Title: The Hunt For Rex October (Part III)
Featuring: Clyde Walkins
Date: September 6th, 2012
Location: Bada da da da

A strange sound permeates my eardrums; I cannot make out what it is due to the piercing screech that has rung through my ears since before I blacked out, but I know I recognize that sound. And that smell. What is that…?

Gunpowder?

It makes sense now. The constant pops, steadily growing louder in my head with each passing shot: a familiar noise. A familiar noise, but somehow corrupted. There is an underlying sound that accompanies it; a terrifying cacophony that I fear only still underlies because of its distance. I can finally hear well enough to judge proximity, and whatever that sound may be continues to draw closer, louder.

I hear more gunshots. I hear orders barked out. I hear IT.

I hear panic.

That sound - that horrifying sound - is almost right on me now. It is only now that I come to another realization. I try to open my eyes, to see what that demonic roar belongs to.

I wait for the darkness to fade, but it will not.

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You guys are so lucky this week, you don’t even know. As none of you may be aware, I’ve been stricken ill for the past several days with what I can only assume has been cancer, and it’s been an uphill battle to get better. But I’m doing it. I’m doing it for all three of you that are literally obligated to read my roleplays and judge them accordingly, only to begrudgingly have to grant me the win over far more deserving and talented writers who simply forgot about the deadline (I’m looking for Tchu to make it a hat trick).

But even with the headaches, and sore throats, and clogged up sinuses while inexplicably also having a runny nose, I’m shaking things up a bit, doing a little differenting around here (this is new, right? I’ve never just monologued in the middle of a roleplay before, have I? Exciting!). Did I mention I had a fever, too? I did. And it was just like the song. Hot blooded, check it and see. Got a fever of 103. No, seriously. It was literally that high. I could’ve died. Probably. I shouldn’t even be here writing right now, but I’m a champ. I’m a fighter. I’m like the black version of Rocky if he was white.

That being said: if I lose, you guys will know it’s because I’m not at 100%. I’d say it’s about 13, maybe 14% tops. Tchu beating me right now would be like Michael Clarke Duncan beating up Yoko Ono. Well, Michael Clarke Duncan before he died, I mean--not now. He’s not really gonna be beating up anybody in his condition. I wrote that joke a while ago, so I guess it’s not really applicable anymore. But you get the point. I’m at a horrible disadvantage, so grade me on a sliding scale :) ;) :P <@:) :D

That’s all the smileys I know. The internet has promised me that using them at every opportunity will let others know that I’m “J/King” and “rofl.”

Our story this week opens upon a beautiful grey and brown landscape (maybe red or even clear glass, depending where you’re from--I don’t want to discriminate, I know how whitey gets), filled with the charming honks and squawks that routinely pollute the air around Man’s Slap in the Face to Nature. And by that, I mean McDonald’s. More specifically, I mean the set of lights right before it, which just so happen to be red at the moment.

Clyde: I can’t believe we didn’t do this sooner. I had no idea you hadn’t eaten McDonald’s since 2010.

Clyde and James are both sitting in the back seat of Grandma West’s car. It’s, like, an old lady car of some sort. Maybe a Prius or practically any sort of Chevy. It could even be a Volkswagen if you really wanted it to be. Whatever it is, she’s Driving Miss Daisying them, except she called dibs on Morgan Freeman before they got in the car. And I guess that makes them a racist Jessica Tandy or something, I don’t know.

James: That’s too high-end for me. When you’re surviving on the streets, day to day, you don’t have excess to spend. You have to make do with what you’re given. And as much as it disgusted me and made me feel less than human to do so, I broke down and started eating at Denny’s.

Clyde: I had Denny’s once. There was a hair in my French toast. I rated it a 3 out of 10 on my blog and never went back.

Clyde nods solemnly, but James looks like his mind is lost somewhere in deep thought.

James: But you don’t always make a lot of money out there, you know?

Clyde: No, I don’t need to hear any more of this. I thought it was done.

James: Between panhandling and smearing a dirty squeegee across car windshields in the hopes the driver will get angry enough to run me over so I can sue him, there were more days than I can count where I didn’t even have enough change to get a…

James shudders at the thought.

