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      "author": "bigkoss",
      "permlink": "hippie-hypocrisy",
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      "author": "bigkoss",
      "body": "<html>\n<p>I'm a person of few words and when I do speak for longer than needed, my mouth gets dry and my spit becomes thick and nasty. That's why I choose to write instead. Words just seem to come out more fluidly that way. That being said, there are times I really want to speak my mind, but remember not everyone will understand. I live in Washington State, which is pretty pretty blue in regards to politics. But this is coming from someone on the inside looking out at the world. All I really know of other places is what I hear from word of mouth. Something I've heard the most of though, is that Bellingham, a city to north, almost bordering on Canada, is the safest city in the state. Also, it practically oozes liberalism and hippies. I don't really like using political words, like liberal or conservative. Every time I do, I feel myself die a little inside. That being said, it may be the only way to describe the city. I have a friend who goes to college there at Western University. Wanna know something funny? He's a republican. There goes another five minutes off my lifespan.</p>\n<p>That's right, my friend, whom I've known since kindergarten, is going to the most left wing college in the state. Me myself am somewhat entertained when comes back on breaks tells me of all he's seen. Bellingham, a place I both admire, laugh, and abhore.</p>\n<p>I admire the place for its social progress. An old highschool told me a tall tale of how safe he felt in Bellingham. So safe, he said, he could walk around the city at 2AM alone and not fear of being mugged. Back in highschool, that tall claim instantly made me raise my brow in disbelief. Maybe he was right though. Who knows, maybe the worst they have are aggressive vegans who scream at you for wearing leather or longboarding opossums. I've only ever been to B-ham once in my life and that was on a school trip. It was an ok place from what I could see. I almost went there for college myself because I heard they had zombie parades. In the end, I didn't go though. Still, not too shabby of a place I guess, what with all the hippies, hipsters, pot, and poon.</p>\n<p>However, not even Hippieville is safe from my critiquing. The level of modern day hippieness in the city can be down right laughable from what I hear from my friend. It's a classic story you've probably heard before by now. A bunch of PC people who get offended WAY too easily huddling together in a \"safe space\". The internet has a word for these people, but I'm going to refrain from using it because I don't want shave off 30 seconds of my life. These are people who believe Donald Trump is the antichrist and threatened to move to Canada when he won. In fact, when he did win, my friend told me of the \"chaos\" he saw. All of his teachers were deeply depressed, offers for counseling were set up, and safespaces were made. The whole nine yards from what I could tell. As a response, I gave a hearty laugh and wished to see it with my own eyes.</p>\n<p>Where I come down on B-ham is now. I mentioned how my friend was a republican. He's not a bad person though. We're all only human. We all make mistakes. But while at Western, he had to keep a tight lip about his own political beliefs or else. He also voted for Trump. In that environment, he was less than welcomed. He wasn't allowed to speak his mind about events. He feared that if he spoke about voting for Trump, he'd be nailed to a cross. And this is where I make my point. The hypocrisy of it all. How can one claim to be open minded when they just shut other people's ideals out and become intolerant of them? I understand in certain situations, but that is a different story and one that purposefully destroys my point, like telling me to choose between saving the Dalai Lama and Mother Theresa.&nbsp;</p>\n<p>Western is home for hippies who want to shut out anything about republican/conservative lifestyles (There goes another five minutes of my life) My friend is an alright person. He doesn't go on tangents about our system or anything. He doesn't talk about taxes. Hell, most of the time he's just talking about mountain climbing or Napoleon Dynamite. I don't abandon my friends because of petty political ideals. Plus, I need him in my life. My friend is a reminder that there are other people in life who think differently from you and can't ignore or forget that. Acceptance and tolerance are practice that you can't instantly master by going to a liberal arts college or surrounding yourself with like minded drones. You need to study others' beliefs and learn from yourself. As Sun Tzu said, \" If you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperiled in every single battle.\" This includes your personal battles with yourself. Reflect on who you are before you diss someone else.</p>\n</html>",
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      "parent_author": "",
      "parent_permlink": "politics",
      "permlink": "hippie-hypocrisy",
      "title": "Hippie Hypocrisy"
