Writing Contest Entry- Deagle Nation 2025: First Pud -

[Mister Moo]

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The year is 2025. A cartel of ruthless international criminals agrees to a contest- whose team of elite freelance assassins can capture the world's most dangerous man? They have him surrounded, cut off from support, out-manned and under-supplied... And they are closing in on ParkourDude91 by the second!

Boy, are they in big trouble...

First Pud

A Jace Connors/Deagle Nation Novella



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Spoiler: CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE​

Jace!



Connors!




Even the sound of it, suggests power! Commands respect!


Jace! Hisses like a red-hot iron hitting water!

Connors! Hangs in the air, like the echoes of a hammer striking the anvil!


Jace Connors! Resounds like a blacksmith's forge!


A dozen well-dressed men are gathered in a hotel conference room, ten minutes north of Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. They are hearing bad news, and they are receiving it poorly- clenched jaws and some shouting, a couple of chairs get flipped over. Someone throws a phone.

“This is unacceptable!” one of them screams! He pounds a liver-spotted fist down on the conference table, knocking over his tumbler of whiskey, rolling the glass to the edge of the desk. “How did this happen? Who did this to us?!”


Jace Connors! A name like shattering glass!


He is a technical specialist, attempting to light a cigarette with sweaty, trembling fingers. In the cramped surveillance van, crowded full of wires and spy equipment, he stares at the blurry, yet unmistakable visage displayed on the monitors. He concentrates, trying to sound disinterested; unemotional, but his quivering voice can only manage a hoarse croak. And as the name forms in his mouth, his arms unconsciously cradle his stomach, as though he'd been punched in the gut. Voice cracking, he whispers into the microphone, “The man we're looking for is-”


Jace Connors! Name like a frozen dagger!


He is a mercenary soldier, dying in an oily corner of the ship's engine room. He's unsure how long it's been since he was gut-shot. Two hours? Two days? Long enough for the hallucinations to start. He sees the Commander now, dressed in a formal white Marine uniform, standing in front of him. And smiling broadly, as a pair of Brazilian supermodels suck him off. The smile widens and he begins laughing. Laughing at him!

“Fuck you!” groans the mercenary, through cracked, dry lips. He knows it's a hallucination, but he spits blood at the apparitions anyway. With the last of his energy, he unholsters the handgun, and drags the barrel up to his temple. Thumbing back the hammer, he utters his final words “I'll be seeing you, real fucking soon, -”


Jace Connors! The siren call of Hell itself!


She is taking the letter into the kitchen, and turning her back to the child- if the news is bad, she doesn't want to scare her daughter unnecessarily. But the child can sense the tension, and follows her into the kitchen, watching as her mother pours over the handwritten note. Soon, the woman falls to her knees, collapsing in a heap of tears and sobbing.

I thought you might like to know that those bastards are all dead. You're both safe now, and they will never hurt you again. Here's a cashier's check for $250,000. Use it to start a new life, or maybe a college fund for LaStryka. Know that you are strong enough to do this, and I'm so proud of you both.


You're almost home, JC​

“It's okay, Mommy,” says the child, tugging on her mother's hair. “Don't cry!”

“Oh, Lord bless you!” She gathers her daughter against her chest, almost squeezing the air from her lungs as she sobs tears of joy. “We'll never forget what you've done for us, -”


Jace Connors! A prayer of hope! A song of gratitude!


He finishes the intelligence report before coaxing out three fingers of 30 year-old single-malt Glenfiddich. He pauses, and the glass hovers under his nose before a wide smile breaks over his face. That son of a bitch went and shot the bear in the balls this time! Secretary of Defense John McCain chuckles to himself before downing the scotch, and he dials up his secure line to the Oval Office.

“Mr. President? There's a brand new bad-ass in town... And his name, is-”


Jace Connors! Patriotic and wholesome, but dangerous and unpredictable- like a warm slice of hallucinogenic apple pie.


He guides the jet black Lincoln MKS through the night traffic at 68 mph. His stubby, wide fingers grip the steering wheel like he was throttling the neck of a disobedient whore. His sandpaper hands smear sweat and cigarette odors into the smooth tan leather of the luxury vehicle. Music pulses and thumps through the car- Michael McDonald's Sweet Freedom. Over the din, he is barely able to hear the satellite phone chirping. He fondles the volume knob lower, and his three passengers share a disappointed sigh.


“Yes, Mistress,” answers Alexei Purvov. He presses the phone against his puffy, knot-shaped ear. “We are leaving Boston, twenty-five minutes ago.”

“Good,” comes the answer. Her tone is harsh and icy, accentuating her sharp Eastern European accent. “Now then, Lexi. You must be careful. He is Parkour! Even I have heard of his skill. And I am wondering if he is too much, for one such as you.”

“No, Mistress! He is not too big for me!” Alexei's voice rises in pitch, and the thick muscles of his neck and shoulders stretch the delicate stitching of his Armani shirt. “He is nothing but faggot! And I am making myself ready, all the times. I am off, training my ass for him! With very-”

“You are nothing!” she interrupts. “You are a muscled bully! Good for bruising the bitches, or throwing out drunk husbands. And you are good, maybe, for some fights. But you are not prepared for this. You are not prepared for... Parkour!”


