Authors notes: plans didn't fall through tonight as expected, and the weekend looks really busy, so a late night cram session it is. This will probably be a train wreck. Super early rough draft, will probably come back and edit it, maybe even re-write it from scratch if I grow to hate it. I'll leave all versions up for educational purposes. It will be fun to see how things evolve. Paragraph tabs don't work on the forum, so I'm just doing a double return between them.
Chapter 1.
As I drive east down the quiet two lane road on this brisk early summer morning I adjust the sun visor to keep the rising sun out of my eyes and turn on the car's heater. The night chill is still in the air and the frost glints off the grass along side the road. I couldn't help thinking to my self, frost? In June? Yep, still in Wisconsin. Probably be over 80 degrees by lunch time too. And to top it all off, I'm probably going to get shot.
Well, not really. Eh, that's not right either since it's technically really getting shot, but not like a bad kind of shot. Not a good shot, no not at all, but not a deadly kind of getting shot. Don't worry, it will all make sense eventually.
I pull into Crazy Charlie's Combat Paintball (see, told ya), and park my car up by the rickety old registration building. It's early enough that the only people here are a teenager who works as a referee and of course crazy old Charlie.
As I exit my car Charlie approaches and says "Well gosh darn it, is that Ricky Irons? Heck, haven't seen you in fricken years!" Charlie has the unfortunate combination of a personality that wants to swear like a sailor, but a job where he's often supervising impressionable youths. So while at the field he tends to talk like a rated R movie that's been edited for television.
"Hey Charlie, love what you've done with the place" I reply. This old paintball field has been owned by half a dozen different people since the mid 80's. Once Charlie took over he leaned into the acronym CCCP and redecorated the whole place with old Soviet era surplus. Even kitted out half his Tippmann rentals to look like AK-47's. Kind of ironic since no one likes to make a buck more than Charlie, but the irony is half the fun.
"So, how's the private investigator gig been treating ya?" inquired Charlie.
"Pretty good," I answer, "been keeping me busy, hence I haven't made it out to play in way too long of time."
"Well," Charlie responds, "today will probably be a fricken slow day, not expecting many for open play. Got that big scenario game tomorrow, so everyone is going to show up then. Just a few private rental groups scheduled today."
"That's why I'm here," I say, "I need to get into your 8am group. It's for a case."
"Hmmm..." he pondered. "Rules state that private groups are as private as they want to be. Can't force them to let you in." Like all good field operators Charlie believed that rules of the field were sacrosanct, especially the rules he made up.
"Oh, it shouldn't be an problem," I say with a sly grin.
"Alright, just don't go over shooting the newbies," he says.
"Dude, it's me." I say slightly insulted.
I have about an hour before the group arrives so I go back to my car to check my notes. The target is one Chad Brody, age 31. I was hired by his employer's insurance company to investigate his workman's comp claim. He says he slipped on some negligently dropped bubble wrap in the shipping department and now he can't do his job due to an assortment of back, neck, and leg injuries, and is threatening to sue for "pain and suffering." According to his Facebook posts he's coming here for his cousin's bachelor party and is going to, and I quote, "Pwn all U N00bZ with My kick A$$ Gat". Not sure if he was being ironic or not, but I hate him already. He bought his own gear for the occasion, and looking at his pictures it's something I haven't seen in years, a Tippmann A5 with a Spec Ops M249 SAW body kit. Heh, nifty. I wonder where he managed to dig up one of those? Not particularly practical, takes a good reliable and affordable gun and makes it 3 times as heavy, harder to maintain, doesn't improve performance one iota, and he probably way overpaid for it. Honestly not particularly better than Charlie's rentals.
I go to the trunk of my car to gather some gear. I need to fit in with this group, so my old tournament gear won't work. Charlie wouldn't want me hosing down the rentals with my electros anyways. Old school autococker? Nah, not newbie enough. Stock class pump? Heck no, renters tend to think you're some kind of elite "sniper" when you show up with one of those. Now I don't technically have a Tippmann to match what the group will be using, but that old BT-4 Combat I picked up a while back should be close enough. A basic camo BDU jacket over my t-shirt and jeans, some hiking boots, and a baseball cap turned backwards under my old mask completes the look. I grab a couple of GoPros and set aside their proper mounts and instead I rather clumsily use zip-ties to attach one to the side of my mask and one to the barrel of my gun. I find Charlie at the registration shack and sign in, paying full price for entry and a full case of paint though I doubt I'll need it all. I make sure to get a receipt to properly bill my client.
