FA+
Shop
669 submissions
I tried to tune myself up with a short story before I start on a longer work, but gah...I tell myself 'two pages', make a clear concise two page story...still went over. T-T...
Anyways this is just a first person story from Kingman's point of view of a typical BOS patrol, and how he easily dispatches some thugs. Maybe shades of things to come are hinted at too. ;)
Enjoy and comment if you like
Easy Mode
Sometimes I have to wonder what the hell some people are thinking. We live in a world of superheroes, super villains, mad scientists, power hungry cultists, magic, future tech, and yet here I am looking at three goons with knives. Three goons with knives who just a minute before were terrorizing a lady on her way home from the Seven Eleven. That was until I, a Bureau of Superheroes Agent, Kingman Alphonso Highborn, aka The Inquisitor found them on sheer luck. I was on patrol and heard the lady scream, a quick summon of feline spirits and I had found them.
My loyal cats, two simple house cats in life phased through the wall the lady was pinned to and latched onto a goon’s face each. Now if you ask me, a ghost phasing through a wall to claw your face, ‘should’ make you reconsider your mugging career, but ah well. By the time I got there the goons was stabbing laughably at my spirit cats, missing, or just watching their knives pass through the ghosts. If an innocent wasn’t still in danger I may of just watched by the time I came to the alley way entrance they had dragged the lady into. She was looker, but way too young for me, like maybe seventeen if just guessing. She is a lithe little mink girl in a blue tank top and jeans cut into shorts right above the knee. Practical clothing for a ninety-eight degree day…and here I am in composite armor of titanium and bullet proof ceramic.
Now the goons see me and being the show boat I am, I roar out. “Hey, you fools like picking on little girls? Why don’t you try to mug the BEST in the Business?” I hold out my Lucerne hammer in one hand near the weapon’s head and jab the pommel of the pole arm into the ground, hard enough to break the concrete with an audible crack, hoping this time I’ve found a catchy um…catchphrase. And the goon’s reaction brings me to my point. They laugh. One boar, a croc…or maybe gator I’m not a herpetologist, and the…what is my best guess is the leader, a komodo dragon. All male, all full of stupid to be laughing at me. Now at this point they certainly don’t look like supers and they sure as heck don’t strike me, with my powers and training as dangerous. Yes they have knives, but I’ve dealt with creatures that breathed hell fire and had claws sharp as steel and a yard long. But see here is the thing. Let’s say these guys do have a little ‘something’ in them, boost their endurance and toughness so they can take a hit or too that’d kill a regular mook. I hold back too much and maybe they actually get the best of me…then again maybe the Cleveland Browns will go undefeated and win the Super Bowl…okay I’m smirking at that unlikelihood, but still underestimating anyone is a surefire way to greet your maker.
In my old days…or should I say when I was an actual Inquisitor, I’d of just pulled out my grenade launcher and let god sort them out…maybe roast a marshmallow on the burning bodies if I had them. Or I’d use my Sansei Goju Ryu if I was worried about hurting the lady. Three broken necks, all quiet, and I can do it without even the overly dramatized way you see in movies, the lady would just think I cold cocked them. Or I could use the hammer and make their skulls out to be the walnuts they are. Of course that’s also why I am not an actual Inquisitor anymore, I like the challenge of not killing, and I actually care about people, the seven years I’ve had to turn off my conscious to do things makes me sick sometimes.
So even when piggy rushes me, knife held up, raising it over his head like he was trying to wield a longsword, Conan style it’s my turn to laugh, and play the odds…”Easy Mode!” I scream at him, as I parry his knife across my body with the spike end of my Lucerne, twist to the left, send him right, and slam the blunt in under his chin, and carry him straight into the brick wall. He falls like a marionette with his strings cut, unconscious, but alive sans a few missing teeth and a hairline fracture to his jaw. My spirit cats so loyal even in their undead state have stayed by the lady’s side this whole time. I guess she knows me, because she isn’t freaked out by my cats. Of course they have solidified into the forms they had has living felines, so that is probably helping. Nothing is worse than having a fight, and freaking out the person you are trying to save.
Seeing me drop their friend the cold bloods hiss, and now they both try to rush me at the same time, Hand bag the croc, and Spittle the komodo as I call them mentally are much better at this, they both hold their knifes point down, blade out, free hand closed in a fist. Hand bag is the more blood thirsty of the two it seems, he can’t wait to for Spittle to get closer, and try to flank around. Hand bag throws his knife towards my charming good looks. Rather than try and dodge the knife, I turn my left spiked shoulder pauldron to the knife and feel it ping off harmlessly. Shot spoiled he stops to cuss, Spittle comes in unsupported. I could swing horizontally and tear his head off with the hammer at this point, probably splatter Hand bag with the brain matter, bone and gore for added effect, but I have mercy planned from the start.
