Not Amused


dutch_icon.gif mortimer_icon.gif

Scene Title Not amused
Synopsis Mort holds a concert and Dutch is invited. Dutch brings the wrong kind of party favors. Theres a fight, a dummy bomb and an offer for Mort to consider.
Date May 08, 2009

The Rookery

//After the bomb, Staten Island grew to become a haven for undesirables. If the Island is their home, then the Rookery is their playplace. Equal parts gritty and decadent, it boasts dark alleys, bright lights, and every pleasure that one could imagine. Provided you know where to ask, of course.

Some areas have fared better than the rest of the island; some have fared far worse. For each well-tended brothel or gaming house, there's at least one creaky, crumbling structure left over from the days of pre-bomb suburban glory.

The population is considered universally distasteful, even by much of the rest of Staten Island. Criminals, refugees, victims of radiation poisoning… Those who have nowhere else to go often end up here. The most common method of getting out is to have your body dropped in the river, followed closely by being left wherever it is you got killed.

Good luck.//

Tonight is a special night, one, because there's a concert, and two, because Dutch may be the first person in history who's able to shoot his email spammer. That's right, Dutch's email has been spammed like hell, except none of it goes to his spam box, it's all from randomly created emails, each from a different library, suggesting someone went through a /lot/ of trouble.

Do you want your penis enhanced? Most cops who steal the weapons of hard working young bikers have a solution!

Do you want to find hot young singles right now? Cops who steal the weapons of highly enlightened individuals can come to Mortimer's Awesome Concert, at Lil' Piggy's Meat Warehouse, it's in the rookery!

So I herd you liek mudkips, you asshole weapon stealing cop!

And the spam goes on and on and on.

Now we find Mortimer and exactly forty men, all wearing normal clothing, no helmets, seemingly just some average joes enjoying a concert in a pretty bad part of the city. Mortimer is standing in the middle of what looks like a 40x40 metallic stage in the middle of the warehouse, with guys surrounding all sides, but staying a good few feet from actually touching the stage. He's singing, without a shirt, and playing a red electric guitar as the speakers blast music. For whatever reason, the warehouse has been soundproofed, and the windows completely welded over with thick metallic sheets.

"Fearless wretch, insanity, he watches, lurki~i~ing beneath the sea. Great old one, forbidden site, he searche~e~es, hunter of the shadows is ri~i~si~i~ing. Immo~o~rtal, in ma~a~dness you~u~u dwell." He is very loudly singing The Thing That Should Not Be, while the men headbang.

It takes like four days to fashion a proper urban Ghillie hide. In this case, its alot of bricks, dirt, discarded garbage, ripped up cardboard and a of course a whole bunch of other random shit. The completed hide has just enough for Dutch to hide, and with a standoff periscope that itself has been camoflagued with a discarded cigarette pack he watches. Just the same, spamming his email was generally frowned upon. Every hour or so he'd pop on to see what was up, check the weather before going dark and killing anything electric to make sure he stayed "black" on even the EM meter.
That said, he cant actually see Mort from the inside even if he can hear him. He knows better, he knows -way- better but he wants Mort in the worst way. He needs to get under his guard, to get inside his security and grab him in the shadows. So after no small amount of consideration he tightens his vest and abandons his hide. Sheathed in multicam, kevlar,ceramic plates, knives, ammo and of course the full array of top of the line warfighting gear he proceeds.
At first its a slow circle of the facility, taking time to check angles and log routes of escape. The possibility that this is a trap, is in the forefront. Mort could be entirely this overconfident, but more likely he knwew something was up. Which is why he was armed with his M14, and not his beloved DSR. He was expecting Mort to try and pick a fight, and he was confident he could avoid it.

The song ends, then suddenly someone yells, "Hey, do a Zakk Wylde solo!" which prompts Mortimer to laugh and look down at his strings. "I'm good, but I'm not sure if I'm that good. That guy can play a guitar with his penis." He looks down at the guitar, then decides to try a solo anyway, picking at the strings very quickly as he does his best imitation of a Zakk Wylde solo, hip thrusting and falling on to his knees included.

There appear to be plenty of entrances, but they're all locked. There's a sign on each that says, 'If you have a golden gun, knock 5 times'.

With will honed stealth, Dutch works his way up tight to the building. He takes time to produce a lenght of chalk, and with a spare magazine as a guide draw a simple straight line on every door. All the better to make range estimations with, if things should become complicated. That attended to, he slings his rifle and takes a knee before the door at off to one side. With a selection of lockpicks, he begins to do his thing. There are many finer picks than Dutch, but a standard commercial lock is no problem for even a novice when you have the right tools.