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  "block": 7028273,
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      "author": "trevor.george",
      "body": "I just put up a post today about the Flat Earth theory if you want to check it out:\n\nhttps://steemit.com/life/@trevor.george/i-ve-been-a-bit-of-a-bad-boy-today-but-ll-be-better-tomorrow-promise\n\nI love a good conspiracy theory. Heck, I even like the bad ones hehehe",
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      "author": "bigkoss",
      "body": "Thanks bruh. I'm still waiting for aliens though.",
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{
  "block": 7027781,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "everittdmickey",
      "body": "I checked with the Illuminati and they said to tell you that you're all wrong about area 51. It's not aliens. It's seeeedret technology from Atlantis and Mu.  Just thought I'd pass it on.",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"government\"]}",
      "parent_author": "bigkoss",
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{
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      "author": "bigkoss",
      "body": "@@ -3,16 +3,160 @@\n tml%3E%0A%3Cp%3E\n+%3Cimg src=%22https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT0-vBK8YCSrU4fluKKszpEVuZkOCgfv1CEOeMYUzsr91S34SJxyw%22 width=%22214%22 height=%22235%22/%3E\n When I w\n",
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      "title": "From Conspiracy Theories With Love"
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{
  "block": 7027724,
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      "author": "bigkoss",
      "body": "<html>\n<p>When I was younger, I hated the idea of conspiracy theories. You know the kinds; The moon landing was faked, 9/11 was an inside job, fluoride in the water, chemtrails, the list goes on. But as I got older and more liberal minded and chaotic, I kind of started to see where some theories were coming from and saw that some held weight. Do I believe them 100%? No, but it's entertaining to think about. I will admit, some I do believe such as Roswell and Area 51 hiding aliens and other black projects. The conspiracies theories that spin through my head on the daily are more of a personal hobby now for when I bored and not feeling faithful in the human race. Whether it be the Rothschild family pulling the strings of the world and starting wars or the DEA impeding social progress on drugs, I entertain the thoughts with a normal dose of social distrusts.</p>\n<p>It seems negative, but I can be a pessimistic person quite often. Hell, this year's election was no different. I honestly believed Hilary was going to win since she had taken the most money, shook the most backroom hands, made the most deals, and so on. But, Trump won in the end. The idea of our system being rigged took a hit. Then another conspiracy idea came up. What if it was on purpose because who ever was rigging the system was uncomfortable with the growing number of people calling out the rigged system. A way to throw off the populace and make them think they had some control over the election.&nbsp;</p>\n<p>Most theories just boil down to greed and money, in my opinion. Anyone else wanna chime in?</p>\n</html>",
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{
  "block": 7015181,
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      "author": "snowflake",
      "body": "@@ -87,11 +87,16 @@\n uld \n-use\n+be using\n  cry\n",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"steemit-ideas\"]}",
      "parent_author": "bigkoss",
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      "author": "snowflake",
      "body": "@@ -39,16 +39,21 @@\n t would \n+have \n massive \n",
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      "parent_author": "bigkoss",
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      "body": "@@ -43,16 +43,14 @@\n uld \n-have hug\n+massiv\n e im\n",
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{
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      "author": "snowflake",
      "body": "@@ -176,25 +176,25 @@\n ay everyone \n-w\n+c\n ould be free\n",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"steemit-ideas\"]}",
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{
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    {
      "author": "snowflake",
      "body": "If steemit becomes big like facebook it would have huge implications as everyone would use crypto , this is what drives me to try to improve the system, the thought that one day everyone would be free from central bankers.",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"steemit-ideas\"]}",
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{
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  "op": [
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      "amount": "30.000 STEEM",
      "from": "bigkoss",
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{
  "block": 7015029,
  "op": [
    "comment",
    {
      "author": "bigkoss",
