The OTF Murder Myster Chapter 10: "It All Goes Tits Up"

TheOriginalHappyGoat

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Oct 4, 2010
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Previous installments can be found on the LTF.

Chapter 10
It All Goes Tits Up.


I was standing in the entrance of the Comeandgoandcome. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there. My confusion must have shown on my face, because Basil looked worried as he walked up to me.

“My friend, what is the trouble? Please, come in, I have new arrivals for you.” He led me into the store.

“Some very good stuff from Southeast Asia this month. I think you will enjoy. In fact, my rep is still here delivering the goods. Why don't you meet her. Hey, Mee! I'd like you to meet my best customer, Goat. Goat, this is Mee Luv Yu. She gets me the very best Asian smut I know you enjoy so much. Mee, show him the new arrivals for me, would you?”

Mee was, I swear to all the gods, the hottest Asian chick I have ever set eyes on. And she was wearing a tight leather mini with a spaghetti-strap tank. She was, I swear, my perfect woman. She started showing me through all the new porn she'd brought Basil. Thai, Vietnamese, Laotian, some other ethnicities I didn't even know existed.

“I can tell, you are a true connoisseur of the Asian form, no?”

“I sure am.”

“Perhaps, instead of these paper dolls, you'd be interested in the real thing, no?” She moved closer to me, and, right there in the middle of Basil's shop (although I'm sure it's seen worse), reached down and grabbed my shotgun.

“Or, perhaps, yes?”

Something wasn't right about this. But I was entranced. She moved her face toward mine, and I closed my eyes just in time to experience the most painful kiss imaginable.

The stars faded from my eyes and I found myself on a tile floor with a large black boot right in front of my eyes. My nose felt like it had lost a round with a bowling ball.

“Wake up, asshole,” a voice growled. “Time to go.”

Shit.

Bloom's men stuffed me in the back of a van, and we were off. The Orange One was holding some kind of public ceremony in Premieland. The plan, they figured, was simple. Take him out using my bullets, then drop me off in the middle of a crazed crowd of armed guards. Because of the importance of the event, the Mayor had asked for security help from all the districts, and they were going to make sure I ended up surrounded by a bunch of Aruss' trigger-happy goons. My nose still smarting, my brain was working double-time to figure out some way, any way at all, to make it out of this alive. It was coming up blank.

“Did you sleep well?” one of the apes asked me.

“Almost. Your girlfriend here woke me up before I got to the good part,” I said, gesturing to the lamebrain next to me who'd woken me up with his toe.

Most of the guys in the van laughed, but stars filled my eyes again briefly as the jackass objected to my comment with a fist across the side of my head. I have to learn to keep my mouth shut.

We finally got to our intended location, and the driver parked the van. I watched out the front window as the Bishop came down the street toward us. Any minute now, all hell was going to break loose, and I'd be a dead man.

Now, I should say right now, I'm not a big fan of the religious leadership in this City. I mean, I'm not really religious, anyway. I go to services on the big holidays, you know. Opening Day. March. On those rare occasions we actually have March services. But, still, I can understand why some people would want this guy dead. He's a greasy weirdo, for one. Always forces priests to retire or transfer to other religions before they are ready, so he can bring up the next hot thing from seminary. And the Church can't fire him, because he got them to sign a contract that guarantees him everyone's first born son if they part ways. Don't know how he managed that one. Anyway, point is, someone was bound to take a shot at him sooner or later. I just didn't like the idea of taking the blame for it, is all.

Well, at this point, he was getting kind of close, and then I heard it, off in the distance. The faint crack of a gunshot. A few heads in the crowd heard it, too, and looked around. I kept my eyes fixed on the Bishop.

Nothing. He kept smiling and waving.

I smirked. The shooter must have missed.

Then more shots in the distance.

Smiling and waving.

Frantic voices cracked across the radio in the van.

