StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Here's the beginning of an insane piece I began writing last night after reading some stuff from jihad.net. I felt I had to jump on the bandwagon as well, EHEHHEHEHEHEHEH

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.

..................very, very disturbing.

excellent! Then I shall begin producing part 2 immediately!

Here is part 2 of this crazy fic. You will learn to like it! Bwaahhahahahh!


Part 2

Footsteps splashed briskly through the puddles in the alley behind an old, abandoned
warehouse. It was drizzling, and the day was overcast. Falkenhorst had been on the run
for 48 hours, stopping only to stick pliers down his throat to pull out the feeding tube and
get a bite to eat at a McDonalds.

With a kick, Falkenhorst sent a decrepit door banging back and forth on it's hinges. The
rusty padlock clattered to the floor. He moved into the warehouse, keeping in the
shadows and walking as soft as a cat. In a matter of minutes, he had scoped out the main
floor of the place. The building was full of random junk left by bums and drifters, but
what caught Falk's eye was the gang graffiti. His suspicions were confirmed when he
heard voices coming from an upstairs office. Climbing the stairs, he stood stock still and
listened, his guns ready.

"Wazzi, you mofo, you was supposed to get me the 20 Gs for that angel dust. Where's
mah fuckin money?"

"I swears to you Jamal, I ain't got you're money. It disappeared!"

"Yeah fuckin right it disappeared. I think you took it!" said the voice that Falk now knew
was Jamal. A series of muffled thumps and thwacks and grunts of pain, and then Jamal
spoke again.

"So tell me again how yo lost my money, Wazzi, you limp prick." He said.

"Well I done crashed at this bitch Shanaya's place after I did the deal, and I had your
money all there, right? Well her and I got shitfaced and I banged her fat ass and when I
woke up this morning it was fuckin gone!"

"Oh really." Said Jamal. "I think p'haps it would interest you to know that little miss
Shanaya's boyfriend is Robbie the Rock, who you may happen to know is a member of
the Southside Slayers." Said Jamal in a sarcastic voice.

A pause.

"Oh shit, Jamal, I didn't fuckin know.. Oh my god, don't kill me man!" Wazzi's voice
trailed off into blubbering. Falkenhorst smirked with dark glee as he moved to stand
right in front of the door.

Jamal was about to kill Wazzi, when suddenly the sniveling punk began looking like he
saw a ghost. Jamal turned around. The last thing he saw through the window in the door
was a man looking at him with cold eyes over the barrels of twin sub-machineguns.

Falkenhorst began laughing insanely as he squeezed the triggers, blasting bloody chunks
of Jamal all over the interior of the office. Wazzi's scream of terror was cut off as
several rounds slammed into his head, smearing blood and brains all over the wall behind
him as his twitching corpse fell to the floor. For Falkenhorst, it was like taking Holy
Communion. The guns fired in slow motion, spiderwebs crawled across the glass
window and it fell in a shimmering crystal waterfall that took long seconds to reach the
floor. Empty brass played a tinkling melody in the background.

Falkenhorst surveyed the destruction. The office was riddled with bullets, the two
corpses leaking pools of dark blood on the floor. He smiled in twisted satisfaction. His
new hideout had been properly christened with the blood of the guilty.

...............Jesus H. There's no other words.

Damn that was cool.

Cyaround,
Jason

Okay……………………………………………………

Fear not, for I have seen RED DRAGON tonight and give it 5 stars! It's given me some insights for this fic.

Sea Skimmer wrote:Okay……………………………………………………

What?

So i'm as sick and saddistic as Falkenhorst.

Cyaround,
Jason

heheh, welcome to my evil club. Would you like to have a guest role in this fic, Soontir?

If you do, say who you want to be and what you want to do.

