Member
March 9, 2008. Tangier Exportation Zone
The downpour of rain cast a shadow upon the midnight operations out of a warehouse that bustled with business. Underground workshops, implantations of operations, moonlight steps hollowed out and swallowed up by the dark day’s showers, guiding themselves upon two guards armed with AK’s. Two opened palms reached down to grasp upon handles of twin Walther P99’s, retrieving them from the leather holsters they resided in, the silencers giving off a little ring once retrieved, causing one of the guards to turn.
The man stood there, with the muzzles to their heads, the subsonic bullets would leave the chamber, after the squeezing of the twin hair-trigger mechanisms. The flash muzzled, hidden, the sound fell silent under the heavy rain as the two lifeless bodies dropped, smoke leaving the end of the silencer as the man holstered the guns. Kneeling and picked up an AK, he’d rack the bolt, which launched a bullet out and to the side, gripping the handle, the brown-eyed man would scour the little area, then slung the rifle over his shoulder and dragged the bodies off. Dumping them into a dumpster before going back to the area, now approaching a white van, he’d open the back door and inspect the goods inside.
Reaching up, the man would grasp unto the bandanna and lowered it, revealing the weathered face that belonged to the forty-five-year-old. Stubble misaligned and patchy, the tanned skin wrinkled, streaks of water dropped from the short white hair that brushed in front of his sight, which was then swept aside with his left hand. He stood there, counting the load, the blocks of cocaine, weed, and any other assortment that was in the vehicle. Counting it all up, although the supply was low compared to the amount in the warehouse, he’d consider it a small steal of the rainy day. Though this wouldn’t come without trouble as he raised the bandanna over his mouth and nose again, the glare of his brown eyes pierced the dark day, spotting two more guards wandering by.
“Putain, Je dois juste m'occuper de ces idiots” the anglophone grumble under his breath, his back would hug the panel of the van as his left hand unholstered the P99 once more. Raising it as they have gotten close, squeezing the trigger, letting one drop that was furthest to him, with his free hand grabbing onto the collar of the other and threw them unto the ground. Slamming his knee into the spine and grabbing onto the hair, lifting the head and slamming it into the ground. Repeating the process as blood poured from a broken nose, holstering the P99.
Retrieving a double-barreled sawed-off from the man he had pinned, he’d raise the head again, pressing the muzzle to the bottom of the skull, where the brain stem and spine meets. His two fingers indexed the double triggers, pulling both to set off both trigger mechanisms to fire off the individual rounds. Blood splatter and mush of pink brains were sent aloft, covering the pavement and the white panels of the van with the grey matter, strands of hair dangled with a piece of skullcap attached, gritting his teeth, the man would let go and step off.
The ringing of the shells echoed outside of the warehouse, the hair at the back of his neck rose as he realized his murderous vengeance had only made his operations overt. In quick succession he’d scramble through the pockets and pouches for shells, fumbling some onto the pavement, rolling into some of the pigments of the bits of the brain matter. His thumb turned the chamber release, the barrels falling as the shells were tossed out, leaving some resonance of smoke to leave the chambers as he shoved the clean one into it, wiping off the mush onto the clothing of the corpse before dispensing it into the chamber. His wrist flicking upwards with the arm going downwards to close the chambers with the fresh shells, his thumb working back the two hammers before he hugged the side of the van as shouting came closer and closer. Warehouse doors swinging open as stomping through the ever-growing puddles.
His left hand worked its way to his back, which gripped unto the handle of the AK that was slung, taking the smaller machine gun and brought it to his front. His arm extended far enough for the sling to tighten, as it was hooked to the front sight and connected to where a stock would normally be, waiting in the hushing sounds of the rain until the first victim would willingly step in front of him, the quick squeeze and release setting off one round in the AK’s chamber and into the man that was onto the unlucky end of the muzzle’s abdomen.
Standing, he’d have his right forearm around the man’s neck, forcing him up as he stood quick behind, the muzzle pointed out from the man’s left armpit. Soon to send rounds into those unfortunate enough to stand in front of him, littering lead into their carcasses as rounds were now being returned, digging deep into the meat bag he held onto. With two down and one to his right as he stepped in front of the van now, he’d release the lifeless body and kicked forward. Letting the body fall to the ground while two more shots rang out into it, the rather petrified teenager who only stepped out with the rest believing nothing was happening, had pissed himself and shot the body.
