The second installment of my satirical spy thriller starring the poli regs. Now with smoothed out clauses thanks to reader input, Enjoy

The Regulars: Chapter 2: Home for the Holiday.

The sun rises high over London that day and Michael Sol rises with it. The long and steady ride up his private elevator reminds him of this. All of this work and sacrifice, this joylessness had served to bring him a few inches closer to his precious sun. Of course logically he knows the sun isn't straight up but one must have his small illusions. What is no illusion is that he had earned every step up the ladder of success. The scholarship that has allowed him access to the finest of education was only the first example of how knowing what people need, what to do with them and what their ultimate worth was had brought him to his current heights. His suit, finest silk on finest silk, gleams metallically in the artificial light and purposefully says nothing of the sweat that had won it. After all what is victory without its rewards? The one and only thing common about him is the newspaper all but crunched in his grip. The target of his verging rage is instantly visible as the doors open and the light of the sun welcomes her favorite offspring. The arcing windows of his appointed penthouse office also burden light upon the lower, who has his feet up on a very expensive coffee table.
Michael enters calmly and drops the paper with the headline of the Moscow gangland massacre next to the ornate cowboys boots without a word of explanation. "That could have been avoided."
"Eh, it seemed a more personal gift than flowers." He is answered with that interminable accent. Father Venom, spreader of the truth of the poison, is irrepressibly cheerful as always. He hasn't earned his cheer. For generations be it lumber, mining, textiles or pharmaceuticals wherever the rich got richer off the backs of the masses his family was there. The latest venture has been a specialized line of spirits, for which he gave himself the moniker and overpaid for a matching stomach tattoo. This was also the project that aligned him with his host, although they were by no other means equals.
"There are a great many things that have to happen at the right place and time, Father" Michael always strains at the title, yet another endowment for a man who's never strained his mind with study or his hands with honest work. "Your interests are at no less risk than my own."
"You are one to worry too much, Michel." The slip up, like the others, is purposeful. He proceeds to lift himself and is now standing on the woefully sturdy furniture. "Russian men would have many reasons to kill our friends." He spreads his arms in part to feel the sunlight and in part to further his abomination. "In that they failed only means that ones as great as us could not have been behind them. Besides, those of their level are easy enough to come about." He jumps down to see his compatriot eye to eye, difficult as he is several inches shorter than the magnate.
Michael lowers his eyes for both reasons. This wild man has untraceable funds, will to use them and frivolity to be lead. He served no other purpose. Still, you can only call any animal by the name they'll answer to.
"Father, these are not men to play games with. Amuse yourself by any other of your vast means but I want your word that we will not strike directly at The Regulars again until we're ready to do it right."
The same sun of the same day rises in the city of Lyon, France. This location had been carefully chosen to allow easy access to the European and thus world theater as well as avoid the over regulation of operating in the U.S. As such that is where four very tired young men approach their place of work. That is to say they're trying to. A voice tinny despite the intercoms technology calls out to them. "Speak friend and enter."
Staff pushes the speak button with a closed fist. "Not a good day Keither. You know it's us." He struggles from using his other hand to gesture to the camera, and then he gives in. Indeed the visual acuity of their tormenter is only the last of a small line of security measures. While there are various pass codes and devices to get as far as the inner door some things are best not left to machines.
