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Irony. A word I rarely got to use. But I guess it’s appropriate to use it now. You see, this thing that was trashing everything in sight had me pinned down… and I was fresh out of ideas how to manage.
My name is Ronald Charles McKenzie. Six-foot-six, brown-haired, brown-eyed, two hundred and ninety pounds. Yeah, I know. But I’m trying to reduce my weight. Really.
People don't call me Mac because that would be my Dad, so my friends call me Ron. I was a Metro Police lieutenant connected to the Major Case Victims Unit of the police department. But I haven't always been with the police. Just before I became a cop, I was a captain in the Marines. My last posting was with a special support team for a UN combined command unit called NEST. Although I didn't know it at the time. Top secret, et cetera. All I knew was that we had to catch the fallout from whatever they were doing, and whatever they were doing was probably something major, given how tough our assignments were, or how messy things got after NEST gets through with a combat zone, and we were sent in to clean up after them, taking care of stragglers, snipers, hidden mines et cetera. And Decepticons. In the end, it got a bit too much and I decided to retire. Either that or PTSD and burnout.
So I became a cop.
Being with the Major Case Victims Unit wasn't any kind of picnic either, though, and, yeah, it's a bit like living episodes of the TV show ‘Law and Order.’ So many people needing to be put away; so many people hurt and needing help.
Part of my role in the department sometimes was to interface with the press. My captain said I had a flare for it, and my compassion for the people involved in my cases made me the ideal mouthpiece for the department. So he said.
It's fun, sometimes, when I get to be on TV. But most of the time, I just feel pressured by all of the TV reporters yammering at me and asking me all sorts of questions I couldn't answer. I did get to meet a couple of good ones that had a real empathy for victims and didn't use me to score points against the police or the establishment too much - one was a newspaper reporter from one of the city's major dailies who eventually became a good friend. He might be transitioning to another job soon, though - his paper, like most papers, was in danger of shutting down.
Another was a TV reporter named Susan Blu.
Susan was actually a high school friend - a close one. I had a major crush on her back then and I guess one of the reasons I didn't stay in touch after high school was because, despite us being such good friends, Susan never felt the same way about me. But now that I was back in town, and with her job and mine always throwing us together, we couldn't help but reconnect.
Though she's a popular, big shot local news anchor and TV reporter now (it was just a matter of time before she goes national), we still got along, and that old friendship just sort of came back. And I found that the old flame was still alive. Even more than before, I think. Guess it couldn't be helped - with her being the same person that she always was despite the success. Plus the fact that she's so much more gorgeous now. I couldn't believe she wasn't married yet. Not even a boyfriend. I thought it might be because of her job. But I thought I could get around that if she ever gave me a chance.
Anyway, I was at her station, being interviewed about the latest incident of urban violence in the city. There have been five bad ones these past few weeks, and we have been getting screwy reports that these were perpetrated by robots and such. The automatic conclusion was that it was the Decepticons, but so far as my connections knew, it wasn't them. Such confusion was probably connected with the hysteria that such things bring with them. There were even screwy reports of statues coming to life and killing people with electrical bolts. I told the interviewer that we didn't know anything yet, but we're getting close to having suspects... Yeah, pretty lame, I know.
After my interview, I looked up Susan and invited her out to this intimate restaurant my partner knew about. Susan suggested another place, though, and I agreed. And then during dinner, I found out why she was still single. Getting turned down is a big blow, but also finding out that the reason that she turned me down was because she wasn't into men... Talk about a double blow.
And… I was back in that place again. Yup – the restaurant where Susan broke up with me. Not that we were ever really an item.
It was a big, fancy restaurant with a clientele that was made up mostly of young and trendy women, and it was Susan’s favorite place. Not as exclusive as the high-class places uptown: the neighborhood was a bit blue-collar – it was just a block or two from the Jubilee Center, after all, but pretty fancy nevertheless.
In any case, this was the place where Susan turned me down a week ago. And the way she did it… well, what chance did I have with a lesbian? I should have known she was a lesbian – the place's clientele was mostly female, and it was just next door to Foxtails after all, a nightclub known to be a lesbian hangout, according to my police partner, Jenny.
A pretty girl like Susan without a boyfriend… I should have known she was a lesbian. Maybe not back in high school, since I was so clueless back then. But at least now I should have. I was so afraid I would be stuck in the “friend zone,” when in fact I have ALWAYS been in the zone. I was like the mayor of the Friend Zone.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
And I was about to die in the same place where I got my heart crushed.
Irony.
At least that thing that had me pinned down got the place practically flattened out... What was I thinking? That wasn't even funny. Maybe it was sort of a sense of revenge that I was feeling. But what about the people that were in the place? I hoped Susan and I were successful in getting everyone out of the place.
That thing spoke again.
“Undoubtedly you are asking yourself what is this in my hand. This, my dear Captain, is a piece of what the Cybertronians called the AllSpark.” Its voice was low and sounded electronic, with an odd reverberation like it was coming from within a tin can. But it indeed sounded female.
She knows I was a captain... When I was still attached to one of the support teams for NEST, I heard Bill Lennox talk about the AllSpark a few times, but what it really was wasn’t at all clear to me. And since this... thing knew about Cybertron and the AllSpark, it makes sense it would know about NEST, and hence it would know about me.
