Mario's Time Machine

He wasn’t going home!  After that Swedish Incident he wasn’t sure he wanted to be anywhere that the current technology level was above stone age.  But in the present day of 1990, that wasn’t an option if you wanted to live a healthy, pleasant life.  So he found a small city to relocate to away from his home and family.  

Tee time was all day long, not that he was a big fan of golf or anything, but it was a nice simple distraction.  He was dressed casually as usual a black tee-shirt with a white mock turtleneck over the top and a pair of cargo pants.  Casually for himself that is.  His hair was cropped short and being on inactive duty was the government’s polite way of saying we don’t trust you.  We don’t want you in the field, and most assuredly we are going to keep you on ice because you done did fucked up in our eyes.

Mario didn’t appreciate the sentiment, or the patronizing manner of the thing.  So he just sat back on his indefinite leave, punishment for his lying about his age.  A minor punishment really, but the government couldn’t afford to let him out of their eyes or service,he was too good and knew too much to be just let go.  He was on a short leash, with hounds sniffing at his heels to make sure he stayed where he was supposed to be behaved.  

And that’s what he did, day in day out, golf, darts, drinking, and more golf.  A woman or three, anything to kill the boring life he was not used to anymore.  He was getting tired of civy life.  Tired of doing nothing, tired of not feeling the weight of a gun in one hand and a pitched battlefield to survive in.  And that’s where the beer bottle and the smokes came in handy.  Sure it wasn’t the same as a gun, but a beer in his shooting hand was almost soothing for him.  Almost the right weight if idly twirled it enough.  On the other hand a lit cigarette was a distraction for everything else.  

But the boredom just wouldn’t go away, and his golf swing was… well not his finest skill either.  That’s when he finally got to the point of having had enough of it all.  He was loading his clubs onto the golf cart when one fell out of his club bag.  The good old nine iron smacked the pavement, as he was bending over to pick it up he noticed something off.

A twenty something year old bike messenger looking douchebag with a pint of ice cream in one hand, a 9mm tucked in the front of his pants, and the bed of his truck was filled with duffel bags full of sealed squarish packages just sitting out in the open.  And shaking his head in disbelief at what else he saw going on just off the 18th hole.  The bike messenger had a grill in the bed of the truck as well, and he was having a good old fashioned cookout on the 18th hole.  Smoke was drifting up from the girl, as he stood off to the side eating from his pint of ice cream.

The Stoneville Golf Course had never seen such a bizarre affair.  And it was being made more torturous by this sound blaring on the bike messenger looking dude’s boom box.





Which begs the question why was he blaring it on a boom box when he could have been blaring it through his truck’s radio.




The clownish rapper wannabe starts snapping the fingers on his left hand and bobbing his head up and down just a little, keeping time with the music.  

“YO VIP….”

Suddenly jumping up, as he raps along as loudly as he can.  He sets his pint of ice cream on the sidewall of the bed of the truck as he comes back down touching the green around the 18th hole.  Making an exaggerated landing going all the way down to one knee.  Right arm and hand fully extended upward and out behind his back as he kneels for a moment.  

“LET’S KICK IT!”

Holding that position he kicks up the movement of his head bobbing to include his shoulders almost fringing upon a full on headbang while on one knee next to his truck.

“Ice ice baby

Ice ice baby

Alright stop!”

As he raps he spins upward and backwards in a left handed spin on his right foot pushing off of the truck.  

“Collaborate and listen

Ice is back with a brand new invention”

Snapping both hands he shoots them out at an angle toward the ground away from his body, before alternating raising each up toward his head and raising the corresponding foot up sideways toward his hip.  He repeats this motion while continuing through the first verse.

“Something grabs a hold of me tightly

Flow like a harpoon daily and nightly

Will it ever stop?

Yo I don’t know”

Spinning again he hits the I don’t know with a head shrug and both arms up in a shrugging fashion.  Transitioning into a motion of both hands waving in front of his eyes he continues rapping.

“Turn off the lights and I’ll glow

To the extreme I rock the mic like a vandal”

Rolling his shoulders and throwing his arm forward he extends his pointer finger for emphasis.

“Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle.

DANCE!”

He begins side stepping back and forth while rolling his lower arms one at a time in the direction he’s stepping.

“Go rush the speaker that booms

I’m killin’ your brain like a poisonous mushroom

Deadly, when I play a dope melody…”

The guy keeps dancing and rapping while Mario rolls his eyes in disgust and begins to slide his 9 iron back into his club bag, setting his beer on the golf cart in the process.