The Lincoln jerks and whines up to 79mph, a shiny black eel twitching through night traffic. Sweet Freedom is still audible to the passengers, and the three Russian thugs continue nodding along to the beat, pretending not to listen to Alexei's end of the conversation. One of them mouths the words, You are the magic, You're right where I want to be. Another is humming along to the gayest instrumental bits. The third sits shotgun, dabbing $5 hamburger grease off a $4,000 lime-green double-breasted Versace blazer.


“Average men. Good men, even. Those you can handle,” she continues. “But you are not on his level, I think. You are not prepared for this... Mr. Jace!”

“I am ready,” snaps Alexei. His massive shoulders flex and bulge, finally ripping the violet silk shirt at the seams. “I have training, my whole life. I am a true warrior!”

“Maybe you are warrior... But he is an artist!” purrs the Mistress, “He is Parkour!”

“No, is bullshit!” Alexei's thick, continuous eyebrows crash down over his gray eyes, and his voice rises in anger. “All bullshit! Not even a real fighting style! Parkour is teenage hobby! Like skateboarding! Nothing to do with real fighting!”

“And you can prove this, to the world?” she asks. “You can prove he is... vagina?”

“Oh yes! I have dreamed of his vagina for eight years now! Every night, I-”

“Shut!” she barks. “I am receiving news...”


Alexei Purvov purses his thick, pale lips and urges the Lincoln through the night traffic, pressing the vehicle up to 85mph. Years of taking punch after punch have warped the Russian's ears into swollen little cauliflower-knots. In his left ear, he hears Michael McDonald crooning, Reaching out the meet the changes, Touching every shining star! And in his right, through the phone's speaker, he hears the tell-tale whispers of a keyboard typing, and a mouse clicking. He knuckles the car's lighter and snaps his fingers, as the shotgun passenger scrambles to put a Camel Wide-Load 100 in Alexei's hand. When the lighter pops, he takes a good couple of sucks to get the cherry going on the cigarette, before biting down on the end and licking the filter, nervously.


“Good,” she says, as the typing noises fade out. “Satellites have found him. He is close to where we thought. I am sending you his GPS location now. He is alone, in the woods. Exhausted. Possibly injured! He has been awake, and running for 40 hours straight! Now is the time, Alexei. Now is the time for you to prove your worth to me!”

“I will, Mistress!” says Purvov. “I will find him, and I will crush him!”

“No! You will capture him, alive! And you will take him to Motel,” she says. “Connors must be unharmed. We do not get money, if he is dead... Or, injured. And that especially means, no Fag Parties, Alexei. Do you understand?”

“But Mistress, the boys were really hoping for-”

“No Fag Parties!” she commands. “Not with ParkourDude91! Say it, now!”

“Alive...” grumbles Alexei. “And no Faggot Parties with ParkourDude.”

“Oh no!” complains one of the backseat passengers. “But...”

“Very good,” says The Mistress. “Do this for me, Alexei, and I will be very, very happy. And you and your boys can afford parties for months.”


The McDonald song ends about the same time as the phone call, and next on the playlist is The Official Dirty Dancing Soundtrack- (I've Had) The Time of My Life. The passengers cheer and sing along.


I've been waiting for so long, Now I've finally found someone...


Thirty minutes out of Boston, Alexei Purvov- Olympic medalist, gangster, whore master – races down the interstate in a polished black Lincoln MKS at 89 miles per hour. He and his three Russian thugs are accelerating towards North Brookfield, Massachusetts- hunting for Jace Connors, aka ParkourDude91. Alexei's callousy hands paw the smooth leather steering wheel like it was the tender flesh of a young boy's thigh. He moistens pale, rubbery lips with his abnormally wide tongue, as he pictures his prey. Gray-black eyes widen, and a jittery, tingling buzz floods his body as his heart accelerates in time with the car and the music. He sings along, off-tune- Now with passion in our eyes, There's no way we could disguise...

Combat with Jace Connors! A chance to prove to the world that his Parkour “style” is no more than nonsense and faggotry! The chance to show The Mistress that he is so much more than a bully of whores and drunken johns! The chance to completely disassemble the body, the spirit, the philosophy, and the cult of Jace Connors! He imagines ParkourDude91 tied to a chair, gagged and helpless, those mysterious eyes pleading for mercy behind mirrored sunglasses! His bottom lip, quivering with fear!

As the passengers sing along, And I never felt this way before, Lexi's testicles tingle and shrug inside his skin-tight leather pants. A smile stretches his mouth open wide, and he can't help but whisper aloud,


Jace Connors! A name like smooth, satin balls of the sweetest cantaloupe known to man, microwaved perfectly up to body temperature.


The Lincoln hits 91 mph.


“Soon enough, -I- will be the one hitting '91.” whispers Purvov. “Soon...”

