The Fantastic Adventures of Chuck Spunk: Russian Into Trouble

The Fantastic Adventures of Chuck Spunk:

  Russian Into Trouble

  by

  Mark James Wooding

  Copyright 1987 Mark James Wooding

  All rights reserved

  ******

  It was a frosty morning in a remote corner of Russia. We were traveling over wooded hills just north of the Chinese border. My sixth sense said that we were heading into trouble. My seventh sense, which could detect freshly made doughnuts (even through lead), was silent; but my sixth sense sang loud and clear that danger was near.

  I ordered the group to stop and I descended from my rickshaw, gesturing for the rest of the group to stay there and be quiet. I then grabbed my electronic stun rifle and crept through the woods toward the top of the hill which we'd been ascending. I couldn't be too careful on this top secret mission. My group had been hired by Doctors Without Borders to impair the production of Russia's highly effective laxative gas, which the Russians had been using in Chechnya in violation of the Geneva Convention. Some of the volunteer doctors had been hit by the gas, and they didn't want it to happen again.

  Doctors Without Borders didn't have the money to drop us by helicopter into Russia, and we rejected their catapult plan, so we crossed the Chinese frontier in rickshaws, floating them and ourselves on inner tubes at night across the Amur river. It may not have been the most efficient form of transport, but it was cheap, and I had always wanted to ride in a rickshaw.

  Our only serious resistance so far had been from within the borders of China. A group of mercenaries had been hired by the International Toilet Paper Lobby to stop us, but we wiped them up.

  When I got to the top of the hill I halted, muscles tense, ears straining. Looking out from behind a bush I didn't see anything unusual. Summoning a small portion of courage from my among my vast reserves, I moved onwards. Unfortunately, I tripped on my shoelaces and went crashing to the ground, somersaulting over and over until I was halfway down the other side of the hill.

  Face down, staring at the dirt, I realized that I wasn't sure if I'd turned off the stove before leaving my apartment in Dallas. I was sure I'd removed the chicken pot pie because I had had it for dinner that night, but did I leave the stove on? Dang it! I couldn't remember.

  Oh, well. Too late now.

  Then I recalled my mission. With catlike agility I leaped to my feet, tensing my cable-steel muscles, only to find myself face to face with my dreaded archenemy: Colonel Caviar! And surrounding me: the Lemming Patrol! I stood up, holding my gun close to my side as I did so, then nonchalantly slid it behind me, waving my empty hand to distract them. They didn't seem to notice the gun. I looked challengingly into Colonel Caviar's bloodshot eyes. The Colonel stared back.

  “So, Chuck Spunk,” he menaced, “you dare to enter my country illegally once again? When will you learn not to provoke the wrath of the deadly Lemming Patrol?”

  “When I die,” I replied, not blinking.

  “That may be sooner than you think.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “I have orders to kill you and your group. However, I've been granted permission to use you in laxative gas experiments first.”

  My sphincter tightened involuntarily. “So how did you know I was here, Caviar? I find it hard to believe that you're here by chance.”

  “Oh, chance was not involved. Not all of the Doctors Without Borders approved of your activist mission.”

  “That's too bad,” I said. “But I don't think that today is a good day to die. I've got a shampoo and a haircut scheduled at the salon for next week. I'd hate to die not looking my best.” With one motion I leveled my gun at his head and shot point-blank at his face. A wireless electronic stun projectile leaped out at sub-lightning speed and hit him smack in the forehead, causing his fur hat to pop up into the air and delivering an electric shock that rendered him senseless. He staggered backwards and fell down, twitching uncontrollably, but I caught his hat before it landed.

  Without further ado I ran from the shocked Lemming Patrol and sped back to my group, reloading my gun as I ran.

  Many people have questioned my choice of weapon. Years earlier I had found religion, and the principles of non-violence were an integral part of my religion's tenets. But fighting bad guys is what I do, and that made following my religion's tenets to the letter impossible. I wasn't ready to fully embrace the one, and I couldn't give up the other. So as a compromise I switched to a stun gun. The ammunition is a lot more expensive, but I bill the cost to my clients, making price a nonissue. By using the stun gun I hardly ever have to kill people, and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside, which pleases me, but which I would never admit in a casual conversation while drinking beer with the guys.

