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Date Posted: 14:06:15 06/29/99 Tue
Author: Bishop, Mofo, Pike, Wing & Paladin
Subject: Blood Under The Sun, Chapter One: A Gathering of Eagles

Part One

Into The Desert

April 15th, 1980

The briefing ended, the soldiers, in ones and twos, made their way out of the small room and down the hallway, exiting into the harsh, unyielding sunlight. Many headed for their equipment kits, sitting on the tarmac next to the 3 Huey helicopters, to begin a last inspection before liftoff and execution. Each man was alone with his thoughts; for many, this was old hat, nothing compared to some of the other operations they had been on. For a few others, however, this was the first test of their skills, their abilities, their manhood. One of the rookies, Corporal Samms from the Army, approached one of the team leaders, quietly smoking and looking into the distance.

'Hey, do you have a cigarette?' Samms asked. The leader, who had been introduced as Mr. Singer, silently handed over his pack of Red Apples and continued staring away from the base. Samms lit up and nervously handed the cigarettes back to Singer. 'So you've done this before, huh?'

'Yeah.' He finally turned to look at the corporal. 'First time on deck?' Samms, slightly embarrassed, nodded. 'You get used to it after a while. That fear you feel in the pit of your stomach...it's normal. You'll get past it soon enough.' Samms looked at him, as if wanting to speak, then shut his mouth and dropped his head to look at the oily black pavement beneath his feet. After a moments hesitation, he raised his head again.

'Mr. Singer, have you ever been over here before?'

'Yes, I did some freelance stuff a few years ago. Actually, my team and I were some of the sorry sons-a-bitches who helped make it easier for that bastard to take power. If I'd known I was gonna be here now, gettin' ready for this mission...well, I would have gotten a job as an auto mechanic.'

Samms perked up. 'Hey, my brother does that! He works out of a shop in Socorro. That's in New Mexico, north of Truth Or Consequences...everyone seems to know that town.' He was rambling now, sucking down his cigarette with increased urgency. Singer discreetly checked his watch: 5 minutes until lift-off. A sound from the northwest caught his ear, and he glanced towards it. In the distance, one shape resolved into two, and he saw the big transport helicopters come in low and fast over the desert.

Samms looked up as they flared in over the landing pad and settled down. Bishop shook his head imperceptibly as they landed. 'Great, just what we need, a couple of stick cowboys' he muttered under his breath. The pilots exited the choppers, one of them making a beeline for where Samms and Singer were standing, lighting up a cigar as he did.

'Bishop! Somehow I knew I would find you in the center of this mess. Still doing the countries dirty work, eh? Not like that mess down in Angola, though, hey? That was totally FUBARed.'

Bishop, nodding, dropped and ground out his cigarette, spitting on the ground. There was a sizzle as it hit the helipad. 'How you doing, Simon? I thought you were working for Idi Amins Special Police Force in Uganda.' The words came out with the same tone he might use to insult someone. If Simon noticed, he didn't say anything.

'Nah. The pay was shit, the women were all sleazy and diseased, and the talents of a world-class pilot like myself were obviously under-appreciated. They had me driving a CAR, for Christ’s sake. Idi made some deal with a gangster or something in Dallas, they had a bunch of Courchevals and Phaedras with guns and rockets and shit. You know, like those wacko's in Texas and New Mexico and Arizona and everything. They had me dealing with 'possible civil dissidents,' basically people Idi didn't like. It was good work, but after a few months of shooting up houses and blowing the crap out of their piece of shit cars, you get bored with it. So how about you? I heard you and Sabrina retired and went into the consulting business. How is Sabrina, anyway? She still talk about me?' Simon grinned, puffing on the cigar.

Singer shook his head. 'No, Simon. She doesn't talk about you at all.' Simon laughed, poking Singer in the chest.

'Uh huh, uh huh. You're still pissed because she wouldn't give up the goods for you and spent 2 days shacked up with me in that West Berlin Hotel room, huh?' He shook his head. 'Look, man, I told you when we were in Panama, she just ain't into the black thing. So keep your dick in your pants and you'll get on fine with her. Now, take a prime Georgia specimen like myself, and the women just can't seem to resist.' Singer opened his mouth to reply, when a shout from the hanger drew his attention.