 

[Mister Moo]

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Spoiler: Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO
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The opulent study boasts massive, vaulted ceilings, tiled blue and green in elaborate Ottoman patterns. Dark wood bookshelves rise up two stories, crowded full of priceless books of all shapes, sizes and colors- none of which get read. But it does lend the room a certain inimitable gravitas, he decided long ago.

And he is Sheik Ahmed Al-Sharia, 65 year-old patriarch of the royal house of Sharia, international businessman, global financier of terror, and a sexual adventurer, unbound by moral limitations. As late-afternoon sunshine streams through the study's high-arched windows, Sheik Al-Sharia strides the length of his study, the wooden heels of his pointed Cuban boots knocking and echoing against the tile floor. A petite woman assembles the massage table, while various Filipino and Tamil servants cover surfaces with plastic tarps. A cellphone buzzes in his white cotton robe.

“Yes, Mr. Sbarro,” answers the Sheik. “What can I do for you, my friend?”

As he listens to the caller, Al-Sharia wanders over to an ornate, hand-carved pine desk. He grabs a pack of cigarettes off the table and lights one.

“Calm yourself, my friend,” he says, speaking into the phone. “It is true, Jace Connors is a master survivalist, and perhaps the finest shot alive. Your concern is not unwarranted. Rest assured, I have selected my soldiers accordingly.”

He spots his valet lingering in the doorway with a silver tray full of tea, snacks and toys. The Sheik waves him over to the desk.

“Green Berets? Please my friend, think bigger. It will take men much more... exotic, to capture ParkourDude91!” answers Al-Sharia. “No, not French Foreign Legion, either. Vinnie, you are still thinking of this problem as purely military in nature. I assure you, it is not. And that, is why Alexei Purvov is the only man for this job.”

The valet slides the polished silver tray onto the pine desk, and the Sheik nibbles on a pair of almond cookies. Wordlessly, he inspects the various plugs and dildos, rolling around next to the steaming pot of tea.

“No, no my friend, Alexei is not merely Spetsnaz. The Mistress's training regimen is far, far nastier than anything those Russian Army pussies can dream up. She trains her men to a much higher standard, a much more demanding set of criteria. For instance, long before he ever trained under the Mistress, Purvov had already earned Olympic gold and silver, in boxing and judo. But it was not until his tutelage under the Mistress, that he had the genius to incorporate Estonian masturbation techniques! And now, his judo/hand-job/boxing hybrid is truly the most sexually innovative combat style in decades! And perhaps, the only one with a chance of defeating... Parkour!”

With an extra bounce in his step, Ahmed strides over to the massage table, shedding articles of clothing along the way. A pair of German technicians wheel in the helium tanks, as a third servant unpacks balloons and caulking guns.

“Additionally, Purvov has commanded over two dozen special-forces missions, in some of the most difficult military theaters known to man. I have already explained to you, the nature of his unarmed expertise. And, I am reliably informed, all of his soldiers are enthusiastic bisexuals.”

Pausing before the massage table, Al-Sharia points out three toys from the carrying tray, and waves over the helium tanks.

“No, no. I never said they were faggots,” continues Al-Sharia. He switches from his cellphone to a wireless headset, before settling face down into the massage table. “I said they were bisexual. And that's a good thing, Vinnie, believe me. You want your muscle-men to be bisexual! It is a great tradition, with much historical precedence to recommend it. The fiercest warriors in history have come from strong, bisexual military training! Or course it's a good thing. Because there's absolutely nothing a bisexual man won't do, Vinnie! Nothing!”

The Sheik's urine flows over the leather cushioning of the massage table, where it drips onto the tile floor in fat splatters. Al-Sharia has pissed himself again, which sometimes happens when the subject of bisexual assassination comes up.

“No, I assure you, Purvov and his Sexual Commandos are just the men for this job. I have already arranged delivery of the scanning equipment. They will capture ParkourDude91. They will take him to my motel. They will inject his cock with the special gelatin... And then, we will scan his unwilling erection! Imagine the price that Connors's 3d sex-dick will fetch, when we auction it off on the open market! Imagine the inestimable pleasure, that awaits us all! I have been waiting for this, my... Hmm, what was that?

“No, no my American friend...” chuckles Al-Sharia. “When comparing pussies, to your own, personalized, vibrating ParkourDude91 Battlefield Sex-Dick Replica... It is vaginas, that are gay...”


-------------------------------------------------


Alexei snaps his Zippo shut, and sharply inhales a cloud of Camel Wide-Load 100s. A chilly midnight breeze kicks up dust from the gravel parking lot; it glows dull orange under the streetlights before gusting off into the oily darkness of Komarov's Woods.

“This is it,” says Purvov. His gray eyes squint, and he runs a calloused hand through the thick black stubble of his closely cropped hair. “I can almost taste him...”

“My balls are feeling heavier,” confirms one of the Russians. “He's definitely close.”

“Could you pop the trunk?” asks another. “I want to take one of the Kalashnikovs.”

“No, we can't risk it. This is a stealth operation,” answers Lexi. “Don't you think, I would have liked to bring an army? A helicopter? We can't afford the attention. We are deep in enemy territory now, understand? We are in the heart of Deagle Nation! Silenced weapons only. And remember- we're looking to checkmate him, not kill! We need to capture him alive!”