“Anything less than the best is a felony

Love it or leave it

You better gangway

You better hit the bullseye”

Mario turns around after setting the club bag into his golf cart.

“The kid don’t play

And if there was a problem

YO, I’LL SOLVE IT!!!”

As Mario turns around he sees the guy’s gun pointed right into his face he’s hopping around like a jacked up whiteboy on poser meds.  Check out my hook while my DJ revolves it, is heard from the boombox.  But not from the bike messenger looking rapper as Mario reflexively grabbed the gun pushing it up and away from his face twisting it free of the rapper's hand, only to pistol whip him square in the face.  

“What the fuck man?  What’s your problem dude?  The fuck is wrong with you?  Do you know who you’re fucking with douchebag?”


Blood dripping down his face, he bounces back fairly well from being pistol whipped in the face. Both arms coming up for emphasis, hands open and off of his bleeding face.  Mario flicks his cigarette into his face after one last puff, before cracking him a second time with the gun in the face.


Mario grimaces as he looks at the gun in his hand, cracked apart. Through the grip, red liquid dripped down his hand rapidly out of the broken handle.  Tossing it aside he looks at the whiteboy poser as he scrambles toward the truck reaching into the bed.  TCH TCH.


BANG!


Mario dives past the golf cart tipping his golf club bag as he goes.  Rolling through he comes up with golf balls in hand,  TCH TCH. Without a moment’s hesitation he flings three in quick succession each striking the guy now armed with a pump action shotgun.  The first ball smacked his trigger hand, the second caught him in the eye, while the third, drilled in directly behind the second, making a double impact golf ball onto golf ball into his eyeball.  


Grabbing the first club he could reach as he sprinted forward, he layed in three solid hits dropping the wigger to the ground in thriving pain.  Yo, man let’s get out of here, word to your mother is heard as Mario plants his foot on the guys chest and hands clutching it.


“Not cool dude.  You’re going to fucking regret messing with me.”


TCH TCH.


“Hey boss, this guy giving you shit!”


Enter the hired muscle.  By now, you should realize that the young thug, the wannabe rapper, is none other than Cory Orthojavsen.  And more to the point, this is the day Cory met Mario and three worlds were set on a collision course that would affect the lives of so many people in the future.  


Mario turned his head at the sound of another pump action shotgun being ready to fire at him.  One look was all it took to size up the situation.  He slid his foot to Cory’s throat and began shifting his weight ever so slightly without moving anything other than his one foot.


“Drop the 9 iron, and step off my boss.  I won’t ask twice… NOW!”


Mario put his weight on Cory's throat and swung the 9 iron letting it fly when it came up even to his chest toward Cory’s hired muscle.









The man batted the 9 iron out of his way with the shotgun, but it had served its purpose.  Mario had dragged Cory to his feet one arm around his throat, the other hand wrapped around the grip of his shotgun.  


“Put your gun on the golf cart and drop to your knees, right hand under your right knee, left hand up behind your head and as far down your back as you can reach. Or a sore throat and a couple of broken ribs are going to be your bosses least concerns.”


Mario says as he pushes the barrel of the shotgun into Cory’s ribs.  One eye swollen shut mostly dead weight in Mario’s arm Cory makes no movement one way or another.  His hired muscle growls under his breath and complies.  You can’t get paid if your boss is dead.


“Good, make sure you’re facing the other way.  Jackass.”


Mario says as he smacks Cory face first into the truck where he crumples back to the ground without so much as a grunt of pain.  Dropping like a sack of potatoes, Mario looks for a  moment at the shotgun in his hands, scoffing as he tosses it aside and walks over to the second man.  


As his foot came down next to the hired muscle, he found himself being rolled up and over.  The redneck looking man had grabbed his hip with his left head in an awkward grip and rolled forward bringing him to the ground slamming him into the golf cart in the process.  BANG, the redneck’s shotgun fell off on the other side, discharging as it hit the side of the golf cart on its way down.


In a blink the redneck was on top of him driving his knees into his chest and one of his shoulders, effectively pinning him to the ground. Off loading right punch after right punch into his chest and face, the redneck just poured down hit after hit, while Mario barely managed to pull his left arm up across his head to block the brunt of the blows aimed at his head.  


Trying to buck him off his chest Mario pushed up with his lower back and spine, only partially succeeding, but the redneck bounced back like a bull rider shifting his weight mid buck, only to come back down with force onto his chest and shoulder, driving his full weight into the impact.  Grunting Mario slackened up, his muscles relaxing all except his left arm which was still protecting his face, and part of his chest front he mighty right handed strikes coming down twice as fast and hard after the attempted bucking off.