James: Moons Over My Hammy.

Clyde: I see where this is going, and I want none of it.

James: There were these guys…we called them Sliders.

Clyde: Yep, saw it coming. We can stop here.

James doesn’t stop. This is probably revenge for Clyde doing the same shit to him for years. Either that, or repressed memories bubbling to the service. But most likely revenge.

James: They’d take you wherever you wanted to go. Those with the prettiest mouths were able to catch a glimpse of heaven: McDonald’s, Burger King…there was even talk of one who had Subway. I was lucky to get Carl’s Jr., but I’ll tell you something, Clyde: I ate every night.

Clyde: That is fucking disgusting.

James: But that was then and this is now. I can’t wait to sink my teeth into a Big Mac again. This will be the first hamburger I haven’t had to suck a dick for in years.

Clyde: Is there anything you didn’t suck a dick for?

Grandma: Clyde! Don’t say that word!

Grandma West glares back at Clyde in the rear-view mirror, who looks just as upset.

Clyde: How’d you only hear that?!

Grandma: You watch your words, young man, or it’s church for you!

Defeated, Clyde folds his arms over his chest and huffs. James surveys the situation for a moment, then turns back to him.

James: By the way, why are we both sitting back here? It’s a little…weird.

Clyde: It’s not weird.

James: Yeah, it is. You go sit up in the front. I don’t want people to think she’s taking us out on a date or something.

Clyde rolls his eyes, then unbuckles his seatbelt and starts to make a move to the front, just as Grandma West takes a sharp turn into the parking lot of McDonald’s. He loses his balance and falls forward between the seats before being swung headlong into the passenger side door, clipping his temple on the metal window crank because the car’s fucking ancient and so it still has those.

Grandma: Clyde! You’re going to make us have a wreck!

Clyde slowly pulls himself out from between the seats, slumping back into his original position. A large red welt is starting to form on his head and his eyes look a little glassy.

Clyde: I feel tired…

Something clicks in Grandma West’s brain, and she reaches into her purse while the car gently coasts through the parking lot because she stopped paying attention to it. Thumbing through several church pamphlets, she finally comes to one about the horror of drugs and how to spot an addict. Such symptoms are: impaired motor function, foggy eyes, laziness, weight gain. With this knowledge in hand, she calmly returns the pamphlet to the special compartment in her purse she uses for shame and guilt, then looks back in the rear-view mirror. The car just keeps rolling along.

Grandma: Are you on the mari-hwana?

Clyde: What? You need to talk louder. I’m having trouble hearing.

Grandma: That was a symptom, too! When we get home, we’re going to get you the help you need, you wretched, wretched sinner.

Clyde groans in pain.

Clyde: I think I need a doctor…

Grandma: And you’ll have the best my HMO can offer. We’re going to get you clean, Clydie.

Clyde’s now just sitting there with his head hanging down, no longer responding or even really moving. Suddenly, the car jerks to a stop, having rammed into a parked car at about three miles an hour. The quick motion snaps Clyde back to attention, while Grandma West puts the car in park and turns off the ignition.

Clyde: Was I just dead? I saw my parents, but Ted Kennedy was there so I don’t think it was heaven.

But Clyde’s question falls on deaf ears, as James had already opened the door, got on the floor, everybody walk the dinosaured his ass out of the car once he realized the slow-moving vehicle was in God’s hands. In fact, he’s sitting on the bench outside the restaurant right now. As for Grammy, well, she probably has for-real deaf ears so let’s go with that.

James: Hurry up, Clyde. I want to get in there before they run out of food.

Clyde: They’re not gonna run out of food. This isn’t a soup kitchen.

James: I’m telling you, Clyde. You don’t know how quickly things can change. You always think that tomorrow you’re going to have exactly what you have today, and you become complacent, and that’s when it sneaks up on you.

James holds the door open for Clyde and Grammy to walk inside, talking the entire way.

