THE RETURN

Chapter Two - The Devil's sleep.


Porkney High, just an average middle class suburban white high school. Nothing special about it at all. Even so, this is where he works now. That makes it something else entirely. A breeding ground for evil. A percolator for corruption. A crock pot for a sadistic arrogance that must be halted before it fully matures.

That's why I'm here early today. I pull my yellow 1968 Ferrari 250GTO into the parking space closest to the entrance, slam the door shut and race inside. It's 8:45 AM. I have 15 minutes to find him and stop this before it starts. If it's even starting. I actually have no idea, but there's a pain in my gut like a burst appendix the week before you play the St. Louis Rams, and it tells me "watch out."

I round a corner and the scent is unmistakable. He's leaned up against the wall, one hand extended, trapping what looks to be a fresh-out-of-college substitute teacher against the lockers. Probably thinks she's "in to him." Whatever.

I walk past, knowing what's coming. Welcoming it. Let the dance begin.

"Hey Sam. See that Vikings game yesterday?"

"No, sir. I don't watch much football. Did they win?"

"Sure did, Sammy. Matt Cassel was terrific. I think he's great. You ever watch him play quarterback?"

"Oh, yeah I've heard of him. Kind of sucks to be honest, at least from what I've heard."

I can feel the rage coming off his scalp.

"Bullshit, you don't know what you're talking about, he threw twenty-sev-"

"I heard he had like three wins for his entire career against winning teams or something. Pretty shitty player if you ask me. Overpaid, too. Whoever thought he could play in the NFL probably lost their job."

An uncomfortable silence as I look at him with a slight grin on my face. If only he knew. I can tell he's mad, but he won't do anything. Not yet.

"You know, Sam, I'm not used to people disagreeing with me. You don't have to use such foul language here, though. In fact, it's in your student code of conduct. So just try to show a little respect, especially to me, OK? Good kid."

I scratch my head. **** it.

"Respect? For you? I really don't give a shit, sir. Dumping the ball off to Adrian Peterson and letting him beat the Browns doesn't really impress me. Matt Cassel did, does, and will always suck."

"Also, I don't give a shit about the student code of conduct. You've been here for a year, too. You think I give a shit about you or your fake sense of authority over a bunch of high school kids? Blow it out your fat ****ing ass. Sir."

He'd like to hit me now. He can't, of course, but he really wants to. So he'll do the only thing he can.

"Unbelievable. This attitude won't be tolerated, Sam. Report to my office after school for three hours of detention. You need discipline and clearly I'm the only one around here that can give it to you."

"Whatever. Sir."

I take his detention slip and stuff it in my pocket. He's playing right into my hands.

The hours pass, I wait for the final period bell to ring, and now it's time. I make my way down the hall, past the gymnasium, take a left at the library and stare at the door. The sign, in big black letters rimmed in 24k gold:


Some mother****ers are always trying to ice skate uphill.

Showtime.

To be continued...

You'll get to remember all over again, and soon.

With our luck, Cassel will win a playoff game in Minnesota due to AD.

Matt will be the Vikings starter by EOY.

THE RETURN

Chapter Three - Into the belly of the least


I grimace as I push the door open. ***** looks up from whatever bullshit paper he's been offending with his stupid pen strokes. Probably something about lax janitorial standards.

"Take a seat."

"Yes sir. By the way, Matt Cassel still sucks shit."

His lip curls. A slight tremble of his nose.

"No talking, or you'll have to deal with a lot more than a simple detention, Sam."

I take a seat and stare at his bald head. He's fatter now. After the NFL Network fired him, clearly he started feasting on Cannoli and Calzone thrice daily. Why would he give a shit, anyway? Out of the public eye, safe at his cushy little bullshit high school principal job. Always needing that power fix, though. He probably steals ice cream sandwiches from the cafeteria at lunchtime.

He looks up.

"I have to make a phone call. Stay here or you face suspension."

I'm shaking, I'm shaking. Jesus Christ, he hasn't changed a bit.

***** produces a pink iphone and steps outside. He reeks of fritos and bean dip, the pungent aroma infecting me as he passes the desk. Disgusting.

I can hear him outside.

"Yes, this is Scott *****. Is Matt around? It's urgent."

Hahaha. He's actually calling him. What a sad little bastard. This should be interesting.

"Hi, Matty. I saw the game. Great effort kid. You've still got it. Listen, I've been thinking...your contract with the Vikings isn't too big, right?"

It better not be.

"Wow, that's not bad at all. Yeah, you can get out of that. I've been thinking...we have unfinished business. Yeah, you know it. We were wronged."

What? You've got to be kidding me.

"No, Matt. No one gives a shit about Kansas City. We can do whatever we want. No one will even care. You know they can't stop me, anyway. This will be perfect."

That sounds...disturbing. Something's brewing. I've got to stop it before it starts.

I look at my watch. It's almost time for action.

"You got it. We'll connect after the dust clears. They will all be our bitches, Matty. It's time for revenge. And I'll be trading that dipshit Bowe this time."

The force of the door slamming open knocks ***** clean to the ground, his girly phone skittering across the slick floor. There's a momentary pang of fear in my gut as I realize I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing. ***** rolls over onto his fat ass, in shock, his brow furrowing as he realizes what the **** just happened.

