View Full Version : Champion

02-06-2012, 05:49 PM
“Jessie Pavlick. Jessie Pavlick. Remember that name. Two kids, single father. Remember that name for as long as you live.”
They all stared at Carter, standing around him in a half-circle. The light filtering in through the warehouse’s roof created blades of light that acted as a filter for which dust and bits of paper would float through before disappearing once again into the darkness when they left the comfort of the light.
“Jessie Pavlick. Remember that name. Jessie Pavlick. You killed Jessie Pavlick. You killed Jessie Pavlick over six-hundred and thirty two dollars. You chased Jessie Pav-lick on his way home from work and killed him. You killed Jess-ie Pavlick in an abandoned warehouse over six-hundred and thirty two dollars and twenty eight cents.
“You killed Jessie’s children. You killed Jessie’s grandchildren. You killed an entire generation of Pavlick’s for six-hundred and thirty two dollars and twenty eight cents.”
Jessie groaned as he tried to twist out of his constraints, but to no avail. If it weren’t for the duct tape lassoed around his mouth, his pleas for mercy would’ve been audible. Instead, a muffled cry was all that emanated from the balding, overweight gas station attendant. He made seven dollars an hour pumping gas at a Shell twenty six miles from Las Vegas, which charged customers five dollars a gallon on gasoline. And no, we won’t fill your tires; this is a private company.
“You killed Jessie, therefore you are Jessie. You are what you eat.” Carter pointed a revolver at Jessie’s head, who shuddered with desperation. “We do this because we need to survive. We do this for the best of many, one life to pay for thousands. A fair trade.”
Carter’s words did little to comfort Jessie, who sobbed in response. Although his words were helplessly mangled by the tape, the group knew what Jessie was going to say. He would plead the men for his life; to have a second chance. He’d mention his family; he’d mention his kids; he’d mention all the shit his captors were supposed to care about but honestly didn’t. But that’s life; shit you have to care about, but you honestly don’t. No, wait until after the presentation’s done to ask questions.
I told you, put your hand down, you’re interrupting Kleiner’s power point.
“We’re doing this because we want to.” The Glock’s black, matte body casted an equally dark shadow on the dusty ground, which looked so much like the actual gun that I swear it was another one. Maybe it was. Maybe the gun was the shadow, and Carter’s shadow was holding the real gun. Maybe Carter was as shadow.
Maybe we’re all shadows.
Maybe we’re just helpless against our human, shadow-casting puppeteers. The world is a puppeteer. Money. People. People like you, Jessie. You asshole, you sold us out.
“We’re saving the world, Jessie. You’re the key to all of this.” Jessie’s red-rimmed eyes slammed shut as he finally accepted that he was being held hostage by complete fucking physics. Is that the word? No. That’s the wrong word. Psychopath? That sounds like it. Now, we erase the path, the same way you’ve got to seal White Phosphorous in an air-tight container if you want to do anything with it. The word itself is harmless. It’s only when you’ve mixed White Phosphorous with moisture that is explodes. Mix it in a bathtub. Mix it in a water bottle. Throw seven pounds of it into a public pool in the middle of the summer. That’s a psycho. Psycho. That’s what Carter is, right?
This is your last warning. When the presentation is over you can ask questions.
“We’re fighting for a world free of evil, a world free of greed.” Carter pressed the Glock’s barrel into Jesse’s head. “We’re not crazy, Jesse. We know what we’re doing.”
Carter looked at his followers.
“We’ll make sure you’re remembered. We love you, Jessie. We really do.”
The shot was partly muffled by Jessie’s head, which rattled as his brain and bits of his skull were launched out of the left flank of his head, you know, the same way water shoots out from between your hands when you squish them together in a pool. Don’t you remember shooting the water at other people? I’m sure you do, don’t you?
Don’t you?
Alright, you can ask questions now.
Jessie stopped crying as his life splashed onto the tiles next to him. It was kind of weird, the way his brains just like, steamed or whatever. Weird shit. Jessie, very calmly, slumped forward onto the ground and slept as cavity fluid oozed from his skull.
You can sneeze snot at speeds over one-hundred miles per hour.
A Glock seventeen fires nine millimeter rounds at roughly eight-hundred and forty miles per hour.
