Die Super-Crazy Hard
I hear shots being fired somewhere in the hotel. I’m
already in the ventilation shaft trying to get a peek
if anyone in another room has ordered anything good on
pay per view.
I crawl through the vents and park myself in a spot
where I see all the other guests huddled into a large
conference room by masked gunmen. With a number count
of terrorists and hostages, I’m able to phone the
hostage negotiator outside and give him the
information. When he hears the numbers, he tells me I
can’t be serious. I tell him over and over again,
“Listen you idiot, the count is right!” I ask for his
badge number, and I even go as far as to tell him that
I’m going to have his job for this. Later, I realize I
had informed him there were 264 terrorists to only 5
hostages instead of the other way around.
I return to my spot in the vents to make another
count. This time I tally only the sexy women
hostages.
I make a phone-friend who is a policeman on the ground
outside. I ask when the SWAT team is planning on
storming the building. He tells me to hold tight.
According to him a lot of people stuck in the hotel
are depending on me, and a lot of the police outside
are pulling for me. I may have lost some of that
support when I tell him to mark my words, “I will
start blowing away the hostages one by one myself
unless the cops get in fast to rescue me.” Not sure
if he could make out what I said clearly though as a
pornographic film was blaring pretty loudly in the
background on pay per view.
Taking matters into my own hands. I manage to find a
walkie-talkie one of the terrorists left in the men’s
room. I radio in my best terrorist accent: “Okay boys,
this is your terrorist leader and it is okay to stop
the terrorism and head home now.” They don’t fall for
it. Some guys trace the signal and come after me guns
blazing. The bullets shatter glass all over the floor,
which makes me realize it was a bad decision to have
taken off my sneakers and socks in an effort to feel
more at home. I dive into a back room out of sight,
safe and sound. I can hear the terrorists though,
asking each other why I am not wearing any pants.
Again, I try to say that this was just a comfort
issue, but the jerks start firing at me again drowning
out my explanation.
I fight a terrorist, and I end up hanging this guy by
a chain in the storage area. I leave him for dead.
Later on he comes up to me with a gun. I’m like, I
thought you were definitely going to die on that
chain. He’s like, so did I. We both start cracking up.
Just one of those weird moments in life, you know? I
ask him how he got out. He says he has just always
been really good at getting out of chains. I start
calling him David Blaine. He thinks that is a cool
nickname. We call a truce and say from now on we’re
cool. We go to a big suite and watch an Ultimate
Fighting match on Pay Per View and end up settling on
a pornographic film involving nurses.
Need to look for a pair of pants.
What luck! I stumble upon several sticks of dynamite.
I toss it down the elevator shaft and kill two
terrorists. It was just a goof, something I always
wanted to do: throw dynamite down an elevator and see
what happens. Of course, cops outside are saying I’m
a renegade, a liability, a genuine pain in the ass. To
prove them wrong, I radio in the good news about the
two guys I killed. The negotiator gets on the line,
red-hot mad, and he rips into me. I give it right back
to him, saying mean stuff about his mother. Later, I
realize I told him I had exploded two hostages when I
meant to say terrorists.
I chase down the terrorist leader. I plan to hold him
captive until he reveals his evil plans to me. He
begins to cry. So pathetic. I have to laugh. Later,
I am told by police that the person I mistook for the
terrorist leader was in fact a small boy. At best,
the police said they would characterize him as a
toddler in their reports. I asked them to note that
the boy was big for his age though, and surprisingly
hard to body slam.
The truce is broken when David Blaine accuses me of
only befriending him to steal his pants. We fight
again, and this time I end up blowing him up with a
tremendous amount of dynamite. This is no way for a
friendship to end–and his pants are too charred to
salvage.