The Second Part of a Serial Adventure, Entitled Jim the hand and the 50 million dollar man

Whadda fuck you assholes want with me? Yous want a piece or what? The half-visioned fiends said nothing but clicks and whirrs and reporting live this is, and then the man came around the corner and went right up to the biggest half-head. He did nothing but grin, showing the big canines and even some molar. The man looked around. He let a weird call escape his rigid features, and his team chased the sound around the market corner.

Gotta watch those ones. Otherwise they'll just watch you. Jim the hand and Marty de Groot stood in awe, wondering just what they had done to merit words from the 50 million dollar man. Both attempted, and failed, to remember the august advice. When the man and his crew started running across the field behind the market they just tried to keep up.

Sidestepping through barbed wire towards the baseball diamond and the pointy knots caught and let go hurting. All tried to climb the bleachers and they too were wired go away. They went over anyway blood dripping. The backstop posed a new challenge as they realized it might not support their combined weight. Jim, the quick one, saw a new way and took it. The rest followed around the side, making for the centre. If they made it to the centre they would be free from the buzz of the half-haves. The wire still resisted them but they had gotten used to it in the evil that is the foreign war and were soon breathing heavy at the door to the centre.

Who has the key? The door is locked. An envelope slid out from under the door and blew down the lot.

Catch the fucking thing! Bred ran after and rolled onto the offending paper.

Whew. Close thing there. He handed the envelope to Marty and backed away, afraid of the information. Marty steadied his hands by contemplating breakfast. Two eggs, sunny, soggy toast and pack of jam, hash browned potatoes, juice, and bad old coffee. He ripped open the package and threw it away in one uncertain motion.

Ya ox! Marty got a whack in the arm. Jim the hand threw himself at the package and grabbed the paper that rose out of it trembling.

Good. Now bring it here. Hmm. You, stay. Jim and Marty looked at each end of the mostly empty parking lot, estimating spaces between minivans. No good. They were forced by the moment to stay attached to the man. Glories voiced on trumpets accompanied the truculent pair as they awaited further explanation.