many of the prisoners were fleeing the scene already. A NASCAR pit crew clung tenaciously to a boat shaped like a taco (made from industrial strength tortilla) as it wavered here and there, trying to cross the moat where other prisoners were hauling arse uphill and far away. Alas, the illegal mechanics all drowned, having become hungry halfway across. A desperate attempt to talk sense into the men eating themselves to death was silenced with a bellow of 'I LIKE Nachos, butthead!' and a SMACKPUNCH.

'Och! Open fire! Open fire Noo! the wee fraggers cannae escape! Aye!' Roared the chief, whipping off his trousers so he could affix his war-kilt.

'Thought you were meant to be Irish.' Mumbled the Leprechaun.

Cannon mounted up and down the structure of the rpison started firing. 20mm autocannons that blew men to the consistency of spam. Haggis mortars that exploded and coated everyone in 20 metres with noxious highly corrosive bile.

Men fell left and right, or screamed, dissolving, falling under the waves of the moat. One man, halfway across the moat, still clung desperately to the blow up sheep sex toy that had afforded his freedom (as well as offering respite on many a lonely night).

And then he sank beneath the waves.

***

'Bejezuz, this has been costly enough.' Said the chief, lifting his police-issue tamoshanter and mopping the wide forehead, with it's frame of thick curly ginger hair underneath.

'So you're Irish again?' Muttered the Leprechaun PA, lifting one quizzical ginger eyebrow and taking a deep draft of Murphy's. Then he jumped as the Chief slammed a meaty fist down on his desk.

'Ah cannae be sure noo o' them bastards survived! Ah canne risk it!' He spat. 'Get me Constable Roberman McJohnson! NOO!'

***

Meanwhile, the man who had survied escaping prison with his inflatable sheep (he'd used it for air while underwater) wound up bedraggled at the docks, next to a warehouse. A warehouse he recognised.

He squelched up to it, knocked out a pattern on the door. Long seconds past, before a fat face appeared behind a sliding panel.

'Yais?'

The man paused, considering what to say next. Had they changed the password? Would they still remember him from his time in the resistance? All those years ago? Before prison?

'I'm here about the Gibbon grooming kit.'

'HAW HAW HAW!' Said the "yais" man. 'Wrong password. But I'll let you in if you'd be willing top part with that there Inflatable sheep.'

The man thought long anmd hard about his sheep. Eventually, he handed it over, but not without getting one last shot of happiness from it's plastic sides.

'Well here you go.' He told the man, entering the warehouse. They shook on the deal. Then the Yais man washed his hands.

***

'Wha' be the prrrroblem noo?' Growled Roberman McJohnson. 'Ah've just - bzzt - got got me a wee bitch back home, ah cannae be doin' this, leavin' her waiting!'

'Wll there boyo,' Said Chief O'Brien in his singsong Welsh lilt. 'You'll not want to be so hasty on this you won't. We're prepared to offer you rewards, boyo, and reward big, if you find this man we now know to have escaped, eh.'

'Ooh aye? What rrrrewards?'

'Ye'll see boyo. Aye.''

[Artificial Idiot]

haha! Nice return to Jagged edge city wes! :D

Loved the cheif too. Great work!

[Apache_Longbow]

W00t w00t! First entry :color1:

Nicely done Wes.

[Wesforce]

The man, exhausted by his escape and flight, harrowed by his experiences and in no mood for a warehouse full of canned spam, found himself in one, surrounded by the dejected dregs of what had once termed itself a resistance movement. Now the only resistance was the resistor in the TV they all sat watching (‘But WHY can’t I wear my French maid’s outfit for my Knighthood ceremony?’ ‘Harold, how many times have I told you – The Queen HATES the French!’), the only movements were bowel movements.

The man, Ian Ben Nevis Kramer III stood up on his pulpit – 3 score cans of spam.

‘Are we not men?’

Silence from the group. The TV blared.

‘Do we not have a sacred duty to save our city, our noble nation of Land of the Ice?’

(The man in French Maid’s uniform on TV was hugging two naked dyed-blue-haired women. ‘I’D BUY THAT FOR A DOLLAR”)

The TV Watchers laughed.

Kramer got the wheelbarrow – it had training wheels, so it would keep travelling on its own when pushed. He vae it a solid kick – the sharpened point impaled the TV – Both exploded in a shower of sparks.