The diameter of the average human head is around fifteen to sixteen inches, but since Jesse’s a big guy, we’ll say eighteen. Divide that by two, you get nine. That’s nine inches to travel at a speed of eight-hundred and forty miles per hour. That’s fourteen-thousand, seven-hundred and eighty four inches a second. Plug in the numbers, that’s roughly 0.0006 seconds. It takes the human eye 0.3 seconds to blink.
Jesse didn’t even know he was dead. But he was, that’s the crazy thing. How doesn’t he know that he’s dead? It’s like falling asleep; you can never really put your finger on the exact second you fell asleep.
But others can. Maybe it’s this secret we all keep from you. That’s kind of funny, you thinking you’re alive and well and wandering around, completely oblivious that your brains are scattered out over a distance of several meters on the floor of some warehouse. Maybe that’s what ghosts are.
Thanks for the presentation, Kleiner. Now, I’ll be seeing you all on Monday, have a nice weekend. Oh, and don’t forget to get your A21’s in by next Thursday, Nancy really needs those. Alright guys, have a good weekend.
Carter holstered the Glock and looked up at his accomplices. “You killed Jesse. You all killed Jesse. I was the one who tried to save him, but you insisted that I kill him.”
Last one out, please hit the lights.
“What is this all for? Some game? No, it is not. We have not gotten this far because we think this is a game. Because it isn’t. This is not a game. This is not reality. This is enlightenment.
“We are free.”
Carter tossed the three other men their cut of the contents of Jesse’s wallet.
“I trust that you know what to do with the money. Buy AR-15’s so that we can share ammo. Remember to buy them used; harder to trace.”
Carter turned away from the men and looked out the large, open entrance into the warehouse. They could’ve closed the doors, but they didn’t want Jessie to die alone and isolated. I mean, Christ, what are we, savages?
“And when you go to pick up the rifles, you know what to do with the previous owners.”
Carter walked away from the men and into the light. He had just killed his first man. The viewers would love this. Tiny cambots crawling around and hovering and shit with high-def cameras recording live across six channels. God, it felt great. Carter knew that he was supposed to feel bad about killing an innocent man like Jesse, but he really didn’t. Life. Shit you should care about but honestly don’t.
But I’m getting carried away. So far, Team Sabre held a strong lead ahead of any other team. But this wasn’t just a game anymore.
No. It was more than that.
This was a way of life.

“And that’s the NFL report this weekend! It is now eight PM, March ninth, and we want to know what your plans for the weekend are! Caller?”
“Uh, yes, is this Nando?”
“Yes it is! Welcome to the Nando Show!”
I can’t listen to this. Human interaction. Two galaxies collide in a shower of words and patronism.
“Oh my God! Russell! I’m on the radio!”
“Haha, yes you are! Now, you must answer at least three questions correctly to win a prize, are you ready?”
“Yes! Russell, get over here!”
I reach for the radio and change the station. The rain rattling against my windshield matches the rhythm set by the saxophonist on the radio, waves of water rolling down my windshield as the radio squeaks. This is all I need.
This is my weekend.
I drive by a couple bars on the way home, full of people partying for nothing. Drinking and laughing and having fun with the rest of the world. I had a co-worker invite me once, and I went. I didn’t like it.
Full of people telling themselves to have fun, all while talking about how much they’d rather be doing something else. They lie. I know they lie.
I told them they lied, and suddenly, I became the bad guy.
I tried talking to one of them, one of the liars. She told me that she liked to spend nights at home with a movie, maybe with a friend or two. She was so hopelessly oblivious. I honestly couldn’t tell whether she was joking or honestly like this, so I asked her.
“Are you being honest right now?”
She looks at me with this weird face, like if I spoke in some alien language or something. “What?”
Next up is a drum solo. Not a rock-snare solo, but a smooth, slow thumper. I don’t know how to say it. The big foot pedal drum that causes both my heart and the rain to jump every time it’s hit. I like this station. No bullshit. Just music. It’s all I asked for anyways.
“I feel like you’re lying to me.” I inhale as I realize what I’ve said. I shouldn’t of had told her that. I don’t know why.
“Wh-what? What are you talking about?”
I just say “nothing” and try to talk about something else. Maybe she thinks I’m hitting on her or something. I always thought I could read people’s minds. I realize that I can only read their minds when I’m not actually talking to them.
I need to watch them first. It’s only when I see them talk to somebody else that I know who they really are. Maybe she thinks I’m weird.
“What’s your name?” She asks me. Maybe she’s legitimately interested. Probably not. She’s giving me a motherly look, like if I was her child’s friend and I was over to ask whether or not her son was there. She’s babying me, practically. I don’t like her.