      "body": "Perhaps research is a better way of putting it. I see well calculated stuff like this often and it makes me wonder where people get the time to think of all of this. I know I wouldn't. I'd probably get bored a third of the way through and go do something else.",
      "json_metadata": "{\"tags\":[\"steemit-ideas\"]}",
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  "timestamp": "2016-11-24T21:40:18",
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{
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    {
      "author": "snowflake",
      "body": "Which calculations exactly? Most of it is pretty basic stuff.  What took me time is to put all my thoughts into words :)",
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      "body": "<html>\n<p>&nbsp;&nbsp;Overkill: The Courier Most people have done something in their life they come to regret. In San Bravado, everyone has done something they regret. Somewhere southwest in vast desert of Nevada, lies the city of San Bravado. Overlooked by the red mountains looming like devils over sinners. When compared to Vegas however, it’s not the bright and shiny city with celebrity impersonators, no. San Bravado is the city where the broken slot machines of Las Vegas become the recycled stamp metal for guns. The hideout for the real crime lords of Sin City. San Bravado is the devil’s playground, a place where only the strong survive. On lighter note, San Bravado has a spectacular economy of its own thanks to the president’s generous ‘donations’ to the city each year. But other than that, San Bravado isn’t much to look at. The nicest part of San Bravado, nicest being used quite loosely, would the Helios district, the exact location where our story begins. Sitting at his desk with his head resting on a hot laptop keyboard, was twenty-two year old Terry Mayson, a college dropout living in a studio apartment and surviving on ramen noodles and other scraps. If the boy ever felt real spendy, he’d order a pizza. For the past month, Terry had been looking for a job to pay the bills and possibly get him a plane ticket to somewhere friendlier, if such a place existed anymore. Anywhere had to be better than San Bravado. As luck would have it, Terry was unable to even find a part time job mowing lawns. “Crap.” Terry groaned, sitting up. The side of his face had an imprint of the keyboard. &nbsp;“If I don’t find some kind of work, the land lady is going to do more than just yell at me with her annoying voice.” Terry was referring to Ms. Reyes, a shrewd, shrill, Hispanic woman who spoke with an incredibly high pitch voice. The very thought made him want to go to the worst part of San Bravado and be killed in the crossfire of a drive-by shooting. Living off welfare could only save the dropout’s hide for so long. Looking at the clock in bottom right-hand corner of his computer screen, Terry saw that it was getting late. He made one last look through the classified ads before heading off to bed. There was nothing. It was a barren land full of empty promises and ads for ‘HAWT SEXY 18+ PHOTO SHOOT’. The drop-out closed his laptop and crawled inside the covers of his bed and waited for sleep to take him away. Terry found that easier said than done, however as he lie in bed for twenty minutes thinking about how he was going make ends meet. The thought tormented him as he knew he was running out of options. He was getting tired of donating blood. Selling sperm didn’t pay that much for him, and he was running out of household items to pawn. Terry went back to his laptop and flipped the screen back up. It took a minute for the screen to load, but before long, the background picture of a Japanese pin-up girl on a Harley Davidson motorcycle was up. Terry swore he had it because of the motorcycle, but that wouldn’t explain the similar pictures he had in a folder. Terry went online and logged into a website for putting one’s name out for random jobs. He filled out what his criteria was and what he expected for payment. Terry’s terms being at least minimum wage while he would do anything. Terry then logged off and shut down his laptop and went to bed. In the morning, Terry woke up and began his morning routine: shower; eat whatever he could find, including food that had lying on the ground for however long; brush his teeth; get dressed; and finally, get dressed and look himself the mirror to get his self-esteem going. Terry was midsized person standing at a slightly below average height of five foot six and a half. He had short rusty colored hair and emerald eyes. “What do I wear today?” Terry asked himself as he looked through his closet. Inside was an assortment of clothing, or what was left. Terry had to sell some of clothes to stay afloat. Today’s attire consisted of a pale, green button-up plaid shirt with a white tank top underneath, jean shorts, and sandals. San Bravado was always hot. Anyone caught wearing anything other than summer ware for anything other than winter was deemed crazy in the city. And that was saying something. The young dropout then went to his laptop. He turned it on and waited for the screen to load. It might have been too early to check, but Terry was quite anxious to see some kind of results from the ad he put out. He went to the site and looked at his results. To his surprise, Terry found a few. The