Chapter 33: Chapter 32 – The Long Road Home

The shooter meets up with the Ryan at their rendezvous point at the Roger Rabbit Ride in ToonTown. There aren’t many park goers left to kill now and the noise in the park is mainly crossfire between the U.S. military fighting the Disney mercenaries. The shooter details the next step of The Plan with Ryan. “I brought some extra gear for our last stand.” He turns the stream off and takes off his welding mask to give to Ryan to wear. “You wear this, and I’ll wear mine, and when we go down, they don’t know who’s who. The world will know you as a fucking legend, like you always have been. Plus, it stops head shots like a motherfucker. I’d know.” The shooter opens his duffel and gives the student his mask. The shooter takes a fresh welding mask from his own bag. 

The willing acolyte holds the battle scarred helmet with awe. “It’s so heavy.”

 “Hell yeah, how do you think I got this thick neck?” The shooter laughs. “Come on, try it on.” Ryan puts the mask on. The shooter helps him adjust the elastic strap that fits under his chin and stretches around to the back of his head. “How’s it feel?” 

“Fucking badass. How do you even see, though?” 

“You’ll get used to it.” Explosions from outside seem to get closer. “Maybe not at this rate. But, I find that the narrow panel of glass focuses everything for me. It takes away all the bullshit. When you look through it, all you see is what you’re aiming at. That’s all you need.” 

“Huh, I see what you mean.” Ryan practices his aim with the pistol the shooter had given him that morning. 

“There you go. Looking good.” The shooter grabs another bullet proof vest from his duffel, and hands it to the college student. “Okay, take a fresh one of these.” Ryan takes off his vest and puts on the fresh one. The shooter pounds him on the shoulder. “Damn, you’re a pro already. Look at this shit, you’re a natural fucking operator.” 

“I learned from the best.” 

“Hey, maybe we shoot our way out of this shit, we can keep taking this show on the road Mexico’s not too far out and I know they’ll be too pussy to follow us down there into Sureño territory. They won’t even know who to follow.” 

A couple of stray bullets rock the outside of the building and dust puffs down from the ceiling. “Okay, we better get to it. We come out the opposite exits, like we talked about— push our way down Roger Rabbit Avenue, and if we can get to that big Mountain mural at the end of the street, we can kick through that shit, and we’re practically on the 405 freeway. If you get out first, don’t wait up. Just get to a safe location and I’ll meet you in Tijuana.” 

“Copy that.” Ryan smiles at the shooter and nods heroically, more sure of himself than he’d ever been in his life. 

They burst out of the Roger Rabbit ride at opposite ends of the building: The shooter at the West End, Ryan at the East, nearer to Roger Rabbit Avenue and the plywood mountain facade painting that held promise of their escape and freedom. 

Ryan has some trouble seeing through the glass slat he’d just coolly celebrated. He can see the clean pavement of the ToonTown street in front of him, with the tram tracks leading toward his goal. On either side of him, the wacky buildings with their fake third floors and sloping walls, built with forced perspective to give the illusion that they go off into the horizon as you walk down the street, are a bit disorienting. Nevertheless, Ryan runs ahead bravely. 

He can hear the screams of bombs in the distance and the echoes of rifle fire not far off, but he cannot detect any present danger. He is incorrect. His inability to recognize the lurking threat in the silent street ahead of him gives him a renewed sense of confidence. He gallops ahead feeling like he’s in an action movie or a really expensive paintball arena. He sticks close to the walls of the buildings, his head leaning towards them like an ostrich with its head buried in the sand, as if subconsciously he’s thinking “if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.” The combination of the welding mask’s glass slat and the walls around him cuts off 75% of his field of vision, but he runs ahead confidently anyway. 

Roger Rabbit Avenue turns a corner as it bends around a water themed playground, and he bends low as he jogs across the street toward it. Based off the map of Disneyland he’d studied religiously in the previous weeks, he estimates that once he gets around the corner he won’t be too far off from the back wall of ToonTown with its plywood mountain facade. 

As he crouches down by a fake stone to check if the coast is clear, a pair of big meaty, gloved claws grip around his kevlar shoulder straps and drag him upward and downwards. The back of his head slaps against concrete. He’s now on the other side of the fake stones, lying on the ground in the vacant line for the water themed playground. 

Dazed, he looks around at whatever could have lifted him. Was it the shooter? A Disneyland ride malfunctioning? (Lawsuit?) Or could it even have been the hands of a guardian angel? All of these thoughts seem to happen simultaneously and instantaneously, but are quickly wiped away by a boot stepping on the glass slat. 