  I quickly reached the others. The coolies were relaxing under a tree. Professor Liverwort, the famed British Academician, was talking with Tokyo, the great Ninja warrior. My Pekingese attack dog, Black Death, was curled up in his rickshaw and appeared to be sleeping.

  “The Lemming Patrol's after us! Let's get out of here!” I shouted manfully, and not at all like a girl.

  They hurriedly resumed their places and we started forward.

  “The other way! The other way!”

  The four rickshaws had been parked side-by-side on a hill. Simultaneously turning them 180 degrees whilst panicking is a very difficult maneuver, and we failed to execute it intelligently (except for the panicking part). Professor Liverwort stood up and tried to bring some order to the situation.

  “I say, Cheng, stop running into Ching! Chong, back up. No, not into Chang! Straight back! Splendid! Now Chang, go forward and turn around. Chong, you turn around too. Ching, stop kicking Cheng! I bloody well don't care who started it, stop kicking him! Well that's just too-- aaagggh!” he exclaimed as Ching, his driver, flipped the rickshaw over.

  I rushed over to help the professor. After straightening him and his vehicle, I got the party headed in the right direction just as the Lemming Patrol came into view at the top of the hill.

  Black Death's rickshaw quickly took the lead, being the lightest of the group, and I began to lag behind. Glancing back I caught the malevolent glare of Colonel Caviar. He and his dastardly crew, pedaling their single speed bikes with maniacal fury, were gaining on us.

  Sadly for the Colonel and his Lemming Patrol, budgets cuts had had to be made since the fall of the Soviet Union, and bicycles were one of the only modes of transportation that fit within their budget. They could have used skateboards, but according to my sources Colonel Caviar was afraid that no one would take them seriously if the Lemming Patrol used skateboards. On the plus side, since they had started using bicycles they had lost their paunches.

  When I first learned several months back that they were limited to using bicycles I had felt sorry for them, but I wasn't feeling sorry for them now.

  “Faster! Faster! They're catching up!” I yelled to my team. Chang, my driver, gave me a mean look, but he started running faster, so I ignored it. Looking behind me, I saw that our adversaries were getting even closer. Noticing up ahead a large rock outcropping about two stories high and twenty meters wide, I quickly made a plan.

  We rode behind the rocks and I told the group to stop. I jumped out of my rickshaw and ran over to Black Death, then told him what I needed. He complied, running back the way we'd come.

  Black Death, or Blackie, as his friends like to call him, ran straight to the Russians, carrying Colonel Caviar's hat in his mouth. The Colonel brought his bicycle to a leaf-crunching halt, his subordinates
doing likewise. Blackie then turned and ran around the other side of the rock outcropping, and toward our hiding place.

  “If that mangy mongrel ruins my brand new hat I'll be eating dog meat tonight!” Colonel Caviar shouted. “Soaked in vodka and cooked with onions! And potatoes! And cabbage! With some choice seasonings! Brought to a boil and simmered until the meat falls apart at the touch of a fork! That's what I'll do!”

  As I peered around the rock I saw him indulge himself with another scowl, then he and his motley crew raced off after Black Death. I figured that he would because his bald head had to be very cold by this time.

  My team and I prepared for the ambush. I estimated that there were about eight members of the Lemming Patrol, in addition to Colonel Caviar. If Black Death wasn't able to incapacitate any of the Lemmings, that left three apiece for Tokyo, Professor Liverwort and myself. Executing the plan was well within our capabilities.

  Blackie ran just fast enough to stay ahead of them. As per instructions, he led the persistent Lemmings right into our trap.

  I watched from my ambush spot up in a tree as they approached, and I realized that I'd miscounted. I had thought there were only eight of them. There were forty-seven. I froze for a moment (but not in fear, of course), and by the time I had my wits about me again the Lemmings had arrived.