“What’s yours?”
“Claire. But what’s your name?” Her name is Claire and she’s maybe five foot seven. I don’t like her too much.
“That’s a nice name. Where are you from?” I want her to talk about herself. Maybe then I can drift off. Finally I can drift off.
“Michigan. I’m sorry bu—”
“Michigan? My cousin lives there, he says it’s really cold up there.” I don’t have a cousin. But I’m starting to like this conversation. Finally I’m the dominant one.
“Really? Where does he live?”
Damn. I don’t know. “I lied.” I stare at her intently. Maybe I can read her thoughts now.
I start slowing down and park in front of my apartment. This is my favorite parking spot. Close to home. But I wouldn’t work here, not so close to the house. People complain about the distance between their job and home. I don’t. You don’t shit where you eat.
“What are you doing?” She’s starting to get angry now. Good.
“I lied to you.”
“Are you crazy or something?” No shit, Sherlock. I’m crazy as fuck. Leave me alone.
“No, I’m not.” I start pulling away really slowly. Maybe she’ll get the hint. She’s pretty hot, but I’m not going to do this again. Not that I’ve ever done it before, though. I’m just tired. I want some sleep. I want to just close my eyes.
“You’re weird.” She gives me this look and I stop. I expected her to be angry at me; tell her friends about me and how crazy I am. But no, this isn’t anger. This is confusion. This is interest. Maybe I’m wrong about her. I stop moving.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
She’s like me, a ghost. Not a real ghost, you know, like a metaphorical ghost. We’ve grown so accustomed to the innocence people have forced upon themselves that we’ve become a completely different race. One day I’m an office worker. One day I’m a millionaire. One day I’m making twelve pounds of homemade napalm and sealing it in my shower. Christ, I can’t even use my bathroom anymore. Maybe I should pack it up, see if I can make some nitroglycerin and sell it to some thug. If I found some wires and a detonator I could probably make C4. Demand’s high for C4.
We cannot be friends. We cannot know each other. If two ghosts become friends, it’s only a matter of time until they become criminals. Ghosts need to be surrounded by normal people. They need to be surrounded by Zombies. I want to be her friend, but I can’t. I’ll obsess. She’ll lie to me too.
I’ll lie to her.
I’m good at that, lying that is.
I’m fucking awesome at it.
I turn and walk into the center of the bar. I’m angry now. I’m becoming the antagonist of my own story. I was supposed to be self-centered. Nobody else can hold a part of me. The Author wrote me like that. I’m only a shadow of his pen, following his movements and correcting the world. I’m both the good and bad guy.
I sit down in front of my computer and I’m right at home. I’m safe from the Zombies crawling around outside. The Zombies at the party, the Zombies everywhere. I’m pretty sure there’s more than two kinds of people, you know. Like, people other than Zombies and Ghosts. You always tell yourself that some people are different. Maybe they are.
Maybe they aren’t.
I think I’m a bad guy. I browse dozens of online forums under a plethora of names. One day I’m an office worker. Lying online is too easy. Therefore, I don’t. I’ve told them everything. Online, you are safe. I tell them my name and all my homicidal thoughts, and they accept me. They love me.
They tell me that we’re one and the same, yet so different from the rest of the world. We talk. They send me their schematics and I review them. Crazy shit. Apoco7yp53 created a homemade VX bomb out of an old car engine. He’s the nicest person I’ve ever met. We don’t ask him why he made this weapon, because he’s probably just curious.
Curiosity killed the cat. Except that it wasn’t the cat’s curiosity that killed it. It was ours. Ask Schrödinger. The cat was perfectly fine until our curiosity unsealed the hushed casket.
Nova6671 comments on the schematic. He’s says that the gas release is too small.
If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself.
VX gas is a nerve agent which, when exposed to skin, causes twitching of the muscles and sweating followed by vomiting. Eventually, your muscles will stiffen around your lungs, and whenever you inhale, your chest cavity will close the way it always does, but this time, it doesn’t open. Your breaths become shallower and shallower. Eventually, breathing stops. And you don’t even have to inhale VX. If it so much as brushes against your skin, you’re completely fucked.
I guess the UN was right about VX gas. I’m scared of these guys. I don’t know what they plan to do with these bombs. There’s at least three guys I know who have made homemade flamethrowers.