The bottom of the boot fills the rectangular window, and as the glass cracks, Ryan thinks he can see splinters of bone and congealed chunks of viscera stuck between the heavy rubber treads of the boot’s outsole. Ryan squeezes his eyes shut against the shattering glass. Hundreds of shards poke into his face and trickle like sand along the sides of his face, into his ears, and the back of his neck. Sensing no resistance, the boot lifts up, and slams down into the Ryan’s nut sack. White hot pain fills Ryan’s skull and accompanies a muffled pop buried in his underwear and tactical pants. One of his testicles has ruptured. He cries out. The meaty gloved claw reaches down and yanks off the welding mask. Ryan blinks rapidly, tiny bits of glass rubbing against his corneas and eyelids. He peers up at the face of Fritz, who is wearing an expression that almost looks like a smile, but with his teeth parted like a hungry dog, and dark eyes that might as well be looking at a shit stained bed sheet. A voice growls out, “Well look who it is.” 

Ryan has lost all of his bravery and all of his wind. He had expected his last stand to end with a quick, painless death, or with him escaping to Mexico and then eventually returning to see his family a couple of years later after becoming a self actualized, well seasoned, well traveled man. He did not expect to be in some painful conversation with a tough looking adult soldier he’d never met. His brain worked to come up with an explanation and his mouth starts moving but no noise comes out except for some weak mumbling. “M-mm-m-m-mm-mm-”

“You know, I can’t picture the face I’d imagined you’d have, but I know I didn’t think you’d look like such a pussy. I’ll be goddamned.” Fritz spits at the ground next to Ryan’s face. Half of the tobacco stained glob of saliva misses its mark and sticks to the subdued college student’s cheek. 

“I’m not him,” he sputters out. “I’m not who you think I am.”

“What? I finally get the jump on you and now you’re gonna pretend you weren’t playing the game in the first place? You lose. I win. Now, I don’t really give a fuck if you come clean right now, but I’m gonna make you uncle one way or another. And before you do, just know, that I know, it’s you—” Fritz brandishes the ruined welding mask in front of Ryan’s wide eyes, which are now trickling tears of blood from the glass shards. “Because of this shit.” Fritz rips out the gopro camera and its wiring, which the shooter had used to stream his rampages in 4K. “See, I don’t know how they did it, but those computer boys at the FBI got this little guy to act as a tracker on your ass. For quite some time, actually. So you can quit letting out those crocodile tears, now, and save the sob speech. It’s you. And I caught you. And you’ve done enough to embarrass my country that I’m not gonna give you the chance to escape again in the legal system. I’m gonna punish you myself.” 

“But I’m not him.” 

In a flash, the gloved claws grip Ryan’s upper and lower mandibles. One hand pulls down on the lower mandible and jaw, and the other pulls in the opposite direction against the upper mandible. Unbelievable pain shoots through the tendons and connective tissue that attaches the Ryan’s jaw to his skull, and the pain explodes through his face as the corners of his cheeks begin to tear. As the college student’s legs contort toward Fritz, more reflex than defensive maneuver— in a sort of ghastly ab-crunch, Fritz lifts him to his feet, while prying his jaw open, far past its maximum fulcrum. Something snaps next to Ryan’s ear and his jaw opens even farther, and it no longer feels like he’d have the ability to shut it again on its own power. 

Fritz slams Ryan, gaping mouth first, onto a fake bamboo resin handrail, placed there to divide the line for the aquatic themed jungle gym. He holds Ryan’s head there, so that Ryan is “biting” the rail. Fritz produces a thick black zip tie and ties his prisoner’s wrist cruelly, cutting off their circulation. “Spread ‘em.” Ryan spreads his feet apart, while groaning into the fake bamboo, his teeth already stuck in the crevices they've made in the resin. Fritz uses more large zip ties to bind his victim’s ankles to the support under the bamboo hand railing. He surveys his handiwork and notices Ryan’s now purple hands dangling limply against his lower back, covering the seat of his pants. “Something’s not right here.” 

Ryan finds the strength to whip his head back, leaving a couple of his teeth in the resin as he does so and shouts out a stream of verbal diarrhea, “Yes. I’m not the shooter! He gave me the mask. I can help you find him.” His speech comes out bungled and ragged. A rough claw slams his face back into the handrail, and another claw helps his loose jaw under the rail to grip it again. 

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“No… I don’t give a fuck about that. I meant something’s not right with your body positioning. How am I supposed to rape your ass while your hands are blocking it?” He grabs Ryan’s hands and savagely pulls them up and towards the back of his head, rotating them towards the front of his body on their axis. Ryan screams into the handrail. 

