Nerd / The Nerd, Session One

C. J. was rushing through the dirty back alley with his thoughts focused strictly on the mission at hand, i.e. the sculp worth $2,000. He passed a row of windows in a cautious manner and knelt behind the garbage can. This was the kingdom of rats and cockroaches indeed. On the previous day C. J. had picked up the clue about a cocaine trade taking place behind the Domino’s at Beach Boulevard. Now here was his chance to catch the wanted gang member “Sweet” Mendez red-handed. C. J. searched through his arsenal of guns and was disappointed to learn the SMG had run out of ammo.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself and then grasped the sawn-off shotgun instead. “This is gonna be messy.”

Lacking an actual plan C. J. was merely observing his surroundings and listening to the constant noise of traffic coming from Beach Boulevard. So far, nothing unusual on the alley. C. J. had always thought of himself as a man of direct action who trusted above all his own senses. When it came to today’s gig, he didn’t have anything against “Sweet” Mendez personally. Even though they preferred different-colored bandanas. It was really just about the money.

Suddenly C. J. noticed two people dressed in bright blue polo shirts entering the alley from the opposite end. They stayed a few hundred feet away from C. J. and appeared to have a relaxed chat. The other guy was carrying a backpack and had turned his back on him. C. J. tried his best to identify the two men with the aid of a blurry photo, squinting his eyes. Could this one really be “Sweet” Mendez? However, the man was avoiding to show his face to C. J. almost as if he did it on purpose. You could certainly smell a rat here.

Relying purely on his instincts C. J. turned to glance back just a moment before the gun fired at the exact location, where the back of his skull had been a second ago. Without further ado, he blasted his shotgun straight at the chest of the gang member who flew on his back on the asphalt. Luckily for him, C. J.’s trigger finger had always been somewhat itchy. Behind the fallen gang member another one was already rushing towards him shooting the magazine’s worth of bullets in the air. Also the two men previously doing business at the end of the alley had reached for their SMGs and were now sending bursts of gunfire at C. J.

With the adrenaline rush boosting his performance, C. J. crashed through a nearby garage door while masterfully dodging the bullets that were flying all around the alley. “I would’ve been hot in the 60’s Western scene, fo sho,” he thought to himself as he pushed his back against the garage wall. Meanwhile, the wounded gang member had stood up, shakily, so C. J. emptied the shotgun’s barrel at him once again. This time the guy stayed on the ground not moving a muscle.

Another burst of gunfire forced C. J. to retreat back to the shelter provided by the garage. He scanned the room in order to find some kind of escape from the dreadful situation but soon realized that he was trapped inside like a rat. A sudden clink, and before C. J. had time to process what was going on, a flashbang went off. With his ears ringing he crouched in the corner shooting blindly in every possible direction.

Then another blast followed and C. J. collapsed on the garage floor covered in blood. He watched as the brown leather boots and white sneakers stormed inside the room. Soon after it all went dark.

“OH FUCK!” Fronk yelled pulling off the headphones and accidentally knocked an empty can of energy drink off his desk, which ended up on the vinyl flooring of the studio. It was almost 3 a.m. already. But he wasn’t really feeling the slightest bit tired yet.

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