"Doesn't look too friendly, but if you must." Keither responds to the image on his monitor before typing in the appropriate command to release the heavy magnetic bolts and allow access. Real light meets the artificial in the large open space that is as always divided a bit unevenly between work and pleasure. This trait that had earned it the auspicious title of "the lounge." In the far corner is the marked off realm of technical guru and gatekeeper Keither, without whom they'd be a loose collection of gunmen. After a quick assessment of their company Pro breaks rank to join Fluff, the team sharpshooter at the billiards table, Wizard joins his old friend Lowe at the coffee machine and R.G goes along with Staff for the trip to his desk.
"This is gonna be a quick check in and out right? Some of us have loved ones to get to."
Staff undoes his holster and hangs it along with his revolvers from his beaten up chair before planting himself in. "As far as I know. A few Is to dot and Ts to cross then we're free to go, as free as we ever were." He says not to gently jabbing at his friends adult priorities.
"It wouldn't hurt you to find someone yourself. Six guns can't keep you warm at night."
"R.G, You know full well that I'm dying alone to prove I'm not a womanizer."
"Yeah, how's that going for you?"
"It saves money, helped me afford my new bike." Staff says, drawing reference to the custom chopper that is almost calling to him from the motor pool.
"Also on the list of things you can't get in bed with. How do you even shop for groceries with that thing?"
"Oh, I wear a backpack."
The banter dies away as they both turn eyes to the Latino youths enjoying their over sweetened coffee. "He did well his first time out."
Wizard and Lowe went back as far as anyone could tell. Twin recruits from the much maligned Argentinean intelligence authority their qualifications are top of the line. They might not have the funding of some of their peer groups but when the drug lords live in your back yard one does not become soft.
"Very well indeed" Sensing that all useful talk is over R.G hefts his gun case up for dramatic effect. "I'm going to check in my gear and then go home. And then in the event that the kids all decide to go to sleep on the same night I'm going to make vigorous love to my wife." With that image he went along.
Staff turned his eyes to the gaming table. Fluff is bent over considering and staring down her cue with all the precision she brought to her work. The name had come from her ability to shoot a bit of errant fluff off of someone's clothing at any given range. This had proven useful once in an open air meeting where an unfriendly acquaintance had to be assured as to just how kind they were to let him live. Recently at a local bar some unfortunate slob had overheard her being called the name and openly supposed to as its meaning. He then had his nose flattened and the rest of him rendered temporarily useless to any woman, both by her. A family they may be but she was no one's little sister.
Distractions momentarily spent Staff turns at last to his desk. There are far too many loose pieces of paper for someone living in the internet age. He picks up the freshest folder, the preliminary report from Moscow. Someone out there had both the intelligence to stage an execution they would have to attend and the stupidity to send barely trained amateurs to kill them. It was impossible for the two to be unrelated. Only someone connected enough to want the real Andre out of there would know of their attendance. Their cars were nice but not so nice they were exclusionary. Tracks of their purchases came up blank. As for the guns, AK derivatives are easy enough to come by. There are innumerable sources in that corner of the world, still being looked into. Why would they work this hard on the setup only to throw away the delivery? None of this adds up. To add to frustrations someone in the lounge is playing their "was hip and fresh 12 years ago" play list just a bit too loudly.
