6 DEGREES OF DECAPITATION
CHAPTER 6: REVENGE OF THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES
The following story is a poorly written satire or parody, and everyone and everything in it is fictional, especially the real people mentioned, so don't bother suing me.
"GiGi," I said putting Chompy's official Sony Brand Rocket Launcher back in its case. "When someone is trying to kill you with every silly and melodramatic means available, you don't no tell them that there's a tank outside when it's only a water tank truck."
We were standing in the parking lot outside Chompy's office at Sony Pictures busy talking in front of the wreckage of the water tank truck I had blown up with Chompy's rocket launcher. We should have been getting some dirty looks from the truck's Teamster, but giving dirty looks to non-studio employees was left out of his contract, so he just took the pay-off from Chompy and left.
"Well your friend didn't have to bit me," snapped GiGi.
"He's a badger," I answered, "it's what badgers and studio executives do. Besides it's just a nip, you should have seen what he did to Andy Dick?"
"What did he do to Andy Dick?"
"Ate his brain."
"How does anyone know the difference?"
Ba-Dum-Dum-Tish!
"Put the drum set away Chompy," I said, "we've got a map to find and some serious harshness to dole out."
Chompy snickered and rubs his paws together with glee. His days as a studio suit, though well paid, just didn't fulfill his need for carnage. Something this case was promising to deliver in spades.
"Start the car toots," I said to GiGi, who responded with a girlish giggle. "We're heading to Beverly Hills."
The drive to Beverly Hills was uneventful, full of the familiar sights of Southern California: sunshine, sand, palm trees, and people with too much money and too little sense.
"Where exactly is the next part of the map?" asked GiGi.
"It's in a boutique called Cette Merde est Chère," I said, "just turn onto Rodeo Drive and it should be right there."
It was right there, but so was the SWAT team from the Beverly Hills Police Department. You could tell that it was the BHPD because their body armor was made by Versace, and their M-16s were gold plated. They had our little boutique surrounded with their extra-pimped out Lexus patrol cars and Land Rover Paddy Wagons.
"Wait here," I told GiGi and Chompy, "I'll go find out what's happening."
I got out of the car and went to the SWAT commander, a tall police Captain in a Giorgio Armani uniform.
"What's happening?" I asked.
"Paris Hilton's inside and she won't come out," answered the Captain.
"Gee," I said, "can't you get her out, I really need to find something in there."
"Sorry," answered the Captain. "She's a celebrity with a gun, we're stymied."
"You're not taking me alive coppers!" screamed Paris from inside the boutique while letting out a burst of machine gun fire. Windows shattered, holes were punched into cars, and several rich people, not smart enough to run for cover, were smacked into hamburger. "All I did was drive recklessly, you're all being mean to me!"
"Sweet zombie Jayzuz," I said, "where the hell did she get a machine gun?"
"AK-47s are the latest accessory," said the police captain. "They're the new chihuahua."
"I thought adopted 3rd world children were the new chihuahua?"
"They were," answered the Captain, "now it's assault weapons."
"Sounds dangerous," I said.
"It sure is," said the Captain. "We lost Nicole Richie last night."
"Homicide? Accident?"
"Her gun weighed more than she did and crushed her."
"Yikes," I said.
Another burst of fire came from the store, taking down some more bystanders determined to not let violence stop them from shopping. I crouched low and got back to GiGi's car.
"It's bad," I said. "Paris Hilton's got the shop all locked up."
"How do we get her out?" asked GiGi.
Then Chompy poked me with his claw. I turned to see him pointing excitedly.
He was pointing at our salvation.
Naomi Campbell was walking down Rodeo Drive, an M-60 heavy machine gun draped over her shoulder, oblivious to the armed standoff and flying bullets.
"GiGi," I said, "I need your cell-phone."
GiGi reached into her ample cleavage and pulled out a cellphone.
"Thanks," I said and quickly dialled Naomi Campbell's number.
"Hi Naomi," I said, "it's Furious D, did you know that Paris Hilton just called you a bitch."
Suddenly the roar of the gunfire was drowned out by a howl of rage. Naomi charged the boutique, her eyes ablaze, and her claws out. She didn't bother opening the door, preferring to just plow through the wall.
"Now that's cruel," said GiGi.
"Sometimes the ends justify the means," I replied.
There were some screams, some shots, and then Paris Hilton flew out of the store and came to a crashing thud on the hood of a police Lexus.
"Paris Hilton," said the Captain as he took out his gold plated handcuffs with the faux-fur comfort lining. "You're under arrest for probation violation, and six counts of first degree murder. You're gonna do 50 days in jail and have to pay a hefty fine."
"Why are you being so mean to me?" howled Paris as she was placed in the back of the Lexus.
"Let's go," I said, "Naomi's going to be coming down, it'll be safe for a while."
We went into the boutique, Naomi had been distracted from her rage by a new shipment of handbags, and sure as shooting we found the map. It was tacked to the cash register, right next to the celebrity bum-check list.
"What does it say?" asked GiGi.
"It says," I answered, "that the next part of the map lies in the heart of darkness itself."
"You're not saying..."
I nodded.
"Skywalker Ranch, here we come."
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