Stepping out, the bandanna wearing man had the sights of the twin-barrel shotgun aimed at the pelvis, pulling one of the triggers and letting the squelching sound of body parts fall to the ground and shriek of pain collapse. He stood over the teen and kicked him over from his stomach and unto his back, their eyes locking as pain welled up in the others, he knelt onto the chest and brought the barrel to the kid’s left rib cage as he softly whispered.
“Tu n'aurais pas dû être ici. Vous n'auriez pas dû rejoindre une foule meurtrière, c'est le résultat.”
Letting the hammer hit and set off the shell, the head of the mortified teen in pain’s whimpering numb to the sound of the rain surrounding them. In silence, he’d stand from the body, bowing his head slightly in respect. Though, he knew there’d be more soon, so he’d take it up into the van, tossing the shotgun into the passenger’s seat as he opened the driver’s side door. Stepping in and removing the AK and laid it unto the dash, he’d begin his search for the keys, lowering the visor to let the keys slide out and fall unto his lap. Taking them up, he’d push them into the ignition and turned, the engine shitting itself before turning over and letting out a soft purr with each piston firing.
The sounds of the engine had began to flood memories as he gripped onto the wheel, his foot to the cutch as he given the engine gas, shifting into gear and speeding off, blasting down a gate and turning off the lights to disappear into the night.
Weaving the roads, he’d lowered the bandanna that covered his nose and mouth, taking a deep breath as more memories swirled in his head. Dissociating himself from his body as it’d soon carry out driving through the darkened day, images of his past life came back to haunt him as he glanced into the rear-view mirror, finding his eyes to stare back at him as he succumbed to the weight of the memories.
“Why are we going to Morocco, daddy?”
“I think it’s a nice change of scenery, a nice place to live. Come, mon petit, you’ll see why when we get there.”
The thing he had was contentment taking care of his family, under the reassurance of his own skills to never bring harm upon them, even through the PTSD that had redefined who he was as a man still didn’t deter him from putting his family before him.
Even with all that, the experience, his training, his fighting expertise, never has he felt so weak on the other end of the call, the last time he drove. He had been speeding 100 over the limit with the cellphone on speaker with his wife’s shrieks and shrill voice coming to silence as gunshots had rung out. Men shouting something about leaving no witnesses, the drugs and scouring the house for cash and other inhabitants, a little girl’s crying soon to be silenced by a final shot.
Lambs to the slaughter, he arrived too soon.
From the fateful night given him anger, loathing, which fueled him to steal and disturb the drug runners, to avenge his wife and daughter, to get back at those that had wronged him and taken away those he cared about and had left him apathetic in his ways. Leaving a trail of blood and bodies behind him as he pushed his body forwards, headstrong on vengeance no matter the price.
His family was the only thing he truly cared for.
Yet, the teen, youngling brought into operations of drug lords and war, why? Youth taken away, the old man had no problem with adversaries half his age, but only with a decade to their name. Something he’s realized, the same circulation of pain upon parents just as he’s suffered… he’s just letting the wheel turn.
“Old dogs of war never rest.”
Something he repeated to himself to bring him back to earth, he was former JTF2, a French Canadian who had used questionable funds to get himself out of the military and to a place of higher prosper and wealth. An escape from the lifestyle of worry and shame he had adopted from before whilst training in Afghanistan during the Desert Storm raids, to start anew in a different country altogether that seemed more prosperous and less likely to have the threat of terrorists. PTSD and muscle memory forcing him to retreat to solitude and loneliness, best kept at a distance.
His past curses caught up to him, turning him back to his old self with the loss of his humanity, which peaked like night terrors to remind him why he pushes himself like he does, despite age and health issues that ensued. Arthritis, asthma, silicosis, he’d soon cough, raising his left elbow to cover his mouth, coughing into it as he’d begin to slow down the van itself, his eyes coming to a blur as the lack of oxygen already taken effect. Unbeknownst to him, he’d also suffer a wound to the right lung which had leaked small amounts of blood into his lung, his adrenaline preventing him from knowing as he’d focus on the delusions that have returned.