"And they are commercial locks, Mortimer has not gone through great lengths to make sure the doors stay locked. Once it clicks, someone from behind opens the door, an average looking man among other average looking men. They just all seem to be enjoying the guitar playing. Dutch can now see and hear, that this is indeed, possibly, some sort of concert, but Mortimer seems to have not taken notice, and the man who opened the door seems to have just gone about his business.

Suddenly the loud electric guitar playing stops, and he changes the settings so it's a more traditional guitar sound, strumming the strings once. "When the Devil is too busy, and Death's a bit too much, they call on me by name you see, for my special touch. To the Gentlemen I'm Miss Fortune, to the Ladies I'm Sir Prize, but call me by any name, any way it's all the same."

His guitar playing suddenly gets faster, taking a more tango-like sound. "I'm the fly in your soup, I'm the pebble in your shoe, I'm the pea beneath your bed, I'm a bump on every head. I'm the peel on which you slip, I'm a pin in every hip, I'm the thorne in your side, makes you wriggle and writhe!"

He falls to his knees, facing the direction that Dutch just entered, his eyes turning completely silver. "And it's so easy when you're ev~i~il, this is the life, you see, the Devil tips his hat to me!"

Dutch somepeople may be amused, but well the ATF guy clearly isnt. He reaches back, jerks free the GL-06 strapped there. His gaze stays fixed on Mort, as he pins the door open. Dipping his gloved hands to stuff a 40mm grenade into the launcher with a smooth practiced motion, and then with little attempt to aim he lets it loose!
The sound of the launcher itself isnt really as loud as most expect, it has a hollow metallic ring that carries never the less. It tumbles through the air, spinning like a duck before it lands somewhere shy of the cage and explodes with an incredibly loud report. Showering the area with hard rubber balls, traveling at a speed entirely capable of raising welts upon contact. Dutch meanwhile, only jerks the launcher open to procure another grenade.
"Everybody in the place leave, Mortimer your wanted for the illicit manufacture of a class three item and the illegal transfer of those weapons to known felons. Now I can arrest you now, or I can kill every last motherfucker in the joint and then arrest you!"Dutch isnt angry of course, he just wants to get Mortimer's full attention.

Mortimer of course gets pelted to the ground, he's somehow managed to go his whole life without getting hit with a rubber bullet, so this is a new pain for him. The other guys however, ones with shirts, for some reason only flinch when the bullets hit their hands or heads, wince they all pretty much duck and cover their heads, expecting a real explosion.

When all is said and done, Mortimer starts to stand up, feeling the bruises all over his body as he removes the guitar, then bends down to pick up and stare at one of the bullets with his silvery eyes. Then the reason for the other guys not getting too hurt becomes apparent, they remove their shirts and pants, revealing that all of them, all forty guys, are wearing black biker outfits, of course with biker gear under it.

They start bending down and picking up red numbered helmets from the floor, then securely lock them on to their heads, all of them standing at attention like an army, blocking the doors. "I called you here for a reason." he says as the men reach into their jackets, each pulling out an SMG or some smaller gun, but none larger than that. "I don't want to kill you, and you'd probably take out most of my guys before they even put a dent in you, but there's something I want to say, an offer. You gonna listen, or is this gonna end in us all getting bloody?"

"Talk quickly Mort, and I swear to god if this is more whackshit conspiracy bullshit I'm gonna kill you so hard history will only remember the bruise."This as Dutch casually fires a CS grenade at the far end of the crowd, and whilst the fine CS mist begins to spread Dutch doesnt seem all too worried. Dumping that empty casing too, as he procures a foam baton round for the hat trick. Dutch of course doesnt seem bothered by the CS(teargas), but then again dealing with teargas on an almost daily basis tends to form an immunity to it.

Mortimer eyes the teargas, which causes most of the guys near it to start coughing and falling to the floor, and others trying to run away. He looks back to Dutch, then exclaims, "Who has my helmet?" and gets his plain black helmet thrown to him, catching it in his hand. Not putting it on yet, waiting to see if the gas is gonna reach the stage, he instead chooses to talk. "What do I want? First, I want my guns, all of them, Mister Linderman wouldn't appreciate other people having my technology, I honor my contracts. Next, I don't care if you're from the future, I've killed robots before, you're no different from any other. And thiiiird!"

Mortimer points his finger at Dutch. "I wanna fight you one on one, no army, I'm not even wearing any in my pants right now. Both of us, handcuffed by the foot, just punching and kicking ass. If you win, I'll do one thing, anything you ask, with the exception of anything involving Linderman, and going to jail."