There's a foot trail, of sorts- It starts in the gravel pit, where the Lincoln is parked, and it snakes through the forested greenbelt. Thick foliage filters the sepia fluorescence of distant streetlamps into a brownish murk you wouldn't quite call light. Lexi and his three underlings are using their cell phone's menu screens to illuminate their way through the twisted mess of roots, ferns and branches. The air breathes thick with the moldy smells of damp moss and rotting leaves. Trees muffle the occasional hum of passing traffic, and mostly all they hear are twigs snapping in the mud, beneath the soles of their hand-crafted Italian shoes.


After fifteen minutes of searching, their muscles ache from hunching over. Purvov is just about to suggest splitting up the search, when his knotty ears barely register a whooshing sound, before he's startled by the “WHUNK!” There's a blur of motion, and a blue trail of light as the cell phone flies from the grip of the Russian thug and sails into the bushes.

“Oh fuck,” gasps the Russian, gurgling a little. A sturdy tree branch, sharpened into a nasty spike, has pierced through the thug's forearm, stapling his right arm to his torso. His feet dangle half an inch off the ground, and blood is already filling his fine leather shoes. The improvised booby-trap has gored him to the trunk of a tree, and the Russian is still too surprised to start really struggling yet. “Fuck, fuck fuck, fuck fuck!”

“Boris,” commands Lexi. “Die quietly. He is listening now.”

“Fuck fuck fuck,” repeats the man, more panicked now. The pain is registering in his mind, and he's trying to unpin his arm from his ribs, but it's still staked through. His voice rises like the whistle of a steam kettle. “Fucking shit fuck fuck-”

Alexei snaps his neck with all difficulty of twisting open a bottle of Mountain Dew. There's no time for the Russians to mourn their comrade- though it would be a hollow show anyway. Boris always was a bit of a fag.

“Careful now,” cautions Purvov. “We were impatient... Not again, understand?”

The remaining two nod, bringing their cell phones closer to the ground. They crawl, ruining their expensive designer clothes, using their meager cellphone lights to identify pressure plates, tripwires and other devious gamer traps. It's slow going, and the woods are a thick, spaghettified mess of damp bark and moldy vegetation. They locate four trip wires that trigger various horrifying deaths, an old-school lasso foot-trap, and even a pit fall onto sharpened stakes, disguised by a canvas covered with leaves and dirt. As they continue, every snapped twig or gust of wind, each bird call makes the Russians jump and reach for their guns. Jittery and adrenaline-nervous, they are searching for Jace Connors.


Forty minutes later, Alexei triumphantly sweeps dirt and pine needles off a manhole cover-sized trapdoor. Gnarled fingers tighten around the handle, slippery with his own sweat. He opens the cover, incrementally, his heartbeat racing. Suddenly, he flings the hatch open the rest of the way, and risks a quick peek down the hole, gun drawn.

He sees packed dirt walls, a 12ft (or so) ladder, and an extension cord twisting down through the wooden rungs. At the base, mismatched sheets of plywood form rudimentary floor boards. A light source outside of Lexi's view casts yellowish light on the wooden floor before abruptly snapping off. The hole is pitch black now, and the faintest of rustling sounds reaches Alexei's clumpy little ears.

“Jace Connors!” Purvov calls down the shaft. “Parkour Bitch '91! We have come for your asshole!”

“Come and get me, motherfuckers!” comes the voice, piercing and icy, steely and resolute. It punches Alexei in the soul, and makes the coarse black hairs on his back, stand on end.

“Dimichka, go get the petrol from the car,” Lexi says to one of the commandos. He retrieves the satellite phone from his back pocket, and navigates the menus with jittery, sweating fingers.

“We have located him, Mistress,” says Purvov. His erection begins to rub and strain against the zipper of his skin-tight, maroon leather pants. “We have found Connors! And he is trapped!”

Spoiler: Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE
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“Connors!” shouts Alexei into the bunker. A Russian thug dumps streams of gasoline down the shaft. “Can you hear it? Can you smell the gasoline, little bitch?”

“No, I can't smell anything but your faggot Justin Bieber cologne,” answers Jace.

Lexi is astonished that Connors can correctly identify his cologne at such a distance, and a little bit hurt that Jace considers his cologne, “CxB” to be gay.

“Oh no! He doesn't like the smell,” cackles one of the Russians, unzipping his pants. “Poor baby doesn't like smells!”

First one, then two, and finally all three of the men are laughing and pissing down the entrance to the bunker, hosing urine up and down the wooden rungs of the ladder.

“Is that better?” laughs Alexei, zipping up his fly and taking up the gasoline again. He coaxes the last of the gallon or so out of the red container, and flings it down the shaft. The hollow plastic clatters and echoes against the plywood floor. “We have pumped juice into your little hole, yes? Are you ready to burn, Parkour?”

“Well, I am getting real tired of listening to you faggots talk.” Jace's iron voice cuts through the chilly night air, and Purvov can't help but shiver at the combination. “You know, burning to death might be more interesting.”