H3lla kool dood! That is one SICK and TWISTED story! In other words, I like it! How bout our antihero coming down to New Orleans and blasting huge swaths of the ghetto in searing, writhing flame?!!!! Take these High-and-Mighty crackheads I have to deal with every day down a few (million) notches! I would love to see that made into a movie... Lata and Happy Spree-Killing!

Einhander Sn0m4n wrote:H3lla kool dood! That is one SICK and TWISTED story! In other words, I like it! How bout our antihero coming down to New Orleans and blasting huge swaths of the ghetto in searing, writhing flame?!!!! Take these High-and-Mighty crackheads I have to deal with every day down a few (million) notches! I would love to see that made into a movie... Lata and Happy Spree-Killing!

Make it during Madi Gras!

HEHE, that would be cool as hell, but Falk would probably just run around first and bang all the hot topless chicks.

Whatever floats your boat.

Heh heh. Maybe I'll have Hannibal Lecter put in a guest appearance. Who wants to see Hannibal in this fic?

ok, people. Here's Part 4 of this crazy fic, in which we get to see a familiar character up to his old tricks. This is a special part, 1/3 again as long as the standard length at ~90 lines.


Part 3
Falkenhorst was lounging in another office down the catwalk from the one in which he
had ended the worthless lives of the two gangbangers. It was a simple task for him to
find cleaning supplies in a janitor's closet and dispose of the mess. Presently, Jamal and
Wazzi were floating among the raw sewage somewhere deep beneath the city. The black
Jaguar was parked on the warehouse floor, with a tarp covering it. Luckily for
Falkenhorst, it had a leather interior, making it easy to remove the bloodstains. On his
way back from dumping the gangsters' rotting corpses down a manhole, Falkenhorst had
stolen several sets of license plates from random cars he had seen.

Apparently the gangsters had been part of a major smuggling ring, as well as drug
dealers. To Falkenhorst's bemusement, there were also two railroad freight containers in
the warehouse. In the first one, he found all sorts of handguns, automatic weapons,
rocket launchers, and other deadly military hardware. In the second trailer, he found the
Ammunition. Falkenhorst laughed gleefully as he had armed himself with a pair of
Calico M-950s. The small 9mm Sub-machine guns could fire at 750 RPMs from 100
round magazines.

The gangsters would be back for their guns, Falk was sure. But for now, he was watching CNN on a big TV he inherited from Jamal and Wazzi. Footage of a burning building was being shown on the screen. The anchor was talking about how a BATF office had been targeted by a car bomb. Then the view switched again, showing another half-collapsed burning building. Falkenhorst could see objects covered by bloodstained sheets in the parking lot in front of it. The anchor noted that this was the third BATF branch office to be bombed in the past 12 hours.

A map appeared on the screen, with the locations of the bombings marked in red. Falkenhorst noted that the bombings started about 300 miles southwest of where he was, and then progressed toward the city. He began to suspect that maybe he knew who was behind the bombings.

***

A black van pulled up silently to the curb in front of a nondescript office building. The driver of the van knew that the building wasn't just any building though. The lower 4 floors were office space, but on the top floor was the top secret headquarters of the local JAO, or Jihad Autonomous Organization. The offices below were front companies for the Jihad, bringing in legitimate cash and business contacts which the higher levels of the Jihad used clandestinely in their fight to rid the world of The Purple One, otherwise known as Lord B'Harne.

The van's driver got out, moving silently in the night. He wore all black, and his face was covered in a ski-mask. Moving quickly, he set up batteries of claymore mines to cover the entrances of the building. Then he moved to the back side of the building, into an alleyway. He found his deadly toys just as he had left them the night before while posing as a garbage man. He opened the lid of the dumpster and pulled out the silenced Ruger 10/22 rifle fitted with a 50 round magazine and IR night scope and took aim at the cameras mounted on a ledge near the roof of the building. With 5 silent blasts, he picked them off.

Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, the man twirled a grappling hook on a nylon cord and let it fly. It caught the edge of the roof and he fastened the line to his harness and began rapelling up the side of the building. He trailed the end of the cord behind him to where it was fastened to other items in the dumpster. Reaching the top of the building, having avoided the windows, he looked over the top. Two guards stood idly by, smoking cigarettes. They never realized what was happening as the two .22 hollowpoints ripped through their skulls, scrambling their brains.

***

Falkenhorst watched from the shadows of the roof of a nearby building as the dark figure turned to the edge of the building and affixed a winch. Turning the crank, he hoisted something up. Falk couldn't see what it was, since it was on the opposite side of the building from his viewpoint. When they came into view, they looked like large 55 gallon drums. Working fast, the man pried open the intake grate on one of the ventilation blowers. Then he unrolled two lengths of firehose from his belt and screwed them into a small pump unit he had hoisted up.

Falkenhorst smiled as he watched the evil genius on the other rooftop complete his deadly work. The pump was affixed with bungee cords so it would spray the contents of the two 55 gallon drums down the ventilation shaft. The figure fiddled with some dials and buttons on the pump unit, and then pulled something from his belt. Falkenhorst knew it would be a detonator. The dark figure slapped the detonator onto the side of one of the drums and then stood up, his head swiveling for a moment in the dark city night. His eyes seemed to lock onto Falkenhorst's position for a moment, and then the man was gone.

***

5 minutes after the agent of doom had left the scene, the timer on the pump clicked into action. The pump began whirring at full rev. It would empty the two drums in just less than 5 minutes. The contents of the drums would exit the pump through an atomizer, somewhat like a shower head, which would convert the liquid into a fine mist that would be easily spread through the ventilation system. On the LED display of the detonator, the glowing numbers were counting down past 6 minutes.

The Jihaddis in the building first noticed a faint whiff of a smell somewhat like kerosene, but somehow different. It rapidly grew stronger, until the air seemed to become hazy. They began coughing and losing consciousness, some on the upper floors managing to race down stairwells or get into elevators. They didn't know what was going on, only that it was bad, very bad.

Meanwhile, on the roof, the pump sucked air. It had just finished it's assigned task of pumping 110 gallons of High-Octane Jet Fuel into the building's ventilation ducts. Exactly 1 minute later, the detonator reached zero and fired.

***

Falkenhorst's IR goggles automatically opaqued to shield his eyes from the bright blast. It seemed happen in slow motion. First a flash on the roof, followed seconds later by a hellish WOOOOOOSHHHHHHing noise that grew louder and louder and howled down the city streets as first the uppermost floor exploded and then the one below it and on down until the entire building was consumed in a blazing inferno. The fire erupted from every opening, blowing out windows, doors, and flaming debris as it blasted it's way down from the top story. The upper 3 floors of the building actually exploded, showering flaming debris and horribly ruined Jihaddi corpses for blocks around.

The few survivors of the initial blast staggered out of the lower floor's entrances, usually suffering horrible burns, and in many cases, on fire. These stumbling, luckless creatures triggered the batteries of Claymore mines and were blasted into hamburger (Medium rare). Sirens began wailing in the distance as the weakened remains of the Jihad HQ collapsed in on itself, feeding the raging flames that were still consuming the lower floors.

***

Falkenhorst was watching the latest updates on CNN again, this time coverage of the attack he had witnessed firsthand the previous night. The anchor was talking about how nobody inside the building had survived when the view changed to a scene showing the scorched front of a building opposite the smoldering epicenter of the blast. A crankishly drawn skull adorned the brick wall, red streaks and dribbles indicating that it had been painted in blood. Falkenhorst smirked and uttered a single word:

"Sheppard."

OH, SAAWWEEEEEEET!

