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|Righteous Restitution? (standard:humor, 795 words)|
|Author: Reid Laurence||Added: Sep 25 2006||Views/Reads: 1993/0||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Can a man's patriotic virtues run too deep for his own good? How self-sacrificing can one be without upsetting the world around him?|
“Good morn'in Mr. Laurence, ah trust ya had a pleasant trip ta Washington. Did ya get ta meet some a the fellas around here yet?” “Ah did, an ah want'cha ta know ah'm not do'in this thing fer mahself. No sir, ah'm do'in it fer every one a us in this here proud nation a ours. No dang fool like Senor Chavez is gonna call mah preseedent the devil an get away with it... not while ah'm around.” “Good, good. Ah'm happy we're on the same page here Mr. Laurence. An ah'm glad ta know yer ready ta serve yer country. This here's God's country, an it's up ta good people like you an me ta preeserve it, ya got me?” “Ah got'cha. But they's jus one thing.” “What's that?” “How do I get mah deer rifle all the way ta Venezuela without go'in noticed an all. It's gonna be a little hard ta hide, know what ah mean?” “Don't you worry ‘bout that. Everthing's set up an wait'in for ya. You'll see what ah mean when ya get there. Nah, you have a good trip,” remarked the president, as he patted Mr. Laurence on the back and saw him to the impressive, solid wood paneled door of the Oval Office. But just as the heavy door opened, a large man dressed in a dark suit and sunglasses appeared out of nowhere and took Mr. Laurence by the arm. “Yawl have a safe trip, an don't you worry ‘bout a thing. Yer in good hands nah, ya hear?” poor sap, muttered the president under his breath. If he only knew... Taking a clandestine flight out of Washington D.C., Mr. Laurence and his escort were in Venezuela in no time, and coincidentally, Mr. Hugo Chavez was just about to address the people of Caracas with a speech in which he promised to keep them abreast of situations both at home and abroad. So with little time to waste, the secret service man led Mr. Laurence to the rooftop of an apartment building - roughly a thousand yards from where Hugo Chavez intended to speak - and briefly outlined how to use the state-of-the-art equipment which had already been neatly set up and prepared for him. “Looks more like a computer game then a rifle,” remarked Mr. Laurence. “But I'll give ‘er a whirl ah guess. Ya say this here's the trigger ‘er what?” he added, pointing to the mechanism mounted just beneath some of the weapon's impressive gadgetry and electronics. “Yes Mr. Laurence, that is the trigger, as we discussed.” “An all ah gotta do is line ‘im up in this here green t.v., is that right?” “That is correct sir.” “But ah sure as hell woulda felt more comfortable with mah deer rifle. Gosh, ah wish they'd a let me brung it.” “Let me show you something sir,” remarked the well dressed agent, as he reached into his pocket and brought out a single shell - one of many which lay waiting dormant, and stored neatly inside the brand new automatic rifle. “Jesus, Mary an Joseph!” exclaimed Mr. Laurence. “Is it a rifle ‘er a canon? That thing'll take down a charg'in elephant. Must be three an a half inches long! No wonder. Well alrighty then, let's git the show on the road.” “Now remember Mr. Laurence, all you've got to do is wait for your shot, the gun will do practically everything else. In fact, it will even tell you when to press the trigger after the target has been locked in.” “Well ah'll be a monkey's uncle. If that don't beat all. Okay then, ah guess ah'm good ta go.” “Very well then Mr. Laurence. I'll be waiting for you just inside, and as we planned, a taxi will be waiting to take us both back to the airport. We'll be stateside before anyone knows we were even here.” “Trust me. Ah got everything under control,” replied the well meaning, patriotic Mr. Laurence. “This won't take long at all. Ah kin hit the eye outta a turkey at a hun'red yards without all'a this here new fangled stuff. Looks like a cake walk ta me.” “Fine then,” answered the secret service employee. “I'll be waiting.” But as the agent turned, opened the rooftop door of the apartment building, walked down the hall to his waiting cab and began the trip back to the Caracas airport, all that he could think was; whatta maroon. Meanwhile, thoughts of restitution stirred inside the mind of our hero... “There he is,” muttered the rooftop shooter, getting ready to take his shot. “Call mah preseedent a devil will ya!? Talk ‘bout yer brimstone, ah kin smell it from here! Judge not Senor Hugo, lest ye be judged...” Blam! Tweet
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