descriptions of the jobs seemed reasonable, except for a couple which asked to meet at a certain addresses Terry knew about. The addresses were not pleasant areas by San Bravado standards. One job was to help someone paint their fence, though the pay wasn’t to Terry’s standards. He would still take the job anyway. Terry wasn’t above compromising in times of crisis. The next job was cleaning pools; again, not up to Terry’s standards with payment. The last job asked for Terry to meet near a bar. What was odd was that it offered the exact amount of money Terry was looking for, but it came with a meeting time, late at night; three in the morning to be exact. “If I can stay awake long enough, I could pull it off.” The drop out said hopefully. He clicked on the job details for more information. Apparently, all Terry had to do was act as driver. Simple enough Terry thought. “Only logical explanation could be some guy who’s out late drinking or partying. What could go wrong?” &nbsp;Terry looked at the bottom of his computer screen and stared at the time. If he wanted to get paid, he would need to head out now. Before leaving, Terry wrote down a list of all the jobs, time and location. The college dropout then grabbed his keys and wallet and headed out. Terry took the stairs down his apartment and looked around the empty parking lot. He had no car to drive. He didn’t even have a bike, scooter, or the very least a skateboard. Well he did at one time, but Terry sold the skateboard for what little money he could get. For now, he was walking. It took almost two hours before Terry made it to the first job location. He was already hungry again and it showed in his face. Nevertheless, Terry got to work and started painting in the summer sun. As if he was being expected, a couple of buckets of paint were sitting next to the front porch with a thick paint brush. &nbsp;After what seemed like a forever, Terry was able to finish the fence. It was, thankfully, a short fence, only ten feet long. After finishing, Terry knocked on the house owner’s front. &nbsp;The door opened, introducing a middle aged, white trash looking man with a prominent receding hair line, and clear disregard for personal hygiene as his white sleeveless shirt had beer and mustard stains on it. “Yeah?” said the man, who was just opening a can of what one could assume was his third beer. “What do ya want?” Terry, tired, hungry, and parched from his work, stared at the man’s beer, then his face. “I’m here for my pay.” Terry managed to sputter. The man in door way looked at Terry for moment before reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a wrinkled ten dollar bill and handed it to the exhausted looking drop-out. Reluctantly, Terry took the money. He stared at the bill for a moment, the very sight of it was disgusting. How long had this bill been cooped up this slob’s back pocket anyway? Didn’t matter at this point. Money was what keeping poor Terry alive at this point. The drop-out looked up the white trash man in front of him. “This isn’t what you said you would pay me.” Terry spoke up. The man took a sip of beer and spat a black looking substance on the ground. No doubt from a can of Possum Chew, the cheapest and only tobacco chew sold in San Bravado. “I never said I’d pay you correct amount, boy. Now get out of here, before I get my twelve gauge, and blow a hole in your chest.” Terry suddenly got a second wind and promptly left the dirty old man’s property. With his stomach roaring like a giant nuclear lizard monster, Terry thought it best to head to the nearest fast food restaurant or street vendor. Unfortunately, most street vendors ran the risk of being robbed, so it looked like Terry was walking to the nearest McDognalds. Fortunately, fast food restaurants like McDognaldswere as common as the criminals in San Bravado. The strange thing was, there hardly ever any crimes committed in any of the fast food restaurants. Most likely because the food chains were able to pay off crime bosses enough money to stay away from them…for the most part. After walking for only five minutes, Terry spotted a Chance’s Coop, a popular and cheap, if a bit nasty chicken joint, in the distance. The drop-out made his way to the fried chicken restaurant and opened the door upon entering. There was no line since it was midday and the only other people inside were the minimum wage workers and one stereotypical loud black woman who was just one chicken wing away from having a heart attack. So naturally, Terry was the first to order. Thinking wisely, he ordered whatever he could get for whatever the ten dollars he was given could get him, and still have change left over. Terry ordered what Chance’s called a‘Famous Bowl’, a concoction of mash potatoes, bits of corn, and popcorn chicken. At least, that’s whatwas advertised. Terry knew the bowl of processed food and ground alive chicks fondly as a, Crap Bowl, since it seemed as though nothing but random crap was thrown into and called a meal. Terry also helped himself to an almost unlimited amount of refills on soda. The boy might have been better off drinking water from the restroom faucet, though. After eating and filling his stomach, Terry remembered