“Outside, you are fucking me with the jokes Jace Connors... But inside, we both know you are shitting little bitches!” Lexi flicks his favorite James Bond Zippo alight, and burns the end of a crisp new Camel Wide. He snaps the lighter open and closed a couple of times. Snick-Snack, SNICK-SNACK.

“You hear that, Parkour? American quality craftsmanship! Like your Levis and your Monster Energy drink. Zippo lighters, they are strong! When I drop Zippo down the hole, it cooks your hairy little faggots, yes?” Lexi waits for a response, hears nothing but a passing car, muffled through the densely packed trees. A cat mewls somewhere distant, but there is no sound from the underground bunker. “But maybe, there is another way, yes Parkour? If you come out of your little vagina now, then you don't have to burn. No one dies tonight.”

“I think you mean, no one else dies tonight!” Distance does nothing to lessen the impact of Connors's icy voice, and Purvov can't help but shudder again. “Because the last time I checked, the score was Connors - 1, Faggots - 0.”

“Yes, yes,” says Lexi, a little too loud, a little too quickly. “Fine, yes. But now, you are the bitch, and game is lost. Come out now, or we will create explosions in your soft, American balls!”

“Oh, I'm just fine where I am, motherfucker.” Jace calls out. “Hey, it's Alexei, right? You're the one Al-Sharia sent?”

“It's...” Alexei is too startled to answer properly. “How did-”
“Yeah, that's what I thought...” says Jace. His voice grows quieter, and Purvov's Sexual Commandos don't notice themselves drawing in closer, to listen. “I tell you what... I'll give you a limited-time offer. Climb down here, alone, and face me in single, unarmed combat. I won't shoot you on the way down. A one-on-one, hand to hand fight. How's that sound?”

“Why would I come?” asks Purvov. “I can burn you out!”

“No, you can't. We both know you have to take me alive.”

“But... Okay, fine! We wait up here. You will need food, and water.”

“Are you sure that's an option, Alexei?” The sound of Jace's voice seems to grow slightly echoier, suggesting the cavern is far larger than Purvov originally imagined. “Are you sure I don't have a bunch of food and water down here? You sure I didn't plan ahead and shit?”

“No!” says Lexi, panic bubbling up in his voice. “You can't!”

“Ta-ha! Chill dude,” laughs Jace. “It's not going to come to that. You're not going to have to wait days... You're not even going to have to wait an hour. The police will get here, long before that happens.”

“No, you will burn!” shouts Alexei. “I will not let police happen!”

“You know, while we're on the subject... This whole burning me alive thing, what makes you so sure that's one of your options? You keep calling this, 'a hole.' But are you sure it's a hole, and not a tunnel? Are you sure I don't have other exits? This is my home turf motherfucker! I've had years to plan this shit out.

“It's a limited-time offer, Alexei. Plenty of space down here. Climb down and face me in unarmed combat, one-on-one. It's your only chance to take me alive. We both know you want to. And if I'm going to be honest, I kind of want it too. Because it's going to be a close fight... Your judo/boxing style, against my Parkour...”

“Parkour is bullshit!” growls Alexei. “It is faggot nonsense!”

“Then climb down here and prove it, cocksucker! You've got thirty seconds. I'm not waiting here all night.”

Purvov eyes the ladder's damp wooden rungs, still steaming with Russian urine. “But, there is piss...”

“Well that's not my fault you idiotic motherfuckers! You Russians are the ones that just have to piss on everything.”

“Fuck!” barks Lexi, unbuttoning his violet silk Armani shirt. He is barrel-chested and stocky, with a furry growth of tightly curled black hair covering his muscular chest and back. The thick body hair pushes his whitish-gray undershirt about half an inch away from his skin. “Stay alert! We can't be sure he hasn't called for help.” He gets down on one knee and shouts down the shaft. “And now I am coming! I am coming for your asshole, Jace Connors!”

“Let's do this shit!” Jace's voice echoes from deep underground.

“Yes, I am coming for you!” responds Purvov. “I am coming to FUCK YOUR SHIT!”


Jace Connors is stalking his prey- assessing his enemies, waiting for the superior moment to strike. His left hand grips a computer tablet, displaying a soundboard and live video feed. Simultaneously, Connors is watching an image of Alexei squeezing his girthy frame through the narrow shaft, fumbling his way down the piss-soaked ladder. Jace darts between the trees, choosing his footing carefully. A snapped twig, or a tumbling rock will alert the gangsters to his true location.


“Let's do this shit!” says Jace, into his earpiece/microphone.

“Yes, I am coming for you.” Jace hears Alexei say, over the live feed. “I am coming to FUCK YOUR SHIT!”

“Well here's a little preview of that, for you.” On his tablet, Jace presses a button marked “Distraction.” A wet, farty noise bursts out of the bunker.

“Hah!” laughs Lexi. “You are already shitting bitches!”


