That box of extra spleens in the back.
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A trusted Friend gave me a tip where to find Washington: âArmouryâ
I know what youâre thinking. But since a A Lotus is all about flair â about dancing around the others, not overpowering them, I donât see any point in going back to the Citadel, alone. Besides, that would be all too obvious.
But there are other possibilities. When I let my mind wander back and think âArmouryâ, I remember pleasant Sunday afternoons in Pasadena at the Armoury Center for the Arts.
As Iâve mentioned before, there is the Collectorâs Armoury in Culver City, which has long had the best anti-zombie equipment.
Those with really long memories know that the 1932 Olympic fencing venue was The Armory. I love that building, with itâs huge atrium next to the rose garden, and a dedication to science education.
I suspect that our British friends have fond thoughts of this Armory. It a great place to shop whether you are upper class or just acting the part.
But none of these are a place our Washington would scamper off to. A rat that tried to pass himself as an accountant would not flee places with that much taste. We need to look for him some place lower brow. some place seedier.
What does âArmouryâ and âSeedyâ make you think of? Because I think I know just the placeâŚ
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I am in awe of you all. Truly.
An endgame will begin taking shape tomorrow. Circumstances forbid my addressing these matters sooner than that, but boy do you guys make me proud and happy.
Currently, Wash is in the wind, Cougarâs trying desperately to get her ride in condition to pursue Mad Mel (the damage from Billyâs exploding proton pack was pretty crippling to her car), and Blazer is in several smoldering pieces at the bottom of a cliff. Mel and the Kid are nearly at the gate of Fleetwoodâs HQ at Vasquez Rocks, with a couple of our stalwart Drivers in hottest pursuit. Imprisoned by Fleetwood in the old Batcave in Bronson Canyon after being smuggled there through a hidden tunnel from the catacombs beneath the Citadel, Clankenstein has awakened old memories from long ago⌠and nowâŚ
âŚwell. Letâs see what happens next!
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I donât even want to think what goes into a Bowery Burger in this wastelandâŚ
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So what âarmouryâ secures our Washington?
Some place seedy. Some hellhole scuzzy enough to keep decent folks away and with enough shysters around heâll blend in.
Hollywood, obviously.
The key to Hollywood is to follow the stars. An insecure snitch like Washington will hide behind the laudable
and the timeless.
Theyâre at 6733 and 6738 Hollywood Blvd, respectively.
Heâll want someone beautiful nearby so he feels important.
Sheâs at 6733 Hollywood Blvd.
Our quarry will need someone nearby with real pull close at hand to smooth over any troubles. Who better than the man who invented the modern movie studio ? Thomas Ince resides at 6727 Hollywood Blvd. Of course, Thomas is rumored to have been shot by William Randolph Hearst (aka Citizen Kane) because Marion Davies was boinking Charlie Chaplin on the side, but a low-level grifter like Washington canât be choosy.
The voice of Ellery Queen (6733 Hollywood Blvd) would be the perfect narrator for this little adventure, but we need to step off the street, go behind the facade, and take a hard look at
Armory Guitar Works
6729 Hollywood Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90028
God only knows what horrors are wrought inside a place with a name like that, but I needed to find out. And look what I found:
The arrogant puke feels so untouchable with his new paint job and Fleetwoodâs favor that he even parks in the crosswalk.
Bastard.
Who wants to join me for a little disciplined interrogation?
-Bubba
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Well you bloody lucky lot! Iâve cleaned up those feet, seem to have been very well preserved.
Here are two of them:
and two more:
I make that 26. I rather like the latter lot.
How then shall we divvy them up?!
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Looking at my options here Iâll be pouring myself my second box of Lucky Starks and being content with the toes I have.
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You know, Iâm just around the corner with Rideword (@solomon) and while Iâm not sure what needs doing or whatâs going down once the Mission 3 people get here to free Clank, one of us might be able to drop by and swing a sledgehammer against a doorâŚ
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Donât worry Bubba, Iâll make sure Toecutter seeâs the light of The Craftsman up close and personal likeâŚ
+3 Craftsman Wrench of Badassdom
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Bill tried to sleep before the mission, he tossed and turned in the cab of his Tow-truck trying to get comfortable, but couldnât seem to find his comfy spot. Baby-Girl, his pet mutant Pibble whined softly from the passenger side floor boardsâŚ
Forcing his mind to shutdown, Bill squeezed his eyes shut and a fitful rest finally embraced him. Bill unconsciously kicked his feet as the Nanites in his cerebrum played havoc with his Dendrites, and the mechanic dreamt of his revenge on Fleetwood and ToecutterâŚ
âI am a Mechanic, and I am here to do The Craftsmanâs work.â
Billâs mumbled incoherently as he rolled over on the bench seat of his F-250, and his dream-mind wandered further down the rabbit holeâŚ
âBUT-TER-FLYâŚâ
Bill snored to himself as his mind fell backwards into nostalgia, and drool began dripping down the trucks vinyl upholstery and onto the rubberized floorboards and forming a small puddle next to Baby-GirlâŚ
Billâs mind flew at warped speed through space and time, he was born and he died and was he was reborn again.
