Nap Lapkin: Terminated (part 2)
It’s a shame that the killer cyborg didn’t look like Arnold Schwarzenegger. That would have made things easier for everyone involved (although if you think I was going tom type out Schwarzenegger more than once you’re crazy). Instead it struck an uncanny resemblance to Lou Ferrigno, which makes the opening sentence that much more accurate. I wanted to make it look like André René Roussimoff, you no doubt know him as André the Giant, but what advanced artificial intelligence would send that cyborg back in time with the intentions of blending in?
I understand if you’ve leapt to the conclusion that the cyborg immediately went looking for a phone book so he could look up the home address of his intended victim but I’m going to have to stop you right there. This is 2018, not 1984. Don’t go leaping ahead.
The Lou Ferrigno-looking cyborg had acquired clothing, sunglasses and enough weaponry to choke a horse. One minute he’s standing up in an alley and the next the body count is at three.
With calculated efficiency he stomped leisurely into a Starbucks and sat down at a computer with a “Free Wi-Fi” sign sitting next to it. The machines knew that their target wasn’t going to be easy to find so he didn’t even bother Googling her name. Instead he Googled sites where they would provide people’s addresses at no charge.
He typed M a d o n n a A x i o n and hit enter. The site cheerfully asked for his credit card information.
He clicked out of it and went to the second one on the Google list.
For long minutes it asked for details about his requested person and then asked him to wait while the site located her. After a few minutes the site politely inquired about his credit card information.
Was that a small puff of smoke that escaped from his left ear?
He was about to click on the third option provided by Google when a perky barista approached and ask if he would like to try a Sous Vide Egg Bite.
“Leave me alone.” The cyborg’s voice sounded like an angry Michael Bolton. These are the crucial details that really bring stories to life and separate the novice writer from a veteran word-slinger like myself.
Sensing a case of the Mondays the barista switched gears and asked if he could bring him a Teavana Shaken Iced Tea Infusion.
The third website jumped right to asking him for his credit card.
“Is that a no on the steeped fruit tea big fella?” asked the chipper young coffee-slinger.
Moments later the body count had jumped to eighteen.
I’m going to try and hold off telling you the identity of the second figure that made the trip back in time. Believe me, it’s killing me not to tell you but I think we’ll both be glad I hold off as long as I can.
After relieving a homeless man of his clothes this mysterious time traveler walked to the nearest intersection to get his bearings. If you’re worried about the homeless man whom had his clothes stolen you can relax. It’s widely known that homeless people wear all their clothes at times, at any given time they might be wearing a half dozen shirts and at least three pairs of pants. Our hero (?) simply had him strip off his least favorite items. One look at the underwear options had him convinced that free-ballin’ was the way to go.
A quick glance at the street sign and he knew exactly where he was and, more importantly, where he had to go. For he enjoyed one advantage the cyborg assassin did not; he knew where Madonna lived.
He broke into sprint.
He was pretty nimble for an older guy.
Somewhere in an unnecessarily shadowy office in Washington, a man sat behind an enormous desk and his enormous phone began to ring.
“Operation Fallen Eagle has come to fruition.”
The behind the desk rolled his eyes slightly and asked “Has the target been confirmed as safe?”
“Ok then. Have the construction crew liquidated.”
“Already done sir” replied the man on the other end of the phone. He continued; “There is only one loose end to tie up and it will be as if it never happened. It has been an honor to serve sir.”
With that the very unnecessarily patriotic man put his sidearm into his mouth and pulled the trigger.
“Fucking Lapkin” the man said as he placed the phone back in its cradle.