Jace waits a moment or two before pressing the button marked “Distraction x5.” For fifteen seconds, sloppy fart noises rumble out of the speakers he buried in the bunker- loud enough to reach the Russians patrolling up top. Ten seconds in, they're laughing- one of them wanders over to peer down the shaft. This is the perfect moment.

Jace presses the button marked “Realistic.” The shaped charge goes off, splinters fly, and a massive old tree crashes over beautifully, rolling to rest on top of the entrance hatch, trapping Purvov in the (dead-end) bunker.


One of the thugs dies instantly, as Connors separates his upper neck vertebra with a perfect strike from the pommel of his signature Vietnam War Semper Fidelis serrated Bowie knife. The strike severs the spinal cord, and the Russian crumples in an awkward heap. The remaining man has been peppered with wood splinters, one of which has ripped into his eye. He fumbles on the ground in a blind panic, searching for the dura-painted Makarov PM he dropped. Jace closes the distance with lightning-fast parkour, grappling the Russian and ripping his razor-sharp blade across the man's throat. In a strangely gentle motion, Jace cradles the dying commando to the ground. As the man's good eye rolls around in terror, his hands clutch at his throat, as if trying to keep the blood in.

“Take a good look,” whispers Jace. “I'm the last skull you'll ever see...”

Jace steps over the gurgling thug, rummages through the pockets of Alexei's blazer and finds the car keys and cellphone. He hears Purvov struggling against the fallen tree, trying to push open the the bunker's hatch.

“The score's 3 - 0, faggot,” Jace taunts.

“Fuck you Parkour!” howls Alexei, straining futilely against the bunker's trapdoor. Jace calls up the playlist The Best of Nickelback on his tablet, and blasts the volume until he can no longer hear Alexei's screams.


Jace hikes towards the parking lot in slow, measured steps- there's no hurry, no need to parkour anywhere for the moment.

The night air has turned chilly and biting- pleasantly cold against the skin. The press of a button chirps open the door of the MKS. Jace ducks inside and slides the keys into the ignition. He leaves the door ajar so the dome light stays on, and scans through the sedan's interior. Some McDonald's wrappers, a couple of Marlboro and Camel cigarette packs, but nothing particularly remarkable. He pops the back.

The voluminous trunk contains two large duffel bags: one stuffed full of pills and a kilo or two of Mexican pot, the other holds an MP5 and a pair of genuine, Soviet-era Kalashnikovs with walnut stocks and plenty of ammo.

Jace dials a number.

“Frank, it's Fenris Thunderfang, and I'm calling you on Alexei Purvov's phone.”

“Where is he?” asks CiaDude420. “What about his-”

“Three dead, and Purvov immobilized. I figured, you'd want to get a class five evidence recovery team out here, ASAP. There's bodies, cell phones, guns with serial numbers, and a brand-new 2026 Lincoln MKS.”

“That's great work Thunderfang,” says Frank Williams. “I've got your location, and I'm deploying a team now. ETA twenty minutes. You said Purvov was immobilized- can you clarify?”

“Sure,” answers Jace. “I'm going to go beat the living shit out of him.”

...............................​

 

[Mister Moo]

...............................
​

Spoiler: Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR
​

Jace finds a suitably sturdy branch to leverage the fallen tree off the bunker's hatch. He kicks the entrance open, takes a couple of backwards steps, and waits for Alexei to emerge from the hole. Half a minute passes.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” groans Jace. “Are we going to do this or not?”

“Is trick! You are trapping me...” calls out Lexi.

“No, motherfucker- I had you trapped, and now I'm letting you out.”

“You will shoot me as I climb!”

Jace smacks his palm against his face in frustration. “Oh my g- Look. If I wanted you dead, I would have burned you alive in the bunker. But I promised you a one on one fight, Parkour vs. Judo, and I'm a man of my word. So come out and fight me, or stay down there and get cooked alive. I'll give you one minute to decide...” Jace locates Lexi's James Bond lighter. It has a classic picture of Connery holding a silenced PPK, and gold letters reading “Everything he touches turns to excitement!” He snaps open the lid, and fires up the lighter's wick. “SHANK! SNIK...”

Lexi hears the sound of the lighter and scrambles up the ladder, emerging from the bunker covered in dirt and smelling of urine. Though his face seems to expect a bullet at any moment, he stands next to the hole, blinking stupidly. When he realizes he's not going to be shot, his eyes wander over the bodies of his fallen comrades. Slowly, his expression turns to anger. His knees bend, he hunches forward into a combat posture, and charges towards Jace with a furious roar.


The fight begins.


Jace takes two quick backsteps and executes a tight parkour side roll, revealing a large root, protruding from the dirt. Purvov is moving too quickly, too recklessly to avoid tripping over the obstacle, and on his way down to the ground, he smashes headfirst into a rock.

Lexi rises to his feet, wavering slightly. He presses one of his wide, calloused hands against his temple, and pulls it away. He licks the blood off his palm, and smiles at Jace.

“You have drawn first blood, Mr. Park-”

Jace pops him a sweet shot on the nose, slightly moving Alexei's head back. But hitting his face is a lot like punching a statue carved out of wood- not much give. His knuckles flare up with dull pain, and Jace makes a note to hit with an open palm, when striking Alexei's head. And though he didn't put that much power into his punch, it connected cleanly and he's surprised at how well the Russian takes the blow.