ââŚbutterflyâŚâ
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Long ago, when the billionaire philanthropist was a mere multimillionaire⌠and actually still wanted to help people.
And now, after the radioactive L.A. sunlight has scorched all color from the ground and sky, the old secret cave is guarded by one of Fleetwoodâs top lieutenants, handpicked for his cunning, his relentless bloodthirst, and his skill with the deadly Bubble-Emitting Lethal Concentration Halide Emission Reactor, the use of which has been known to cause obesity and uncontrollable hair growth on wielders who forget to seal their helmets to their hazmat suits⌠and you should see what it does to its intended victims!
Deep inside the cave, Fleetwood admires the simplicity of the box handed to him by the exhausted old Mechanic. Palm-sized, matte black, with a single red button, a single black button, and an elegant Bakelite dial.
-âStep inside, Toeboy.â
-âWhy donât you step inside yourself?â
-âShow some sense, son. We canât trust the Mechanic inside an impervious force-field with the Gen V. We might never get them out again. And you and I arenât getting in together just yet. What if we canât get out? What if it collapses on us and squishes us like a portable black hole?â
-âHow likely isâŚâ
-âYou read the specs. You know how powerful the Gen V might be, as much as any of us do. Sheâs a dwarf star on a leash in a blue plastic portashitter, with a control interface management CPU and dynamic link library the likes of which have never been seen before. I have no doubt sheâs smarter than both of us put together, about a million times over, and Iâm not about to give her the slightest opportunity to wriggle out from under my thumb.â
-âSo why should IâŚ?â
-âCause Iâm holdinâ the button, Toecutter, you dense sonofabitch. Either you stand next to that one-holer honeywagon and test the force-field like a good and loyal second-in-command, or you wander on outside with Ro-Man and take your chances against the Mechanicâs friends when they come lookinâ for him.â
-âHey, boss? I need to take a leak.â
-âNot now, Ro-Man. You stay right where youâre at, you hear me? The first sign of anyone coming up the canyon, you let 'em have it with the B.E.L.C.H.E.R.â
-âChrist, where do you hire these guys?â
-âShut up, dummy. Now get in the shitter.â
-âAll right, all rightâŚâ
The red button was pressed, and an eerie, charcoal-steely orb appeared, reflecting all but a narrow bandwidth of visible light. Fleetwood admired the sphere for a moment, then fired every gun he could reach at it. To his satisfaction, the force field held with nary a ripple. He pressed the black button and the force field vanished, revealed a shaken but impressed Toecutter.
-âLooks like it works, dummy. Excellent work, wrench! I think I owe you a bonusâŚâ
-"⌠whereâs your Mechanic, Fleetwood?"
Indeed, there was no sign of Clankenstein in the cave. A faint puff of steam curled lazily down from a shaft in the southwest corner.
-âGoddamn. Hey, Ro-Man!â
-âJust stepped away for a quick piss, boss.â
-âYou damned fool. Did anyone come out of the cave?â
-âNo sir, not a soul, and I was watching close. But I hear some engines coming hard and fast up the canyon. Iâd better warm up the B.E.L.C.H.E.R.â
-âHelp me load the Gen V into my Caddy, Toe, then stick close. Weâre outta here.â
-âWhat about the wrench?â
-âWe got what we need outta him. No time to tie up that particular loose end. I doubt heâll trouble us. Now move! We gotta get this shitter to Vasquez Rocks.â
-âWhy the hell did you move out there, anyway? Wasnât the Citadel a better stronghold?â
-âDidnât turn out to be as secure as Iâd hoped. Too many ways in and out, couldnât watch all approaches. The Vasquez H.Q. is simpler. Higher ground, only one viable approach from the ground, easier to guard. Not haunted. Unlikely to disturb nameless old gods from the dawn of the planet. Warmer, better view, plenty of natural light, spaciousâŚâ
-âOkay, I get it, you can take off the gold sportcoat. Howâd you come by that place, anyway?â
-âFunny you should ask. It was a pretty good deal I made, years ago, maybe nine months after the war ended. It was my first foray into the desert after consolidating my influence in Watts. It came about because of a car I wanted, this Cadillac right here. And a particularly ugly card gameâŚâ
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Every Saturday night,
I felt the fever growâŚ
Do you know what itâs like?
All revvâed up, with no place to go.
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Apparently somehow the BUM has been asleep for the last week straight. (Shitâs unnatural, I know already alright?)
Luckily for all of us the old man cant remember much of his waking time let along his dream time! So fortunately we all have been spared most of that horror showâŚ
But Bill did half way wake up when Junior knocked on his window,
âMm, Hum! Nah⌠no place to goâŚâ
the mechanic stammered half comatose, and then strangely enough Billâs broken TCB started to telepathically broadcast his mutant Pibble, Baby-Girlâs dreams:
Junior knew that Bill needed a few more hours of sleep to commune with The Craftsman, so he decided to let sleeping mechanics lieâŚ
âZZZZZzzzzâŚâ
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Sometimes it seems as though time stands still. And then we blink, and our goatees have a dozen more white hairs. And we realize we didnât actually have goatees last time we checked.
But we finally have some Results for Round Seven now.
Listen to The Craftsman: The End Is Nigh!
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