The group arrives, looks like eleven people ranging from barely 20 to a few guys in their 50's. They collect their rental gear except for the few of them who have their own and listen to Charlie's safety briefing. They gather around a couple picnic tables to finish getting set up so I decide to go make my introductions.
They were surprisingly willing to take in an extra player, didn't hurt that they had an odd number which makes splitting into teams a pain. I didn't even have to come up with a story. I make sure to compliment Chad on his gun to butter him up a bit. As we head to the field for the first game I ask the group if it's OK if I use my GoPros. Everyone agrees, so I pantomime turning them on. The cameras of course were already on so I could get their consent, particularly Mr. Brody's, on the record. Technically where we were at could be described as a publicly accessible space so consent is really just a formality.
The first game begins and the Mr. Brody and I are on opposite teams. We're on a decent sized urban course. Lots of small shack sized buildings, many made from concrete blocks and others painted that particular shade of Soviet green, with a few red stars for added ambiance. Charlie really went full out on his theme. I hang back a bit and let the other players get ahead of me. They of course cluster in the middle so I sneak around to the right flank. I hold back on shooting a few exposed opponents, the goal is to observe the target, not win the game. I work my way up to mid-field unnoticed before I finally spot him. He's of course hanging all the way in the back to "defend the base" even though it's a simple elimination game, there's no base to defend. After he shoots about half a hopper more or less randomly down the range he yells at his teammates to push ahead. His team get eliminated one by one and the other team actually manages to push ahead on the other side of the field and Mr. Brody takes a hit to his mask and heads to the dead box. At least he isn't a wiper, so not a total loser. I make sure to catch a ball in the arm from one of his few remaining teammates before the game ends.
Next two games go pretty much the same. Nothing incriminating from Mr. Brody yet, he's just a rather boring player with delusions of command. Looks like I'm going to have to work a bit harder to get him to slip up. After a brief break we were back on the field and re-divided the teams, luckily with Mr. Brody and I on the same team now. A quick quiet word with the referee and we were now playing a center flag game. Get the flag and take it to the other team's starting box to win. The game starts and I hang back with the target. He of course shouts he's going to "defend the base" again and doesn't hardly move. I find a spot in a building with a window that looks out on the flag, and make it a point to make sure no one grabs it. I have to shoot out a few opponents, but otherwise allow the two teams to whittle themselves down to just a couple players on each side. I mark one more opponent who made a mad dash for the flag and it's down to just three total players; me, Mr. Brody, and one scared opponent hiding in the back corner. I duck back to our base, somehow not getting friendly fire from our brave commander and start my plan.
"Dude," I say, "I think there's just one left. You should make a run for the flag."
"I don't know," he says, "could be someone hiding in ambush."
"No way," I retort, "I'm pretty sure you got the rest of them." knowing quite well he hadn't hit anything all day. "Tell you what, I'll cover you while you run. And I'll make sure to get it all recorded on my GoPro." The last part was a bit of a gamble. A smart person in the middle of an insurance fraud scheme would obviously not want themselves recorded in anyway, but I had a feeling old Chad here wasn't blessed with a over abundance of common sense.
"It will be totally epic!" I add.
"Dude, sweet, make sure to get all this" he says and sprints at full speed down the field. He hurdles over a low wall, grabs the flag, continues down the field at full tilt, and baseball slides into the other teams base for the win. I somehow managed to keep up with him. The ref blows the whistle to signal game over and Mr. Brody start celebrating like he just scored a touchdown at the Super Bowl. He's high fiving his teammates, dancing around like an idiot, and then pulls off his mask, mugs at the camera, and does a damn backflip. The ref of course sprints over and yells at him for removing his mask on the field. I can barely keep a straight face.
