Dragon

[DerVVulfman]

Chapter Fifteen
Pure Skumm

Vellerton, Utah. Wednesday, 1:01 AM. The mission was about to begin. The VSO van held Hunt, Becky, Emerson, Pastula, two no-names and (of course) Dr. Damien Roberts. Hunt was looking over Roberts’s notes. Even he looked a little surprised at the information they contained. But he didn’t argue.

“The target this time, Dragon, is not a random police officer. The objective is not to sabotage a trial. This time, your mission is to dispose of pure scum,” said the doctor. “This individual is so reprehensible, he calls himself Pure Skumm. He’s all alone in that abandoned tenement. He is your only target.

“Who is this man?” Becky asked apprehensively.

Hunt answered. “He’s a white-supremacist asshole with connections to drug smugglers. Unusual for these supremacists. Most of them stay clear away from drugs. Not good for the ‘purity’ of his race. But this guy deals in PCP. Very abnormal guy. Not nice. You’d better be careful in there. When you see him, burn him real fast.”

“Crispy cracker-time,” Emerson spat.

“He owns the building,” Roberts added, “and they’ll be numerous rooms he may be in. I’ve been tracking his movements. He recently made it home. He’s all yours,” he told Becky. “You’ll do fine. Are you ready?” The van door was open.

“No,” she replied. “I’m no killer.”

“Become one,” Roberts said. “No more pacifism. This is where you deliver. I’m not going to threaten your relatives this time, but if you delay beyond the half-hour mark, or if you try to bold, Emerson and Pastula will kill you and Pure Skumm.”

“You’ve always wanted me alive,” Becky countered.

“If you won’t use those beautiful powers, your life is valueless.”

Becky could only play along, for now. “All right. Am I doing this alone?”

“Don’t be foolish. Emerson and Pastula are coming inside for insurance. They’ll be monitoring you. The rest of us will watch the building. That front door is the only way in or out. Pure Skumm must die. Kill him.”

Reluctantly, she stepped out of the van. She looked back at Hunt.

“You’ll be all right, Fox,” he said. “But he’ll be armed, so...”

“That’s no problem,” she said quietly. “I’m packing plenty of heat.”

Roberts smiled for the first time in ages. “That’s the right attitude. You go inside first. The soldiers will follow. Don’t get shot. You’re still human, you know.”

“Let’s KILL that @#$%ing cracker!” Emerson jumped out of the van, followed by Pastula. What the hell am I gonna do now? Becky wondered. The doc’s trying to make it easy for me by having me kill a total scumbag. This guy’s probably killed a few people himself. But that doesn’t make it any easier for me. What if Roberts is lying about Pure Skumm? He might not even be--

Pastula cleared his throat and waved his arm in the direction of the house. “Sometime this century?” He asked her sarcastically.

“Stop stallin’, Foxy,” Emerson said. “Just roast his ass.”

Becky walked about a hundred feet to the house entrance. Emerson and Pastula kept a distance of fifty feet. She moved the doorknob slightly. It was locked. Flicking her fingers, she melted the lock and entered the Pure Skumm residence.

The place was dilapidated, with drug paraphernalia, fascism pamphlets and German magazines scattered about. The lighting was equally poor, at least the downstairs. She could hear at least two separate radios blasting upstairs. Emerson pointed at her to walk upstairs (as silently as possible). “Are you guys coming?” Becky whispered.

“Maybe we are, maybe we’re not,” Pastula sneered before getting elbowed in the gut by Emerson.

“Never mind us, Foxy. Just light up the bastard. I’d love to waste him right now, but this is your initiation.” Emerson pointed up. “Follow the bad music.”

She reached the second floor, slowly moving from empty room to empty room, losing track of her VSO escorts. The music grew louder as she continued searching. All the windows in the house appeared to be boarded.

One of the radios suddenly stopped playing.

Becky froze.

A toilet flushed two rooms away.

It was then that Becky saw Pure Skumm. He walked quickly out of the nearby bathroom and sit roughly on the adjacent Nazi-flag bed. He was bald, big and Aryan-looking. His face looked perpetually-pained, like a gigantic hemorrhoid. He was 250 pounds of unadulterated “don’t-mess-with-me.” He had next to him at least two automatic rifles.

And he was smoking.

I can’t kill him, Becky thought nervously. Maybe I should, but I can’t. We’ve got to team up, or we’re both dead. She entered his bedroom.

Pure Skumm eyed her approach instantly and sprang up, but didn’t draw any weapons. He jumped forward, just a few feet away from her. “WHO? WHO? WHO? WHO? WHO” he demanded furiously, almost spitting.

Oh, God! Becky thought. “M-Mister Skumm?”

“ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! WHO? WHO? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?” he shouted.

“Mr. Skumm, my name is Becky Fox, and you’ve gotta listen to me” she hissed urgently. “You’re life’s in danger! There are men--”

“BECK! BECK! BECK! BECK! BECK!” he barked. “FOX? FOX? HOUND-DOG!!! LIFE, MEN, LIFE, MEN, LIFE, MEN?” He didn’t advance ore retreat. “BEER?”

“Do you understand me? Men are coming to kill you! They--”

“KILL! KILL? KILL! KILL? KILLA BE KILLED! KAY-KAY-KAY, WATDYASAY! YOU! WANNA JOIN? KILL-KILL?” He smiled evilly. “JOIN? BECK?”

“Please listen to me! You’ve got--”

The second radio was turned off... from the other room forty feet away. “SKUMM, WE’VE GOT COMPANY!!” shouted an unknown male voice.

Becky turned to the door, panicking. Private Pastula was racing down the hall, eyes bulging, running out of the darkness, two fiendish-looking tasers charged to fatal. “FOX! QUIT PLAYING WITH YOURSELF!” He screamed. “KILL HIM RIGHT NOW!!”

Pure Skumm leaped forward, seizing Becky by the hands, and using her as a shield. At the same moment, ten machine-gun bullets tore through Pastula’s body with terrifying ease, dropping him in his tracks. He fell dead.

Becky screamed. Now would’ve been an excellent time to turn on the flames, but-- of all the crappy bad luck-- Pure Skumm’s vice-like grip on her hands prevented her from finger flicking. She looked at the doorway, shocked.

A woman appeared... Pastula’s killer. Like Pure Skumm, she was a skinhead. She sauntered in, armed with a machine-gun and dangling a cigarette from her mouth. Apart from the haggard look on her face from drugs and violence, she didn’t look that much older than Becky.

“KILL! KILL!” Skumm greeted her, firmly gripping the fingers of the impotent Dragon.

“Yeah! Yeah!” The woman inspected Pastula’s shot-up body with a solid kick, then glared at Becky. “Who the @#$% is this? Skumm, you been cheatin’ on me? What the @#$% is going on--”

More gunshots occurred. This time from someone’s Colt-45. Becky heard Private Emerson scream.

Once.