“That’s it, Chet.   Beat his ASS!


Not so fucking tough on your back are you?”


Cory shouts as he stumbles over, having managed to regain his senses and feet under his body.  A sneer on his bloody face as he leans over his hired Muscle.  


“BITCH!”


Cory stomps on Mario’s head, kicking his hand out of the way of Chet’s downward swinging fist.  Taking the fist full in the face, Mario spits out a tooth, as he grabs Cory’s foot, his hand locking on tightly.


“Let go of me you little bitch!”  


Chet’s arm goes up for another blow, when Cory suddenly screams bloody murder.  Mario was digging his thumb nail into his Achilles Tendon as Chet’s fist descended.   Everything was suddenly flipped around.  Chet went flying through the air a few feet flipping head over heels, landing in a very awkward way against Cory’s truck.  And Cory, crumbled, unable to get out of Mario’s grip on his heel.  Yanking Cory down as he stood up Mario grabbed him by the neck again and dragged him toward Chet, who was already starting to get back up from being thrown by his head and neck by Mario’s legs.


“Sta.. aww fuck it!


Mario punts Chet as hard as he could in the head, driving his head to snap back and slam into the fender of the truck before choking Cory into unconsciousness as well.  Wiping the blood from his face he looked like a man who could kill, who was ready to add a couple of body’s to his ever growing body count.  Flicking the blood from the back of his hand he took in his situation at a glance.


No one was looking, no one was trying to find out what was going on.  In fact the golf course was too fucking quiet for the gunshots and fighting that had just broken out.  No sound of sirens in the distance coming out to resolve the problem, nothing.  He leaned down and pulled the belts off of both men, proceeding to tie them up and secure them with their own belts as restraints.


“This shit ain’t right.  Fucking drug dealers!

“BRO NO.

Oh bro no no no…

NO!”

The shouts can be heard coming from the opposite side of the truck where Mario is standing.  Cigarette in one hand, shotgun in the other trained on the two unconscious men on the ground.  Cory Orthojavsen, and his hired muscle Chester Riggs; who lay bound by their own belts half sprawled out behind the truck, half against it, where they went down in a giant pile of drug dealer trash.  





Mario looks up as he sees the newcomer approaching from across the green, toward the golf courses' paved pathways circumnavigating the 18 holes and all their lush greens.  This guy screamed thug, but something more.  He already had a gun in his left hand and was preparing to just shoot out right at Mario as he

“Oh no Bro!

That is not acceptable.  You don’t lay your filthy bitch hands on the boss bro  Not on my watch.”

Mario shook his head out of exasperation.  Blowing a large puff of smoke out as he moved the cigarette from his mouth, rolling his eyes he titled his head toward the gun in his hand and the two men tied up at the end of the barrel.

“Set the gun down on the bed of the truck and back away.”

“Bro no, I can put you down before you even pull that trigger.”

Mario flicks the lit cigarette into Cory’s face, who doesn’t even register the cherry as it smacks into him.  Chester starts to stir, but smartly holds still as he sees the shotgun pointed in his general direction.  Mario just stares with a look of are you stupid.





“One.”

“Bro no, you got 3 seconds to drop your gat and lie flat.  Or you’re gonna be a dead brother!

“Two.”

Bro no, you don’t understand, I’m serious, you dead bro, you dead..”

“Thr..”

“Christ Jersey… Just fucking do what he says, or we’re all dead!”

“You’re such a bitch boy Chester…

Fine Bro I’m puttin my piece down.  Easy, you just don’t lay another finger on the boss and we’re good bro.”

“Shut it… you.  I’m going to let you up,and you’re going to drag this pile of trash into the bed of the truck, and tie him down to it.  Then sit yourself down for a little ride.  And you, mouth, you’re going to take the wheel and drive… NOW!”





Three…

Miles…

Later…

The truck pulls off the road, into a seedy looking rundown factory, the fence surrounding the property is rusted but whole, and functional, Chester hops off the back of the truck without being told and opens the gate for the truck to go through closing it and hopping back into the bed of the truck were Cory is sprawled out still unconscious .  The man known as Jersey Mike drives with a  look of disgust on his face as Mario leans against the passenger door of the truck shotgun trained on Jersey for good measure.