“Lebowski's down-”

“Betrayal-”

“Shooter on the roof-”

“Kill Goat-”

That was my cue. As the goons turned to me, I grabbed the rifle from the one nearest me and cracked the butt across his face. Then I calmly turned to each of the others and put a single bullet in each of their faces before they could react. Then I dropped the rifle, opened the door, and ran like hell.

At this point, people were screaming, and running around like crazy. If they weren't sure where the distant gunshots were coming from, they sure as hell knew what had happened in that van. I had to get out of there before they started looking at me.

I ran across the street, looking for a good alley to duck in. Just then, someone grabbed me by the shoulder, and pulled me toward a shop door.

“In here, quick,” a familiar voice said. I followed.

The door shut, and we listened to the chaos outside. I turned to my savior.

“Thanks, Peachie. I owe you a raise.”

Someone else came out from around the corner. It was Ziz. He was holding a scoped rifle of some kind. Some foreign job.

"And if you worked for me, I'd owe you one, too."

"Give mine to Peachie. I'm just helping protect my best customer."

The shop turned out to be owned by one of Peachie's friends, who was out of town. She had a key, for reasons that were probably none of my business, so she figured we could lay low there for a while. We holed up in the office, she pulled a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses out of the desk, and I turned on the television to see what the news outlets were saying. It wasn't good.

“City officials have already issued a warrant for one Mr. Goat,” a pretty blonde with big hair was saying. “A known figure in the criminal underground of the OTF District, it's unclear what his role today was, but anonymous sources say he is somehow involved with the dead bodies found in the van. The same sources confirm that at least some bullets were fired at the procession itself, although thankfully no one was hit. This Goat is the prime suspect for those shots, as well.”

“Well, this is just great,” I said, and downed a double-shot of amber medicine.

“With me now is a local scientist, who claims he has proof this is all an elaborate setup.”

My ears perked up, and I saw a short goblin-looking man standing next to the pretty lady.

“Yes, I've done some quick calculations on the back of my old Super Bowl XXXIX program, which I always carry with me, and there is no way any of the bullets fired at the procession could have come from that van. There was no clear line of sight. They would have to be magic bullets that break all the laws of physics. It reminds me of that time Tom Brady was accused of deflating balls, which science clearly proves he didn't.”

“Okay,” the blonde said, “what do you mean by that?”

“Well, whoever shot those men in the van did so at about the same time those other shots rang out. This Goat would have had to shoot the men in the van, and then run over to that short plaza over there, and climb onto that wall to get a good look at the procession. By then, it was too late. Not even Superman could have done it. Maybe Tom Brady could have, like that one time we all thought he broke his knee, but he came back out and drove down the field for the winning touchdown. But a normal human? No way.”

“I see.”

“Who is this weirdo?” I asked. Peachie shrugged.

“So what you're saying,” the blonde continued, “is that the man who shot up this van couldn't have been the man who shot at the procession.”

“Exactly. There's no way. Again, unless he was a super human, like Tom Brady. Did you know that he's won over 60% of all the games in which he's thrown 50 passes or more? That's unheard of in the NFL.”

“I take it you're a Tom Brady fan.”

“Not particularly, no.”

I shut the television off. This was getting absurd. At least there was one conspiracy theorist out there who believed in me, though.

“Any idea what you're going to do to get out of this?” Zizkov asked.

“Not a clue.”

I downed another double.

Next time: Deus ex machina.
 
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hoosierdug

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Dec 2, 2003
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Previous installments can be found on the LTF.

Chapter 10
It All Goes Tits Up.


I was standing in the entrance of the Comeandgoandcome. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there. My confusion must have shown on my face, because Basil looked worried as he walked up to me.

“My friend, what is the trouble? Please, come in, I have new arrivals for you.” He led me into the store.

“Some very good stuff from Southeast Asia this month. I think you will enjoy. In fact, my rep is still here delivering the goods. Why don't you meet her. Hey, Mee! I'd like you to meet my best customer, Goat. Goat, this is Mee Luv Yu. She gets me the very best Asian smut I know you enjoy so much. Mee, show him the new arrivals for me, would you?”