"THAT'S IT, MISTER. YOU JUST BOUGHT YOURSELF A ONE WAY TICKET TO JUV-"

I leap across the hall in one step and hook him across the jaw. His mouth drops open in surprise, clearly appalled he's just had his clock cleaned by a 12th grader. As much as I'd enjoy prolonging this, there's no time to waste. I high tail it down the corridor.

Shouting. Something about police. Don't care, especially since his heart would burst before he caught me at this point. I still have no idea what I'm doing. First things first - I've got to get the hell out of Porkney.

I round a corner, slip and stumble backwards through a door into a tiny, dim room. Dammit.

I get up, brush myself off and take a deep breath. Smells like floor cleaner and turpentine in here. Must be the janitor's closet.

"What are you doing here?"

I look up. A familiar face.

Amazing.

"I...uh...could ask you the same thing, Nick."

He looks puzzled. I'm a mirror. But I've got to go. I reach for the door.

"Wait."

"Hurry up. *****'s planning something. I've got to act fast."

He nods.

"I know."

"I have inside information."

To be continued...

I was just thinking "What this forum needs to be complete is some creepy gay porn fan fic."

Chapter 4 is gonna be a doozy!

Graphic novel.

Why wouldn't some of them think that? There are actually Chiefs fans that think Alex Smith is the savior.

There is no difference, and the Vikings fans have had to swallow the same crap since Fran Tarkenton, similar to Chiefs fans and Lenny.

Would love to have ANYONE illustrate these chapters in MS Paint.

Chapter 5 is going to be FULL of awesome things to illustrate.

http://www.chiefsplanet.com/BB/showthread.php?t=242525

Go recruit.

THE RETURN

Chapter Four - Put on your Warpaint


"I have inside information."

I have no idea what the **** Nick's talking about.

"Are you trying to tell me Ty Law is involved in this?"

"No, nothing like that. Listen, ***** is...pissed. And you know how he'll stop at nothing to get what he wants. All that Save Our Chiefs stuff...he feels wronged. Slighted. He's out of control."

No shit. Tell me something I don't know.

"So what's he gonna do? Sue the Hunts?"

"No, it's...far worse than that."

"Spill. I don't have time to read a forum."

"***** has spent the last two years acquiring top secret military hardware from around the globe. He's invested heavily in developing technologies in the field of heavy energy weapons, next-generation ballistics and, most important, human-cyborg relations."

It takes me a second to digest the news. It sounds like ***** wants to fund his own war machine. Like he's launching an offensive.

"Are you trying to tell me..."

A heavy sigh.

"Yes, it's true. Scott ***** is building a massive war mech, code-named 'Patriot Way Shitkicker 5000X.' It's the most sophisticated piece of man-machine battle tech the world has ever seen."

"He's going to take back the Truman Sports Complex in a hail of destruction, fire and crumbling 40-year old architecture. I'm afraid nothing will stop him. He's hell bent on re-assuming control of Arrowhead. He believes it's his birthright."

I'm in shock, but not too surprised. After all, it's Scott ****ing *****.

"So...how do we stop this."

He grins.

"Step into my office."

We exit the janitorial closet, stepping into darkness. We're in an enormous room. Not the Porkney gymnasium. Smells like used motor oil, dirty rags and coolant in here. Someone's building something. Something big.

Banks of lights flip on, one by one. There's something covered under a tarp, misshapen and all angles, with weird tube-shaped bulges forming odd peaks.

Nick grabs the tarp and yanks it off in one clean motion.

"I call it 'Warpaint Hellustrated.' *****'s not the only one with a grudge, you know. Plus, I've always loved computers."

I pick my jaw up off the ground and run one hand under it's smooth chrome underbelly. It's got a clean coat of red and gold paint running through the mechanical musculature. Sleek, aerodynamic lines. It looks really ****ing cool. And really ****ing expensive.

"How did you afford this?"

He winks.

"Ten years of insider subscriptions, how else. I was going to take out the Kansas City Star, but, you know, what would be the point..."

I point at the tubes.

"Premium cannons. They pack a punch!"

There's a large, circular dish lined with holes in the middle of the thing's chestplate.

"What's this?"

A knowing nod.

"That's your get-out-of-jail-free card. If you wind up getting your ass kicked, last resort. Close quarters only. But don't abuse it. It shuts down the entire mech for 10 minutes. Anything unshielded within 50 meters is getting a crater the size of an SUV blown right through it, though. I call that baby "The Deal Is Done."

Suddenly, the tech bay rumbles and I fall to my feet. It feels like an earthquake. Something outside is making a lot of noise. It fades.

Nick goes to a console, begins punching buttons. The mech roars to life, humming energy, pulsating with heat. A strange glow peeks out from between the joints.

"Saddle up. You hear that ruckus outside? *****'s got a lead on you already. This thing could be over in a matter of hours if we don't do something now. Right now."

I hop up, strap in, the cockpit slams shut and Warpaint Hellustrated screams into the clouds.

It's time to Save Our Chiefs. Again.

http://img.pandawhale.com/post-18357...lkshk-b7tr.gif

The Deal is Done