his second job. He was to go to some hotel and clean out the pool. The dropout refilled his drink and left the KFC. Terry made sure there was extra ice in his drink so that when he ran out, he would at least have melted ice water. Outside, the sun beat down on the boy with its unrelenting rays of heat. Terry took off his button-up shirt and continued on walking down the street. Cars passed him by honking as they went. Some people drove by yelling out they’re windows. Whether or not they were yelling at Terry was unsure, but expletives like “Loser in the green shirt.” helped narrow it down. All throughout Terry’s journey to his next destination, he took in the sites. It wasn’t much, but it reminded Terry of how much he needed to get out of San Bravado. The nasty people who would pass him by, the paranoid feeling of being mugged by each person around him, the city sidewalk that lead to places one should never go like back alleys or down town. Unless one was to have friends with solid loyalty or an armored car, they would be insane to go down town. Down town San Bravado sat at the bottom a small valley, overlooked by a plateau that vaguely resembled a dragon. This was how the city was given the nickname, The Dragon’s Valley. Fitting on account of how dangerous it was, at night at least; which brought Terry’s train of thought to his last job. Why was it so late at night? Terry thought to himself. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Nevertheless, Terry made his way to his next destination. It was an old hotel with a very dirty looking pool in the front. The pool sat under several dead trees, which made absolutely no senseon the account that having trees in San Bravado was very uncommon. The soil in San Bravado wasn’t very fertile, so planting a tree made little sense. The trees planted near the pool appeared to be lucky enough to grow as tall as two basketball player stacked on top of each other before dying for good. Next to the pool was a dark-skinned man sitting in a pool chair, under an umbrella. “Hola!” said the man as he looked and saw Terry. “You must be the unlucky gringo who’s going to be doing my job today.” Terry looked confused for moment before realizing what the man meant. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to get hired to do someone else’s job. This was one of those times. “The net and scrubber are by the vending machine.” The man said pointing behind him.“Might want to hurry. The manager will be here in an hour and I’m pretty sure he won’t be happy to see someone else doing my job.” Terry’s eyes widened as he promptly went and got the man’s cleaning tools for the pool. Then boy then came back to the pool and looked despairing at the abysmal mess that it was. Mossy green leaves covered the surface of the pool like a carpet. Terry went to work netting out all of the leaves. He sincerely wished he hadn’t though. Once the surface of the pool was clean, Terry could see nothing but an emerald green surface. The water was so dirty; it had begun forming moss at the bottom. “What kind of crappy hotel is this?” Terry asked distressed, but then wished he hadn’t asked. The man in the chair replied, “The kind where no one uses the pool and where you do not want to inspect the beds with a blacklight.” The man sat calmly in the pool chair with his eyes closed. Terry gave the man a disgusted look. How could anyone not care about their job? A job was a means to make a living. The drop out himself wasn’t sure whether to jealous of the man, or angry, possibly a mix of both emotions. Terry continued to clean the filthy pool with the scrubbing tool. The tool was practically a scrubbing sponge on an extendable pole. What good would it have been in cleaning a pool? Nevertheless, Terry went to work, scrubbing the bottom of the filthy pool in desperation. As the time went by, Terry was beginning to find it futile in cleaning the bottom of the pool. The scrubber was barely making the cut, and there was no way he’d be able to clean everything by the time the original janitor’s manager came back. Finally, Terry threw down the scrubber and screamed in frustration. “This is pointless!” He shouted angrily. “How the hell is this pool supposed to be cleaned when I have something useless as that?” Terry turned to the janitor, who was having the time of his life laughing at the drop-out’s plight. “Ay gringo. You’re too funny. Do you really think that piece of trash would make the cut?” The janitor got up from the pool chair and left. “Wait right there.” He instructed Terry. Terry gave a perplexed looked as he watched the janitor walk off and then come back with a jug of some colored liquid. “And just what is that stuff?” Terry asked pointing the jug. The janitor smiled deviously as he unscrewed the top of the jug and began to pour it into the pool. Terry glowered at the devious old man who seemed to be laughing at him. “Did you really think that what you were doing was going to make a difference?” The janitor gave Terry a mocking smile as he continued to explain. “You clean pools with chemicals, boy.” Terry gave the old man a quizzical look as some form of intuition told him that the janitor wasn’t completely right. The