Mee was, I swear to all the gods, the hottest Asian chick I have ever set eyes on. And she was wearing a tight leather mini with a spaghetti-strap tank. She was, I swear, my perfect woman. She started showing me through all the new porn she'd brought Basil. Thai, Vietnamese, Laotian, some other ethnicities I didn't even know existed.

“I can tell, you are a true connoisseur of the Asian form, no?”

“I sure am.”

“Perhaps, instead of these paper dolls, you'd be interested in the real thing, no?” She moved closer to me, and, right there in the middle of Basil's shop (although I'm sure it's seen worse), reached down and grabbed my shotgun.

“Or, perhaps, yes?”

Something wasn't right about this. But I was entranced. She moved her face toward mine, and I closed my eyes just in time to experience the most painful kiss imaginable.

The stars faded from my eyes and I found myself on a tile floor with a large black boot right in front of my eyes. My nose felt like it had lost a round with a bowling ball.

“Wake up, asshole,” a voice growled. “Time to go.”

Shit.

Bloom's men stuffed me in the back of a van, and we were off. The Orange One was holding some kind of public ceremony in Premieland. The plan, they figured, was simple. Take him out using my bullets, then drop me off in the middle of a crazed crowd of armed guards. Because of the importance of the event, the Mayor had asked for security help from all the districts, and they were going to make sure I ended up surrounded by a bunch of Aruss' trigger-happy goons. My nose still smarting, my brain was working double-time to figure out some way, any way at all, to make it out of this alive. It was coming up blank.

“Did you sleep well?” one of the apes asked me.

“Almost. Your girlfriend here woke me up before I got to the good part,” I said, gesturing to the lamebrain next to me who'd woken me up with his toe.

Most of the guys in the van laughed, but stars filled my eyes again briefly as the jackass objected to my comment with a fist across the side of my head. I have to learn to keep my mouth shut.

We finally got to our intended location, and the driver parked the van. I watched out the front window as the Bishop came down the street toward us. Any minute now, all hell was going to break loose, and I'd be a dead man.

Now, I should say right now, I'm not a big fan of the religious leadership in this City. I mean, I'm not really religious, anyway. I go to services on the big holidays, you know. Opening Day. March. On those rare occasions we actually have March services. But, still, I can understand why some people would want this guy dead. He's a greasy weirdo, for one. Always forces priests to retire or transfer to other religions before they are ready, so he can bring up the next hot thing from seminary. And the Church can't fire him, because he got them to sign a contract that guarantees him everyone's first born son if they part ways. Don't know how he managed that one. Anyway, point is, someone was bound to take a shot at him sooner or later. I just didn't like the idea of taking the blame for it, is all.

Well, at this point, he was getting kind of close, and then I heard it, off in the distance. The faint crack of a gunshot. A few heads in the crowd heard it, too, and looked around. I kept my eyes fixed on the Bishop.

Nothing. He kept smiling and waving.

I smirked. The shooter must have missed.

Then more shots in the distance.

Smiling and waving.

Frantic voices cracked across the radio in the van.

“Lebowski's down-”

“Betrayal-”

“Shooter on the roof-”

“Kill Goat-”

That was my cue. As the goons turned to me, I grabbed the rifle from the one nearest me and cracked the butt across his face. Then I calmly turned to each of the others and put a single bullet in each of their faces before they could react. Then I dropped the rifle, opened the door, and ran like hell.

At this point, people were screaming, and running around like crazy. If they weren't sure where the distant gunshots were coming from, they sure as hell knew what had happened in that van. I had to get out of there before they started looking at me.

I ran across the street, looking for a good alley to duck in. Just then, someone grabbed me by the shoulder, and pulled me toward a shop door.

“In here, quick,” a familiar voice said. I followed.

The door shut, and we listened to the chaos outside. I turned to my savior.