As these things tend to come in numbers Lowe approaches and plops a set of paper clipped documents on top of the quagmire. Staff looks up at the young man who desperately needs to switch to decaf. "Dude, I'm right here. You could have handed them to me."
"I intercepted a call from administration.
"Oh?"
"They're sending someone."
"Oh again."
"Seven" He goes on to explain his subject by heart even as real thing trots out from Keithers domain and straight at them, all of this to the tune of Nirvanas "All Apologies." Her face is intent and her suit is frankly tighter than it has to be. "This chick is bad ass, mano. P.H.D from Oxford in international relations. 5 time Kendo champion, speaks more languages than I knew there were and the youngest female agent ever to reach Man Of Distinction. There's even something in here about motorcycle racing."
As she arrives and attempts to stare him down Staff editorializes on the overachievements. " I hear next she's working on flight, speed, and super-weaving."
Quickly realizing he's not the one being spoken to Lowe turns to the woman the file photos didn't do justice. He's frozen like a deer in headlights. She puts her hands on her hips and speaks, again not to him. "What happened to the hat?"
Staff, recoiling in his seat, croaks out "Brokeback. What're you doing here? Get tired of telling the Myth busters what to say?"
"Funny, you should have a look at this." She passes him an addendum to Moscow reports that no one had seen in her hand.
Looking at the cover Staff is forced to ask. "Why wasn't this in the file?"
Matter of fact "Because I had it." Just as he begins to peruse the pages she goes ahead and spoils the ending. "The guns could have come from anywhere but the ammunition was defiantly of Chinese make."
Chinese production of the 7.62 round was anything but news. They had answered their own needs as well as the worldwide love affair with AK type weapons with the bulk industriousness they were famous for. This, of course, went along with the infamous lack of quality control. History lesson aside it did beg the question "Why would someone bring Chinese bullets into Russia?"
"Exactly. Somebody deciding to use cheap copies on you after bringing you out with another cheap copy lead the higher ups to believe you could use a little 'assistance."
"Meaning you're taking over."
"Yall gonna make me be a bitch about this?" Finally allowing in her Louisiana drawl.
"I think it would really explain you to the kid if you did." Without the courtesy of looking over Staff points out the until now forgotten Lowe, who sheepishly waves at their guest. "And by the way, that copy of Andre looked pretty damn expensive."
"You can explain all about that at the meeting." Turning away from him and enunciating like she owns the place. "Conference room in five minutes people."
In the lower gymnasium Keithers voice rings out from the corner speaker. "D.K Conference room. Mandatory. 5 minutes. Thank you and goodnight."
The tower of a man immediately quits beating the stuffing out of the heavy bag and holds it until it stops swinging and his breath fully returns. He removes his padded gloves and places them next to his shoulder holster, which he takes up and latches on. It's the closest to a uniform he'll ever wear. That's all we need to know about him for now. All we need to know about is the short trip he takes from one place to another. Without as much as wiping the sweat from his face he leaves the gym and enters the lift. Once it's reached his place he walks with no particular rush through the office space, past Pro's workshop and Keither's house of electronics and opens the wide doors marked CONFRENCE ROOM A. Ironic in that it's their only conference room.
Inside the officious space he immediately recognizes Seven with her demeanor matching the rooms. The other members of the team are already collected and not looking all that happy about it. She looks up at him as if to take note. "Alright then." She says "Now that everyone's here I'd just like to start by saying Merry Christmas."