'Thane, get your sorry ass in here for the briefing before I kick your sorry ass back to rotting in a bar in Cairo!' Simon smiled, tamping out the cigar on his heel.

'Well, gotta run. I'll catch you after the fireworks, eh?' He jogged into the hanger, the sun gleaming off his buzz-cut blond hair and his aviator sunglasses. Samms turned to Singer and raised an eyebrow.

'Who was that guy?' Singer shook his head.

'Someone I would much rather forget.' He checked his watch again. 'We got about two minutes before they start loading up the 'copters. You might want to go over your equipment before you're cooped up. Its 3 hours there, and you won't have another chance before you're lining up on a terrorist.' Singer started to walk away, then turned. 'By the way, if you can manage it, stay away from Simon Thane. He's trouble, and I've seen his stupid stunts result in a lot of people getting hurt.' Samms nodded, then dropped his burnt out cigarette butt and trotted towards his equipment.

A few minutes later, with an hour left 'til sunset, the 5 helicopters lifted off in formation and started towards Tehran and the hostages in the US Embassy.


*******************

Singer came to with a start. The first thing he noticed was his head, which felt like a used basketball. The next thing was the blood that had dried on his face. He began gingerly inspecting his body with his hands, and soon found himself to be intact, if bruised and battered. With a concerted effort, he sat up.

He came to two quick realizations: first, that he was the only survivor from Chopper 3, and second that the blood on his face wasn't his. He strained to remember what happened right before they went down, and he had a brief flash of the sound of screeching metal-one of the transports rotors hitting the cockpit of Chopper 3-and the chopper suddenly tilting up 90 degrees and the desert floor rushing up to greet him. He wasn't even sure how he was still alive. He started picking his way through the wreckage, looking for someone from one of the other choppers. They must have stopped after this, right? He had a sudden fear of having to endure a scorching Saudi Arabia day all alone. The feeling of a hand clapping on his shoulder made him jump, and he spun around, drawing his pistol as he did.

One of the other squad leaders, Johannson, was yelling at him. He realized that there was a ringing in his ears he hadn't noticed before, and he holstered the gun. Behind Johannson, he saw the other 2 Hueys and the 2nd transport chopper. He looked around for the remains of the first transport, and saw it 20 yards away. It was damaged, but it was intact. Singer, ignoring Johannson's attempt to get his attention, made his way towards the transport.

He threw open the door and climbed in. The interior was a wreck, with equipment and fluid and paper strewn throughout the passenger cabin. He made his way up to the cockpit, and found a chilling sight. The pilots seat was empty, the safety restraints unhooked, as though someone had calmly exited after the landing. The co-pilots seat was more of a mess: he was still strapped in, dead, his blood and brains on the window next to him. In the side of his head facing the pilots seat was a bullethole. Singer uttered one word.

'Thane....'

Through the ringing, Singer could barely make out Johannson's words. 'We think he shot the co-pilot, then clipped chopper 3. By the time we got here, he was already gone. We figure he must have a jeep hidden somewhere out here, but they didn't give our choppers any radar, so there’s no way to track him. The missions been aborted, we're going back to Saudi.'

Singer nodded, exiting the chopper and heading for one of the other helicopters. As he made his way back, he passed the other soldiers zipping up the dead into bodybags. He saw Corporal Samms face, frozen in shock, as it was obscured by black rubberized plastic. Shaking his head, he climbed into the chopper and began the long ride home.

**********
August 3rd, 1980

Singer walked into the Texas bar and sat at the table across from the creeper. They had done business before, when Bishop was a federal employee, and he knew the creeper had good connections. When he sat down, the man slid a manila envelope across the table, a cocky grin on his face.

'The last known location of Simon Thane, with pictures, some hotel logbooks, bank deposit slips, travel itinerary, bar tabs, and his penis size too, I think.' Bishop nodded, handing the pile of bills to the man. 'So, does Sabrina know you're after this guy?' Bishop shook his head, lighting a cigarette.

'If she knew I was after him, she'd pick up her rifle and come after him too. I need no distractions right now.' He stood, nodded in thanks. 'I owe you one, Wing. I'll see ya around.'