“Thanks, Peachie. I owe you a raise.”

Someone else came out from around the corner. It was Ziz. He was holding a scoped rifle of some kind. Some foreign job.

"And if you worked for me, I'd owe you one, too."

"Give mine to Peachie. I'm just helping protect my best customer."

The shop turned out to be owned by one of Peachie's friends, who was out of town. She had a key, for reasons that were probably none of my business, so she figured we could lay low there for a while. We holed up in the office, she pulled a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses out of the desk, and I turned on the television to see what the news outlets were saying. It wasn't good.

“City officials have already issued a warrant for one Mr. Goat,” a pretty blonde with big hair was saying. “A known figure in the criminal underground of the OTF District, it's unclear what his role today was, but anonymous sources say he is somehow involved with the dead bodies found in the van. The same sources confirm that at least some bullets were fired at the procession itself, although thankfully no one was hit. This Goat is the prime suspect for those shots, as well.”

“Well, this is just great,” I said, and downed a double-shot of amber medicine.

“With me now is a local scientist, who claims he has proof this is all an elaborate setup.”

My ears perked up, and I saw a short goblin-looking man standing next to the pretty lady.

“Yes, I've done some quick calculations on the back of my old Super Bowl XXXIX program, which I always carry with me, and there is no way any of the bullets fired at the procession could have come from that van. There was no clear line of sight. They would have to be magic bullets that break all the laws of physics. It reminds me of that time Tom Brady was accused of deflating balls, which science clearly proves he didn't.”

“Okay,” the blonde said, “what do you mean by that?”

“Well, whoever shot those men in the van did so at about the same time those other shots rang out. This Goat would have had to shoot the men in the van, and then run over to that short plaza over there, and climb onto that wall to get a good look at the procession. By then, it was too late. Not even Superman could have done it. Maybe Tom Brady could have, like that one time we all thought he broke his knee, but he came back out and drove down the field for the winning touchdown. But a normal human? No way.”

“I see.”

“Who is this weirdo?” I asked. Peachie shrugged.

“So what you're saying,” the blonde continued, “is that the man who shot up this van couldn't have been the man who shot at the procession.”

“Exactly. There's no way. Again, unless he was a super human, like Tom Brady. Did you know that he's won over 60% of all the games in which he's thrown 50 passes or more? That's unheard of in the NFL.”

“I take it you're a Tom Brady fan.”

“Not particularly, no.”

I shut the television off. This was getting absurd. At least there was one conspiracy theorist out there who believed in me, though.

“Any idea what you're going to do to get out of this?” Zizkov asked.

“Not a clue.”

I downed another double.

Next time: Deus ex machina.
So Goat, do I have to promise to go all knee pad and $hit with CH to get a spot in this mofo?
 

TheOriginalHappyGoat

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Oct 4, 2010
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Margaritaville
So Goat, do I have to promise to go all knee pad and $hit with CH to get a spot in this mofo?
Again, I'm saving some people for the sequel.

why would you want to be a part of this story full of relics?
No shit. I think the first five chapters from this thing are like ten years old. I mean, one of the main characters is Basil, fergodssake.
 

hoosierdug

Hall of Famer
Dec 2, 2003
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Again, I'm saving some people for the sequel.


No shit. I think the first five chapters from this thing are like ten years old. I mean, one of the main characters is Basil, fergodssake.
Because I'm a pathetic POS. Come on! I really have to spell this $hit out for you guys?
 

MyTeamIsOnTheFloor

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Dec 5, 2001
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Duckburg
Because I'm a pathetic POS. Come on! I really have to spell this $hit out for you guys?
Do ya think Beatty and Hoffman enjoy being associated with Ishtar?
Count your blessings.

(Maybe you could just be like a dead guy lying in a casket during a funeral home shoot-out or something, but trust me, you don't want a speaking role in this show. Career suicide.)
 

hoosierdug

Hall of Famer
Dec 2, 2003
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Do ya think Beatty and Hoffman enjoy being associated with Ishtar?
Count your blessings.