Spittle raises his knife to plunge it down into my neck since he is taller, maybe six foot eight. But the move leaves him vulnerable, he thinks I can’t swing fast enough in the alley…I don’t… I jab the pole arm hammer forward and jolt the knife out of his hand, the spear point at the top of the pole rips through and ruins his hand…oh well, he doesn’t need it to go to prison. Spittle screams and drops to his knees holding his hand. Hand bag looks worried now, but he gives a laugh still, even if it’s a bit more insecure. “Hey c’mon on boy, I ain’t got a weapon now.” Hand bag shows me his palms. I smile, because this is really easy now. I give Spittle a good hard kick in the jaw, flattening him to his back and then drop my hammer’s shaft onto his chest. The weapon’s head is made of star metal it is incredibly dense and heavy for its size, bonded to me, its light as a quarterstaff, to Spittle, I’ve just pinned him to the alley with something that weighs closer to an automobile’s engine block. But it’s just the shaft across his chest; it won’t crush him since it’s not the weight of the hammer head itself on his chest. But still he isn’t going anywhere.
I show Hand bag my hands, mocking his stance. “I ain’t got one either now, come on, I feel a bit generous, how about you lie down, and put your hands behind your back?” I am being nice, I mean shoot I haven’t even broken a sweat. True to thug form he changes demeanor. “Fuck you!” he charges forward, jaws open trying to bite me. I bring my right arm up to block his snout and let his momentum carry him forward. I turn and slap him on the shoulder, laughing. “Nice try Hand bag.” He growls. “Pussy!” He turns, left arm cocked back as he tries to pivot around. He shouldn’t have called me that. I stomp his tail with my left armored boot, and break the bones there. His pivot falters enough that as I put my weight on my left foot, standing on his tail. I have an ample shot at the back of his leg. But I don’t kick there. Instead I shove my right boot into the outside of his right thigh and rake down, a pivot of my own at his knee to buckle his leg inward, the tendons tear and he falls with me on top of him. It’s a struggle but I’ve mounted on his back, in a standard police hold now, and work one of the BOS’s precious zip tie restraints over his wrists. Then for fun of adding salt to the wound, I grab his right leg, still dislocated at the knee and bent flat ninety degrees outwards…and with his left leg I hog tie him with the zip ties. He screams in pain as I turn to the lady.
She does know who I am. “Inquisitor…thank you…I was on my way home and…” I smile and pat her head. “Think nothing of it…can you hang around until the police get here?” I ask politely. Some kids don’t like police whether they’ve done something wrong or not. BOS standard procedure is to keep the witness on hand, but I’m not going to press an inner city kid, for procedure’s sake. Thankfully she stays even as I call it in. Since the thugs are already in my custody the normal thirty minutes to an hour arrival times is only about fifteen. Job well done all around and everyone is smiling but the thugs. I’m actually elated with the way the gathering onlookers (police sirens and lights draw fursons like moths to a flame.) clap and cheer. These guys have been here awhile it seems, even in Charlotte people don’t want to talk with cops here, there is gangs and thugs that do shut up snitches. A little chit chat reveals they belong to a gang, but even I don’t have the clout to pull names. It’s a Latino wannabe gang and that’s about as far as I get.
As quick as the storm of media gathered, by the time the thugs were rolled out and the lady sent home, it was over, streets empty….nearly. The police missed one of the knives. I pick up the blade and examine the steel. There is a mark on the blade near the hilt. It’s a blue lettered ‘DH’, what that means, I don’t know yet. But it goes into my report for the night. I call it in and head home. It’s a three hour drive to my ‘real’ home. It’s a beautiful Victorian home tucked deep into the woods, guarded by illusions and two stone shisha statues at the door. I’ll let you guess if they are real or not. Once I walk in I close and lock the door behind me, stumbling in the dark until my feline night vision comes into play.
I get to my kitchen and grab a Smirnoff Triple Black. By the time I’ve gotten to the living room and called out. “Lucy I’m home!” And not surprised by the lack of an answer, since the ten bedrooms, three full baths, palace only has one occupant…and sometimes a god of mischief. I get to my black leather couch and toss the dagger into the nearby coffee table and yawn. My lack of sleep is catching up now…I giggle stupidly; I haven’t been home in so long I can see my boot prints in the dust on the stone floor. Between my real job as a private eye, and my BOS duties…I’ve slept maybe four hours in two days. By the time I’ve got half the Smirnoff down, I’m asleep on the couch…alone as usual.