Wing nodded in return. 'See you around, Bishop.' Bishop left the bar.

**************

The phone rang, shattering Pike's hangover like a freight train shatters a Phaedra Pony that got stuck on the tracks.

'Unnnnhh... what the who in..?'

He winced in pain as the sharp, high chiming set up a reverberation inside his head. It was like a whole army of little blacksmiths inside his skull, pounding his gray matter into horseshoes, which were then thrown at the back of his eyeballs.

'Rrrghh, godammit…'

Pike clumsily pushed the blanket away from his body and rolled off of his old, ratty mattress onto the ramshackle floor on which it lay. He crawled across the floor to where the phone lay, its cord running outside through a hole in the wall directly up the telephone pole. Just as it began to ring again he snatched it off the receiver and slurred into the mouthpiece: 'Whoinhelliscallingme..?'

The thin, tinny voice that came through the other end was just barely recognizable as coming from an old high school friend of his who had, for reasons Pike couldn't understand, joined the army in '73.

'Hello? Hello? Anyone there?'

'What, Mike? Mike Knox? Jesus H, man, why the hell are you calling me? I thought you were stationed way the fuck over in some useless desert. I've got a fucking hangover man!'

'Thank god, it is you, Ca-'

'Pike! Call me Pike! If someone is listening to this line and found out my real name they could find my past! I don't want my mom's tongue getting cut out, you hear!? You hear me!??' Pike's hangover was disappearing like thin mist over a lake on a hot north woods morning.

'Shit, sorry … Pike. Pike. Christ, what the hell have you been doing these past few years..? Wait, no, I don't want to know. Hey, you know that kid you used to hang out with a lot? Last name Samm's?'

Suddenly, the oppressive heat inside the tiny, ramshackle hut that passed for Pike's home disappeared. He shivered as a cold chill ran down his spine. Pete Samms. What the fuck had the kid gotten himself into? After Pike had ripped the tongues of a couple creepers out of their rectums, he had done a drive through the town they'd been destroying. It was a flaming inferno for the most part, bulletholes everywhere. Blackened, twisted limbs sticking out from underneath burning cross members of houses. And one 13-year-old kid staring at his parents. His dead parents. For a few years, Pike had become the kid’s father. And mother. And brother. He’d told Pete not to join the army; he'd get killed… He had been a wonderful mechanic, they could've stayed together, and Pike was all ready to give up that vigilante crap. After Pete had left for the army a year ago, Pike had lost the lease to the trailer they'd been living in.

His voice shaking, Pike asked: 'Wha … what hap … what… my god…'

Mike's voice softened. 'I'm sorry Ca - I mean Pike. Look, there's guy named Singer, Bishop Singer that's going after the guy who did it. From what I've heard it was a guy named Simon Thane. Singer was last seen in Texas.'

Just before he started sobbing, Pike got control. His voice hardened, and his watering eyes dried up. 'Thanks Mike.'

Totally silently, Pike picked up the phone, unplugged it, and hurtled it against the wall with every ounce of strength he had. It shattered into hundreds of tiny, plastic pieces that scattered across the floor. The ringer made a tiny clinking noise as it landed. Pike picked up his trusted Colt .45, and what ammo he had for it. He slipped into his only pair of jeans, hiking boots, and old faded orange T-shirt. He put his long, greasy hair in a ponytail and donned his well-worn black duster. Lastly he took the remains of his rum and vodka and splashed them across the floor. As he left the shack, he tossed a match inside. It was instantly engulfed in flames and threw an eerie, reddish glow on his banged-up, battled scarred Palomino as he walked to it. Sweeping the duster underneath his legs, he got in, started it up, and drove off in a cloud of tire smoke and a shower of gravel.

* * *
2 days later

'Are you Bishop Singer?'

Singer slowly turned around to see short, haggard man in a black duster. It was hard to spot, but the bulge of a handgun was just visible underneath the old coat. His eyes, nearly hidden under his brown bangs and a single, black eyebrow, looked weary. And yet, there was a fire in them. Restrained, controlled. But a hot fire just the same.

'Why should I tell you?'

'Do you know who killed Pete Samms?'

Singer understood.