And he's even more surprised how quickly Lexi snaps back with a counter-punch of his own- an inaccurate head-seeker without much chance of connecting, but worrying none-the-less for its reaction time and velocity. Jace dances back to a distance of about four arm-lengths.

Alexei advances, looking to close the gap between them- he'd be happy to fight ParkourDude91 in a phone booth, where he could press his weight and strength advantages. He brings his forearms together in front of his chin, in a classic boxer stance; stepping carefully, always closing, inching forward towards Connors.

Jace, for his part, has also chosen a boxing-type form, but elects a southpaw stance, so he can flick out straight right jabs. For now, there's little chance of connecting, but they let Alexei know there will be a price to pay for getting too close. The fight hits a sort of lull, as the two circle one another, probing for weakness.

Then, quick as a wolf, Jace flashes forward and hits Purvov with a chop to the throat, before parkouring backwards out of range. The blow connects beautifully, striking the Russian hard on the right side of his bulky neck. Thick rolls of muscle ripple and flex, and the Russian grunts off the blow like it was little more than a glass of cold water flung in his face.

Purvov's nose wrinkles. “Your power is-”

Again, Jace uses his superior speed and footwork to shorten the distance and fling a wild elbow-strike under Alexei's chin, managing to stagger the Russian back a step. But Purvov is as gifted a counter-attacker as Connors has ever seen, and his arm whips forward to grasp for ParkourDude91's throat. Stumbling backwards, his fat, calloused fingers and sharp, dirty nails scrape Jace's neck and chin, drawing blood.

A smirk cuts into one half of Alexei's face, as if to say, “I almost had you, there.” Jace's expression remains neutral, but alert. Yet again, the two martial artists circle one another, clockwise- evaluating one another, calculating.

Still southpaw, Jace tries working the Russian into a rhythm, and starts connecting with his punches. Step, step, jab. Step, step, jab. Connors's accurate, powerful strikes begin seriously irritating Alexei's ribs, and repeated blows to the nose have started to soften his seeming immunity to pain. Step, step, jab. Step, step...

Jace starts peppering in some feints, between the jabs- dropping his shoulder and faking forward movement with his legs. He catches Purvov flinching at the fake attacks- he's grown weary of Connors's lightning-fast right hand.

Good, thinks Jace. I've established the jab, and now he has to respect it. He flips his stance to orthodox, aiming his left shoulder at the stocky Russian. They continue circling, and Jace keeps working the Russian in rhythm - step-step-jab - pressing him with focused shots to the nose and ribs, wearing him out, waiting for the big opportunity.

Sure enough, Alexei begins lunging forward to catch Connors in a Judo grapple, and Jace is able to make him flinch and change his mind by feinting. The half-second of indecision is enough time for Jace to execute a spinning roundhouse kick that thuds satisfyingly into the back of the Russian's skull. Lexi winces, but shrugs off the blow.

“You are running out of tricks, Parkour. And you don't have-”

Jace hops forward in a blink, whipping a nasty little side-kick aimed at Lexi's kidney. It's half of the way there before he realizes the Russian isn't flinching. In fact, this time, it is Purvov that has lured Jace into a trap. Prepared for the blow, Alexei leans into the oncoming strike, shortening the distance, taking power away from the kick.

Simultaneously, Purvov winds up a shattering haymaker of his own- a punch like a lead freight train, chugging towards Jace's torso. Instinctively, Connors is able to shift his weight away from the incoming strike, rolling with the Russian's punch. But with no weight behind it, there's no power in Jace's kick and it bounces off Alexei's torso with barely a sound.

And Purvov's punch does not lack power. A heavy fist thuds into Jace's lowest two ribs, and Connors does his best to roll with the blow. A pound or two more of force, and Jace's ribs would be fractured. As it is, his side flares up immediately with pain, and his knees wobble a bit, involuntarily. Sensing the opportunity of the moment, Purvov lowers his head and bull-rushes. Jace is surprised to learn that he barely has the speed left to sidestep the Russian's reckless lunge. The shot to the ribs has done considerably more damage than Jace was prepared for.

And with the core injury, his primary physical advantages- speed and mobility- are neutralized. Pain soaks into Jace's body with each passing second- each breath he draws aggravates his ribs, each step threatens to buckle his legs.

Connors has made a rare mistake- underestimating his opponent. He can't help but wince a bit, and an arm curls around his throbbing ribs, cradling them. That's okay, thinks Jace. Let it look bad. Let him get in close for the knockout. He staggers and slumps against a tree.

“You are finished now, Parkour Fag!” gloats Alexei, running a pale wide tongue over swollen rubbery lips. His shoulders relax half an

inch, his stance straightens a bit, and his fists loosen. He's repeating Jace's mistake, underestimating his opponent. He gets too close.