Kingman belongs to me
Anyways this is just a first person story from Kingman's point of view of a typical BOS patrol, and how he easily dispatches some thugs. Maybe shades of things to come are hinted at too. ;)
Enjoy and comment if you like
Easy Mode
Sometimes I have to wonder what the hell some people are thinking. We live in a world of superheroes, super villains, mad scientists, power hungry cultists, magic, future tech, and yet here I am looking at three goons with knives. Three goons with knives who just a minute before were terrorizing a lady on her way home from the Seven Eleven. That was until I, a Bureau of Superheroes Agent, Kingman Alphonso Highborn, aka The Inquisitor found them on sheer luck. I was on patrol and heard the lady scream, a quick summon of feline spirits and I had found them.
My loyal cats, two simple house cats in life phased through the wall the lady was pinned to and latched onto a goon’s face each. Now if you ask me, a ghost phasing through a wall to claw your face, ‘should’ make you reconsider your mugging career, but ah well. By the time I got there the goons was stabbing laughably at my spirit cats, missing, or just watching their knives pass through the ghosts. If an innocent wasn’t still in danger I may of just watched by the time I came to the alley way entrance they had dragged the lady into. She was looker, but way too young for me, like maybe seventeen if just guessing. She is a lithe little mink girl in a blue tank top and jeans cut into shorts right above the knee. Practical clothing for a ninety-eight degree day…and here I am in composite armor of titanium and bullet proof ceramic.
Now the goons see me and being the show boat I am, I roar out. “Hey, you fools like picking on little girls? Why don’t you try to mug the BEST in the Business?” I hold out my Lucerne hammer in one hand near the weapon’s head and jab the pommel of the pole arm into the ground, hard enough to break the concrete with an audible crack, hoping this time I’ve found a catchy um…catchphrase. And the goon’s reaction brings me to my point. They laugh. One boar, a croc…or maybe gator I’m not a herpetologist, and the…what is my best guess is the leader, a komodo dragon. All male, all full of stupid to be laughing at me. Now at this point they certainly don’t look like supers and they sure as heck don’t strike me, with my powers and training as dangerous. Yes they have knives, but I’ve dealt with creatures that breathed hell fire and had claws sharp as steel and a yard long. But see here is the thing. Let’s say these guys do have a little ‘something’ in them, boost their endurance and toughness so they can take a hit or too that’d kill a regular mook. I hold back too much and maybe they actually get the best of me…then again maybe the Cleveland Browns will go undefeated and win the Super Bowl…okay I’m smirking at that unlikelihood, but still underestimating anyone is a surefire way to greet your maker.
In my old days…or should I say when I was an actual Inquisitor, I’d of just pulled out my grenade launcher and let god sort them out…maybe roast a marshmallow on the burning bodies if I had them. Or I’d use my Sansei Goju Ryu if I was worried about hurting the lady. Three broken necks, all quiet, and I can do it without even the overly dramatized way you see in movies, the lady would just think I cold cocked them. Or I could use the hammer and make their skulls out to be the walnuts they are. Of course that’s also why I am not an actual Inquisitor anymore, I like the challenge of not killing, and I actually care about people, the seven years I’ve had to turn off my conscious to do things makes me sick sometimes.
So even when piggy rushes me, knife held up, raising it over his head like he was trying to wield a longsword, Conan style it’s my turn to laugh, and play the odds…”Easy Mode!” I scream at him, as I parry his knife across my body with the spike end of my Lucerne, twist to the left, send him right, and slam the blunt in under his chin, and carry him straight into the brick wall. He falls like a marionette with his strings cut, unconscious, but alive sans a few missing teeth and a hairline fracture to his jaw. My spirit cats so loyal even in their undead state have stayed by the lady’s side this whole time. I guess she knows me, because she isn’t freaked out by my cats. Of course they have solidified into the forms they had has living felines, so that is probably helping. Nothing is worse than having a fight, and freaking out the person you are trying to save.
Seeing me drop their friend the cold bloods hiss, and now they both try to rush me at the same time, Hand bag the croc, and Spittle the komodo as I call them mentally are much better at this, they both hold their knifes point down, blade out, free hand closed in a fist. Hand bag is the more blood thirsty of the two it seems, he can’t wait to for Spittle to get closer, and try to flank around. Hand bag throws his knife towards my charming good looks. Rather than try and dodge the knife, I turn my left spiked shoulder pauldron to the knife and feel it ping off harmlessly. Shot spoiled he stops to cuss, Spittle comes in unsupported. I could swing horizontally and tear his head off with the hammer at this point, probably splatter Hand bag with the brain matter, bone and gore for added effect, but I have mercy planned from the start.