Fritz whispers hot breath into his ear. “You’re not double jointed in the shoulders, are you?” He then yanks the Ryan’s wrists up and over his head and then down in front of his body, so they hang in front of him. There’s a sickening pop as his shoulder joints come out of their sockets. “Now you are.” Fritz laughs a humorless laugh as he zipties Ryan’s wrists in front of him. “See, that’s better. Now I got nice and easy access to your sweet boy pussy.” His prey is still screaming into the pole. “See, you humiliated me when you kept getting away. You humiliated my brothers in arms. You humiliated my country. So, now, I’m going to humiliate you.” 

Fritz takes his detachable penis out of his bag. He waves it in front of Ryan’s bulging eyes. “Big, ain’t it? You ever stick a finger up yourself? This may be as big as…” Fritz feels the college student’s fingers as he approximates “…all ten of yours put together, and then add your arm.” Fritz squeezes the fingers and they break like a bundle of twigs. Ryan has screamed so much that his vocal cords are ragged and the sound they produce for a scream now just sounds like a paper bag being torn in half. 

Fritz chuckles to himself as he unbuckles the belt around his tactical cargo pants. He brings them down below his knees, then takes them off entirely, slipping them off his boots without untying them. He takes off his underwear next, the same way, without taking off his boots. He’s naked from the waist down, besides his boots, and the metallic array of gears and circuits where his cock used to be. He fastens the detachable penis to the connector with a satisfying click. “You see, some guys in the service, they can fuck with their pants almost all the way on. They just unzip and take their cock out and do their thing. They feel safer that way. They don’t like getting exposed to the elements or having their backsides vulnerable to rear attacks, lest a hostile sneaks up while they’re in the middle of getting their nut, and the rapist becomes the raped. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times. Done it myself, even. To someone else, of course, no- no, my back entrance has yet to be penetrated, but god damn me if I can’t cum without the feeling of the breeze against my asshole. Maybe it’s the thrill of the risk… the possibility of becoming the spoils of war. I don’t think that’s going to happen to me today. We’re at Disneyland after all and I got the baddest motherfucker here bent over a handrail. So, I’ll take my chances.” 

Ryan lets out more muffled, ripped paper bag screams and tries to loosen his teeth from the resin railing again. “You’re probably wondering why I haven’t taken off your pants yet. Why tell you, when I can just show you?” Fritz presses a copper button at the base of his cyborg cock, and it glows a bright angry red. He puts one of his claws on Ryan’s left shoulder, and another around the love handle above his right. Ryan struggles and thrashes against the zip ties, but his movements are completely futile. Fritz whispers in his ear, “Now, now, just try to enjoy it. You won’t be on the perceiving side of existence for much longer.” 

Fritz presses the end of his robo-phallus against the seat of his victimt’s pants. He rubs the tip around the crack area until he approximates the location of the college student’s asshole, the way a porn star would rub his cock around the opening of a wet pussy to tease his partner and the camera before inserting it into the main hole. “I can already tell you’re as tight as a two year old.” Fritz presses the metallic dildo inwards, slowly at first, and then with more steady force. The fabric of Ryan’s pants is pressed inward along with it, so the area around the cock starts to look like a whirlpool of urban camo. Ryan has stopped screaming, and now just wheezes in and out, rapidly. Fritz goes to town.

After Fritz has finished, most of Ryan’s pants are inside of his rectum, twisted up grotesquely from the force of his rapist’s thrusting. They’ve soaked up a decent amount of the blood from his anal bleeding, but dark black blood drops continue to drip onto the pavement between Ryan’s shoes. His pale calves are beginning to turn blue. Fritz puts his own pants back on and surveys his work. A fissure has been created, starting at the small of Ryan’s back, and leading up his spine to his lower rib cage. Blood is pooling along this crevice. Fritz rips the shirt from his victim’s broken torso. The fissure starts in his asshole and leads up. Ryan has literally been split in half from Fritz’s pounding. Between the organs, blood, and torn sinew, you can look through the two halves of the college student’s body. 

Fritz wipes his detachable cock clean and puts it back in his duffel bag. He’s about to head out, then hesitates for a moment. He sets his duffel back on the ground and removes his revolver from its holster on his belt. “They’re probably gonna try to study you after all this smoke clears up. Try to analyze your brain or something. See what makes you tick. See what made you go out and kill all those damn people. They’ll try to find a scientific explanation for you. When you and I both know the reason.” Fritz spits on the red, wet ground. “I’m not letting you get off that easy.” Fritz approaches the hand railing the no longer living college student has been crucified on, and wields the heavy butt of his revolver like a club. He picks a spot on the top of the dead body’s skull and hammers away. 