Theres a pause, as Dutch's eyes light up. Wait, Mort works for who. This was entirely too good to be true, it was entirely too perfect. The most hated man in Dutch's pantheon of jackassery, and Mort was under his employ. "I think you might be off the hook you know Mort?"Dutch clacks the action closed, before swinging the launcher to his shoulder and sending the foam baton aimed squarely at Mort's face.
Then, quickly he half turns to kick the door shut and dump the spent shell casing. "I dont want you anymore Mort, I want your boss."And with that, Dutch chacks in another CS grenade and lets it fly at the front of the building. THen and only then does he reach back to clasp the launcher back into place, and unsling his rifle. "Everyone inside lower your weapons immediately, you dont want Mortimer to get hit in the crossfire do you! Drop your weapons and leave, or you put Mort at risk!"

Mortimer, for whatever crazy reason, stares at the baton flying at his face. "Why is there a bat tilted sideways…?" Then, bam right in his face, he clasp a hand against his nose and stares down at the 'bat'. Oh, it was a baton, not a bat. "What the hell's your problem?" he asks, the men starting to run out of the building as their eyes burn. Unfortunately for them, their helmets aren't gas proof, and he puts his on and clasps it shut, waiting to see what exactly Dutch is gonna do next. A part of him is curious, and another part expects to die.

Dutch stacks at the corner for a moment, flipping his M14 from safe to single. A moment or two of breathing to settle his nerves, before he kneels and sweeps around to peek around the corner with rifle raised. "Freeze motherfuckers, drop your weapons or I'm gonna kill every last one of ya!"His carbine oddly enough, isnt held upright like one might expect. No he's got a little red dot canted off to an angle he's sighting alone with the rifle rolled inward some.

Lots and lots of men start rapidly dropping SMGs, because they know damned well they wont actually need the things. Mortimer on the other hand frowns, behind his helmet, he is very very disappointed. "What is wrong with you? I had a perfectly good game, with perfectly good rules in place, and then you start doin this! Tear gas and guns and rubber bullets, what the hell? Kick his ass until he gets the point that this could have been a fair one on one fight, if he follows the rules! You're not allowed to kill him, if you kill him, I decapitate you!" he orders his men, which encourages more gun dropping.

They start trying to charge at him, which causes some of the men to get trampled or punch eachother while they're trying to get to him. But a good twenty of them have already gone outside, airing their helmets and trying to flush their eyes. "Rules, man, they're there for a reason. Who cares about my boss? He doesn't pay me, we've got a nice handshake agreement going. You don't understand anything. I do what I do for fun, I don't sell my toys, I make things for Linderman for his own enjoyment, he knows how to enjoy the fine things in life!"

He laughs and laughs, even if his guys are getting their helmets pounded in by Dutch. "This whole world, my ultimate goal in the whole world, a robot couldn't understand it, a person from the future can't understand, people in the present can't even understand! This world will destroy itself, and I'm gonna rush the process until every city is completely turned into dust! Only the people who follow me will be safe! Join me, cop, be my co-leader!"

"Did you just fucking call me a cop, you jackass!"Comes Dutch's only retort as he goes to work, five on one is deadly force so like fifty on one certainly qualifies right? There is no pause, no second thoughts he just gets to work. He aims low, for the moment anyway. Sweeping from left to right, and then back to the left like a sprinkler head. Each round however, isnt just cast out without due concern. No every round is aimed, if done with incredible rapidity. Knees, ankles, hips. The court doesnt recognize a wounding shot, but Dutch certainly does.
Dutch wasnt out to avoid getting his ass kicked, no he wanted to win. His rifles, Mort's goons it was a fair match in his mind. In Mort he had a legitimate challenger, a man he could respect as much as he could despise. A competitor was a rare thing these days, most either got locked up or shot you see. "And Arnold is Austrian chickenshit, not Dutch!"

"Huh, you're not a robot? Figures, robots are never that tough." Mortimer, seemingly calmed by the sudden trivia fact, suddenly jumps off the stage as his men are getting the crap beaten out of them, the crowd slowly thinning out as each downed guy tries to make his retreat. No one wants to hang around and get their asses kicked by Dutch if Mortimer himself is gonna get away. But as he's in the door, just about to run out, he calls back, "One of those things is not like the other, one of those things is seriously about to blow the hell up!"

He escapes, then suddenly something starts beeping, and it's coming from one of the guy's helmets. If he looks closely, there's a red flashing behind one of their visors, number 4, and he starts struggling and trying to remove this helmet, yelling, "Oh god oh god oh god!"

