La Mercz: L'Invasion de Paree - I/II

Author's note: These are the first two prologue chapters to my new comedy action adventure novel, "La Mercz: L' Invasion de Paree". (All French is purposefully misspelt!)

An Introduction,

I, Reggie “Sackers” Carter

Reggie pulled out his knife and forced it into the back of an enemy wielding an AK47 and crouching in a small corner of woodland. He’d timed it perfectly, sneaking up on his victim; silently changing to his knife ready for a close combat kill. At any time the blind squirm could’ve turned and let loose his trigger finger, but he didn’t. Reggie came out on top again. It was his first kill since he was air-dropped into the woodland and it felt good, as well as relieving, to get it out of the way. The only thing to do now was to make sure he continued his stealthy ways. No getting shot, he told himself repeatedly, turning and jumping through the woodland in search of his next victim.

          Reggie grimly smiled as another of his nemesis’ had spotted him but emptied his whole magazine with dud misses. Taking his chance, Reggie sprinted across a small plain in the woodland and drew his pistol, bunny hopping into position for his beautifully crafted second kill until a bloody voice interrupted him.

          “Reggieee!” it screamed with soul-destroying angst. “You’re thirty-bloody-five! Thirty-bloody-five and what’ve you done with your life? Nothin’!”

          The voice grew louder as it came closer. Reggie huffed in aggravation, but didn’t speak up in protest. The voice simply continued to screech, “Nothin’ you ol’ douche! You just sit ‘ere with your computer games. Ever’time you get’a damn job and make me smile you go get yourself fired! Pfft. No wonder they nicknamed your sorry ass ‘Sackers’!”

          The voice came into the room, carried by a grey haired, rounded old lady with thin rimmed spectacles perched on her nose and a mid-stitched jumper hanging over her left arm. She strode up to the electrics plug behind the TV and yanked it out. The TV blacked out instantly and with it so did Reggie’s priceless second kill.

          “Aw, Mum,” he protested, “Do you have to give me the same speech ever’night? Always come down ‘ere and turn off m’game just when it gets interestin’ too.”

          “You listen to me smart ass,” she snapped back, continuing to knit regardless of whatever situation surrounded her. “I’ve been alive ‘ow long now? Forty? Fifty years?”

          “Sixty-two, Mum,” Reggie shot as if to get one up on her, though doubting it would take anymore effect than to encourage her.

          “Exactly! Sixty-two years! I was workin’ for ‘least half o’ that. You’re already half way to seventy and you done shit all your life! Always getting sacked, you worry me sick less! Christ, you need a job.” She paused and looked Reggie up and down before finishing, “You look like shit too.”

          “Thanks, Mum,” Reggie replied innocently and got up from the floor, placed the controller on the side and grabbed his coat from the back of the door to the lounge. “I’ll do some job huntin’.”

          “Job huntin’ at this time of the blimmin’ night? You’ll get mugged by chimps or teenagers, you daft date! Don’t you leave your poor mother alone at this time’a the night! Don’t you dare!”

          Her voice slowly trailed off as Reggie walked down the hall to the front door. He carefully patted himself down at his coat pockets to make sure his keys, mobile and wallet were all present and then reached to open the door. He smiled as it was half open and shouted back to his Mum, “It’s only 8.30, Mum. Grow up.”

The cold air hit his face as soon as he’d stepped outside and closed the door behind him. He pulled his coat tighter around him and began to walk in the direction of the bus stop. So what if he was unemployed? Life would get better, he told himself, could be worse; could be dread… or French. The reassurance made him laugh a little. It wasn’t madness to laugh at his own gag, brewed and told in his own head, it was just self-confidence, least that’s what he told himself anyway. Besides, if you can’t laugh at yourself you haven’t any real right to laugh at all.

          It took him roughly five minutes to reach the bus stop, and five or so more to thumb his way down the timetable as a reminder of the running times. He cursed. The next bus wouldn’t show for at least fifteen minutes, and even that depended solely on the bus being on time. As he huffed and took a seat under the heavily graffiti-covered shelter, a warm trail of air floated in a snake trail upward to the sky. He could tell why his Mum had thrown a fit. She’d watched her sister’s daughters and sons breeze through childhood and end up in a decent education or, even if it was a pretty shit job, had security in their workplace. As for it being only 8.30, Reggie could admit – based on his slowly freezing balls – that his pointless job hunting venture may’ve been a bad idea.