Part 4

Mark K. Sheppard was curled up in a corner of a maintenance room deep in the bowels of
the city sewer system, dreaming. In his dream, he was a dark angel, spreading death and
chaos and terror before him. The M-60 jackhammered against his shoulder, filling the
corridors with thundering sound as it spewed hot brass tinkling to the deck around his
boots. He saw them die, their uniformed bodies falling in slow motion, drenching the
deckplates and bulkheads with gallons upon gallons of warm red blood. Their
phase-pistols whining as the retreating crewmen desperately tried to stop him, he laughed
maniacally as he scythed their bodies into bloody hamburger.

Sheppard's eyes snapped open, the echoes of gunfire and laughter fading in his mind as he
came fully awake. Without even looking at his watch, he knew it was time to meet his
former mentor. He packed his guns and deadly goodies into his rucksack, and began the
long march through the dank sewers to where he knew Falkenhorst was hiding.

***

"So tell me, Dr. Lecter... what were the orderlies like at the Baltimore State Hospital for
the Criminally Insane?" Asked Falkenhorst, sipping his chilled grape juice.

"Mediocre for the most part; although Barney was the most courteous of the lot."
Replied Hannibal, twirling his nearly empty glass of chianti.

"I had to kill the orderlies when I escaped," said Falkenhorst, staring off into the distance
for a moment. "They deserved it, though."

"Ah, yes. The arithmetic of justice;" mused the Doctor. They were sitting at a card table
in the middle of the warehouse floor, beneath a skylight.

Far above, Sheppard slowly turned the crank on the window, opening a corner of the
skylight. Affixing his rappelling line to a pipe leading to an air conditioning unit, Sheppard
attached it to his harness and began lowering himself down.

"You know, it takes a certain sort of person to want to be a jail guard.." began Hannibal,
when suddenly, Sheppard's rappelling winch jammed. *FUCK* he cursed as the line
began paying out with a soft HISSing noise. Both Hannibal and Falkenhorst looked up as
the black clad commando fell from 25 feet up, arms and legs flailing as he crashed onto the
card table, sending dishes and silverware flying everywhere.

A sinister smirk crept across Dr. Lecter's grandfatherly face as he produced a hunting
knife with a flick of his hand.

"One of yours, Falky?" he asked in a taunting, hissing voice as he leapt on top of the
downed commando, bringing the knife to his throat. In one swift move, he pulled the
man's ski-mask up, revealing a slovenly, unshaven face.

Sheppard looked up at Falkenhorst. "Well... no shit..." he muttered in a cheap John
Wayne voice.

"Your heart's pounding, sonny! Your blood's doubtless heavy with adrenaline about
now;" said Hannibal, leaning in to whisper in Sheppard's ear. "I think I'll have a sip!" he
said.

"Fat chance, Gramps." Grated Sheppard, and a chill ran down Hannibal's spine as he felt
cold steel against the back of his head. A shit-eating grin twisted Sheppard's face, his eyes
those of a madman as he flicked off the safety on his Colt 1911 and prepared to waste Dr.
Lecter.

"You can slice me all you like, but I'll paint the wall with the inside of your head;" said
Shep. He was interrupted by a conspicuously loud metallic click.

"Both of you, stop it." said Falkenhorst. Both Hannibal and Sheppard looked over to see
Falkenhorst aiming a huge .357 Magnum at them.

"Well, you could have knocked;" said Hannibal, making the knife disappear as he stood up
and straightened his slightly rumpled clothing. Sheppard got up as well, still holding the
.45 ready. Falk lowered his revolver and smiled.

"Hannibal Lecter, i'd like you to meet my old friend Mark Sheppard."

ROFL. I see Shep's usual grace and dignity at work again...

Hmm Lovely! i wonder how our "friends" at Creationweb'll like it? Lata and KEEP WRITING THE FANFIX!!

LOL very very nice. ahhhhh the great mind at work.

Cyaround,
Jason

Amusingly disturbing

thank you; thank you... <bows>

what was meant by that mention of creationweb? Do they not like fanfic?

They're fundies....

IG-88E wrote:They're fundies....

errr I am puzzled.......why would Fundies not like it?

Cyaround,
Jason