Black dots poked into his sight as he’d close his eyes. Coughing harder, cracking joints in his back as he hunched over in the car seat, the coughs deeper, harder, grasping onto the steering wheel as he forcibly closed his mouth. Attempting to force his body to stop as he pulled over, opening his eyes, though barely, and turned off the engine. The coughing fit would soon pass, though it left him gasping for air.
Deep labored breaths, he’d slowly regain control over breathing. Laying back into the seat, he’d shift and glanced at the mirrors to see if anyone had trailed behind him as the heavy downpour pounded onto the roof. Echoing in the cab, it seemed to usher a wave of fatigue over the old man as he’d close his eyes, resting his head back onto the headrest of the seat.
Soon, the darkness stayed with the overwhelming sense of guilt. The abyssal void swallowing his train of thoughts as he’d lay in slumber, disconnected from the world, somehow the old man felt at peace once more, though offset from the feeling of limbo as he’d feel conscious, yet afloat comparable to laying in the dead sea. Losing touch with his sensors, the disconnection left him empty and desolate from the rest of the world. Absent of time scale, oblivious of the occurrences around him he’d float along in the greying days.
“You’re here, papa!”
A familiar voice, a phantom of his past? Where was he?
“Pourquoi es-tu ici? Papa?”
“Oui, moi petit- where am I?”
“You’re here, you’ve died. Mais tu ne peux pas rester longtemps, papa, you’re special like I always thought you were!”
“Quelle? Pourquoi?”
Opening his eyes with a flutter, he’d sit up in a cot. ‘Where am I?’ He’d ask himself as he’d look around in the new environment. Breathing heavily, he’d look down upon himself, a new body? Inspecting further, he was much younger and yet the same gender.
“What the fuck?”
Present day
“Pourtant nous y voilà.”
Something that had been uttered out of the crusty lips of the male, the darkness somewhat illuminated by the electrical lights outside. The shanty shack covered in dirty clothes and bloodied planks, the ground itself padded down with the extensive use from the surrounding survivors, though the male stood out as he kept to his solitude since watching another die. Slender, skeletal like body as he was starved, with an outgrowth of hair rather sporadically. ‘Probably another suicidal, too easy to take over these bodies. Broken spirits, hell where the fuck is that other?’ the man thought as he’d sit in the darkness, elbows on the knees as he’d been curled into the wall.
The downpour of rain cast a shadow upon the midnight operations out of a warehouse that bustled with business. Underground workshops, implantations of operations, moonlight steps hollowed out and swallowed up by the dark day’s showers, guiding themselves upon two guards armed with AK’s. Two opened palms reached down to grasp upon handles of twin Walther P99’s, retrieving them from the leather holsters they resided in, the silencers giving off a little ring once retrieved, causing one of the guards to turn.
The man stood there, with the muzzles to their heads, the subsonic bullets would leave the chamber, after the squeezing of the twin hair-trigger mechanisms. The flash muzzled, hidden, the sound fell silent under the heavy rain as the two lifeless bodies dropped, smoke leaving the end of the silencer as the man holstered the guns. Kneeling and picked up an AK, he’d rack the bolt, which launched a bullet out and to the side, gripping the handle, the brown-eyed man would scour the little area, then slung the rifle over his shoulder and dragged the bodies off. Dumping them into a dumpster before going back to the area, now approaching a white van, he’d open the back door and inspect the goods inside.
Reaching up, the man would grasp unto the bandanna and lowered it, revealing the weathered face that belonged to the forty-five-year-old. Stubble misaligned and patchy, the tanned skin wrinkled, streaks of water dropped from the short white hair that brushed in front of his sight, which was then swept aside with his left hand. He stood there, counting the load, the blocks of cocaine, weed, and any other assortment that was in the vehicle. Counting it all up, although the supply was low compared to the amount in the warehouse, he’d consider it a small steal of the rainy day. Though this wouldn’t come without trouble as he raised the bandanna over his mouth and nose again, the glare of his brown eyes pierced the dark day, spotting two more guards wandering by.
“Putain, Je dois juste m'occuper de ces idiots” the anglophone grumble under his breath, his back would hug the panel of the van as his left hand unholstered the P99 once more. Raising it as they have gotten close, squeezing the trigger, letting one drop that was furthest to him, with his free hand grabbing onto the collar of the other and threw them unto the ground. Slamming his knee into the spine and grabbing onto the hair, lifting the head and slamming it into the ground. Repeating the process as blood poured from a broken nose, holstering the P99.