James: You lose that job you’ve been working at every day, and then you lose that house you’ve been living in every day, and eventually you’ve even lost the place in line you stood in every Friday at the food bank because you took a shit on the floor one time and apparently that’s offensive to some people.

As they reach the back of the line, a few people in front of them turn around with disgusted looks on their faces. A father covers his young daughter’s ears.

James: So there’s no guarantee even from second to second that you’ll still have what you have right now, and that’s why I want to get my Big Mac and I want to get it now. I’m through with being complacent. What would you do if you walked up to the counter and they had just run out of food?

Clyde shrugs.

Clyde: Go to another restaurant?

A couple of bros turn away from the counter after getting their order, with one of them carrying a Big Mac box with the text “There’s Only One!” scrawled across the top. Obviously an advertising slogan and not an actual indication of the quantity of Big Macs remaining, the words nonetheless rattle around in the paint thinner-addled brain of Farwell, who’s become increasingly paranoid since finding Grammy’s prescription pill stash the previous week. He freaks out at the thought of not getting a Big Mac, and breaks away from the line, storming out of the doors behind the two men.

James: Give me that! I need it!

James pushes the guy with the Big Mac box from behind as he yells that. Both men are shorter than Farwell and…shit, somehow they even still have less muscle mass than a hobo. So, yeah, the guy almost falls flat on his face and barely saves the burger in the process.

Hulk Brogan: What the hell, bro?

Almost instantly, James cowers in fear at the prospect of being pummeled by two guys that make DJ Qualls look like Michael Clarke Duncan (I really need to get around to updating those things one of these days).

James: Wait, don’t beat me up! I…

Holding his hands up to protect himself, James thinks back to earlier: “This will be the first hamburger I haven’t had to suck a dick for in years.”

James: Lousy foreshadowing.

He pauses, but the angered look on the faces of the two bros rushes his decision.

James: I’ll…suck your dick?

Naturally, Clyde and Grandma West watch the whole thing unfold from within the restaurant.

Grandma: What in heavens is going on out there?

Meanwhile, the first bro’s bro chimes in.

Brotus the Barbro Brocake: Dude, gay, bro!

James: It’s not gay! It’s a business transaction.

Hulk Brogan: Yeah, bro. Besides, if you close your eyes you can’t tell the difference. No homo.

The original bro places the box on the roof of the car. He then undoes the buckle on his belt and sits back in his car, dropping his pants down to reveal naked legs hanging out the open door.

Hulk Brogan: Alright, bro, let’s do this. But no funny business. I don’t want to feel any teeth or anything.

James immediately sucks his lips back over his teeth with the sickening sound of wet flesh slapping against itself, producing a disturbing grin in the process. The bro shudders, then leans back and puts his arm over his eyes. The other bro acts all disgusted, but keeps peeking through his fingers to watch. He’s totally gay.

Grandma: Oh, dear. Wh-…what’s he doing?

Clyde stammers for an explanation. Meanwhile, James starts lowering to his knees and everyone in the restaurant gets a behind view of the action through the large pane windows.

Clyde: I…I think he’s praying. Or changing that nice man’s tire.

Grammy lowers her spectacles to the bridge of her nose and squints to get a better view.

Grandma: That doesn’t look like any tire I’ve ever seen…

Clyde takes the glasses off his grandmother’s face and looks through them.

Clyde: Oh. No, he’s fellating him. Sorry, my mistake.

He then hands the glasses back, while at the same time a little girl starts bawling her eyes out and one of the employees has to rush to the bathroom to vomit.

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The sound of gunfire echoes through the submarine. Power has been lost, and the only light left is from the constant discharge of rounds and the red sirens indicating something’s fuckwrong. After the explosion, it was forced to surface and, without any form of propulsion, rubbed up sensually against an island for a little bit before coming to a rest.

“How many are there and what are they?!” the Captain shouts hoarsely, sweat dripping from his brow as he reloads a semi-automatic rifle. “And get the goddamn power back on, will ya?!”

“I’m trying!” the Private responds, running back and forth to various consoles. He suddenly stops and stares in abject horror at something lying next to one of the control panels. “Christ’s sake, Captain. It’s Ward. He’s got no eyes. He’s got no fuckin’ eyes!”