drop-out looked into the dirty pool that was beginning to change to a clearer shade of green. Terry turned to the janitor and held his hand out. “Now about my pay.” Terry inquired, expecting the old man to pay him. The janitor looked at Terry’s hand with a puzzled look on his face before realizing what he asked. “Oh right. Well since you were such a good sport, here’s a twenty.” The janitor reached into his pants pulled out a crumpled twenty dollar bill. It wasn’t much, and far from what Terry remember saying hewanted to be paid, but he had to take it. “You might want to scram kid. Otherwise my boss will see that you cleaned the pool instead of me. Then I’ll have to take that money back from ya. A desperate guy like you probably doesn’t want that, now does he?” The old man chuckled menacingly, easily scaring Terry off. Terry ran off, far away from the hotel before anyone could notice him. Lucky he did considering how the manager just pulled in with his car. <br>\n&nbsp;</p>\n<p>Terry finally stopped running as just as the sun was about to head over the hill. He then remembered of his last job, but that wasn’t until three in the morning. What was he suppose to do for the next seven hours? It was then that Terry began to consider how desperate his situation was. He barely had any money, He lived the city in the US, and the sun was going down. The college dropout decided to at least head to the bar where his last job was going to be. Terry began to consider drowning himself in alcohol and getting into a fight that would put him out of his misery. &nbsp;By the time Terry reached the bar, the sun had been long gone. Hanging under the streetlights was the Rio Muerto bar and grill. More of a bar than grill though, and more a fighting ring than a bar. The Rio Muerto was well known for its customers getting into fights. So well, that if you wanted to play pool, you had to pay extra for any kind of equipment at all. Terry entered the bar, greeted with the sound of the next song blasting over the speakers. Some song about burning in hellfire; it didn’t help ease the troubled boy who was already counting how much money he had left. It probably wouldn’t take much to get him good and smashed on account of how little was in his stomach at the moment and infrequently he drank. Inside was a mix of Hells Angel-like bikers and macho beef heads covered in tattoos along with women who most likely accompanied them. It didn’t take much for heads to turn and eyes to wander onto the scrawny college drop-out as he made his way to the bar counter. The men and woman of bar seemed to glare Terry. Even though the young man followed the unwritten rules of San Bravado, everyone was looking at him like he was an outsider. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Curiously, there was a list of special drinks and liquors. Among them was a drink know as OjoRojo. This was the very drink that Terry ordered. Of course, Terry didn’t order with any hint of self-confidence. No, the young man sheepishly uttered the drink’s name to the bartender. The bartender was a Japanese man close to thirty. He quietly grabbed the ingredients for the drink and began mixing them. Terry could feel everyone staring at him as he ordered. Tiny beads of sweat began to fall and stream down his face. The only comfort he felt was watching the bartender mix the drink together. Though the bartender also stared at Terry like he was a foreigner in the den of cutthroats. At least the bartender held a hint of pity to his gaze. It was like he knew Terry’s reason for coming to this bar was not by choice. The bartender began pouring the drink into a highball glass. The liquid flowed out of the mixer and filled the glass, filling it with little noise. The drink was a bloody red color with a mucky black center. The bartender then handed the glass to Terry and motioned for him to lean in. The young man obeyed. “You shouldn’t be here, gaijin.” For a moment, Terry was lost on the man’s words. He didn’t know what the word gaijin meant at first, but then pieced it together and everything made sense. He was an outsider. Terry smiled ruefully and responded, “I know. But, I can’t go. I’m meeting someone.” The bartender raised an eyebrow and went back to tending drinks. &nbsp;Terry took his drink with him back to an empty corner in the back of the bar. He began to sip from his drink. It was bitter and disgusting. If he had known it was going to be this bad, he’d have order regular beer instead. Nevertheless, Terry disdainfully kept drinking the bitter red mixture. In no time though, Terry could feel himself relax and his cares slowly melt away. He no longer saw a bar full of thugs ready bash his skull. It was just a place he was in at the moment. As Terry continued to empty his glass, he became more enamored with his new perspective of his surroundings. He was so enamored that the table in front of him was like a pillow, beckoning for his head. It didn’t matter that it was probably dirty or that there were pieces of gum underneath, at that moment, nothing seemed to matter. The young man soon fell asleep on the table. Terry eventually woke up with a large red spot on the side of his face. The bar was no less