          The wait for the bus meanwhile got more boring by every minute, and the lack of entertainment from watching his warm breath repeatedly wander upward in snake trails was even beginning to dull his small-minded self. Therefore, he took to humming and further thinking about his life plan. Strangely though, his chosen humming tune seemed to be Mozart, a person who he didn’t particularly favour nor listen to – or actually know much about. Doesn’t matter how much bullshit hits you, it’s how hard you let it hit you that matters, son, he told himself, quoting from one of his Grandpa’s favourite sayings. He couldn’t particularly hold a meaning to it, but it was one of those lines you don’t tend to forget… probably because it used profanity and Reggie found that somewhat amusing.

          Unemployment ain’t so bad, Sackers. You could be in law school. You live real bad in law school, trust me babes, his cousin had always told him, always reminded him on every low down visit he had with her. No-one gets anything but pasta here in law school. Man I’m sick of pasta, babes. He grunted as he thought of his Mum’s cooking, always the same, generally lacking variety. Somehow, his cousin’s reminders of being less fortunate in law school had always made him envy her more so than think he was more fortunate. And regardless, he hadn’t even seen his cousin in two or three months; she’d probably graduated by now and had a posh lawyer’s job in the city. No more pasta for you, Louise.

          He felt sick. Sick of being unemployed, sick of being fired by people fatter than him and, worst of all, sick of living at home with his mother at the age of thirty-five. He wanted to do something with his life, push the boat out there and say to his grand kiddies – if he ever got any – that he did that. He’d been there, got the t-shirt; but no. All he’d managed so far was the nickname ‘Sackers’ thanks to the stupid fat corporate men who kept kicking him out of every job he ever got. Screw ‘em, he told himself and before he could think anymore rudely, the bus arrived with its engine humming and the same weedy blonde guy at the wheel like every other evening on this damn bus route. Bus was two minutes late too! Reggie clambered on board the bus and pushed a clamp of his greased jet-black hair upward to form a quiff. He smiled awkwardly at the driver.

          “Where to?” the weedy lad said, although he knew the answer. It was the same answer every evening.

          “Just ‘ere for the ride, Weedy, like ever’night,” Reggie grinned and tossed him a fiver. That covered two all-round routes back to his house. It suited him and it suited Weedy the driver. Reggie walked to the mid-back of the bus and took his usual seat above the wheel. Just another night in glum old Bristol he told himself.

An Introduction,

II, Louise “Pinkie Lips” Taylor

If life had treated Louise Taylor as well as the public raved about Chuck Norris’ ability to do anything, she’d probably have a law job by now. But life wasn’t fair, and Louise blamed it all on one thing: she had a vagina. The last six years of her life were spent studying away at University, then Law School, on a diet of nothing but wet, soggy, rubbery, dull pasta dishes, and she’d worked hard enough to get a 2:1 and a very welcomed reference. It seemed, however, that all these efforts and dietary sacrifice were in vain.

Louise – or Pinkie-Lips as she has become known, due to her eye-gawking, wonderfully attractive pink puckered lips – had recently applied for a small Bristol law firm. She was confident throughout the whole process, balancing enough effort on her academic prowess and enough on making the most of her stunning features; it was, of course, a man who’d interviewed her. The interview had gone beautifully, and Pinkie Lips had spent the couple of days which followed in the brightest of moods. It wasn’t to last. Despite exceeding all the other applicants in reference, academics, and her beauty, the man in charge had instead picked a big-boned, fat git corporate tosser named Buck Truman. It wasn’t hard for Pinkie Lips to guess why, I mean it was common Bristolian court room knowledge that fat git lawyers were better at roping in high-paying defence cases; it is somehow believed that women, purely because they are cursed with popping babies out their va-jay-jay and milking out of two chest-sharpeners, would get an emotional moral conflict.

Bullshit, Pinkie Lips said aloud, amidst a restaurant crowded with people; naturally, a shocked silence ensued by social demand before the venue returned to its previous goings-on. All the same, a waiter did arrive at the table in quite a hurry – it was, of course, a man; the exact gender Pinkie Lips wasn’t in the mood to get along with right now.

“Are you quite alright, Madam?” the waiter enquired.

“Yes, quite fine,” she said, before grimacing and continuing, “just I was pretty sure I’d just seem some bull’s shit in that gentleman’s dish.”

“Excuse me, Madam?” the waiter replied, rather shocked, fluttering his pupils back and forth. It was as though the venue had just been invaded by Dracula’s posse of blood sucking vampire bats.