“There are many things that can be done with it,” the thing continued. “It can make inanimate objects live, for instance. Look at this!” The walking Venus de Milo statue gestured with a robot-like arm that was grafted onto her right stump at a banana-yellow Volkswagen New Beetle. It was parked right beside me near a little newspaper shack. The yellow car was Susan’s little girlie Volkswagen.
The statue waved the small metallic-gray cube at it and jagged arcs of electricity flew out towards the car, like those from a Tesla Coil. After a few moments, it lowered its arm. “There – see?”
I looked at Susan’s little bug. Nothing was happening. I looked back at the statue.
“Perhaps it needs a little more time to work,” Venus said a little sheepishly. “But I definitely know what it can do to people.” And she waved the little cube again, this time at me.
“Time to die,” the statue said.
I threw the empty and useless P90 away (actually a sawed-off-barrel civilian PS90 destined for the precinct evidence room), dove behind Susan’s car and pulled out my pistol instead. It was a souvenir from my days with NEST. It was a Ruger-GE 45-caliber Polymer-Frame Electric - a small handgun-sized weapon that fired off large-caliber bullets without gunpowder or other chemicals using technology based on rail guns. They say my gun’s tech was based out of Autobot tech. No wonder. It was not as powerful as a real rail gun, of course, but it could fire bullets at least one-third faster than the velocity and distance of a comparably sized conventional gun, and with no explosion and almost no recoil. I was told that the velocity was throttled back so that the bullets didn’t break the sound barrier, though I didn’t believe it. That’s why they called them Pocket Rockets. But these puppies were never mass-produced since the government restricted their use. I was one of the last to be issued a pocket rocket. There was no ammunition for it anymore, but I knew how to get mine: I just get the gunsmith to make 45-caliber bullets without the case and the gunpowder. They’re actually cheaper, too because of that.
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I used my pocket rocket and fired my entire clip at it, walking the gun across her torso. The impacts threw her backwards and I knew I hurt her. When she stood up, I could see large cracks on her abdomen area, and a reddish fluid leaking out.
In an attempt to hit me, the statue sent bolts at me, but she missed. Instead, the arcs splashed against the little yellow car. After a few seconds, after I was sure there were no sparks anymore, a power cable fell and dangled from the power Iines above and touched the roof of the car. More sparks flew, but this time, it was just normal electrical sparks. The cable kept on jumping around touching the beetle’s roof each time, but after a last powerful crack, the cable was knocked up and away.
When I was sure there was no danger from the cable anymore, I put a fresh magazine in my gun, pulled myself up by the Beetle’s door handle, gun at the ready, and risked a peek through the slightly-tinted window. When I was halfway standing, I saw the statue through the window, smiling at me with an evil-looking smile. Lightning arced from her hand again, and flew through the glass window towards me. My spine snapped backward and my muscles suddenly seized. Both the car and my body crackled again with the unearthly lightning bolts.
When the arcs switched off, I collapsed backward onto the newspaper shack, the force of my impact knocking the flimsy wooden structure down. I felt a kind of energy surround me, filling me with so many things. It was like I could taste sound, hear colors, and my sense of touch was like I could feel every grain of sand, every little pebble underneath me, and over everything - a kind of familiar warmth, but one I also knew I had never felt before.
Before I completely lost consciousness, I noticed that I still held my gun in a grip made strong by paralyzed muscles, and that I was lying face down near a pile of girly magazines. Fighting the growing numbness, I turned my head as much as much I could, and saw that my hand holding the gun seemed to have melted, like cheese in an oven, and it had melted and buried my gun in what looked like melted pink flesh.
A few of the girlie magazines were open in front of me, and I had an eyeful of this very, very tall fair-skinned, green-eyed brunette nymph, like an angel in a frilly and very revealing, feminine babydoll nightie inside a pink-and white room full of frills and lace, having hot, girly sex with this six-foot tall platinum-haired, blue-eyed amazon beauty dressed in a similar nightie but in pastel green. The colors of their clothes and the room, and the frilly nature of everything made me think of strawberries, marshmallows and other stereotypically girlie-type things. The brunette was pumping this enormous pink dildo in and out of the tall blonde while the blonde licked her out. In the picture on the adjoining page, the brunette seemed to be in the throes of an orgasm as she held the other girl’s head against her with her hands. In another picture, the gorgeous blonde had her hand on one of her breasts as she looked into the camera. Her silver-blonde hair and blue green eyes stood out against her very fair skin, and against the brunette who had smooth, tanned skin. As for the brunette, she was crawling on her knees on the bed towards the blonde, one leg saucily pointed upwards as she crawled, and her high-heeled leather pumps giving her an even more sensuous air. They were beyond gorgeous.
Porn wasn’t a big thing with me, but the two girls were incredibly hot. I should have had an enormous erection right then, but I was totally paralyzed, unable to move anything anymore, including my eyeballs, nor even to feel anything or hear anything. At least I still had my eyesight even though I couldn't move my eyeballs. At least I had a nice view. Oddly enough, though, my heart was still pumping and I was still breathing, so I wasn’t completely paralyzed. That was my last thought just before a weird kind of pink goo with red striations obscured my vision, and I finally lost consciousness.