empty than the moment he walked in. Faces occasionally stared at him, but not as much from the second he had walked in. Terry looked around the bar, dazed at first, and then remembered what time it was. Actually, he didn’t know what time it was. He got from his table and went to bartender to ask what time it was, to which the man replied, “Close 3 in the morning.” Terry groaned and hung his head. “Almost time for that job and I’m drunk. I feel bad for whoever hired me.” The college dropout sat back down and moped over his situation. &nbsp;Not long after Terry began his moping, the bartender called him over, saying that he had a phone call. The drop-out got from his table and shambled over to take the call. Terry took the phone and answered, but before he could say anything, a voice spoke. “Are you the one who answered the ad online?” The voice sounded very strange. It was like it was being disguised. “Who is this?” Terry said through his groggy stupor. “That doesn’t matter. You answered the call. Meet me outside. Look for a black BMW M3.” Before Terry could protest, the voice on the other line left him hanging, alone with the sound of a disconnected line. He now had a few options: go back to attempting assisted suicide which was going about as well as a three year old barbequing a steak with a childproof lighter; go find his own personal Jesus in a god forsaken city; or suck it up and go do the job, whatever it was. &nbsp;Terry took a breather and chose the latter. He exited the Rio Muerto and headed out into the parking lot. There were few vehicles outside, save for loads of motorcycles in front, and cars on the road were sparse. There was but a lone car in the parking lot. Just like the call on the phone said, a black BMW M3. Terry shambled over to the car. As he drew closer, a figure opened and exited the driver’s side of the car. Terry couldn’t tell exactly who or what they looked like. He seemed to be taller than the drop-out. He wore long brown leather trench coat, and a wide brimmed fedora to match. To sell the mysterious image even more, Terry could have sworn the guy was wearing a mask of some kind, because he couldn’t, for the life of him see his face. Was it a gasmask? It must have seeing as how it covered his entire face. Who was this guy, Terry thought. The masked person declined his head slightly to look at Terry who had a confused expression on his face. “Are you the one who answered the ad?” The figure asked in a cloaked voice. Terry answered with a bewildered nod. “Good.” The masked figure sounded like he expected this. “You should do for the job. Quick question, have you ever fired a gun?” The figure walked to the trunk of the car, leaving Terry to mull the question over. Had he ever even held a gun? Then the question really sank in. What sort job involved a gun? “Hey, wait a minute!” Terry said reaching out. “What is this?” &nbsp;The figure didn’t seem to hear Terry as he continued to open the trunk of the car. Inside was a vast array of weapons, ranging from handguns and assault rifles, to missile launchers and grenades. This guy seemed to have everything for whatever situation. Right now, Terry was beginning to suspect that this person was some kind of illicit dealer. It wouldn’t be too surprising given what ill-gotten city Terry was and his luck. The drop-out looked at the figure with fear in his eyes. “You want me to pick one these?” He asked with a shiver. The masked figure seemed to roll his eyes behind the mask. “Yes. Just pick a gun. None of the big ones though. Keep it to the little ones.” Terry gazed in awe at the miniature armory. There were so many weapons to choose from. But now he was limited to the smaller side arms. Terry looked at his selection. Many of the guns he didn’t know anything about. He could barely recognized two, but he didn’t know their names. So he picked up a random gun. “You want that one?” Asked the masked figure. “Yeah, is there something wrong with it?” Terry asked, trying to sound like he knew what he was doing. “That’s a CZ-85. An updated version of the 75 that was apart the original Wonder Nine line up back in the 80s when police were finding a replacement for their outdated six-shooters. This one is a bit more suited to Nevada’s dust problem.” Terry wasn’t sure what to make of the masked man’s explanation. Was he giving Terry trivial information about the gun, or was he subtly telling him to pick a better gun? Either way, Terry stuck to his choice and picked the old extinct Czechoslovakian pistol. &nbsp;The figure shrugged and closed the trunk. “You may want to get comfy with that gun and figure out how to work it. You look like the type who hasn’t even held an air soft pistol.” Terry held the gun and inspected it in his groggy state. He had little idea of what to do with it. “Come on, we got work to do.” The masked man then got into the car and turned it on. Terry unwittingly followed. He felt like he was in a dream of some kind. What on earth was he doing? The two drove for some time. Terry was unsure of how long it was. He hadn’t bothered to check for a time. If he did, he would find that it was close to four in the morning. The sun would soon be creeping over the eastern