![]("<a)
http://www.lacerda.netfirms.com/darkav2.jpg">
Lacerda, News Correspondent
Dispatch from the News Desk
14/01/03
fr: Lacerda, News Correspondent
to: Chris, owner/operator GTG
Priority: High
Shit Chris, it's madness down here. Mere words can't describe the chaos. You ever seen the end of "Apocalypse Now"? Hell, that's some sort of Kitten Baking Sale compared to what's going on just outside of where I'm writing this. I can hear screams, coming closer, louder, more raucous and frightened. It's not everyday this sort of thing happens, Chris. I know you sent me here to get an interview, but it's turned into something else.
Fuck, man, the jet's gone. Not just destroyed or hijacked or what will you, but literally missing. These bastards must've chopped it up during the night. I can't think of what use they'd have for it, but there you go. It's gone. Wait, there's still a wheel lying out there. I can't ride on that though, can I? Wheels do not a trans-continental flight make. More on that later.
I've never seen so much go so wrong so quickly. It was like watching a series of dominoes fall down, except this time all the dominoes also caught on fire, and then bees exploded out of them. That's how bad this was. I suppose that at this point, these seem like drunken ramblings. True, I'm currently very drunk, but they're nothing of the sort, I assure you. From here on, I'll be more explicit about what happened. Excitement of the moment, you understand.
I was all set to interview the Palace Gardener - a routine piece about botanicals of the rich & famous. Nothing big, yes? The Queen was giving an audience earlier that morning, so I figured I'd stop by and watch the proceedings. Open air, old monarchs, crowds of loyal subjects, hell, it had all the makings of a real nice party. Class. Prince Harry was there, too, looking real strung out.
If you'll recall, he got busted smoking grass a while back. Relatively harmless drug, but I've heard rumours flying around that he started getting into the harder stuff recently. Mescaline, speed, lysergic diethylamide acid, extract of pineal, that sort of thing. Well, you could see it in his face. He was flushed, standing there in the gardens. On the stage next to the Queen, this kid starts shaking and shuddering. It was obvious that the people around him had noticed this, and they were beginning to back away hesitantly. Kid started frothing at the mouth, getting redder and redder. It looked like he was in the midst of some kind of seizure. Sweat was pouring off him in greasy rivulets, and he started clawing at his clothes, gasping for air. The Queen was oblivious to all of this, her little white-gloved hand waving to and fro like a metronome.
With little warning, the kid jumps up, yells something along the lines of "Death to PigDog!" and tears at the Queen's throat with his incisors. Bright red blood splashed the first row of the audience as monarch-born plasma jetted out of the wound. Corgis were yapping, tearing at the Prince, as he threw the Queen's body to the ground. Looking around madly, covered with blood, Prince Harry pushed his way through the crowd and jumped into a jeep that was parked nearby, tossing the elderly gent who was driving it onto the pavement. With a screech of the wheels and the smell of burning rubber, he was gone.
It was apparent he had found the ultimate fix: royal blood. The audience was in hysterics, whipping about frantically, looking for someone to turn to. Of course, who do you see about a thing like this? They were at a complete loss, and so was I.
The corgis were lapping up the blood of their former owner.
I could see the beginnings of a lynch mob cementing before my very eyes, and as a foreigner (a Canadian, true, but in times like this, foreign is foreign.) I knew that I'd likely be a target of this seething mass of righteous vengeance. I had to get out, and fast. I hailed a cab after running around a corner, and sped back towards the air strip, eager to get the Fuck Out of this crazy shit-backwards country. However, the car was stopped en route, and I had to flee on foot. I spent the night at the hotel.
The next day, things had calmed down enough in the early hours of the morning to get out to the plane. Scrapped, scavenged, stolen. Alliteration doesn't help, but the thing was gone. I later learned the story behind this madness, too. Apparently, some Monarchy Loyalists had heard of this senseless familial attack over the radio, and had cannibalized this plane for spare parts at the behest of some damned scientist. I'm not sure what they're doing with it, but it can't be good. Whispers spoke of a robotic body for the dead Queen.
Meanwhile, I'm stuck here, too afraid to leave the hotel because of the mobs still rampaging through the streets seeking Prince. Awaiting further instructions, Chris. And for god's sake, send some money. Breakfast here is expensive.
Total Members: 4939