One guy I know made an automatic nail gun. Load in the nails into custom cartridges, and you’re ready to go. He showed us a video of him firing it into a sheet of plywood. Nasty shit.
Then somebody posts a new thread.
“Your New Life.”
Maybe it’s an adbot. Maybe he’s just trolling us; making fun of us. I want to see this. I click on the thread, almost at the same time as maybe six other members. I see the guy who posted it. He’s a new member.
“Do you want to change your life forever?”
My eyes narrow.
“We need you. You can change the world.”
And that’s it. There’s a link at the bottom of his post embedded in “world”, but other than that, there’s nothing else. I place my cursor over the link.
Could this be what I think it is?
I want to click it so bad. Every fiber in my body yearns for change. I want to do something special. I want to change the world. My mouse hovers over the link. I start pressing down on my mouse. Every nanometer of distance I make with my finger puts me closer and closer to the future. But I stop. Not today.
I don’t trust this guy.
It can wait.
Today, I’m going to sleep.

“Dude, like, only The Return of The King made me cry.”
“What about Click?”
“Click? What?”
“The one with Adam Sandler.”
“Oh, and the time control thing? Yeah, I guess the part at the end was sad.”
I clutch the rag in my jacket. I try not to squeeze the juice out of it, but I have to keep a firm grip on it. Today, I am Stan.
“Hey Stan, did you see Click?”
“Yeah,” I reply. The two guards in front of us glance at us occasionally and nod in approval. That’s weird. They should nod when we pass. It’s kind of awkward now. It’s maybe seven in the afternoon and the only lighting is coming from the car headlights and streetlights.
The car in front of them has FEDERAL RESERVE stenciled across the side, so it’s pretty obvious where we are. With one hand in my jacket and the other taking shitty pictures at the cars driving to our left, I try my hardest to look like another dumb tourist. But Charles and Mike aren’t making it easy. But whatever. This is our last run.
Mike has this weird stance as he tries to hold both his MP5K and rag under his jacket, and we chuckle. He looks like some homeless guy. But we don’t see him for long. Mike passes past the first guard and stops. I stand in front of the second guard.
“Excuse me sir, but you can’t stand here.”
I ignore him. I glance at Mike and he nods in response. I look at the guard.
“Hey buddy, can you help me out for a second?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Does this,” I remove the cloth from my jacket just as I hear the guard to my left let out a muffled cry. “Smell like chloroform to you?” with my left hand, I grab the back of this guy’s head while with my right I shove the rag into his face. He yells in surprise as the liquid seeps into his nose and down his throat. He grabs my hand, but it’s too late. He goes limp.
A group of tourists, actual tourists, gasp in surprise. This annoys Charles, who swings his MP5K towards the couple. “What the fuck are you looking at? Turn the fuck around!” He steps towards them and levels the gun at their faces.
I let the guard fall to the ground and pull a ski mask out of my pocket and sling it over my head. Mike and Charles do the same. Then all the lights in the block go out. A group of construction workers come towards us with a large wooden panel. The words “CONSTRUCTION” stenciled on it. A man behind the screen runs into the bank and throws a couple of bags inside, and waves us in.
We run in, and another group of people run in too. We start yelling “CIA!” and waving everybody off. The bank is completely enclosed. The wooden panel blocks the door behind us and the construction guys roll all this scaffolding and shit up against it. Right before one of the counter guys can press his panic button, Charles approaches him.
“Don’t! Don’t do that!” He struggles for an alibi. Then he thinks of one. “They’ll know we’re here!”
The guy steps away from the buzzer with some weird look on his face.
The security guards stomp towards us with their hands on their guns. Mike flashes a fake ID that he bought from Walmart on the way to the bank and herds the cops together. We start securing the area and help the construction guys seal off the bank. The people just stand back and wonder. Mike tells them that the bank really isn’t in danger at all; that this is just a drill. The cops grin sheepishly at the chaos unfolding around them and nod; almost as if they knew what was happening. Mike glances at me and I approach.
“Okay, do you have the panic rooms secured?” I ask heroically, like if there were some alien menace loose and the only safehouse was the panic room.
The cops all look at me with blank faces.
“The panic rooms! You don’t know about the panic rooms?” I yell at them.
“There aren’t any panic rooms.” Oh fuck. One guy, some tall, white, chubby white guy looks at me and narrows his eyes. “I wasn’t told about any panic rooms. Listen, I’m Lieutenant Cripps and I want to see your identification again.”