(Maybe you could just be like a dead guy lying in a casket during a funeral home shoot-out or something, but trust me, you don't want a speaking role in this show. Career suicide.)
Dude, I have no career. I'm the Macaulay Culkin of the AOTF. (Side note: He makes guest spots on the Jim Gaffigan Show).
 

Rangeline Fan

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Mar 22, 2007
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V I O L A T I O N

In a chapter with "tits" in the title, discussion about asian pr0n and a cameo by Peach...WHY ARE THERE NO TIT PICKS?

Damn this chapter sucks harder that Cap and Goat competing for Hartman's attention.
 
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HoosierPeach

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Oct 24, 2002
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Previous installments can be found on the LTF.

Chapter 10
It All Goes Tits Up.


I was standing in the entrance of the Comeandgoandcome. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten there. My confusion must have shown on my face, because Basil looked worried as he walked up to me.

“My friend, what is the trouble? Please, come in, I have new arrivals for you.” He led me into the store.

“Some very good stuff from Southeast Asia this month. I think you will enjoy. In fact, my rep is still here delivering the goods. Why don't you meet her. Hey, Mee! I'd like you to meet my best customer, Goat. Goat, this is Mee Luv Yu. She gets me the very best Asian smut I know you enjoy so much. Mee, show him the new arrivals for me, would you?”

Mee was, I swear to all the gods, the hottest Asian chick I have ever set eyes on. And she was wearing a tight leather mini with a spaghetti-strap tank. She was, I swear, my perfect woman. She started showing me through all the new porn she'd brought Basil. Thai, Vietnamese, Laotian, some other ethnicities I didn't even know existed.

“I can tell, you are a true connoisseur of the Asian form, no?”

“I sure am.”

“Perhaps, instead of these paper dolls, you'd be interested in the real thing, no?” She moved closer to me, and, right there in the middle of Basil's shop (although I'm sure it's seen worse), reached down and grabbed my shotgun.

“Or, perhaps, yes?”

Something wasn't right about this. But I was entranced. She moved her face toward mine, and I closed my eyes just in time to experience the most painful kiss imaginable.

The stars faded from my eyes and I found myself on a tile floor with a large black boot right in front of my eyes. My nose felt like it had lost a round with a bowling ball.

“Wake up, asshole,” a voice growled. “Time to go.”

Shit.

Bloom's men stuffed me in the back of a van, and we were off. The Orange One was holding some kind of public ceremony in Premieland. The plan, they figured, was simple. Take him out using my bullets, then drop me off in the middle of a crazed crowd of armed guards. Because of the importance of the event, the Mayor had asked for security help from all the districts, and they were going to make sure I ended up surrounded by a bunch of Aruss' trigger-happy goons. My nose still smarting, my brain was working double-time to figure out some way, any way at all, to make it out of this alive. It was coming up blank.

“Did you sleep well?” one of the apes asked me.

“Almost. Your girlfriend here woke me up before I got to the good part,” I said, gesturing to the lamebrain next to me who'd woken me up with his toe.

Most of the guys in the van laughed, but stars filled my eyes again briefly as the jackass objected to my comment with a fist across the side of my head. I have to learn to keep my mouth shut.

We finally got to our intended location, and the driver parked the van. I watched out the front window as the Bishop came down the street toward us. Any minute now, all hell was going to break loose, and I'd be a dead man.

Now, I should say right now, I'm not a big fan of the religious leadership in this City. I mean, I'm not really religious, anyway. I go to services on the big holidays, you know. Opening Day. March. On those rare occasions we actually have March services. But, still, I can understand why some people would want this guy dead. He's a greasy weirdo, for one. Always forces priests to retire or transfer to other religions before they are ready, so he can bring up the next hot thing from seminary. And the Church can't fire him, because he got them to sign a contract that guarantees him everyone's first born son if they part ways. Don't know how he managed that one. Anyway, point is, someone was bound to take a shot at him sooner or later. I just didn't like the idea of taking the blame for it, is all.