After a few dull cracks, bits of skull chip off to reveal the translucent sac protecting Ryan’s quieted brain. Fritz keeps hammering until larger segments of skull crack and he peels them off and tosses them away like shards of a broken flower pot. The membrane encased brain is now available to Fritz, as it sits in the bowl formed by whatever is left of Ryan’s head. Fritz grabs it tight with his unarmed hand and rips it out with bundles of nerves, sinews, and membrane. He comprehends it for a brief moment, looking back and forth at it and the body it came from, unsure “who” or “what” to address. 

He settles on the organ in-hand to direct his final diatribe. “You fucking piece of shit. God damn you. Consider yourself brought to justice for crimes against the United States of America, may She live forever.” Fritz slams the brain on the ground and it makes a wet thwack as it hits the pool of blood forming under the ziptied corpse. It bounces once, then slides a couple of feet. Fritz stomps on it with a heavy boot. And stomps on it again and again, until it’s mashed enough for him to grind it under his heel and smear it across the ground in a pale gray paste. “You’ll rot in Hell and in infamy forever.” When he’s satisfied, he cleans the bottom of his boot by sliding it up and down on the concrete edge of a planter, like you’d clean off dog shit. He picks up his bag again and heads toward the plywood mountain facade, the feeling of a day’s hard work accomplished swelling in his breast as the sun warms his back. 

#

Earlier, as Ryan ran out of his end of the Roger Rabbit Ride, toward his grisly doom, the shooter ran out the opposite exit, and instead of making his own stealthy path toward the mountain facade, as they’d planned, he doubles back to the wooded area between ToonTown and the It’s a Small World ride. 

He strips the heavy welding mask off of his face and puts it in his backpack. He removes the bullet proof vest and tosses it into the artificial river at the border of ToonTown. He finds cover in a bush and then clobbers himself in the eye with the butt of his pistol until it swells shut. He tucks the pistol into his back pocket and feels warm blood trickle into his eye where the bruise is forming. He rips his shirt collar and rubs dirt into his pants and the fabric of his shirt. He takes off his boots then sprints toward the It’s a Small World ride. 

The park is almost all empty now and the U.S. military is doing a final clean up before the search and rescue missions begin. The Disney mercenaries have been defeated, some of them are being arrested, brought in for questioning and recruitment to other paramilitary organizations if they’d shown promise during the earlier battle. Some are shot just for the fun of it. The shooter has his hands up as he runs. He sees a small outfit of exhausted looking U.S. soldiers. He runs across the path perpendicular to their own, pretending not to see them. He lets them yell “Stop! Hands up now, motherfucker,” at which point he drops to the ground and spreads his hands and feet apart. 

The black pavement is hot on his cheek. One of the soldiers yells as they approach him, “Weapons down. What the Hell are you doing running around out here? Where the fuck are you going?” 

The shooter yells, “I was being held hostage by the shooter. I’m scared.” 

The soldier yells back, “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em. Why were you running?” 

“He was going to kill me. He could still be out there. Please protect me.” 

The soldier notices the pistol sticking out of the back of the shooter’s pants, and yells to his cohorts, “He’s got a gun. Stay alert! He’s armed.” He addresses the shooter, less loudly, “I’m gonna need you to cross your fingers behind your head, as slowly as you can.” The shooter complies. “Slower!” The lead soldier keeps his rifle aimed at the shooter as he nods for another soldier to approach. That soldier yanks the pistol from the shooter’s back pocket and tosses it to another soldier, who catches it and examines it. The soldier by the shooter handcuffs his wrists. 

The lead soldier calls out, “What the Hell were you doing with a gun? How did you get that shit in here?” 

The shooter swallows and closes his eyes. “It’s a very long story and you’re probably going to want to kill me, but the shooter brought me here with him to try to make me his accomplice. I refused to help him and he tried to kill me. I barely escaped with my life. Could you please bring me to safety?” 

The soldiers glance at one another, unsure. “You seem really fucking calm.” 

“I’m just glad to be out of his control. I’m worried I might be injured and in need of some medical attention.” 

The lead soldier gets distracted by a bird flying overhead. He looks at the shooter again, his tousled brown hair that looks like his son’s. He presses his ear piece. “We found someone, bringing him to the medical tent. Possible witness or suspect.” The corner of the shooter’s mouth twitches imperceptibly. He’s won.

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