2. Club Drown
They pulled their sub up next to the other Harley-subs and parked. The club had neon skulls hoisting beers to the right of the door. They swam in.
Looking around the bar, Sherlocka and Throatcrusher only saw two or three unthreatening older Droog types sitting around drinking Aquameg. Most of the drinks were roboticized and served via drones. You could have drugs or vitamins or whatever mixed in too. But they still hired a few bartenders, due to nostalgia.
The owner, Omar Narkoman, was sitting a the end of the bar, drinking. Throatsmasher knew him already, since he had booked his black metal band (Fogkill Deception) there in the past.
“What the fuck happened here Omar?” Thoatsmasher inquired.
“Oh man I have no clue. I showed up here for the active shooter drill yesterday. And I really can’t say any more than that,” replied Omar, reeking of raw albacore. He had chicks hanging off of both shoulders, and a big gold chain.
“Yo, I heard they shot the lead singer of Occult Nepotism, plus everyone in the crowd almost, with a neutron blaster. That was my dog. Was he a truther? Tell me what you know G,” insisted Sherlockda.
“I don’t know shit,” he insisted, putting out his oxygen inhaler-torch, while getting up and trying to leave.
“Not so fast buddy.” Throatcrusher grabbed his collars and threw him against the wall, with an elbow to the face for good measure, followed by an aikido wrist lock control. Some blue gilled-mutant janitors (sub-humans)were trying to mop up the blood streaks. “How come all the bodies appear to have been dragged around, and there are bloodtstain smears everywhere?” pointing to the dark-red smears.
Pointing her own Decap-9000 at Omar’s filthy, sweaty face she said: “Love my bitches but where’s my niggas'”
“What?”
“You heard what I said. Who was in on this Omar? I know you type of scumbags. You were out to collect the insurance money.”
She squeezed the trigger, and millions of protons shot his ear off, with blood spurting out.
“Ok! OK!” the bar-owner screamed. “There was an active shooter drill that day and some teenage psychic kid was somehow involved. That’s all I know. I swear!”
“What was the kids name?”
“Lanza. He is related to the infamous one. He was part of the experiment. They put them in the gifted children program to isolate them and then give them prescriptions and use them as patsies. Look him up.”
“Well, I am gonna need a drink, or ten” insisted Throatsmasher. So they drank mushroom juice cocktails.
After many drinks, a random drunk patron tried to grab on of Sherlocka amazing 34-C breasts. She allowed him to, but then shot him in the kneecap afterwards as a reminder of the MeToo# movement laws, which legally mandated that women make the first move.
“Now if you will excuse me, I must go to the ladies room.” And she placed her weapon back in the holster. This was simply a ruse to go and look for the security room, since there were cameras everywhere, and she wanted to see what had really happened at the crime scene.
Sneaking up behind the operator, who was playing Tetrus 3000 in vintage GoogleGlasses, she placed him in a sleeper hold, and squeezed his consciousness away. Into the datadrive floppy on the Nokia 3400XL she dwelved, and the screen began to show the crime scene. Only, it wasn’t even the band that had been reported playing live by the social media, it was a totally different act performing that night: the awesome legit underground act Dataslaughter didn’t play at all, the social media phenom. Falcons of Rap Metal went on instead and played a bunch of limp-wristed shit. Most people didn’t realize that this band and all of social media, and the deep state were all so closely tied in together.
Singer yells: “Are you all ready to fucking die?” and a bunch of lame shit like that. And hyphey zombie lady was like doing the topless projectile vomit routine to distract everyone. Then all the sudden three mercs dressed in all black walk out and blast everyone with a vacuum photon, cutting them all down like slices of bread.
Suddenly, an alarm went off, and the steel doors slammed shut sideways, sealing.
“This is the deep state. Stay where you are. Do not resist.”
Sherlockda Holme$ and Throatsmasher, blasted their way out through the doors, and fled the bar in their Harley-sub, hooker in tow. Thoatsmasher had found a maiden.
Word about certain weapons getting banned by the deep state was already spreading, causing a big run on them at the rugged barter space. People were so triggered over the issue of the weapons ban controversy, that no one would ever suspect that the deep state was setting everything up like this.
“Where are we going?” asked Throatcrusher.
“To find the real killer, and get that muthafuckin’ bounty dog. You feel me?” replied Sherlockda. “I’m going to Atlantis dog.”
“Are you sure we aren’t playing into the Deep State’s hands Sherlockda?”
“I plan to sleep my way in with the government, and find us some answers G. Then, we’ll make our move dog.”
She allowed Throatcrusher to pick the music this time. He played some Deicide. It went well with he scenery.
