so for your perverse reading pleasures, I present...
COL. FALKENHORST vs. KIDS TV
Starring COL. FALKENHORST
Written by COL. FALKENHORST
Part 1
The man once known as Colonel Falkenhorst cringed in the corner of his padded cell,
quivering. He was covered in cold sweat. From the TV, cranked to full volume by the
sadistic orderlies, an episode of Power Rangers was blaring. Deep within the shell of the
man, deep in the dark recesses of Falkenhorst's mind, a small shred of him still clung to
sanity. And in that part, a spark of rage and hatred was gradually fanned into a burning
flame. Day after day, as serialized Power Ranger and Barney and Teletubby reruns
hammered at the few remaining scraps of his sanity, his anger grew into a raging inferno.
Falkenhorst, once a decorated Navy SEAL, had been consumed by death and war. His
promising career had been ruined when he had gone berserk on an insertion mission
against drug runners in South America. In his mind, he knew why he had done it. That
dark night, the grim face of the Reaper had spoke to him, showing him the path he was
bound to take. Shortly afterward, he had slaughtered the entire drug cartel, and then
turned his guns on his fellow SEALS. It had taken an entire Marine Battalion plus
several Columbian motorized divisions 3 months to capture him. In that short time, he
had killed more men than most divisions accounted for in a week of frontline combat.
He was considered the most dangerous man on Earth. He was almost something more
than human. He was kept in a strait jacket at all times. He didn't need weapons to inflict
death and suffering on those around him. He was a weapon. Now, as the TV blared at
him, the deadbolts and locks began slamming open, and 3 burly orderlies entered his cell.
They brought a feeding tube with them, which they would shove down his throat and
proceed to pump him full of nutrient paste. Steeling himself, Falkenhorst prepared to
escape.
"Open wide, Falky!" said one of the men, prying Falk's jaw open with an instrument that
looked like rubber-ended tongs while another shoved the tube down his gullet. When
Falkenhorst felt the tube poking all the way down his throat, he suddenly began jerking
and thrashing violently. The tongs flew out of his mouth, and he bit down, severing the
tube in his throat. Immediately, his reflexes kicked in, and he vomited. However, the
tube changed things, and he began choking on his own vomit. As he thrashed and
coughed and gurgled on the floor, the orderlies began panicking. They grabbed him and
dragged him to the infirmary.
On the operating table, the doctor cut away Falkenhorst's straight jacket, working
frantically to save him. Falkenhorst was turning blue from lack of oxygen. The doctor
was just about to use his scalpel to make an incision to open Falkenhorst's airways, when
the patient's eyes snapped open. With a mighty heave of his chest, he expelled a half-
gallon of puke from his lungs into the doctor's face. Leaping from the table with
lightning speeds, he grabbed a long scalpel from the doctor's instrument tray.
A few swift hacks, and the doctor was drowning in his own blood. The orderlies came at
him with riot batons, but he was too quick. In a devastating combo of Martial Arts and
street fighting skills, he kicked one so hard in the face that he snapped the man's neck.
As he landed from that kick, his knife arm swept around, laying open another Orderly's
throat. Falkenhorst was splashed with warm arterial blood from the dying man as he
drove the scalpel into the last orderly's eye. The final man fell to his knees, clutching his
face. Falkenhorst broke his neck with another roundhouse kick. Working quickly, he
shucked out of his prison pajamas and donned the orderly's uniform. Picking up two riot
batons, he slipped one in his belt and carried the other in his hand.
He exited the infirmary and strolled down to a bank of elevators. The two guards didn't
notice anything wrong until he got within arm's reach, and that was enough to send them
both sprawling to the floor dead. Picking up their MP5s and spare clips of ammo,
Falkenhorst got in the elevator and hit the button for the Ground Floor. When he was
about halfway down, the alarms started blaring and red lights began flashing. Moving
fast, he leaped up and punched out a ceiling panel with the riot baton and then leaped
again, grabbing the edge of the open area and hauling himself up onto the roof of the
elevator. He took deep breaths and waited. A soft ding sounded as the elevator doors
opened. Immediately, several flashbangs and tear gas grenades flew into the elevator and
exploded. Falk took a deep breath and dropped into the cloudy gloom of the elevator
compartment. He rolled out into the lobby, both guns up and tracking.
Gunfire erupted all around, blowing out windows and light fixtures and shattering potted
plants as Falk rolled behind a desk, dropping 3 guards with precise bursts. The firefight
was intense. Falk jumped and rolled and ran from cover to cover, leaving a trail of
bullet-riddled guards in his wake. Within minutes, the lobby was a blood soaked charnel
house and Falkenhorst walked out through the shredded main doors. He could hear
police sirens in the distance, coming closer. Spotting a businessman just getting into his
black Jaguar, Falk approached him. He reached into the cab and pulled the man out,
kicking and cursing, and blew the top of his head off without even blinking.
Falk slid into the posh driver's seat and started the engine. He peeled away from the curb
and gunned the motor, racing away long before the cops got anywhere close.
and TWISTED 