  Tokyo appeared from behind a tree and with a couple of quick jabs had reduced the odds by two; only forty-five to go. I jumped from an overhanging limb onto Colonel Caviar's head, removing him from the fight. Blackie dropped the fur hat, spat out the residual fur, and bit the ankle of the nearest Russian. That Russian lost control of his bicycle and fell over, hitting his head on a rock. Professor Liverwort, wielding Volume 2 of the Oxford Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language, waded into the fray. Unbeknownst to us, however, the insides of that particular tome had been eaten away by enemy bookworms! And they had filled the space with low-fat yogurt! The kind without the fruit! This weapon, upon which we had placed so much hope, took out one of them but was no good thereafter. The Professor was then overpowered by a couple of illiterate brutes, costing us a key element of our offensive strategy.

  By this time our “comrades” had dismounted from their bikes and were fighting us with their deadly ultra-modern FSB designed assault tennis rackets. According to my sources, the reason that the FSB used tennis rackets as a model for this weapon was that they could usually be carried without arousing undue suspicion, and they hoped to be able to strike up conversations with great looking tennis babes.

  Regaining my feet, I threw a hard right punch to one of the Lemmings, who caught it with his face, knocking him out. Then I closed in on another one, giving him a demonstration in the art of Western fisticuffs that left both of us in awe of me. Poor little Black Death wasn't so fortunate. During a valiant leap at one of our opponents he was seized by the tail and dropped into a cloth bag. Tokyo, displaying his superior fighting skills, had overcome three more Lemmings when his blow was blocked with one of their assault tennis rackets. An electric charge was sent through him, shocking him for several seconds. The Lemmings took advantage of his weakness and clobbered him repeatedly with both backhand and forehand strokes. When he fell to the ground he was set upon and tied up.

  After these devastating setbacks I reflected very seriously on the wisdom of continuing my attacks. After considering my options, I summoned up some more of my plentiful courage, then ran away. Arriving at where we had left the rickshaws, neither they nor the coolies were anywhere in sight. Only our luggage remained.

  I spotted my backpack, grabbed it and kept on running. I ran around the rocky outcropping as fast as I could until I had almost completely circled it. Before the Lemmings that were following me could round the corner behind me I dived under a large evergreen, the branches of which extended to the ground. I scooted under as far and as fast as I could, and I hugged the trunk for dear life. There were many such trees nearby, so my hiding place wasn't obvious.

  I heard the Lemming Patrol searching around for me, calling “Ollie ollie in come free!” But I didn't trust them. I stayed put. One of them even moved the branches of the tree under which I was hiding, but apparently didn't see me.

  They eventually took their captives and headed back the way they'd come. I waited a while to be sure they were gone, and then slowly, carefully, came out from under the tree. I didn't want to wait too long because I wanted to follow their trail while it was fresh. I looked around to be sure that they'd left no one behind, but the coast seemed clear.

  I dragged my backpack out from under the tree with me, and I changed from my trench coat and my blue three piece suit into army fatigues and combat boots. I strapped on my razor sharp super kill survival knife, then checked the rest of my supplies. Ammunition: check. Granola bars: check. Rope: check. Toilet paper: check. Victoria's Secret catalog: check.

  That last item was for additional courage. No man wants to fail, but failure in front of a beautiful woman is doubly painful, so I imagined these girls were with me and were always watching. When I ran from the Lemmings it had pained my greatly, but I sent a mental message to the girls that I didn't have a choice. If I didn't save myself I couldn't save my friends.

  Adequately supplied, I went to track my enemies to their unknown destination. I wasn't able to travel as fast as they did, but it was a simple matter to follow the trail of empty vodka bottles that they had left behind.

  When the Cold War came to an end the Lemming Patrol weren't the only ones affected. Budget cuts also left me bleeding, economically speaking. My services as an undercover intelligence agent were no longer needed, but my rent still needed to be paid, and I still needed to eat. So I started my own corporation called Justice Is Served. Drawing on my vast experience in special forces, espionage, and waiting tables, I offered people and groups someone to fight for them against the bullies of the world. Some injustices can be rectified in the courtroom. For those that can't, we step in (for a fee, usually; serving justice for its own sake is all well and good, but the rent still needs to be paid).