Well, at this point, he was getting kind of close, and then I heard it, off in the distance. The faint crack of a gunshot. A few heads in the crowd heard it, too, and looked around. I kept my eyes fixed on the Bishop.

Nothing. He kept smiling and waving.

I smirked. The shooter must have missed.

Then more shots in the distance.

Smiling and waving.

Frantic voices cracked across the radio in the van.

“Lebowski's down-”

“Betrayal-”

“Shooter on the roof-”

“Kill Goat-”

That was my cue. As the goons turned to me, I grabbed the rifle from the one nearest me and cracked the butt across his face. Then I calmly turned to each of the others and put a single bullet in each of their faces before they could react. Then I dropped the rifle, opened the door, and ran like hell.

At this point, people were screaming, and running around like crazy. If they weren't sure where the distant gunshots were coming from, they sure as hell knew what had happened in that van. I had to get out of there before they started looking at me.

I ran across the street, looking for a good alley to duck in. Just then, someone grabbed me by the shoulder, and pulled me toward a shop door.

“In here, quick,” a familiar voice said. I followed.

The door shut, and we listened to the chaos outside. I turned to my savior.

“Thanks, Peachie. I owe you a raise.”

Someone else came out from around the corner. It was Ziz. He was holding a scoped rifle of some kind. Some foreign job.

"And if you worked for me, I'd owe you one, too."

"Give mine to Peachie. I'm just helping protect my best customer."

The shop turned out to be owned by one of Peachie's friends, who was out of town. She had a key, for reasons that were probably none of my business, so she figured we could lay low there for a while. We holed up in the office, she pulled a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses out of the desk, and I turned on the television to see what the news outlets were saying. It wasn't good.

“City officials have already issued a warrant for one Mr. Goat,” a pretty blonde with big hair was saying. “A known figure in the criminal underground of the OTF District, it's unclear what his role today was, but anonymous sources say he is somehow involved with the dead bodies found in the van. The same sources confirm that at least some bullets were fired at the procession itself, although thankfully no one was hit. This Goat is the prime suspect for those shots, as well.”

“Well, this is just great,” I said, and downed a double-shot of amber medicine.

“With me now is a local scientist, who claims he has proof this is all an elaborate setup.”

My ears perked up, and I saw a short goblin-looking man standing next to the pretty lady.

“Yes, I've done some quick calculations on the back of my old Super Bowl XXXIX program, which I always carry with me, and there is no way any of the bullets fired at the procession could have come from that van. There was no clear line of sight. They would have to be magic bullets that break all the laws of physics. It reminds me of that time Tom Brady was accused of deflating balls, which science clearly proves he didn't.”

“Okay,” the blonde said, “what do you mean by that?”

“Well, whoever shot those men in the van did so at about the same time those other shots rang out. This Goat would have had to shoot the men in the van, and then run over to that short plaza over there, and climb onto that wall to get a good look at the procession. By then, it was too late. Not even Superman could have done it. Maybe Tom Brady could have, like that one time we all thought he broke his knee, but he came back out and drove down the field for the winning touchdown. But a normal human? No way.”

“I see.”

“Who is this weirdo?” I asked. Peachie shrugged.

“So what you're saying,” the blonde continued, “is that the man who shot up this van couldn't have been the man who shot at the procession.”

“Exactly. There's no way. Again, unless he was a super human, like Tom Brady. Did you know that he's won over 60% of all the games in which he's thrown 50 passes or more? That's unheard of in the NFL.”

“I take it you're a Tom Brady fan.”

“Not particularly, no.”

I shut the television off. This was getting absurd. At least there was one conspiracy theorist out there who believed in me, though.

“Any idea what you're going to do to get out of this?” Zizkov asked.

“Not a clue.”

I downed another double.

Next time: Deus ex machina.
I like it. Good one Goat!