Awhile back I had the idea to make a parody action spy thriller staring myself and my buddies from the poli regs lounge. A lot of people trusted me with their names and likenesses for the sake of good fun. Now, not everyone who's in is going to be in every chapter as that would be pandering and just clutter the story. This serves the purpose of most first chapters in establishing plot, characters and, I hope, interest in the rest of the project. Enjoy

The Regulars Chapter one

The argument of nature or nurture is one of the main tip toes around the great question of existence. Are we who we are from that of which we're made or does the world we live in craft us to what we must be? Whichever lead to the other it was cold that day in Moscow and the trademark stoicism of it's people was etched on the faces of every man on the gallows. These soldiers had been trained and beaten to be the hardest of souls in this hard land. As such it was with weight on their hearts but not their shoulders they led out to die this man who had been great among them.
A light wind carries a cache of the dust like snow to brush against the prisoners garb of Andre Petorvich. The mans tired eyes gaze for a brief view of the city he has loved. But there was naught to but the prison yard, which are and mean the same world over. He draws a final breathe to feel the icy air before the hood is placed over his head. A list of his charges is read for the abominable fancy of the select spectators. The tale is of crimes against state, peoples and, depending on your disposition, against God. So enraptured are they that no one takes note of the two western youths among them.
The shorter and wider of the men watches with unshielded eyes for the fear of missing the slightest detail. He is protected from the cold with a black leather coat, the lining of which only adds to the dimensions of his thick chest. Beside him stands a taller man of comparable years but wildly differing demeanor. His head cocks back with boredom and his eyes wonder behind colored glasses. His hands are stuffed determinedly into the pockets of his ostentatious yellow winter coat and his mind belongs to somewhere else all together. All he thinks of is the baking warm of the Caribbean beach he by all rights should be on. When the call came in his bags were already loaded with the shades, shirts and swimwear for a well deserved vacation. He got to wear the sunglasses at least. This notation gave him only a moments amusement before eyes and ears are called to the springing hatch and the man now suspended in air. The rope and fall had failed to break his neck and as such he flails about waiting taken from strangulation. It's as painful as it sounds. Droplets of spittle hit the inside of his hood and outside it muffled Russian curses are all there is to hear. Finally he lets go and his body falls limp.
As the prison doctor makes the summary examination and pronouncement the crowd is already dispersing. There's not one among them who doesn't know death when they see it, who hasn't seen it far too much. The show is over and lives go on. Only once they've left the facility and the serious one is complete in his own aviators do they address each other.
"You always take me to the nicest places, Staff." The tall one says with his traditional tone of sugar coated acid.
"You know the rules, Pro." Paraphrasing of the well worn rulebook had become one of Staff's main hobbies, because he couldn't be bothered to know which rule was what. "Disposals of this level demand eye witnessing by two agents of established standing."
"You could have brought one of the others, man." Pro goes on with a certain pleading in his voice. "I was going on vacation. Three months of sun, sand and island girls who only pretend to dig tourists but by the time that matters the purpose of their interaction is fulfilled."
A moments silence as one watches the red rise and fall in the others face. "Ya done?"
After a huff" Yes." Pro lets out even as he unlocks and enters the drivers side of the rented vehicle.
"You know" Staff ruminates "I could arrange for you to go to a Caribbean execution next time. Though you might have to break out the formal Speedo." This brought out a tired but genuine smile in his colleague.
After some vulgarity laden encouragement the car sputters to life. The conversation continues to turn as our young heroes travel from the historic to more residential area of their host city. Tourists don't come here. Tourists don't come to see the real people. They come to see whatever locals are hanging around the tourist spots for local reasons. This place where the honest people lived had weathered war and politics, revolution and revelation and pop and punk all with dignity only families bring. There is almost a romance to it. That is until someone's dense enough to interrupt.
"We should have been here officially. Then we'd have had accommodations, local resources and maybe, just maybe, a car that doesn't smell like a motel bed."
"Can't officially be here for someone who didn't officially exist. Besides, you know how many questions they ask around here." Staff stares out the window, mind divided between topics again. "We got a nice hotel at least."
"A nice hotel in Russia in winter. Anyway I still think we should have called in security."
As Pro is one to repeat himself for good reason Staff unzips his coat revealing the hardwood handle of one of his trusted revolvers. Looking back could brings things to a head immediately. "How far back?
"Second behind us. Green SUV. Tinted windows. Tailing us for 5 blocks."
"Serious?"
"It's a nice car." That meant they were financed privately and well. This was going to get interesting. Seeing as this is the moment the car between them decides to make a turn.