In a matter of moments Jersey Mike and Chester, have Cory on his feet and are carrying him as Mario slips Jersey’s gun and the shells from the shotgun into his golf club bag in the back of the truck, while they aren’t looking at him.

“Lead on.”

Mario says as he keeps his distance with the now empty shotgun trained on the trio.  It’s their home turf, an abandoned factory with all the necessary fixings for their illegal drug running operation.  Everything a drug lord could want, including a ready supply of drugs courtesy of the cartel.  A factory to store and distribute from, and apparently semi competent locals to handle it.  Well that last bit was still questionable.  But Mario wasn’t sure what he was planning yet.  In fact he was just in survival mode… Sweden, you know.  It left its mark on him, and he wasn’t truly back home away from it all yet.   He needed a moment to consider his options and what he was going to do with this drug ring.  


A grinding scraping noise was coming from ahead as he walked behind the gun trained on the trio.  It came and went, growing louder and softer in turn as they moved along.  Background noise, like the music and sound of voices as well.  Duty…

Duty was to put these thugs and drug dealers down and turn them over to the local authority.  Maybe it would help cut short his leave time and allow him to get back into the field where he belonged,  Just maybe.

The grinding scraping was growing louder and the lighting was shit.  A rail was oddly placed along the path about a foot and a half off the ground, running along the hallway, somewhat centered in it.  Just one more annoyance to pay attention to.

The lighting was flickering at best and whole sections were blacked out entirely.  Mario wasn’t out of Sweden yet, he could feel something, like one of those freakish…  GRRRRSCRRRR…. Again the grinding scraping came almost on top of them now.  But the trio of drug dealers didn’t bat an eyebrow, while the two who could at least.  THis was normal for this place Mario surmised but didn’t drop his guard, that feeling of being hunted was creeping up on him again.  He stopped just long enough to light a cigarette, and that’s when it came on its loudest that grinding sound behind him.  He was half turned when he saw it, shotgun half raised to strike when it was half yanked free of his hand.  The force of it made the shotgun spin away from him as the grinding came back a second time from the opposite direction in the near darkness of the poor factory lighting.  

He reacted as the sound came close slamming his fist into it.  He had caught a glimpse of its source when the shotgun was yanked free of his hands.  Up came the plank of wood almost slamming into his face as he caught the skateboard with his other hand.  Its rider jumped clear over him to the ground behind him kicking as he came down landing boots square into Mario's back.  This guy was big and not just his mohawk





Mario came round with the skateboard ruthlessly slamming it into its owner.  What would have been a hard smash to the head and face instead was backhanded away from hitting the man’s muscular chest.  Mario looked up, dropping the board as he drove his knees into the man’s legs.  He buckled under the force of Mario’s body weight, a snap resounding throughout the otherwise mostly quiet factory.  Jersey Mike had the shotgun in his hands and was making his way closer to put an end to Mario, when another member of the crew stepped up.





“Yo Man stay…”

Before he could finish Mario had the skateboard jammed into his throat pinning him to the ground having disarmed him mid struggle.  Skateboard under one foot, Mario leveled the gun toward Cory and Chester.

“Bro no, you’re outgunned and outnumbered.  Drop the piece and I’ll only cap ya twice.”

Mario didn’t hesitate but his course of action was forced to change as a foot came down in front of him and a second came flying straight for his face.  Ducking





He turned pulling the trigger as the Asian in purple went down screaming a bullet hole straight through his foot.  Click, click, MArio walked straight up to Jersey Mike who was having the same bullet shortage as Mario CLICK. CLICK, CLICK.  

As he came close to Jersey he ignored him and continued on by then spun.

“BOO!”

Jersey Mike dropped the shotgun and jumped back.  While Mario turned back around and continued on to Cory and Chester.  Grabbing Cory up and slinging him across his shoulders.  He had, had enough…





Three…

Miles…

Later…





Correction three miles of cement later…

Mario was standing next to the lever on the cement mixer while he looked down and the entire collective of Cory’s gang, or crew, whichever term you fancy.  They were all tied up in an assortment of containers that Mario found laying around the factory after he finished putting the entire crew to the floor one after another.  They were all lined up in such a way that if he pulled that lever the cement would pour free and start filling all of the containers at once.

“One chance, who’s going to start talking.”

Mario  laughed as he lit a cigarette.  No one spoke, he threw the lever and turned away as the cement started to pour down.  They couldn’t have spoken even if he was really interested in anything they had to say.  Every last one of them looked up in horror as the cement began to pour down, bound in containers and stuck in place, mouths gagged.