Aug. 2nd, 2011

Night 0101

Aug. 2nd, 2011 11:01 pm
They brought the drones in for a landing on the White House lawn. The wounded drone was audible even from inside the man-cave; it sounded like a buzz-saw, and the bad rotor engine intermittently stalled and restarted, making it sound like it was communicating a distress signal in Morse Code. As soon as Flynn's drone landed it fell over; the mangled kickstand was effectively gone.

The pilots headed outside to check out the damage – Rutt fuming silently, Flynn and Tubbs feuding actively, and the rest staying out of the way.

"You're a fuckin' liar!" shouted Tubbs. "I didn't drift into you; you dropped down onto me!"

Flynn chose the tack of the aloof professional. "It was windy and it was hard to hold station," he said. "Nobody's blaming you for what happened. But a wind gust will force a bird up, not down." Slate looked like he wanted to say something, but fortunately he didn't.

The broken drone smelled terrible; something was burning up in the windings. Gus, who apparently worked in an aircraft repair shop, began trying to figure out how to pry the engine cowl loose. Flynn checked out his own drone. It was intact but leaning on its rotor blades. Its one working leg stuck out pathetically. "Now you're a gimp like me," murmured Flynn.

Rutt was upset at Tubbs. "I told you not to fuck up my drone, Arizona," he said dangerously.

Tubbs had had enough. "Well, you shouldn't have hired so many Texan fuckups, Texas!" Tubbs spat back.

Cool as a cucumber, Rutt swung his putter like a baseball bat. It contacted Tubbs just above the temple, and he sagged to the ground. Rutt straddled Tubbs and brought the club down on the back of Tubbs' head again and again, at least a dozen times. When he was done, Tubbs was a bloody and unmoving mess, and Rutt, oddly, was whistling and happy again. Rutt stepped away, spinning the putter in his hand, and Gus and Ernest ran to check out Tubbs.

"He's still breathing," said Ernest.

Gus stared at Rutt. "Jesus, man," he whined.

"What?" said Rutt. "He was pissing me off."

"You almost killed him," said Ernest.

"What's he gonna do?" said Rutt, looking out over the river with the club held behind his back. "I've got two hundred million dollars."

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