That's when the powerful engine of the assailing vehicle roared and sped it into the opposite lane and then ahead of them. Being no fool Pro stops the car immediately with a slight skid. The men hurry out the far side of the car even as masked man with assault rifles filed out of the SUV and opened fire.
Metal bends and glass breaks above the crouching men. The moment seems to be not at all ruined for pointing out the obvious.
"Told you so." Pro while drawing out his loaded Glock.
Staff rolls back, drawing his heavy guns as feet return to ground. Taking a moment to be a slave to style he spins them. "Shut up and call the Calvary." He rises as .44 rounds bark out from his Rugers in a not yet aimed one two, one two pattern.
Around that time a well built young professional steps from the hotel lobby into the empty elevator. He pushes the button for the lobby and instinctually smoothes out his jet black hair. Elevators are one of those devices one must realize take as long as they take. Patience is something this men doesn't lack. Things take time on either end of the law. He feels the weight of his case in his hand. The music is as if someone made "welcome to the jungle" into a Christmas carol. The door opens. His quarry is already there chatting up the young woman at reception.
"Wizard, we're moving"
"Alright, jus.."
"Now."
Okay, okay." Wizard was already rushing out the door and doesn't miss a step relaying vital information. "You know what room I'm in." As the door closes his eyes turn to his partner. "It's her job to."
The pair hurried to their car, a garish red sports model. R.G tossed the palm g.p.s to Wizard. The youth absorbs the information with all the efficiency that had earned him this first job. He could drive anything to anyplace once he knew where to go. He slides into the car where R.G has his heavy case resting on his lap. He goes about waiting for the car to peel out and start moving before opening it. As local traffic laws lay shattered in their wake he Goes about his business . As he assembles his sub-machine gun from sheer muscle memory he fills in his companion on the situation, loudly, as to be heard over the car. "Pinned down By AK fire. Estimated 6 to 8 before a second set rolled in. Sheer numbers will chop them down if this toy doesn't get us where we need to be." This wasn't his first comment on the car.
"We'll get there." Wizard comments while at the same time and negotiating the handling on the icy road. "It's a good car if you know how to work her. Plus she gets chicks."
R.G slaps the extended magazine into place and rests the readied weapon in his calm hands. The metal on his left hand tapped against that of the gun. "I'm married." But there isn't the time to think about that. There's no time to think about Ashley or the twins or that proud look on Jaime's face when he lifted himself up to stand by the couch. Now there's only people to save and people to kill. They're here. "Maneuver four"
If there's one thing the people of Moscow know it's how to stay indoors during a firefight. No interruptions come as from opposite ends of the dead car Staffs heavy .44 mag makes a sizable whole in an unlucky villains chest and Pro's laser sight, brought into speckled viability by the blustery snow dust, provided the insight to sink a high velocity 10mm far enough into his targets head to take him out of the game. Their bodies join the small pile. The two man army is forced down as their surviving assailants get the one idea they shouldn't have and start to advance, making short sprays of fire to keep heads down as they march in a perfect line. Fortunately, he who lives by the line dies by the line. Faster than either side can tell a furious sports car rips across the corner. Without thought R.G leapt from the vehicle, falling as to let the armor on his back take the brunt of the impact. Still there's no way to save the his suit from the friction and elements. And it was such a nice suit. He's still sliding on the icy surface as his mp7 sings it's song. In gruesome synchronicity the bodies remember to fall. In the same flash Wizard has swerved into a drift parallel to the gunman who'd stayed behind and rains fire from his 357 pistol, instinctually holding his arm out far enough so the shells don't fall in the car. It's a very nice car.
R.G comes to a stop finally just short of perforated carcass of the first teams car. He's modest enough to accept a hand in getting up before pointing to his series of kills and proclaiming "See? THAT'S how you do that!" This arrogance was short lived as the second car burst into life and charged them. The men dive at the last possible second, Staff and R.G to the right and Pro to the left. The former two level there weapons at the fleeing beast out of instinct but know the fruitlessness of firing. Pro stands up proud as a peacock and calmly produces a remote trigger from his pocket. "To quote an absolute pedestrian 'click click boom." With the last word he presses the button and in the distance the escaping SUV explodes first from one side then the other. As wreckage takes its sweet time to fall Staff takes this as the cue to twirl and holster his guns. Wizard walks over and joins the team with his gun at the end of his limp arm.
Staff surveys the carnage. Steam is starting to rise as heat escapes bodies with no further use for it. The security deposit on the rental car is clearly lost. "This is just starting."
R.G pipes up first, ever the tactician "Who sent them? Who even knows we're here?"
With an eerie plateau to his voice Staff answers "My best guess would be Andre."
Pro now, feeling his thunder stolen "Andre's dead. We were there. Remember the rope and the Russian swearing?
"That's just it." Staff replies as he looks up to his rightfully confounded friends. "Andre wasn't Russian."

