Killer assault guns/pitbulls/motorcycles/pools/ATVs

Tired from a 30-hour day's work, I leaned against the frame as I fumbled the key into the lock. Somehow, I had made it home without hurting anyone. As exhausted as I was, it was a wonder I had been able to keep my '67 Mustang Cobra from killing that old lady downtown - that 'Stang just hates old ladies from Pasadena. It did 3 years for the last one.

I finally got inside. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. There was just a hint of burnt hydrocarbons in the air in the living room. Looking carefully, I finally saw them - thin depressions in the carpet. The Ninja was loose again. Great. I hadn't ridden it, or even fed it, in weeks. This could be nasty.

I walked outside and whipped off my coat. The twin AK's I kept in the oversized sleeves leapt out, gamboling friskily at my feet.

"The bike, boys. It's outa control. Do what you have to. Sic it!"

The AK's darted into the house, their sights checking each room carefully before they entered. Suddenly, there was a roar from the kitchen - the AK's instinctively split up and hit the kitchen from opposite directions, barking lead with a vengeance. With a screech, the Ninja wheelied from behind the fridge, took out the younger AK, and headed straight towards me, roaring loudly up the rev range in 1st. I leapt over the nandina bushes, and jumped the drainage ditch. I spun around and sprang to a low oak branch, pulling myself up just as the Ninj shifted into 2nd, and wheelied again, trying to snatch at my feet with those deadly clip-ons.

The 'Stang roared to life, shrieked its rage, and shot sod 8 feet into the air as it took off across the lawn after the Ninj. No need. The AK leapt from behind a bush, spat a few bullets into the bottom end of that vicious 1000cc motor, and the Ninj locked up in a death throe, careening into the garage.

Mrs. McGillicutty popped out of her house next door, and gazed in wide-eyed wonder at what she saw. The AK, full of bloodlust, turned and fired a short burst, which missed her left ear by maybe an inch, destroying the Van Gogh in her parlour behind her. The Stang, totally out of control due to losing its quarry, started clobbering the tree I was in, trying to dislodge me. This one was gonna be tough...

Based on an idea by Neal Woodall in t.p.g who noticed the tendancy of the media and hysterical types to cycle through "killer this" and "killer that".

Last updated: 2 Apr 1994

Copyright 1989, 1994 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

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