When we get back to the staging area I quickly double check the footage. Absolutely perfect. The other players all want to have a look. Mr. Brody even asks me to make sure he gets a copy.
Oh, he'll get a copy alright.
At the trial.
Idiot.
Chapter 1.
As I drive east down the quiet two lane road on this brisk early summer morning I adjust the sun visor to keep the rising sun out of my eyes and turn on the car's heater. The night chill is still in the air and the frost glints off the grass along side the road. I couldn't help thinking to my self, frost? In June? Yep, still in Wisconsin. Probably be over 80 degrees by lunch time too. And to top it all off, I'm probably going to get shot.
Well, not really. Eh, that's not right either since it's technically really getting shot, but not like a bad kind of shot. Not a good shot, no not at all, but not a deadly kind of getting shot. Don't worry, it will all make sense eventually.
I pull into Crazy Charlie's Combat Paintball (see, told ya), and park my car up by the rickety old registration building. It's early enough that the only people here are a teenager who works as a referee and of course crazy old Charlie.
As I exit my car Charlie approaches and says "Well gosh darn it, is that Ricky Irons? Heck, haven't seen you in fricken years!" Charlie has the unfortunate combination of a personality that wants to swear like a sailor, but a job where he's often supervising impressionable youths. So while at the field he tends to talk like a rated R movie that's been edited for television.
"Hey Charlie, love what you've done with the place" I reply. This old paintball field has been owned by half a dozen different people since the mid 80's. Once Charlie took over he leaned into the acronym CCCP and redecorated the whole place with old Soviet era surplus. Even kitted out half his Tippmann rentals to look like AK-47's. Kind of ironic since no one likes to make a buck more than Charlie, but the irony is half the fun.
"So, how's the private investigator gig been treating ya?" inquired Charlie.
"Pretty good," I answer, "been keeping me busy, hence I haven't made it out to play in way too long of time."
"Well," Charlie responds, "today will probably be a fricken slow day, not expecting many for open play. Got that big scenario game tomorrow, so everyone is going to show up then. Just a few private rental groups scheduled today."
"That's why I'm here," I say, "I need to get into your 8am group. It's for a case."
"Hmmm..." he pondered. "Rules state that private groups are as private as they want to be. Can't force them to let you in." Like all good field operators Charlie believed that rules of the field were sacrosanct, especially the rules he made up.
"Oh, it shouldn't be an problem," I say with a sly grin.
"Alright, just don't go over shooting the newbies," he says.
"Dude, it's me." I say slightly insulted.
I have about an hour before the group arrives so I go back to my car to check my notes. The target is one Chad Brody, age 31. I was hired by his employer's insurance company to investigate his workman's comp claim. He says he slipped on some negligently dropped bubble wrap in the shipping department and now he can't do his job due to an assortment of back, neck, and leg injuries, and is threatening to sue for "pain and suffering." According to his Facebook posts he's coming here for his cousin's bachelor party and is going to, and I quote, "Pwn all U N00bZ with My kick A$$ Gat". Not sure if he was being ironic or not, but I hate him already. He bought his own gear for the occasion, and looking at his pictures it's something I haven't seen in years, a Tippmann A5 with a Spec Ops M249 SAW body kit. Heh, nifty. I wonder where he managed to dig up one of those? Not particularly practical, takes a good reliable and affordable gun and makes it 3 times as heavy, harder to maintain, doesn't improve performance one iota, and he probably way overpaid for it. Honestly not particularly better than Charlie's rentals.
I go to the trunk of my car to gather some gear. I need to fit in with this group, so my old tournament gear won't work. Charlie wouldn't want me hosing down the rentals with my electros anyways. Old school autococker? Nah, not newbie enough. Stock class pump? Heck no, renters tend to think you're some kind of elite "sniper" when you show up with one of those. Now I don't technically have a Tippmann to match what the group will be using, but that old BT-4 Combat I picked up a while back should be close enough. A basic camo BDU jacket over my t-shirt and jeans, some hiking boots, and a baseball cap turned backwards under my old mask completes the look. I grab a couple of GoPros and set aside their proper mounts and instead I rather clumsily use zip-ties to attach one to the side of my mask and one to the barrel of my gun. I find Charlie at the registration shack and sign in, paying full price for entry and a full case of paint though I doubt I'll need it all. I make sure to get a receipt to properly bill my client.