Here's a new poem with all the copywrite and such

In-between

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Too many times I've gone over old loves and old maybes

Too much to see what's in-between.

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Tonight I have to believe in heroes again

I have to see big men changing things

I have to see justice dealt

I have to see problems solved

I have to see action taking life over

I need to see that heroism can come into a situation and be able to right everything for anyone who's been wronged.

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But I don't know what a hero or love is

And so I've lost.

The gieco cavemen tv show started today. My tv was off out of protest.

It's too early to care about the election. Because nothing anyone here does will matter until a name is already on the ballet. Shut up.

You think bands like greenday and nickelback enjoy driving past rock purists houses in limos with supermodels in them?

I got the knocked up dvd but haven't beenin the right mood to watch it. What's the right mood for crowning?

Now poem. Copywrite and such is all mine, by me and so on.

Presence
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This is the kind of thing where you're calm behind a cigarette watching a woman in a long dress

But I've never been a man with that kind of presence.
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I've been romantically forgettable,
Which fits in certain scenes.

And recalled in anger by folks I've never seen.

I keep improving myself without any end.

I don't have anywhere to be.

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Recalled, ribald, robust and reviled

How I'm know where I've never been.

First the funny

1. Bands becoming succesful is generally a good thing as people need money to live.

2. Stop shitting on France for world war two. All the cool kids were being conqured at the time. Let's look at the axis now.

a. Japan: We have a striving economical and social exchange. Full points.

b. Italy. Either people don't remember or they're afraid of the mob. Racism towards kindness is still racism.

c. Germany. They get the occasional Nazi at Oktoberfest joke because THOSE ARE THE ONLY TWO THINGS AMERICANS KNOW ABOUT GERMANY

3. Male lesbian porn directors. Shut up while the camera's running. If I felt like dealing with male presence I'd be watching hetro porn. You are not a real director and it doesn't matter how "more intense" they do it if you keep taking us out of the moment.

4. Ken Star impeached Bill Clinton, a good president people liked, in order to cheapen the institution should it be used against W.

5. Americans will never accept football (soccer) because we didn't invent it. Yeah, we're petty that way.

Now a poem. Again by me and copywrite is mine.

Barely met
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WHat I've done for women I've barely met

From songs and suits to fient romance

To things that I still don't know
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Sometimes nighttime can be quiet in the perfect way

When there's nothing on t.v or ambiance

It becomes clear I don't deserve what I need.
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Sometimes when I sit down and read

I raise my head to what I've skipped

From innocence to insolence

And then back to what I've only read twice

First of all let's worship SevenSeize for the Punisher decorations. She rocks more than you AND makes better cookies.

this is my theme song for the gieco cavemen tv show

They're cavemen doing wacky things, oh yes
They're cavemen doing wacky things, I guess
Oh, ABC they cannot save
Phil Hartmen's rolling in his grave
They're cavemen doing wacky things, oh yes

But just so you know I'm stuck up enough to take myself seroisly here's a new poem. Copywrite is mine again.

Fun Stupid Tired
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I want days like teenage romance.

But I'm a bit mid twenties too old

Slightly old enough to put away the hype

But declared young enough to live

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At the moment I don't remember half the things I miss

And it's not from celibrations or being fun stupid tired

It comes from something more and deeper that I never learned to be

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Nights ago I came up with a word

A word I thought I'd read

Turns out it didn't mean anything

And I'm not big enough to make it

Someone else will decide what it means

When I learn how to spell what I made.

The Simpsons are still funny. Bashing the established cartoon does not make you young and hip. "You don't like popular things? Come sit at my lunch table, Fonzie."

Pizza is perfect food.

The great thing about soccer is that I don't care about games Americans like either

Why is it in a modern martial arts movie the bad guys never have guns? I mean how badass are you that you can only give one very slow aiming guy a gun?

Now the poem, by me and copywrite by me as well. Don't steal it. Lines are there because these things don't hold spacing

New pain

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She quoted to me a philosophy that she got from a textbook.

All this in a fight about what's real and basic.

But not every romance can end that well.

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Sometimes I think I need new pain

That only that can evolve from what has been

And test the torture of this better man.

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Better men have been hurt

And better men still know

How to tell their hearts and stories.

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Twice before I've been here

Mourning loss then innocence

But now, I'm just tired.

Politically I choose ninja over pirate but in soul caliber I reverse it.

French people rule.

go to The Endless Crew if you love comics or fun in general. Or if you just don't hate puppies.

Sam Addams summer ale has a lemon zest

I can life a whole bunch and my sister once put me in the dryer.