With his last bit of energy and adrenaline, Jace springs forward and snaps a devastating soccer-kick into Purvov's groin. But again, Alexei's incredible countering snares Jace in a bear-hug. His muscled arms curl around Connors like a pair of hairy boa constrictors, squeezing the air out of his lungs, and setting his ribs on fire. The hold tightens, and his vision begins to dim. Despite his iron will, Connors might cry out, if he had the available breath.

Purvov has the available breath in his lungs, and his high-pitched squeals of testicular agony stab at Jace's ears. The bear-hug is crushing now. Jace can smell the Russian's rank body odor, mixed with the Justin Bieber cologne. Their bodies press against one another, and the heat between them builds. Alexei is grunting now, and his mouth presses up against Jace's ear. Each breath he takes, sends air tickling over Connors's earlobe.


Seconds from passing out, Jace thinks, This is fucking gay.


One, two, then three, rapid-fire head-butts mash into Russian's nose, pulping Alexei's face into a slick red mass. His grip loosens, and Jace is able to slip from the arms of the bear-hug. With the last of his energy, he's able to crunch a nice power-shot into Purvov's injured balls, and then parkour backwards, out of range.

With his testicles throbbing and blood in his eyes, Alexei is unable to press the attack, much less locate Connors. He growls and grasps at air, stumbling forward blindly. And Jace, for his part, is grateful for the chance to catch his breath and nurse his ribs.

Once Jace does manage to regain his breath, the outcome of the fight is an inevitability, and disassembling the Russian's defenses is merely a matter of time. Jace blankets the Russian with all manner of strikes- elbows and knees, kicks and chops to the soft tissues and joints. When a home-run shot blows out Alexei's ACL/MCL tendons, the Russian collapses against the trunk of a tree, grasping his knee.


“Enough!” pleads Purvov. “You are the best.”

“Press one,” says Connors.

Spoiler: Epilogue

EPILOGUE​

Crouched high in the tree, Vladimir Putin shifts his weight and adjusts the crossbow's sights. The bear approaches the bait, and Putin levels the weapon at the beast. Patience has caught the bear, and patience will yield a genuine, battlefield replica ParkourDude91 sex-dick. He takes a deep breath and whispers, “Someday soon -”


Jace Connors! Whistles like an arrow through the chilly morning air!


The Oval Office is flooded with uniformed men, smiling broadly. Laughter and cheers float through the room as several champagne bottles pop.

“This is the greatest intelligence coup of the decade!” exclaims one of the Joint Chiefs. “Who ran this operation? FBI? CIA? NSA?”

“It's quite simple, actually,” answers President Church. “First of all, let us take the necessary actions/measures, that we might dismiss the question-in-the-minds-of-those, within this very room, who posit that I am not-as-smart-as they believe me to be (& acknowledge the fact) that their-limited intellectual capacity is incapable-of-estimating the actual-intelligence-quotient which I believe myself (correctly) to be. Even if they were to subtract their estimate (a simple math-equation [which they are <obviously> incapable-of-performing <because of their limited/insufficient faculties>]) from my (factual/accurate) estimation, the resulting number would still-be-higher-than they could count, much less comprehend. Let us turn, instead, to the more-pressing-issues-at-hand, (namely [and to be more specific]) the existence of certain-forums-and-websites (which-I-shall-not-name) wherein rampant & wanton speculation upon my abilities, & the corresponding lies/un-truths that result from such inaccurate logical-falsies, grows stronger like the idiocy contained therein (everywhere) such-as.”

“Wait a moment,” says Vice President Cena. “Who ran this operation?”


Jace Connors! Simple, but complicated!


The whorehouse bedroom is cramped and stuffy, with soggy gray bed sheets and a lingering smell- the perfect venue for sexual depravity.

“Clothes off,” says Sheik Al-Sharia. “There are costumes on the bed. The Napoleon outfit is for the boy, and the duck outfit is for the girl. Now, if you'd -”

“Yeah, that's not going to work for me, faggot...”

“I beg your pard-” Ahmed turns to face the voice. Before his eyes, the 17 year-old Thai girl seems to grow a full foot in height. She withdraws a handkerchief from her front pocket and wipes away the tan make-up as the false breasts fall away. Once the wig comes off, and the glasses go on, the face becomes unmistakable.

“Oh no!” Ahmed cries out. “You are a master of disguise?!”

“I get by,” answers Connors.

“Listen, please listen,” stammers Al-Sharia, stumbling backwards. “I wasn't... It was all Vinnie... I didn't... I wasn't the one who wanted-”

“Shhh,” whispers Jace. He retrieves one of the Sheik's sex-toys from the dresser. “You know, they say a single dildo can change the course of human history...”

“Oh please,” begs Al-Sharia. “Please, no! I beg you sir, I beg you! Please don't kill me -”


Jace Connors! Like the world's greatest marine, wearing a duck costume, pummeling an Islamic pervert to death with a vibrating plastic firetruck!

 

[Yog-Spergoth]

Jace Connors! Like the world's greatest marine, wearing a duck costume, pummeling an Islamic pervert to death with a vibrating plastic firetruck!

I think my entire life has been leading up to me reading this one sentence.

Haha, it was great. Awesome job.