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Note: This will probably make more sense if you have read the posts for June 22nd 2004, and September 1st 2004 The police helicopter soared over Lower Manhattan. Underneath the roar of its blades through the air, a dull barely perceptible whine could be heard-- at least if you were standing next to the helicopter, as the man with with the drill was (with the aid of a flying carpet). Soon, he was done with his work, the intertwining letters “J” and “D” rendered in half-centimeter drill holes on the helicopter's hull. “Sikh, take us down.” said the Jersey Driller. “Where to?” replied the Disheveled Sikh, the pilot of the carpet. “Back to Hobo-- Wait, what's that?” asked Jersey, pointing to what appeared to be a long line of people on an unfamiliar street in Tribeca. “It looks like a line.” Said the Sikh, observing the lineyness of the line. “Yeah, but what for? Lets go see.” The Sikh brought the carpet down near the head of the line, where they found a pan handler, for whom the line had apparently been formed. The mendicant was dressed in foul rags, and smelled unusually bad (the driller could smell him clearly, even though he was about ten feet away). The other unusual thing about the pan handler, besides his stench, and the huge line at his feet, was the cup he was shaking. It looked perfectly normal a plain white plastic cup, but it was able to absorbed the huge sums of money people kept putting in it. Actually, on further observation, it wasn't just money the people of the line were putting in the cup. The driller was pretty sure he saw gold, diamonds, and a pure-bred welsh corgi shoved in there. It was defiantly kinda weird, but it was none of his business if people wanted to give this guy their stuff. So, Jersey was about to leave when suddenly the mendicant turned to him and said “Arms for the tour?” “Poor guy”, thought the driller, “Can't even get his begging words right.” The driller didn't have any change, gold, diamonds, or corigies on him. So, he reached into his jacket, took out his favorite tungsten drill bit, and put it on the man's grimy white cup. Then, he got back on his carpet, and with the Sikh headed off toward Hoboken. “Oh my god!” the driller exclaimed several minutes latter. “I just gave that bum my best tungsten drill bit! What the hell did I do that for?” “You were beguiled by his powers, “ said the Sikh, “as were all the others.” “That... bastard, the bloody super mendicant bastard. Turn this carpet around, I'm getting my drill bit back.” “No, first, we must come up with a way to over come his medicantious powers.” “Hmm...”, pondered the Jersey Driller, “Howdya think they work?” “It would appear,” said the Sikh, “that he prays off the compassion in your heart.” “Where exactly in the heart?” said the driller, getting out his thinest drill bit. Later that night, after some coagulation, the Jersey Driller and the Disheveled Sikh returned the the scene. Once more, Super Mendicant shook his cup at them. “That won't work this time, buddy. I've had my compassion removed.” said the driller. “Rover bum tie flower, eh?” said Super Mendicant. “What? Never mind, just give me my bit back.” “Toe, queue mant lave grit tack.” “What? What the hell is wrong with you?” said the driller. “I think he means 'You can't have it back'” offered the Disheveled Sikh, helpfully. “Fine, I'll take it.” said the driller, bringing out two battery operated hand drills from his jacket. “Ah, cut tan rue clover fun tie varny of brewer hinges?” “Over come... my army of sewer ninjas?” translated the Sikh. His translation was apparently correct, because just then, men in filthy black pajamas began pouring out of every man hole, sewer grate, and Mc Donald's in the area. “God damn it! Why the hell does he have an army of ninjas? Why am I fighting a homeless man with an army of ninjas?” screamed Jersey as he furiously drilled ninjas, trying to keep them off the carpet . But to no avail, the carpet was horribly stained by the muddy foot prints of countless smelly sewer ninjas. “Ah! My carpet!” Cried the Sikh, now the owner of a rug that was more disheveled than he. “Get us out of here!” cried the driller, trying to keep from being over whelmed. The carpet began climbing, and Jersey managed to drill the last of the ninjas still clinging to the side. “I suppose we can never recover our loses.” wept the Sikh, wondering what his carpet cleaning bill would be. The fees for magic carpet cleaning were nearly criminal. “Oh no, that bastards not keeping my drill bit. We're coming back with Charybdis. “ “Oh my god! You're going to use that thing?” The driller responded with nothing but a mad grin. Charybdis began life as a humble table drill. But that was before the modifications-- now it was a hand drill, albeit one that required two hands and a powered exoskeleton to lift. No one knew exactly how fast the bit spun, but some suspected it might be fast enough for relative physics to become relevant. In any case, it was probably the only drill in the New York Metropolitan Area that had a blast radius. The Jersey Driller had only used it once, when he needed to get to the air port and couldn't seem to hail a cab any other way (In retrospect, this was a mistake: Airport security is needlessly suspicious of people wearing exoskeletons and carrying giant diesel-powered drills-- Don't they have better things to do?) Now, as the soiled carpet flew once more to Tribeca, the Driller was suiting up in Charybdis for the second time. He could only carry enough fuel to last about five minutes. As the carpet landed, he hoped that would be enough. “Oh, Mister Mendicant! I've come for my drill bit!” cried the Jersey Driller, as he revved up the Charybdis. The cacophonous roar sounded like an ancient dinosaur waking up and being immediately hit by thirty-two semi trucks colliding at sixty miles per hour (which sounds a lot different then a medium-age dinosaur being hit by thirty-one semi trucks going at fifty miles per hour, if you were not aware). “Moldy kit!” cried the mendicant, who apparently could still only say things that rhymed with what he wanted to say. “Bum tie binges!” The ninjas began pouring out from all over again, but they were much less effective. The fortunate ones were caught in the vortex surrounding the spinning storm of destruction that was Charybdis. The unfortunate ones ended up in the eye of that storm, and were then thrown in off in several directions simultaneously. Bits of pavement, people from the line, and a street lamb or two were all caught up in the horrible vortex in front of the driller. He cackled madly and plunged the mighty bit of Charybdis into the Super Mendicant's cup. The effects of ramming the rapidly spinning drill bit into the extra dimensional cup were rather unpredictable. Space and time were briefly twisted around like a pretzel, then like an accordion, and then like the Boston road system. The end result was all the items in the cup--- gold, diamonds, checks, corgies, and one tungsten drill bit--- scattered all about the street. Meanwhile, Charybdis and most of the exoskeleton were ripped off the driller and thrashed about in the twisting of space until they emerged crushed into a small metal pea. “Ram fu! Wall tea tack rum pay!” said the now cupless super mendicant, as he retreated into the sewers with the remainder of his ninja army. “Yeah,” said the driller, carefully emerging from the remains of his torn exoskeleton into the carnage of the street. “Whatever. Just don't touch my damn drill bits, bastard.” He picked up his favorite tungsten bit and enough diamonds to cover the cost of magic carpet cleaning. Then, he and the Sikh flew off to Hoboken, drilling a few police helicopters on the way. Post a comment in response: |
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