Spittle raises his knife to plunge it down into my neck since he is taller, maybe six foot eight. But the move leaves him vulnerable, he thinks I can’t swing fast enough in the alley…I don’t… I jab the pole arm hammer forward and jolt the knife out of his hand, the spear point at the top of the pole rips through and ruins his hand…oh well, he doesn’t need it to go to prison. Spittle screams and drops to his knees holding his hand. Hand bag looks worried now, but he gives a laugh still, even if it’s a bit more insecure. “Hey c’mon on boy, I ain’t got a weapon now.” Hand bag shows me his palms. I smile, because this is really easy now. I give Spittle a good hard kick in the jaw, flattening him to his back and then drop my hammer’s shaft onto his chest. The weapon’s head is made of star metal it is incredibly dense and heavy for its size, bonded to me, its light as a quarterstaff, to Spittle, I’ve just pinned him to the alley with something that weighs closer to an automobile’s engine block. But it’s just the shaft across his chest; it won’t crush him since it’s not the weight of the hammer head itself on his chest. But still he isn’t going anywhere.
I show Hand bag my hands, mocking his stance. “I ain’t got one either now, come on, I feel a bit generous, how about you lie down, and put your hands behind your back?” I am being nice, I mean shoot I haven’t even broken a sweat. True to thug form he changes demeanor. “Fuck you!” he charges forward, jaws open trying to bite me. I bring my right arm up to block his snout and let his momentum carry him forward. I turn and slap him on the shoulder, laughing. “Nice try Hand bag.” He growls. “Pussy!” He turns, left arm cocked back as he tries to pivot around. He shouldn’t have called me that. I stomp his tail with my left armored boot, and break the bones there. His pivot falters enough that as I put my weight on my left foot, standing on his tail. I have an ample shot at the back of his leg. But I don’t kick there. Instead I shove my right boot into the outside of his right thigh and rake down, a pivot of my own at his knee to buckle his leg inward, the tendons tear and he falls with me on top of him. It’s a struggle but I’ve mounted on his back, in a standard police hold now, and work one of the BOS’s precious zip tie restraints over his wrists. Then for fun of adding salt to the wound, I grab his right leg, still dislocated at the knee and bent flat ninety degrees outwards…and with his left leg I hog tie him with the zip ties. He screams in pain as I turn to the lady.
She does know who I am. “Inquisitor…thank you…I was on my way home and…” I smile and pat her head. “Think nothing of it…can you hang around until the police get here?” I ask politely. Some kids don’t like police whether they’ve done something wrong or not. BOS standard procedure is to keep the witness on hand, but I’m not going to press an inner city kid, for procedure’s sake. Thankfully she stays even as I call it in. Since the thugs are already in my custody the normal thirty minutes to an hour arrival times is only about fifteen. Job well done all around and everyone is smiling but the thugs. I’m actually elated with the way the gathering onlookers (police sirens and lights draw fursons like moths to a flame.) clap and cheer. These guys have been here awhile it seems, even in Charlotte people don’t want to talk with cops here, there is gangs and thugs that do shut up snitches. A little chit chat reveals they belong to a gang, but even I don’t have the clout to pull names. It’s a Latino wannabe gang and that’s about as far as I get.
As quick as the storm of media gathered, by the time the thugs were rolled out and the lady sent home, it was over, streets empty….nearly. The police missed one of the knives. I pick up the blade and examine the steel. There is a mark on the blade near the hilt. It’s a blue lettered ‘DH’, what that means, I don’t know yet. But it goes into my report for the night. I call it in and head home. It’s a three hour drive to my ‘real’ home. It’s a beautiful Victorian home tucked deep into the woods, guarded by illusions and two stone shisha statues at the door. I’ll let you guess if they are real or not. Once I walk in I close and lock the door behind me, stumbling in the dark until my feline night vision comes into play.
I get to my kitchen and grab a Smirnoff Triple Black. By the time I’ve gotten to the living room and called out. “Lucy I’m home!” And not surprised by the lack of an answer, since the ten bedrooms, three full baths, palace only has one occupant…and sometimes a god of mischief. I get to my black leather couch and toss the dagger into the nearby coffee table and yawn. My lack of sleep is catching up now…I giggle stupidly; I haven’t been home in so long I can see my boot prints in the dust on the stone floor. Between my real job as a private eye, and my BOS duties…I’ve slept maybe four hours in two days. By the time I’ve got half the Smirnoff down, I’m asleep on the couch…alone as usual.
Kingman belongs to me
Category Story / All
Species Cougar / Puma
Size 72 x 120px
File Size 18.8 kB
Comments