‘Oi!’ Said the TV Watchers.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen! We must rise! Rise! Rise against oppression! Down, down, down with the New Jag City order! Freedom, freedom, FREEDOM FROM BRIAN O’BRIEN AND HIS FASCIST COMMUNIST POLICE REGIME!’

‘Next ye'll be putting on blue spandex, wearing ye’re underwear over ye troosers an’ calling yoo’self lughead!’

Shocked silence filled the room at the new voice. Kramer turned to face it.

Striding upright through the warehouse came huge Dog that walked like a man. He wore a police uniform with Kilt and Tam O’Shanter hat. The Crowd that had been watching TV cowered before him, then scattered like motes of dust, and behind him came the ‘yais’ man, looking pissed off, clutching the deflated sheep like a comfort blanket.

‘Krrrrrrramer.’ Growled the Dog-cop. ‘Yoo are gannin’ DOON!’ And the Dog ripped the sleeve off his left arm – three-barrelled rotary machinegun formed his arm below the elbow, gleaming in the dull light. It had a big transfer on one side: ‘SPONSORED BY DUREX – PROTECTION FOR MEN WHERE IT COUNTS’.

‘Oh yeah?’ Said Kramer. ‘You and who’s…’

He looked around behind him. Spam. He grabbed a few tins of spam and overarmed them swiftly. One caught the Yais man and nutted him, causing him to fall over into the meat grinder which had been placed behind him. Roberman shot the other cans from the air, making them explode and shower brain matter all over the cringing TV watchers. Then Roberman turned his deadly arc of fire at Kramer – tracers richocheted all over the place, firing so fast the thing looked like a continuous laser death ray.

A man screamed and ran, waving his hands in the air like a little girl. The stream of bullets caught him, transfixing him. He truned green, then blue, then red, and vanished.

Kramer’s pile of spam suffered a similar fate, but Kramer wasn’t ehere anymore. He was climbing cargo hooks, up to the ceiling.

‘C’mere!’ Growled Roberman. ‘Ah’m gonna eat yer!’

‘Eat SPAM instead!’ Said Kramer, pulling a spamcrate off the high shelves and sending it tumbling down to the robodogcop. But nothing was stopping Roberman, not now, not ever. He tore through the crate and its contents with steel jaws before it hit the ground – then gagged and wiped off some of the spam juice with bits of dead human corpse.

Roberman threw the corpse aside and looked for Kramer again. He was sitting on one crate, a crate that looked smaller than all the others. He was chewing something.

‘Watcha got therrrrrre? Come doon, laddie!’

‘You know, there’s one crate here that’s NOT full of spam.’

‘Aye?’ Mocked up Roberman. ‘An’ what might that be?’

Kramer took a blob of the substance out of his mouth.

‘Pepsi-flavoured chewing gum. How else did you think I escaped from the Glass Iceland Pyramid prison?’

And he casually tossed the blob at Roberman.

‘Jings!’

It expanded in the air, getting wide and more elongated. Roberman fired at it, but the corrosive substance reduced the armour-piercing uranium-tipped rounds to nothing. And then it was on Roberman, coating him, dissolving away it him. Roberman howled, and shrieked, and evacuated his bowels in terror. But the form was smoking and shrinking. The stench of burning fur reached Kramer’s nostrils, and he somersaulted down from his 100foot high perch, where a blue-haired woman in combat trousers and back form-fitting top was waiting for him, with a pint glass of G.I.S.M. Beer.

‘Thanks Lady.’ He said taking the glass. Then he turned to the camera.

‘Kids. They can take our freedom. They can take our jobs, take our guns, whack us in prison, make us watch reality TV until we’re ready to drop. But they can’t do it forever. Each one of us they kill, each martyr, each son without a father, each mother without a daughter, each Welshman without an inflatable sheep is one more fighter for our cause. Our cause? FREE ICELAND! FREE JAGGED EDGE CITY! AND UNTIL IT HAPPENS, I’LL BE SLEEPING WITH ONE EYE OPEN! THEY CAN’T TAKE OUR FREEDOM!’

There came the harsh brittle *smack* sound of glass breaking. Kramer slumped to the floor, bleeding from the back of the head with beer matting his hair and going solid.

The woman flicked on her wristphone.

‘Yeah I got him. Yeah. Might want to bring the spam clear-up crew too. See you then.’

The End :|

[Artificial Idiot]

Hooray! Nice to see the trademark Wesforce surprise ending (TM) in action! :D

Great job Wes! Loved it!:D