That’s right. Tchu’s grandfather (I don’t know, probably?) is lying in a bruised and bloody heap, barely breathing and with a large burn etched over where his eyes should be. The Captain responds quickly, quelling the terror in the Private’s voice. “He’s the last thing you need to be worrying about right now. If we don’t get this thing up and running, we’re sitting ducks! Now remember your training and get us operational!”

“Yes, sir!” the Private responds, just as the hull of the submarine is slashed open and a giant claw cuts him down the middle. The Captain turns his fire to the creature trying to enter through the hole, yelling behind him, “Christpuncher! Tell me you’re still alive!”

“Well, I sure as hell ain’t dead yet,” he responds, then takes another cool drag from his cigarette. Finally running out of ammo, Christpuncher throws down his weapons in a rage and twists open the hatch of the submarine.

“What the hell are you doing, soldier?!” the Captain shouts.

Christpuncher looks back as he scales the ladder outside, lingering long enough to leave one last remark.

“What I was born to do.”

And then he disappears from view. After a few seconds, terrible roars are heard, followed by the sound of a loud impact and the accompanying pained cry. Inside the submarine, the Captain continues to fire at anything that tries to get inside, until finally he, too, runs out of ammo. In a final blaze of glory, he waits for the first one to enter and charges it head-on, which ends up being a terrible idea since it turns out the attackers are T-Rexes and it just eats him.

The apparent leader of the Rexes (I’m just guessing here; he’s wearing what looks like something Napoleon would wear so you tell me), enters the sub to salutes from his subordinates. “I want this thing good to go by the end of the day. Our time has finally come,” he says smugly, pacing the length of the command deck while admiring his newfound booty: the large black box so highly sought-after by the Nazis.

“Aye, aye, sir!” they respond in unison, except none of them actually said anything because they’re dinosaurs so it was more of a “Grr roar roar grr roar grr.”

As for Christpuncher? Well, he died eventually. But not before he punched every other dinosaur in the world to death. And that’s how they all went extinct.

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James: In retrospect, it was really nice of your grandma to buy me ice cream for my sore throat. She might just be starting to come around.

Clyde sits next to James on the porch, staring straight ahead, motionless and sullen.

Clyde: I think she needed to see you eating something of the same color so she could pretend that’s what you were doing earlier. It’s a coping mechanism.

He then turns to James and narrows his eyes.

Clyde: One that I don’t have.

James: I don’t see what the big deal is. I earned a hamburger and ice cream today. That’s like winning the lotto on the streets.

Clyde: How’s the ice cream, anyway? I don’t think I can ever eat it again now.

Ice cream running down his chin in a disgusting fashion, James holds up the ice cream cup, which has the label “Ben & Jerry’s Berry Gaye” on the front.

James: Eh, I’ve tasted gayer.

Clyde: Yes, I know. Everyone saw it.

James: Look, it could’ve been a lot worse. I’ve had guys beat me up even after I blew them. I’ve been given the Stinkin’ Lincoln on two separate occasions. And worst of all, a good chunk of the time they don’t even give me the burger.

Clyde: Wait, what’s the Stinkin’ Lincoln?

James stutters for a second, thinking of a way to explain it.

James: It’s when they, you know…

He makes a half-hearted brushing motion with his index and middle finger along the side of his face and then down under the chin.

James: Never mind. The point is: everything turned out fine. You may not be able to make eye contact with me for a while, and poor old Grammy might just have loosened another screw, but this is a victory. We should celebrate.

Clyde: Really? You mean…?

James nods.

James: I’ll watch you run over hookers in Grand Theft Auto, and then we’ll throw darts at our Tchu dartboard to get you ready for your match.

Clyde: Sweet!

Clyde jumps to his feet, pumping one fist. James just tosses his empty ice cream cup onto the front lawn and turns to put his arm around Clyde’s bulky shoulder as they walk into the house.

James: I have a feeling everything’s going to be just fine.

Clyde: Don’t touch me.
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