“Oh no, Madam, it couldn’t possibly be,” the waiter continued, pretending to make an effort to study the far away dish. “The cook here is very good.”

Pinkie Lips sighed. As much as she’d have liked to continue pestering the dim-witted waiter, she had other plans. After hearing news fat git Buck got the job over her, she sent him a text asking him out for dinner. Buck, who much to her unknowing, had gone tomato-faced in flattery upon receiving the text; at the time he was already struggling a bit drowning down his cheeseburger with a paper cup of cola. Buck had instantly agreed on Pinkie Lips’ one condition that she choose the restaurant, and it be at 8pm sharp.

Pinkie Lips turned to the waiter, “I’ll just have to take your word for it. My date should be arriving in five minutes. Would you care to show him to my table when he does?”

The waiter smiled. “It would be my pleasure, Madam.”

It wasn’t much longer before, on cue, Buck Truman burst through the restaurant doors. The very fat of the man put far too much pressure on the suit he was wearing, and Pinkie Lips sympathised with the work out his shirt’s fibres were inevitably undergoing to cover his reddened skin. Rather attractively, he was panting, as though the ‘sharp’ end of the condition was adamant.

The waiter casually showed fat git Buck to Pinkie Lips’ table, somewhat perplexed by her choice of date.

Not watch’a thinkin’ waiter boy, Pinkie Lips grinned, Buck’s ‘ere to pay. Call it revenge, I call it feminism. She rose as Buck drew near and held out her hand, which he took and kissed firmly. Her spine cringed at the action, but her face kept up the act.

“Why hello, Miss Taylor,” Buck spat.

“Good evening, Buck,” Pinkie Lips said in her naturally friendly voice.

Buck sat opposite her, the 49 year old chap slumped in his chair and pulled a white napkin up to his chin and tucked it in his collar. Pinkie Lips sat gently, seductively, crossed her legs so her shoed right foot hung mid-air just about visible to excite Buck’s eye line. The waiter observed the stunning 25 year old, her smile majestic, peering deep into this sweaty middle aged corporate’s eyes; he came to one conclusion: said corporate bloke was a millionaire bigamist with a cringe worthy, stomach repulsive, heightened sex drive.

In a way, waiter boy was right; but he was also wrong. Pinkie Lips would never back down for money, especially not to a man, and very especially not to fat git Buck. What Pinkie Lips couldn’t stand was being beaten. If she ever was, her version of feminism would play havoc on man’s kind. That was their fate.

The meal had finished, fortunately for Pinkie Lips, much earlier than she’d planned for; it was clear Buck was begging for it – and Pinkie Lips didn’t even need to play her creamy dessert card. She’d figured it was the teasing smile between the sipping of champagne which gave Buck’s blood the fastest map route to his penis.

Now she had him right where she wanted him, stumbling to get undressed in his apartment’s bedroom. Pinkie Lips observed him, whipping his knees keenly out of his suit trousers and almost tripping up from his own chaffing of the thighs. It was humour. This sick guy even has a wife, a dedicated wife. Yet here he is, captivated by my pink lips and the belief that, as a man, he has the right to stick his foul little shit stick inside of my temple. Louise was captivated in thought that she’d missed the transition from his stumbling to him lying in bed, naked as can be like a big repulsive blob of lard. She held her breath. This wouldn’t take long.

Louise Pinkie Lips Taylor finished with fat git Buck Truman just before a quarter to nine that night. However, while Pinkie Lips had fled the apartment and made the next bus with tip top fluidity, Buck Truman’s evening was far less desirable.

He had achieved nothing from his date with Pinkie Lips, besides a few seconds of her, fully clothed and on all fours, crawling up to him face to face. Before he could work his magic, as it were, Pinkie Lips had other ideas. He was handcuffed to one of the bed’s four posters; and then he was the puppet of Pinkie Lips’ self-photography in numerous sexual positions – her face covered by a home-made Santa Claus mask. She then uploaded them to Buck’s laptop and stuck them on a slideshow presentation; before she left for the bus, Pinkie Lips made a phone call to Mrs Truman, asking her to rush to the flat. And, just as she’d thought her job was done, she pulled a black Sharpie from her handbag and wrote in beautiful calligraphy on Buck’s chest the words:

THE ADULTERER

As Pinkie Lips paid a weedy bus driver her fare home, she thought her evening could not get a dime better. That is when she ran into her older cousin, Sackers. The one and only man Pinkie Lips actually admired.