The group arrives, looks like eleven people ranging from barely 20 to a few guys in their 50's. They collect their rental gear except for the few of them who have their own and listen to Charlie's safety briefing. They gather around a couple picnic tables to finish getting set up so I decide to go make my introductions.
They were surprisingly willing to take in an extra player, didn't hurt that they had an odd number which makes splitting into teams a pain. I didn't even have to come up with a story. I make sure to compliment Chad on his gun to butter him up a bit. As we head to the field for the first game I ask the group if it's OK if I use my GoPros. Everyone agrees, so I pantomime turning them on. The cameras of course were already on so I could get their consent, particularly Mr. Brody's, on the record. Technically where we were at could be described as a publicly accessible space so consent is really just a formality.
The first game begins and the Mr. Brody and I are on opposite teams. We're on a decent sized urban course. Lots of small shack sized buildings, many made from concrete blocks and others painted that particular shade of Soviet green, with a few red stars for added ambiance. Charlie really went full out on his theme. I hang back a bit and let the other players get ahead of me. They of course cluster in the middle so I sneak around to the right flank. I hold back on shooting a few exposed opponents, the goal is to observe the target, not win the game. I work my way up to mid-field unnoticed before I finally spot him. He's of course hanging all the way in the back to "defend the base" even though it's a simple elimination game, there's no base to defend. After he shoots about half a hopper more or less randomly down the range he yells at his teammates to push ahead. His team get eliminated one by one and the other team actually manages to push ahead on the other side of the field and Mr. Brody takes a hit to his mask and heads to the dead box. At least he isn't a wiper, so not a total loser. I make sure to catch a ball in the arm from one of his few remaining teammates before the game ends.
Next two games go pretty much the same. Nothing incriminating from Mr. Brody yet, he's just a rather boring player with delusions of command. Looks like I'm going to have to work a bit harder to get him to slip up. After a brief break we were back on the field and re-divided the teams, luckily with Mr. Brody and I on the same team now. A quick quiet word with the referee and we were now playing a center flag game. Get the flag and take it to the other team's starting box to win. The game starts and I hang back with the target. He of course shouts he's going to "defend the base" again and doesn't hardly move. I find a spot in a building with a window that looks out on the flag, and make it a point to make sure no one grabs it. I have to shoot out a few opponents, but otherwise allow the two teams to whittle themselves down to just a couple players on each side. I mark one more opponent who made a mad dash for the flag and it's down to just three total players; me, Mr. Brody, and one scared opponent hiding in the back corner. I duck back to our base, somehow not getting friendly fire from our brave commander and start my plan.
"Dude," I say, "I think there's just one left. You should make a run for the flag."
"I don't know," he says, "could be someone hiding in ambush."
"No way," I retort, "I'm pretty sure you got the rest of them." knowing quite well he hadn't hit anything all day. "Tell you what, I'll cover you while you run. And I'll make sure to get it all recorded on my GoPro." The last part was a bit of a gamble. A smart person in the middle of an insurance fraud scheme would obviously not want themselves recorded in anyway, but I had a feeling old Chad here wasn't blessed with a over abundance of common sense.
"It will be totally epic!" I add.
"Dude, sweet, make sure to get all this" he says and sprints at full speed down the field. He hurdles over a low wall, grabs the flag, continues down the field at full tilt, and baseball slides into the other teams base for the win. I somehow managed to keep up with him. The ref blows the whistle to signal game over and Mr. Brody start celebrating like he just scored a touchdown at the Super Bowl. He's high fiving his teammates, dancing around like an idiot, and then pulls off his mask, mugs at the camera, and does a damn backflip. The ref of course sprints over and yells at him for removing his mask on the field. I can barely keep a straight face.
When we get back to the staging area I quickly double check the footage. Absolutely perfect. The other players all want to have a look. Mr. Brody even asks me to make sure he gets a copy.
Oh, he'll get a copy alright.
At the trial.
Idiot.
Comment