Dry Serial Part 2: “Size doesn’t matter, right?”

“It’s okay baby…”

“No, it’s not okay.” Michael growled. “It’s not okay at all, you’re just taking pity on me.”

“C’mon, you said you’d get me a part in your next movie if I…”

“The deal’s off! Now get out!”

The ex-Playboy centerfold got out of bed and quickly put on her clothes. “You horrible, disgusting, needle-di…”

“I said get out!”

The hooker stifled a laugh as she finished putting on her clothes and walked out of the room. A few moments later, Michael quickly threw on a robe and stormed out of his own room. Dammit, this always happened every time he brought a girl home. They would point and laugh at him right after he finished disrobing in front of them. He was too angry to sleep now. Maybe some work would take his mind off of things. The next Transformers movie needed to be addressed, the semi-legal explosives had to be trucked in…at least those pyrotechnic guys wouldn’t point and laugh at him. Not to his face when he held their measly lives in his hands.

And as if things couldn’t get any more irritating, he walked into his office and turned on the lights to find a young, bearded man with a stupid hat sitting in his chair.

“Hello, Michael.” The Critic said with a stoic expression on his face, despite the burning rage he felt inside as he held a bowl of cold, dry cereal in his hands, “Nice of you to join me in this place.”

“This is my house!” Michael shouted, “How did you get in here? What happened to the guards?”

“Oh, nothing much. But when they wake up, they won’t be able to look their mothers in the eye without getting slapped. Actually, it’s what I’ve come to talk to you about.”

“I’m listening.” Michael slowly walked forward, planning to grab the enormously large pistol hidden by his desk while he kept The Critic distracted.

“I’ve found a way to turn my hatred into a weapon so powerful that it can shame anyone or anything out of existence. Hence, I’ve decided to use it on the one thing that is destroying society as we know it.”

Michael thought for a moment, but continued to slowly walk towards his own desk. “Gun violence?”

“No.”

“Drug abuse?”

“No.”

“Sectarian hatred?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m talking about video games!”

Michael abruptly stopped moving forward. “Video games? Seriously? That’s why you broke into my home?”

“I review them for a living, dammit! I’ve seen the horrible atrocities they commit against proper storytelling and the way they drain the energies of our world’s youth from doing anything useful!”

Michael shook his head. First the ex-centerfold belittled him, and now some video game critic was sitting in his chair and ranting. All he needed was a PETA protestor to throw a bucket of fake pig blood on his face and he’d hit the trifecta of bullshit before the sun rose. “And what does this have to do with me?”

“You have a certain…penchant for explosives, don’t you? I need your cash and your connections so that I might be able to deliver this massive weapon into the very heart of video games, thus shaming them into obscurity quicker than Vampire Rain!”

Michael blinked a few times, unsure of the metaphor, let alone how to respond to it.

“Look, it was a horrible XBOX 360 game that you probably don’t even know.”

“Ohhhhhh.” Michael responded in a sarcastic tone, “That makes it so much clearer now that you explained it to me. Now get the fuck out of my chair.”

“Not until I’m sure that I have your cooperation.”

“Even if I did give half a shit about your crusade against video games, what makes you think I’m going to help you?”

“Well first, by destroying the world of video games, more people will then have the time to go out and pay to see your awful explosion-fests that you call movies, thus netting you more money in the bargain.”

“Are you kidding me? Those people would probably just pirate it anyway. I’m a famous Hollywood producer, you’re just some guy with a website. What makes you think I’m going to listen to you?”

The Critic banged his hands on the desk and stood up, turning the monitor on the desk towards Michael so he could see it. “You’re right, I am a guy with a website, but if you still refuse to cooperate my website will display this picture of your incredibly tiny manhood for everyone to see. You’ll never be able to show your face to anyone outside of this house again, until you turn into another dungeon-dweller who spends his considerable intelligence on nothing more than playing Everquest and asking his parents to bring him pizza and Mountain Dew, forever dwelling on what could have been. Is this the future that you want for yourself, Michael?”

Michael groaned. Why did he take that picture of himself in the mirror, anyway? It seemed awfully inconvenient now that he thought about it. “What do you want from me?”

“Give me enough money and equipment to transport my weaponized hatred through a certain gate, where it will be released into the world of video games. I call it…the F-Bomb.”
_____________

Snake sat in the seat as Chris drove him through a rather run-down section of town. If he could describe it in words, it was probably something between run-down shantytown and post-apocalyptic paradise. They passed the houses where space marines and surprisingly advanced orks were throwing large dice with each other before drawing guns and exchanging words about their respective enemy’s mother. Snake thought he caught a glimpse of some young black fellow, a “C.J.” or something like that, sneaking into an abandoned bank. He vaguely remembered the name from some police bulletin: too popular to disappear, yet he was a rather villainous protagonist. That made it a pain to keep tabs on the guy.

As the car passed by more buildings and the wind from the open door-frame blew out any hope he had of lighting a smoke in the car, Snake decided to ask Chris where they would be getting the key from.

“Y’know, I hear there’s some guy named Mason out there who has explosives that can actually blow up wood, steel, and other building materials.” Chris responded, “If only I had a rocket launcher that could do something that cool, maybe we wouldn’t have to spend so much time trying to get around a chest-high fence.”

“Chris, did you ever consider just climbing over the fence?”

“Oh, I’m sorry Snake. Not all of us can be Olympic-class athletes like you, all right?”

Snake didn’t quite know how to respond to that. Was that even supposed to be an insult?

“Anyways, there’s a guy I know, he’s got a bunch of these color coded keys. Sells ‘em like crack. I’m sure he’ll be able to help us get the one we need to get into the station.”

[To Be Continued…]