Dutch is just about to go for the mag change when Mort makes his exit. Theres a stunned blink, as number four starts to blink. Without a moment's consideration, Dutch dumps his rifle and hits the dump cord for his backpack. Though he doesnt run away, he makes a sprint to try and get to #4 before it blows!

Number 4 is frantic, his helmet isn't locked, he's just freaking out as the beeping gets faster and faster. "Get it off get it off!" he yells as he finally gets one of the sides of his helmet unclipped, the other men long gone and leaving him abandoned.

Dutch sneaks a gloved hand under #4's chinbar, and whips the helmet off to hurl it down the street. Then its a rush to get him shoved to the ground, as Dutch tries his best to shield him from the blast. The stiff Crye armore rig he wore, hopefully would stop any of the nasties that flung their way assuming he could get #4 shoved beneath him for a moment. "Get down jackass!"

Number 4, a person of no more than around nineteen, standing at not much over 5 feet with a blonde buzzcut, is easily pushed to the ground. He lays there for a while, and no explosion ever comes, but 4 starts laughing when motorcycles can be heard off in the distance. "Hey, dude, I'm what you call a trump card."

Dutch frowns, infact he frowns hard down at #4. "No, fuckstick your arrested."And on cue out come the zipcuffs, which he quickly attempts to put to good use. "Now you see, I am going to write just the most strongly worded letter to your mother about how much of a jackass you've been. Now listen to your Elders, and excersise your right to remain silent."

Number 4, easily cuffed, does not remain silent. "You think I care about getting arrested? I work for a greater cause. Fun and destroying stuff, none of that straight A honor student spelling B champ stuff anymore. When the world ends, do you wanna be one of the people left under the rubble?" he asks, as if trying to make Dutch believe some sort of cult propaganda. He is, clearly, not just a normal gang member. "You don't have anything on me, you don't even know if I'm one of the guys that hit you. Go suck a dick."

Dutch clears his throat, before looking towards the pile of discarded smgs. "I believe you have me confused with the Police, I'm the ATF. Do you know what that means, punk?"Dutch adjusts his position, rolling #4 onto his stomach before pinning his knee on the back of #4's neck. "Now either I can kill Mortimer the next time I see him, or you can insure his little tiff with me can continue and tell me which one of those machine pistols is yours and make a full confession down at the station. So you play my game, or I make you play my game.""

"These are normal unmodified SMGs, he copied real ones, he's not gonna come after you for these." Number 4 explains, as if this is somehow useful information. Mortimer does not come after people unless he's done personal modifications. "I'm gonna confess, if it came down to me getting arrested, I was supposed to tell you Mortimer's life story, you and all your cop friends. But you know what? A dick like you can't kill him, he can see you, he can see into you. You've seen his eyes, right? When they get all silver? That's when he's seeing things for what they really are. The world is our playground, man, we're pure now, we're a part of it, the ultimate purpose. No jail can stop it, you can't stop it, you can only join it."

Dutch rises with a frown, peering at his would be prisoner. "yaknow what?"He produces that knife again, and with a quick flick he cuts #4 free. "Tell your boss a message for me, and take this garbage with you and I'll let you go."Garbage obviously meant to reference the machine pistols. "Do you think your capable of a transaction that complicated?"

"Yeah, sure. But you're messing up the plan, ya know." Number 4 explains as he looks down at his free hands, then around at the weapons. "And he's gonna be really pissed that you didn't give him his stuff back. But what's your message, dead guy? 'Cause that's what you're gonna be if you keep fuckin' around with him."

Dutch just narrows his gaze, "Another word, and I'll pin a request to your chest and I suspect Mortimer will oblige me if you've stepped between our fued."He snorts, before casually walking back to his rifle and backpack. "Tell him, He's a worthy competitor. Tell him I'll keep playing, for the same reasons he will. I'll need a concession from him however, if he wants to keep playing I need linderman. I need enough evidence to arrest him, and convict him. If what his whackjob nutcase told me is true, and he's trying to avenge the thirty six kids? Then tell him he's running in the wrong direction. Now get the fuck out've here, before I take my pound of flesh."

"Yeah whatever, I'll tell 'em, Linderman pisses me off anyway, rich fuck." Number 4 starts collecting guns, something he'll be at for a while. Luckily there's no end to the cars you can hotwire in this area. "Go ahead and leave, not like I can go hide and not tell 'em, he kills us if we don't check in for 24 hours."

Dutch snorts, he just made a deal with the devil. "Quit'cher bitchin.". He shoulders his pack, reloads his rifle and leisurely strolls down the road. Eventually slipping back into the shadows from which he arrived, and vanishing off into the night.

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