I stumble on my words. Then I recollect myself. There’s a reason why I was chosen to rob the bank. “You have to be kidding me.” I smash my head against my palm to simulate stress. I don’t have to try too hard. “We’re in the middle of an extremely important drill, and you’re asking to stop and see our identification? Are you fucking nuts?”
The guard stutters in response as his face reddens.
“If this were a real robbery, do you realize how much time you would’ve wasted?”
The guard’s face cools to normal.
“We would all be dead. All of us! Give me your badge.”
The guard’s face pales. Behind him, I can see our crew pushing all the civilians together as we clear the area. One of our guys approaches them and tells them that it was all a drill, and soon, a covert CIA vehicle will approach to extract top-secret material. He tells them that although it’s all an act, it’s still dangerous, and for that reason they must be herded into the panic rooms while the bank staff can stay behind.
The guard gives me his badge.
“Listen you incompetent asshole, you’re done here. Just for what you’ve done, I’ll have your ass fired so fast you won’t even know you had a job in the first place.” I tear the badge out of the leather case and throw the case onto the ground. “Same goes for all of you! Put the people in the nearest conference room and lock that shit!” I step right in front of the chubby guard’s face. “Did you hear me? Get the people, and put them in a room!”
“Yes sir!”
“Are you going to stay with the people and keep them safe?”
“Yes sir!”
“Good! You’ve already lost your job, now get the hell out of my sight before I get your ass court-martialed and sent to Guantanamo, bitch!”
Mike coughs and spins around, shuddering uncontrollably. The guards, all pale, turn around and run to the group of people our crew has set aside. I glance at Mike and I notice he’s crying.
Crying with laughter.
I roll my eyes and grab his shoulder. He pushes my hand off and leans on his knees.
“Oh God, I can’t breathe.” He stops laughing, and gathers his breath. He stand back up and smiles at me, his face almost purple from laughing so hard. “Bitch? Really?”
“You gotta show these guys who’s boss.” I grin at him and tap his shoulder. He takes my cue and his face narrows into a hateful glare. All the traces of laughter are gone; replaced by the thousand-yard stare that could make a seasoned war veteran nervous.
We turn to our guys huddled around the duffel bags and revise our plan.
It’s awesome. The people inside think that they’re in danger, whereas the people outside think that the Federal Reserve is under construction. Our power team is led to the bank’s surge box, where our guys shut the power off.
I reach into the bag on the ground and pull out a pair of night vision goggles. One by one, all the windows are covered, and by the time I flip on my goggles, everybody inside is blind.
I follow Charles as he sprints towards one of the counters and sticks a charge on it.
“CIA! Get down!”
The charge goes off and the counter is blown into the air. We run into the hole and grab one of the counter guys left behind.
“CIA! The bank’s being robbed! They’re in the vault!”
The guy freaks out and we give him a flashlight. He takes us to the vault and calls over a buddy to help open it. He starts asking us all these questions about what’s happening, but Mike gets tired and shoves the rag into the guy’s face and knocks him out. Does the same thing to his buddy.
Now we’re in the vault. We start grabbing bags off the interior of the vault and some that the other guys brought. We fill them all up. Then we start stuffing our pockets. It’s insane. All this money. We leave some C4 in the now half-empty vault and leave.
Or could it be half-full?
Now it’s time for the boring shit. We lure the hostages into a room, tell them that the area’s still in danger, and then we destroy the security tapes and whatnot. Then we lock the hostages in the room.
Now we wait in the middle of the bank. Waiting, watching.
“Team One this is Team Two, we’re waiting on your signal.”
I hear Charles speak into a cellphone. “We’re good. Set off the party poppers.”
There is no response, but we know what happened. Bombs across town. Not really bombs, we just placed a fuse inside of a couple cars in a parking lot and set that off.
Now a van runs into the bank and plows right through the plywood. The van skids to a stop and two guys step out. They open the back and pull out a punch of these platform things on wheels. There’s maybe like, six or seven of them. They scatter the platforms on the ground and we fill them up with bags. Then we roll the platforms out towards the front of the bank, where a hollowed-out fire truck has backed up against the bank. We load the bags into the truck, throw our goggles and gloves inside and everybody except for Charles and I jump in, and we slam the steel cover down. The truck turns on its siren and drives off towards the smoke rising in the distance from the car bombs, along with like, every other fire truck in the city. Charles and I run back to the truck and put one of the guys that helped open the back inside. We slam his head a couple times against the steering wheel to give him a couple credible scars and slit the hydraulics cables under the truck.