Retrieving a double-barreled sawed-off from the man he had pinned, he’d raise the head again, pressing the muzzle to the bottom of the skull, where the brain stem and spine meets. His two fingers indexed the double triggers, pulling both to set off both trigger mechanisms to fire off the individual rounds. Blood splatter and mush of pink brains were sent aloft, covering the pavement and the white panels of the van with the grey matter, strands of hair dangled with a piece of skullcap attached, gritting his teeth, the man would let go and step off.
The ringing of the shells echoed outside of the warehouse, the hair at the back of his neck rose as he realized his murderous vengeance had only made his operations overt. In quick succession he’d scramble through the pockets and pouches for shells, fumbling some onto the pavement, rolling into some of the pigments of the bits of the brain matter. His thumb turned the chamber release, the barrels falling as the shells were tossed out, leaving some resonance of smoke to leave the chambers as he shoved the clean one into it, wiping off the mush onto the clothing of the corpse before dispensing it into the chamber. His wrist flicking upwards with the arm going downwards to close the chambers with the fresh shells, his thumb working back the two hammers before he hugged the side of the van as shouting came closer and closer. Warehouse doors swinging open as stomping through the ever-growing puddles.
His left hand worked its way to his back, which gripped unto the handle of the AK that was slung, taking the smaller machine gun and brought it to his front. His arm extended far enough for the sling to tighten, as it was hooked to the front sight and connected to where a stock would normally be, waiting in the hushing sounds of the rain until the first victim would willingly step in front of him, the quick squeeze and release setting off one round in the AK’s chamber and into the man that was onto the unlucky end of the muzzle’s abdomen.
Standing, he’d have his right forearm around the man’s neck, forcing him up as he stood quick behind, the muzzle pointed out from the man’s left armpit. Soon to send rounds into those unfortunate enough to stand in front of him, littering lead into their carcasses as rounds were now being returned, digging deep into the meat bag he held onto. With two down and one to his right as he stepped in front of the van now, he’d release the lifeless body and kicked forward. Letting the body fall to the ground while two more shots rang out into it, the rather petrified teenager who only stepped out with the rest believing nothing was happening, had pissed himself and shot the body.
Stepping out, the bandanna wearing man had the sights of the twin-barrel shotgun aimed at the pelvis, pulling one of the triggers and letting the squelching sound of body parts fall to the ground and shriek of pain collapse. He stood over the teen and kicked him over from his stomach and unto his back, their eyes locking as pain welled up in the others, he knelt onto the chest and brought the barrel to the kid’s left rib cage as he softly whispered.
“Tu n'aurais pas dû être ici. Vous n'auriez pas dû rejoindre une foule meurtrière, c'est le résultat.”
Letting the hammer hit and set off the shell, the head of the mortified teen in pain’s whimpering numb to the sound of the rain surrounding them. In silence, he’d stand from the body, bowing his head slightly in respect. Though, he knew there’d be more soon, so he’d take it up into the van, tossing the shotgun into the passenger’s seat as he opened the driver’s side door. Stepping in and removing the AK and laid it unto the dash, he’d begin his search for the keys, lowering the visor to let the keys slide out and fall unto his lap. Taking them up, he’d push them into the ignition and turned, the engine shitting itself before turning over and letting out a soft purr with each piston firing.
The sounds of the engine had began to flood memories as he gripped onto the wheel, his foot to the cutch as he given the engine gas, shifting into gear and speeding off, blasting down a gate and turning off the lights to disappear into the night.
Weaving the roads, he’d lowered the bandanna that covered his nose and mouth, taking a deep breath as more memories swirled in his head. Dissociating himself from his body as it’d soon carry out driving through the darkened day, images of his past life came back to haunt him as he glanced into the rear-view mirror, finding his eyes to stare back at him as he succumbed to the weight of the memories.
“Why are we going to Morocco, daddy?”
“I think it’s a nice change of scenery, a nice place to live. Come, mon petit, you’ll see why when we get there.”
The thing he had was contentment taking care of his family, under the reassurance of his own skills to never bring harm upon them, even through the PTSD that had redefined who he was as a man still didn’t deter him from putting his family before him.
