Thursday, August 19, 2004

Grant: 1 - The Man: 0

Tonight was the night of the FBI confrontation. A squad of armed men rappelled from down from a Blackhawk, blew the front door and charged in, but I was ready for them. I whipped out my trusty Flamesaw (patent pending) and charged. The point man dropped like a sack of flaming potatoes while the rest dove for cover behind my piles of gold and jewels and priceless art. The rear guard opened fire with their CS gas, white phosphorus and fragmentation grenades, and LAW rockets. Shrapnel tore through the air, shredding my shirt to reveal perfectly toned and near-bulletproof muscles, but the intensity of the fire began to chafe my six-pack abs. I pulled back into my bedroom and dove into the pool.

I had installed a trapdoor with a SCUBA suit in the bottom of the deep end, so within seconds I absconded and followed my escape route to the alley out back. Two tried to follow, but were incinerated when they stepped on the wrong tile and unleashed the dragon I keep down there (his name is Ralph). I thought I had given them the slip, but they mounted the Giant Atomic Chickens they brought with them and pursued me by land, the chopper hovering overhead and firing its chain gun at me when I darted between buildings. I hid behind a dumpster and lured them in close, then leapt amongst them, slashing in all directions, catching them in a crossfire. My Flamesaw and the Blackhawk's merciless fire made short work of the agents and GACs on the ground, but I was left standing alone in a midst of a pile of roasting human and chicken flesh, taking fire from the chain gun, which was really beginning to sting. The impact drove me back against a wall, and the pilot leered, thinking he had me cornered.

I activated the surface-to-air missile launcher on my Flamesaw (its scheduled for the 2.0 release) and blasted the chopper into LEGOs. Then I returned to my apartment. The service robots are programmed to telepathically obey my commands and had already rebuilt my PC, so I sat down and blogged this.

Confession - there was a slight fib in the above. I only have one piece of priceless art, but it's the Mona Lisa which should count as five pieces at least.

Confession Addendum - none of what I just said is technically true. But, since truth is beauty (poetry lesson) and beauty is truth (math lesson - commutative property of algebra), and anything entertaining is beautiful (bs lesson, taken from reality TV), then anything entertaining must be the truth (logic lesson - formation of a syllogism), and in the end isn't that what's really important? The answer is no.

What really happened is a nice man (a former U. S. Marshall) stopped by and asked me a few questions about my friend (loyalty to the U.S., if he was on drugs, or if I could think of anything that could be used to blackmail him into divulging sensitive information). Fortunately he was inquiring about one of my few friends who didn't require a pack of lies to protect, so all went fast and smoothly.

Honest, out

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