'Yes. I know him. There's a saying amongst the terrorists in the Middle East. It goes something like: 'a man has many bones so that each of his enemies may have his share in revenge.' '

Pike just nodded.

The two men walked out of the bar and into the harsh Texas sunlight. Across the street, a rally was taking place, a group of men and women holding signs saying things like 'Guns+Cars=Death!', 'Enough is Enough' and 'Who will save our children when The vigilantes come for US?' There was a young, well-dressed, crew cut man who was speaking; the crisp, dry morning air was distorting his words so that they were unintelligible by the time they reached the two. Pike eyed the gathering; Bishop ignored it completely and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Pike, who declined. Bishop leaned against his car and stared off at the Waco skyline. He turned to Pike.

'So, look, buddy....' Pike interrupted him.

'Pike. The names Pike.' Bishop nodded, laughing.

'Okay, Pike it is. Anyway, you need to know something. You wanna come along on this crusade, you're more than welcome to join me. You look like you've been around the block, and it's always nice to have someone to watch my back. But lets get one thing straight: Don't get in my way. You want this son-of-a-bitch as much as I do, that's fine by me. But he's got about 10 years of bad mojo to answer to before your brother’s death. That's just the last nail in the coffin, as far as I'm concerned.' Pike gave Bishop a hard look.

'Look, asshole. I'm not some fresh-faced son of a bitch whose daddy bought him a brand new Cavera with the Deluxe Vigilante Package included, alright? I've been around the block, and I've seen some shit. Yeah, maybe you've got the experience with this jerkoff....' He trailed off.

'Thane. Simon Thane.' Pike nodded.

'Thane. Right, okay. You might have some history with Thane, but he took the one decent thing I ever had any hand in and took it the fuck away. So yeah, if we have some kind of plan, you'll get first crack at him. But if he happens to cross my line of sight before that, all bets are, off, you get me? ALL BETS ARE FUCKING OFF!' Pike was yelling now, a dangerous look in his eye. Bishop had calmly watched as his hand had unconsciously started creeping towards his holstered pistol, and noted that the morning had suddenly become very quiet. A pair of large black guys, walking out of the bar, came over and eyed Pike suspiciously. They looked at Bishop.

'You okay, brother?' The big one said. 'This guy giving you some trouble?' Bishop laughed and shook his head.

'No, man, its cool. My partner here was just expressing his concern over some bad merchandise he purchased from an autoshop last week. Isn't that right, Pike?' Pike, taking in the two men, nodded. The tension seemed to ease a bit from their bodies, and both smiled.

'Alright. Just didn't want to leave a brother hanging out in the-' His words were cut off by a bottle smashing into the side of Bishops '49 Hermes. Bishop shifted his head to the left, Pike dropped his hand to the butt of his pistol, and the two men stepped back and into a defensive posture.

From across the street, the mob of anti-vigilante protestors were making their way towards the group. They were already agitated, and the young man leading them had a positively murderous look in his eye.

'There they are! These are the men who have helped in the deaths of your children, your friends, your brothers and sisters! It is time to make them pay for what they've done!' His exclamation was met by howls and screams, and the four trapped men could positively smell the bloodlust in the air. Bishop, with a disarming smile, stepped forward.

'Uh, wait just a minute, folks. What exactly are you saying?' The young man leveled a finger at Bishop.

'It’s you and your filthy kind here who are making things worse for the rest of us. You're no better then the criminals, hell, you're worse! You think you're doing the right thing, 'upholding' the law! But what happens when you start going too far? When you blow some teenage dropout away because he breaks the law....by JAYWALKING? What happens then, huh?'

'Seems to me, that the Vigilantes are doing the best that they can. They keep the Auto-Villains from overrunning the country. Or do you want to end up being some sick bastards plughole to keep your family alive?' The statement, intended to shock the man into silence, had no effect.

'No, I don't think so. You guys...you just make it worse. If it wasn't for your little crusade against them, they would just fade out. But you Vigilantes, you go on the warpath, and they respond with force....it escalates. And it’s our goal to put a stop to it...to all of it! And we're gonna start with you.'

'That’s really not a smart idea. See, my friends, here, they're all unstable, and I have no idea what they might do if you don't drop that threatening posture of yours...' Bishops last chance to keep the confrontation from escalating failed with the young mans next words.