Even with all that, the experience, his training, his fighting expertise, never has he felt so weak on the other end of the call, the last time he drove. He had been speeding 100 over the limit with the cellphone on speaker with his wife’s shrieks and shrill voice coming to silence as gunshots had rung out. Men shouting something about leaving no witnesses, the drugs and scouring the house for cash and other inhabitants, a little girl’s crying soon to be silenced by a final shot.
Lambs to the slaughter, he arrived too soon.
From the fateful night given him anger, loathing, which fueled him to steal and disturb the drug runners, to avenge his wife and daughter, to get back at those that had wronged him and taken away those he cared about and had left him apathetic in his ways. Leaving a trail of blood and bodies behind him as he pushed his body forwards, headstrong on vengeance no matter the price.
His family was the only thing he truly cared for.
Yet, the teen, youngling brought into operations of drug lords and war, why? Youth taken away, the old man had no problem with adversaries half his age, but only with a decade to their name. Something he’s realized, the same circulation of pain upon parents just as he’s suffered… he’s just letting the wheel turn.
“Old dogs of war never rest.”
Something he repeated to himself to bring him back to earth, he was former JTF2, a French Canadian who had used questionable funds to get himself out of the military and to a place of higher prosper and wealth. An escape from the lifestyle of worry and shame he had adopted from before whilst training in Afghanistan during the Desert Storm raids, to start anew in a different country altogether that seemed more prosperous and less likely to have the threat of terrorists. PTSD and muscle memory forcing him to retreat to solitude and loneliness, best kept at a distance.
His past curses caught up to him, turning him back to his old self with the loss of his humanity, which peaked like night terrors to remind him why he pushes himself like he does, despite age and health issues that ensued. Arthritis, asthma, silicosis, he’d soon cough, raising his left elbow to cover his mouth, coughing into it as he’d begin to slow down the van itself, his eyes coming to a blur as the lack of oxygen already taken effect. Unbeknownst to him, he’d also suffer a wound to the right lung which had leaked small amounts of blood into his lung, his adrenaline preventing him from knowing as he’d focus on the delusions that have returned.
Black dots poked into his sight as he’d close his eyes. Coughing harder, cracking joints in his back as he hunched over in the car seat, the coughs deeper, harder, grasping onto the steering wheel as he forcibly closed his mouth. Attempting to force his body to stop as he pulled over, opening his eyes, though barely, and turned off the engine. The coughing fit would soon pass, though it left him gasping for air.
Deep labored breaths, he’d slowly regain control over breathing. Laying back into the seat, he’d shift and glanced at the mirrors to see if anyone had trailed behind him as the heavy downpour pounded onto the roof. Echoing in the cab, it seemed to usher a wave of fatigue over the old man as he’d close his eyes, resting his head back onto the headrest of the seat.
Soon, the darkness stayed with the overwhelming sense of guilt. The abyssal void swallowing his train of thoughts as he’d lay in slumber, disconnected from the world, somehow the old man felt at peace once more, though offset from the feeling of limbo as he’d feel conscious, yet afloat comparable to laying in the dead sea. Losing touch with his sensors, the disconnection left him empty and desolate from the rest of the world. Absent of time scale, oblivious of the occurrences around him he’d float along in the greying days.
“You’re here, papa!”
A familiar voice, a phantom of his past? Where was he?
“Pourquoi es-tu ici? Papa?”
“Oui, moi petit- where am I?”
“You’re here, you’ve died. Mais tu ne peux pas rester longtemps, papa, you’re special like I always thought you were!”
“Quelle? Pourquoi?”
Opening his eyes with a flutter, he’d sit up in a cot. ‘Where am I?’ He’d ask himself as he’d look around in the new environment. Breathing heavily, he’d look down upon himself, a new body? Inspecting further, he was much younger and yet the same gender.
“What the fuck?”
Present day
“Pourtant nous y voilà.”
Something that had been uttered out of the crusty lips of the male, the darkness somewhat illuminated by the electrical lights outside. The shanty shack covered in dirty clothes and bloodied planks, the ground itself padded down with the extensive use from the surrounding survivors, though the male stood out as he kept to his solitude since watching another die. Slender, skeletal like body as he was starved, with an outgrowth of hair rather sporadically. ‘Probably another suicidal, too easy to take over these bodies. Broken spirits, hell where the fuck is that other?’ the man thought as he’d sit in the darkness, elbows on the knees as he’d been curled into the wall.