A story written in the style of Max Payne-- post by post
7 replies, posted
(If you don't know what I mean by this, you should probably keep moving. Feel free to read the thread, comic / catch yourself up to speed by searching up Max Payne clips on youtube (THE VIDEO GAME. GET OUT WITH YOUR CINEMA SWINE) to participate).
(Feel free to "rewrite" a continuation (this one included) if you feel the previously posted one is bad. Please do not change any more than one up-- keep it moving)
Here I was, about to end the silence that blanketed over the room, when suddenly the realization hit me. They were all wrong. The question, banging around in my head like a cocaine-ramped rock-and-roll drummer finally hit me harder than a bag of bricks...
"Why DO kids love the taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch?"
Withdrawls. These kids were addicted, and I was reeling. It seemed my head was pounding in protest, but my stomach was desperate for another bite. General Mills was getting the better of me.
Each swirl printed on each of these cereal squares served as a stark reminder of the kind of story we'll be leading - downwards and soaked with desperation. I didn't like the picture, so I went to someone who knew he could get me off the stuff for good.
His name was Greg. Bagboy at the local Shop n' Save grocer. Hangs around the back like the expried food he tosses out every evening at 9:00pm.
He knows where to get the hard stuff.
Grape nuts.
If anything can turn a man cereal-sober like an alcoholic trapped in mormon summer camp, that was the stuff. Each bite crashing on my teeth as waves crash against the craggy shore. I'd used to put perps through the stuff back on my days on the force.
Odd I find myself having to go through the stuff now. I guess life turns out differently when staring at the bottom of a cereal bowl every day.
But he didn't have grapenuts. He didn't have anything. The perspiration on his face like a cold drink on a summer day, and his story that was more full of holes than the sourdough he stocked on isle twelve, told me I had to go up the chain.
It didn't take long to find the manager of the joint--she was a hard act to miss.
A six-foot-one forty-something man-eater with a look in her eyes like an arctic breeze, froze me dead in my tracks. The print on her uniform polo promised a helpful smile in every aisle, but I could smell that lie in the air like her overpriced perfume. Between the ice glare and the crows' feet splitting down her cheekbones like a chronic migraine, I could tell she wasn't the type to play twenty-questions.
But I'd been down this road enough times to know the right one to ask.
The sinkhole in my gut howled after me like a serenade of ghost wolves on a harvest moon.
I'd get what I deserved.
[video=youtube;YAiJ0VQbQIM]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YAiJ0VQbQIM[/video]
She directed me to the supplier.
1942 5th Street, Manhattan, Midtown, West Side, Hell's Kitchen. There was a factory by the river. The place was a hole, the kind you don't wanna go sticking your nose in.
The sun was rising like a giant spotlight over the docklands. I felt naked in its rays.
Brooding shadows stretched grotesquely over the asphalt, dense with foreshadowed threat. Sweat clung desperately to my skin as I moved into deeper cover, bringing with it a scent of dread.
The place was a mess. I could barely make out anything in the dark. Then the smell hit me like a kick to the teeth. I had unknowingly walked straight into their trap and now someone had a price to pay.
I inadvertently cued a dozen ladies topped off with hair nets and armed with sawed off shotguns. I thought maybe a gang of lunch ladies was about to show a student how complaints are handled, and I was the student.
Ducking for cover, it was clear that workplace was out of the ordinary. This factory ran high-octane, pumping wheat and rice... and now lead. It wasn't long a confetti of sweets rained around me. My only wish was for a better forecast from the weatherman.
"We've heard a lot about you, tough guy! Lookin' for some secrets, eh? Hey, I've got the solution, [I]right here[/I]!"
From the looks of the flying debris and sugar-coated shrapnel, they were willing to lose a customer.
[QUOTE=E = MC Hammer;52004645]"Why DO kids love the taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch?"[/QUOTE]
Don't answer that. A rhetorical question.
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