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And now for something completely different.
Tue Apr 28, 2009 8:25pm (XFF:

"Pimps and whores."

The security guard looked up at the delivery man. "What did you just call me?"

The delivery man adjusted his glasses nervously and shrugged. He wore thick horn-rimmed spectacles that gave him the appearance of an overweight Buddy Holly. His ID said JOHN SMITH.

"Where are you heading with that package, Mr. Smith?"

"Kitchen. Got a special order of escargot. Somebody upstairs likes his protein."

The guard looked at the delivery man's box, then back at his ID.

"I'm going to have to call this in."

The delivery man dropped his box on the ground and shouted "Listen, man, I'm just trying to do my job here. Okay? If I don't get these snails to the kitchen ASAP then some fat cat upstairs is going to start PMSing all over the place and then he'll hike the price of KY jelly up a buck and a half. Stock markets will crash, looting will start and before you know it we're all working in a rape factory somewhere. All because some no-nut pig decided to bust my balls. And I say that with all due respect. I don't blame you for being a cog in their machine. I mean, evil's okay in my book. We all gotta suck the pitch black teet now and then, right? Just don't crap in my yard is all I'm saying."

The guard blinked and asked "Are you on drugs, sir?"

Panicked, the delivery man slammed his fist into the throat of the guard, crushing the man's larynx. He then whispered "Shhhh" and stroked the suffocating man's hair. Once the guard was dead, Lawrence Simon Whitman, which was the delivery man's real name, dragged the body into a restricted area beneath the arena floor of the colosseum and began to undress.

Whitman removed his wig, fake mustache and fat suit. Only his horn-rimmed glasses were real. Corrective eye surgery had been perfected over a century ago, but Lawrence Simon Whitman wasn't about to let some quack shoot lasers into his skull.

Whitman could hear the tournament ceremonies begin in the arena above him. Music thrummed down through the duracrete and the muffled roar of the crowd made the fillings in his teeth hurt. There must have been thousands over his head. Tens of thousands.

"PIMPS AND WHORES!" he cried.

Once completely naked Whitman felt comfortable enough to go to work. Through the cramped tunnels beneath the arena he pranced. There wasn't much light there, just enough for him to read the map he'd hastily scrawled on a dirty napkin. The map led him to a point marked A8, and there he opened his box and removed the device.

Less than twenty seconds and it was done. The device was placed, its receiver activated, and Whitman was on his way out. He made his way to the first service hatch he found up to the surface and began to climb.

The audience roared with amusement at the sight of the naked man running across the arena floor. Even in 21XX the mere idea of male nudity in an unexpected place was still considered funny. Lexander Morningstar had just finished giving his speach and groaned inwardly when he realized that the new eruption of applause wasn't for him.

"Pimps and whores!" Whitman screamed at the audience as he jogged, his junk flailing. He then streaked up to Morningstar and shouted "Suck it, rich man!"

Two colosseum security guards tackled Whitman to the ground. It hurt, but he knew it was coming. As they hauled him to his feet and began dragging him off the field, Whitman glanced up at the owners box where all the other blue bloods were gathered. His employer knew that streaking across the arena was his signal that the device had been successfully planted.


NRP - I don't know who this guy works for or what that device does. I'll leave that up to you guys to play with

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