'If you know what's best, nigger, you and your spearchucking friends will just come quietly. It won't hurt for long...I promise.'

'Well...' Bishop laughed again and shook his head. 'Okay, if this is how you want it...' He looked at Pike, and then back at the two guys, who were teetering somewhere between rage and fear. Bishop indicated a pair of parked cars with his eyes, then his raised hand. Both nodded, and Bishop turned back around. 'You got a name, son? I figure I ought to know who's taking me to my grave.' The young guy nodded, victory in his eyes.

'My names Lester Clayton, with the Citizens Anti-Vigilante Organization. I hope you're ready for...' Bishop dropped his hand.

With a sudden flurry of activity, all four men burst into movement. The two men turned and sprinted for the pair of cars, a black Jefferson Sovereign and a dark blue Courcheval Courchelle. Pike drew his gun and dropped back behind the Hermes, drawing a mental line between himself and his battered Palomino. Bishop, moving like a zephyr, charged right at Lester Clayton and tackled him, going down in the middle of the crowd. They closed in, and Bishop was lost to sight.

'Oh, shit,' Pike swore emphatically.

**********

“Awwwwww Damn,” MofoFunk muttered to himself, 'Why do the silly Vigs always have to get themselves in a riff-raff with these dumbfuck civilians?' Mofo leaned up against the left side of his beat up ugly orange and tan '73 Bushmaster. Its looked like a little ex-postal vehicle with burnt tinfoil wrapped around it for armor... but it did get the job done. 'Jeez, the damn fools should be goin' after me, I'm the so-called big bad creeper,' the freelancer thought out loud. Mofo eyed the crowd closely from across the street, sipping on his Cherry Squishee from the Quick 'E Freeze, which was almost liquid now due to the blazing sun. He noticed earlier that this Bishop character was the one Hell's Finest member The Wingnut had been telling him about, and also saying to keep a close look-see on things. So far Mofo had made sure Bishop hadn't gotten into anything he couldn't handle around these parts, but it looked like time for some action and less watching.

Mofo casually hopped into the old Bushmaster and started it up. He screeched out of the parking lot, weaving back and forth towards the crowd. The angry mob, too concentrated on their task of violence, didn't even notice the jeep coming towards them. It screeched to a stop, inches away from the people shouting in the back. Terrified and bewildered everyone turned around.'Heeeeeeyyyyyy you stoopidfrigginjerks!' Mofo shouted dumbly.

'I'm your baby-killer!!! I'm your big bad creeper you lookin' fo'!' ... 'Muhahahahahaaaaaawww' MofoFunk laughed insanely, as he jerked the front of the Bushmaster in the direction of a nearby telephone poll. 'Lookitmeeeee!' He screamed, shooting three solid firerite rockets into the tall wooden post. It splintered, and fell down hard with a loud snap. The crowd was totally confused, looking in each direction. One towards the vigilante Bishop and Lester Clayton still wrestling on the ground, and towards the insane creeper, sticking his head out his window with his tongue hanging out.

MofoFunk pulled the wheel hard to the left and confronted the crowd with the front of his jeep and a well played mad look on his face.'Heeeehhheeehheee...' Mofo cackled. A cloud of dust went up as the crowd scattered it less than a second, looking for cover in their cars or behind nearby buildings.

...When the dust settled Pike looked up over the Hermes and saw Bishop still beating the now unconscious Lester with his fists. 'Come on Bishop, save it for Thane... he's out cold.' Pike said as he tried to pull Bishop off of the bloodied man.Bishop got up just it in time to see the dirty old Bushmaster speeding off down the road.

'Who and the hell WAS THAT?' Bishop looked at the equally puzzled Pike.

'C'mon, I think the crowd is reforming' Pike said, 'Lets get on the road.'

The Palomino, Sovereign, Courchelle, and Hermes took off down in the direction of the fast fading daylight.

***

The sun was beginning to set and MofoFunk laughed to himself.

'Oh man, I sure hope ta hell I don't hafta do anymore actin'' Mofo grinned, 'Wing' is gonna owe me big time.' The little jeep rumbled along, far ahead of the other four cars.

******

cont'd

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