horizon. “Hey kid.” The masked figure said, getting the dropout’s attention. Terry swung his head and looked at the masked figure sitting next to him who was shifting lanes. “We’re gonna be coming up on the place real soon here. I need you to be ready.” Terry expressed his confusion to the situation with a screwed face. “Ready for what?” He asked. “The job I’m taking you on. Things could get hairy, so I need you to be ready for when things goes tits up.” Terry looked expectantly at the masked figure, like he was going to further explain what he was talking about. “What is it you actually do, anyway?” Terry asked. The figure glanced at Terry for a second, and then returned to the empty roads. “Something people in Geneva Convention and law enforcement don’t like.” &nbsp;The two drove until they reached a lonely storage locker complex. The gate to the complex had been opened. The security camera to the place seemed to be not paying attention. Terry and the masked figure drove into the complex. “Listen kid, I need you to stay in this car and make sure no one comes. No one is to get in or our out of this complex.” Terry jolted his neck to the figure. “Wait, what?” He asked confused by this sudden request. “Don’t ask questions.” The figure said now holding the barrel of a large shining gun to Terry’s face. Instantly, the drop-out went silent as the color drained from his face. “Now, are we clear? You will stay here and make sure no one get out of this complex. No one. Savvy?” Terry nodded slowly before having the shining gun barrel pull away from his face. The strange masked man handed Terry the keys to the car and left. &nbsp;Terry was now alone inside the fancy BMW. He had never inside such fine a car. All black leather interior. Nothing obnoxious, like a bobble head on the dashboard or a handful of dangling charms on the mirror;the inside of the car was all business. There wasn’t asign of trash anywhere. Not even a tiny gum wrapper or a penny on the car floor. It was clean. Whoever this person was, they were very tidy and organized. &nbsp;As time passed, Terry heard nothing of his employer. It was quiet, save for some gunshots being heard. But that was normal in San Bravado. It still made Terry cringe. Why on earth had he come to this accursed city again? Terry then realized that the sound of gunfire was actually a lot closer than he had anticipated. The college drop-out began to shiver as he feared the worst had happened. His employer had been shot dead, he wasn’t getting paid, and he’d most likely be killed as well. The young man was surprised though when peeked out the window. He saw a tall woman with long dirty blonde hair wearing a black halter top and black leather pants. She had a pistol drawn and was firing back at someone at a group of men wearing suits. &nbsp;The woman made a dash for the car. Terry was finally remembering what his employer had told. Let no one out of the complex. The drop-out was bit too slow to the punch, however. The blonde haired woman was already at the car and vaulting over the top, still firing back at the men in suits. All Terry could do was watch in awe at this woman’s display of athleticism and marksmanship. Suddenly, there was pounding on his side of the car, and then the door flung open. “Move over, kiddo!” She commanded. “You’re driving.” Terry looked at the woman with a baffled expression before being pushed over into the driver’s seat. Terry gave only little resistance. He was about to draw his weapon when the barrel of another gun was in his face. “Do as I say or I will end your pitiful life, wanker!” This seemed to be the only convincing Terry needed to obey. A nice hot gun barrel to the face and he was as obedient as a trained puppy. The dropout put the keys into the ignition and started the black BMW and slammed his foot on the gas pedal. Terry flinched as bullets began to pelt the black sports sedan, but seemed to bounce off. The windows and car exterior must have been bullet resistant. Terry was grateful, on account of not wanting to die. &nbsp;The dropout could feel his adrenaline pouring into his system, breathing faster, his eyes focusing more and his hands twitching.. As Terry got out onto the road, he forgot how fast he was going, and simply went straight. “Turn left at the next light.” The woman sitting next to said. Terry obeyed, turning at the designated light. Since there weren’t too many cars in sight, Terry didn’t bother listening to traffic lights. He would have if he didn’t feel like there was a gun in his face, though he almost did it out of habit. “What’s going on?” Terry frantically asked. The woman next to him was fishing through the glove box of the BMW. Just as soon as she had opened it, she closed it with a flustered look. “Did you get shot?” Terry asked. “No, I got stung by a bee. Of course I was shot!” She shouted in a vaguely Australian accent. The dropout shied away from the woman, not used to having someone yell directly into his ear. “Keep going until you see a tree with no leaves. There should be an alley. Go into it and turn the car off.” Terry said nothing. He simply followed directions and turned when needed. 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