  During my time running Justice Is Served I've had the pleasure of working with many great colleagues. Some of them have passed away. Even sadder, some of them are now working retail at discount department stores and coffee shops. But a few of them are still fighting the good fight.

  Before joining our group, Tokyo was using his Ninja skills for a video game company in Japan, seeking trade secrets and eliminating the competition. It left him spiritually empty, and more than a little embarrassed. His work had no honor.

  We met by chance at a food court in a mall in Seattle, waiting in line at Sbarro's Pizza. I asked him if he was going to a costume party in his Ninja outfit, and he told me that he was a corporate Ninja. He explained to me that his job left him unfulfilled, and that he felt there was more important work that he could be doing. I immediately offered him a job, without even checking his references. Sometimes you just have to take a chance when your gut instinct tells you to.

  Professor Liverwort was world famous. He rose through the cutthroat world of literary criticism to become the foremost expert in his field, leaving a trail of wannabes behind. His criticism was biting, yet at the same time so eloquent and lyrical that he was the first critic nominated for the Nobel prize in literature. But it all came crashing to an end when word of an affair with one of his teenage students became public. The girl was nineteen, but the Professor's wife was a mean forty, and she beat the girl and the Professor mercilessly with a cricket bat. It was all captured on video, and after being beaten up by his wife Professor Liverwort couldn't bear to show his face in Oxford or Cambridge again.

  We met at a food court at a mall in Miami, while waiting in line at Chik-Fil-A. I'd heard of his debacle, and although I had laughed heartily about it at the time, I felt sorry for him in person. I wasn't sure what use I could find for him at Justice Is Served, but I couldn't see
letting his talents go to waste. Surely an intellect as bright as his couldn't help but be advantageous to us. I hired him on the spot, and we've been fighting the good fight together ever since.

  The final member of our team was Black Death, my Pekingese attack dog. We met by the dumpster behind the food court of a mall in Atlanta. I was looking for a cardboard box to hold some odds and ends. He was just an abandoned puppy looking for his mother, or for some food, or for a Hollywood producer in search of the next animal star. I took him in and trained him to be the lethal fighting machine that he is today.

  My mind came back to the present, and after several hours I had tracked the Lemming Patrol to their outpost. It was on the largest hill in the area. On its flat summit sat a cubical three story stone building. There was also a road cut into the rock, wrapping its way up and around the steep sides of the hill.

  I thought it best to wait for dark before taking any action, so I settled down to await the fall of night.

  (Elapsed Time)

  When the blanket of darkness had covered me securely, I reviewed my options. The only alternatives were up the road or through the door at the base of the hill. Either way I had to either sneak past the guard or subdue him. Hmmm...

  Moving into a crouch, I crept silently closer to the guard, keeping trees twixt him and me. Using a textbook ruse I tossed a stone towards the bushes several meters in front of him, but my aim was poor and it hit him on the ear. He looked right at me.

  Reacting instantly, I aimed and fired. The electronic projectile shot straight out and sought my foe, but landed in the bushes several meters in front of him. Dammit!

  “Haltsk!” he shouted. “Haltsk or I'll shootsk!”

  I couldn't think of anything else to do, so I threw my gun at him. It hit him square in the face and he sagged to the ground, out cold. I ran over to him, tied his hands and feet, and stuffed his mouth with toilet paper.

  There were actually two doors: a large garage-type door for trucks, and a regular sized door for people. I opened the small door a crack and peeked inside. It was the laxative factory! However, it was well-staffed and there was no way I could have snuck in without being conspicuous. I thought about changing clothes with the guard and trying to bluff my way in, but even so I didn't know what I could have done by myself. I needed to find my friends.

  I dragged the guard into the woods across the road, then tied him to a tree trunk well out of sight of the guard station. I walked back to the door and saw a chair next to