We pull our balaclavas up and over our faces and walk out, calm as day. As soon as we get out, we turn back around towards the banks and take pictures with our cameras as the police run by. One of them pulls my arm down.
“No photography here, get the fuck out!”
I sneer and walk away. We put our cameras in our jackets and feel the money in our pockets. I look at Charles and grin.
He looks back and grins.
The C4 in the vault explodes, and the police barricade in front of us goes apeshit. The cops give up trying to keep people in and out of the perimeter, and Charles and I slip right through.
A couple blocks down, we hail a taxi. We drive to a McDonald’s.
Double Quarter-Pounder with cheese. Large fries.
People are pointing to the TVs and standing up and shit. Covering their mouths. Apparently, some asshole crashed into the bank and people on the street took advantage of the situation to loot the bank.
Looting the Federal Reserve? Great idea.
Charles and I lift our sodas and have a toast.
“To peace on Earth.”

The van slows to a stop. An orchestra of clicking and snapping fills the darkness. Magazines slam into place and shotguns are pumped.
“All the world’s a stage.”
You guide the 5.56 STANAG ammunition into your M16A3 and snap the charging handle back. You flip the safety on and sit back against the side of the van so that the other guys can pull guns out of the box next to the door. Luckily, you got the biggest one. The other guys are pulling out MP7 and Uzi submachine guns. One guy pulls out a Tavor. Lucky bastard.
“And all the men and women merely players.”
You hear faint honking as the van shifts lanes. The speed pushes you to the back of the van. You pray the doors don’t open. You anchor yourself with the car engine hanging in the back from the roof. There are maybe six other guys crammed into the back, plus the three guys in front.
“They have their exits and entrances.”
You close your eyes.
“And one man in his time plays many parts.”
You pull your feet back as a thick-framed man paces around the engine, a paper in his hand. After finishing, he crumples the sheet in his fat hands. He’s not obese. Just fat. He’s Allan Broker. He’s a genius.
“We are but a mist. A mist that that is here one second,” Allan taps the engine. “And gone the next. We are not here to save anybody. We are here to kill.”
You all look up at Allan. Not the double chin most people look at. You look at his eyes.
“We are here to make a message. We are here to make martyrs of ourselves. We are here to make martyrs of this nation. They thought they could abuse us. They thought they could break us.”
You stand up as the van starts to speed up.
“Clear the doors!” yells another man, pushing you aside to start working on the doors.
“They thought they could beat us. But they were wrong. We are not some people to be abused.”
The van, now going at a high speed, bounces into the air. You brace yourself while others fall to one knee.
“We are Americans. We are true Americans.”
The van skids to a halt.
“We are the Sons of Liberty. Now go, my sons! Go forth!”
The doors swing open and you jump out.
“The world is our stage now! We are the Sons of Liberty!”
You storm into the darkness dotted by headlights and billboards that you’ve seen so many times before. You’ve been here before. But you haven’t.
You know where this is. You know this place. You’ve seen this in the movies and on TV. You skin curls up into clumps of freezing cold. In other words, goosebumps.
This is Times Square.
“Get the bomb out!”
You turn back to face the van and start unloading the bomb as more guys step out. A small crowd is gathering around the van. But they’re keeping their distance.
You all pull the engine towards the center of the intersection, looking over your shoulders for the police. You place the bomb in the middle of Times Square and back away from it. You attach gas masks onto your faces. It’s VX gas.
Allan steps on top of the bomb with a megaphone. He begins his speech. Glance at your watch. First it’s ten zero zero, then it flicks down to nine fifty nine, then nine fifty eight.
Nine fifty seven.
“We are the Sons of Liberty…”

02-07-2012, 12:35 PM
ya bunch of cowards

02-07-2012, 04:16 PM
Massive wall of text is unpleasant to the eyes. Also if you could seperate your chapters and prologue more clearly that would be nice. I have read a tiny bit of the prologue so far and will critique it later.

03-08-2012, 02:59 PM
bump faghets.

03-19-2012, 01:46 PM
looks interesting, never felt like reading today anyways.

07-12-2012, 10:42 PM
Sounds interesting, really awesome article. Allot of good information inside that article like a mystery. :D
Anyway keep it up. Particularly the info about the wheels is really helpful.