In The Weasel's Den - Pt.1

He sat in a recliner in his boxers, unshaven, with a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand watching the television.

He took a sip of booze and it dripped from the corners of his mouth, down his chin and onto his naked chest, following the creases of his muscles, and down onto his shorts, wetting them.

But he was so drunk he didn't notice, nor did he care.

The curtains were drawn in his dark, cockroach infested, one bedroom apartment in the poor neighborhood of the Manhattan Projects, and his place was littered with old bottles, cigarettes, and fast food wrappings. It was filthy, but again, he thought nothing of it.

He had been served with an eviction notice and had to leave within thirty days due to the fact he had not been able to pay his rent in the last two months because he had been fired from his job.

So, his life wasn't the best at the moment.

Suddenly the television blinked off, with the rest of the power. He hadn't been able to pay the utility bill either, so it was only natural that it too would be turned off. It was the land lord's way of letting him know that the rent was due. But of course, he couldn't pay it.

In his frustration, he threw the bottle of booze at the TV set and it exploded with multiple sparks as the alcohol saturated the electronics inside and caused an overload. The man laughed because he thought the explosion was cool. But then he felt sad and depressed because that was his last bottle of booze.

There was a knock on his apartment door and he turned his head towards it, and spat out in a drunken stupor, "Go away! No solicitors!" But what he said didn't sound anything like actual, recognizable words.

After a few seconds there came another knock and this time he stood up and said, "I said go away! Whadare you deaf?" He collapsed back into his recliner again and felt so tired he closed his eyes to rest, convinced in his belief that he had scared whoever it was away.

But he hadn't. What he didn't know was he had left the door unlocked and the person on the other side turned the handle and opened the door. The man was so drunk he didn't hear the door creak open, nor did he hear the light foot steps of the gorgeous woman who entered his apartment. His drunkenness had made him deaf to the world.

The woman glanced around the apartment, and she had to hold her nose from the awful odor that lingered inside. The smell was a multitude of things all mixed together into a very rotten package. Then she saw the man she had come to see drunk as a skunk in a recliner next to the window.

"You really are the limpidity of the male ego, aren't you?" she said. "I can't believe I ever considered coming to this hell hole!"

The man heard her voice and turned to it, and his heart skipped a beat because as far as he was concerned she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had long flowing dark hair and super-model looks. She wore a tight-skin, full-body suit, that accentuated her hour-glass figure and buxom breasts. Suddenly, his shorts rose. The woman rolled her eyes.

"I'm guessing you haven't been with a woman in a while, have you? Put on your pants. The last thing I need to see it a drunk man's erection."

The man closed his legs and grabbed a pair of jeans that he had thrown over a chair the night before and slipped them on. "Who are you?" he tried to say with some clarity. "And how did you get in here?"

"The door was open, don't you believe in locks?"

"Locks are worthless. Crooks are everywhere. I have nothing of value."

"What about your life?"

"It aint worth shit!"

"I get the picture. I'm here to offer you a proposition."

"The bedroom's just down the hall, sweetheart!" he grinned drunkenly.

"Not that kind of proposition, you idiot! I'm here to offer you a job."

"What sorta job, and why me?"

"Because I'm in need of a man with your particular skills," she said. "Now get dressed and come with me."

Her tone was direct and in his state he didn't think to argue.

He grabbed a shirt that was thrown on the floor and put it on and hopped on one foot as he put his shoes on. The woman had left his apartment so he followed her into the hallway. "Where are we going?" he asked, following her down the hall, but he was so drunk he couldn't walk straight and bumped into a wall and fell to the floor.

The woman looked back at him, and then went over and picked him up off the floor. "You are the most pathetic man I've ever seen," she said.

The man whipped his arm away from her. "Then why do you need me? Get someone else."

"Because sober you're the greatest fighter pilot to ever soar the skies."

The man looked at her strange. "And how would you know that?" he asked.

"Because I know who you are…" She paused for a moment. "…Wild Weasel."

He looked at her wide-eyed, his eyes glassy with drink. "That name no longer has any meaning for me," he said. "I was fired five months ago."

"So you turned to drinking to fill the void of not flying?" she said.

"What I do is my business, lady. Besides, I'm still the best. No one can match me in the sky. I've dog-fought with some of the best pilots in the world and survived. I've killed a lot of men in my heyday."

"The Wild Weasel can be great again," she said. "Come with me and the Wild Weasel will rule the skies once more."

He looked at her and thought about her offer, and then said, "Ah, what the hell! I aint got nothing better to do or to lose." And followed her into the elevator where they took it to the ground floor.

They exited the elevator, and she escorted him to the back alley where two beautiful young ladies awaited them next to two jet-black, very slick looking motorcycles. She then mounted one of the bikes, and said, "Hop on." He did. "Hold onto me, and whatever you do, don't vomit on me."

He wrapped his arms around her narrow waist, and said, "I'll try, but no promises."

The other two woman mounted the other bike and they all sped off into the barren street together as it was the middle of the night.

"Where are we going?" he asked her, but she didn't reply. The wind was whipping so loudly past them, she couldn't hear him.

The icy cool wind was invigorating and it kept him awake for the entire trip which lasted for about an hour through the semi-clogged streets of Manhattan. They traveled to the centre of the city, and through the winding roads of Central Park, and soon they arrived at their destination.

Wild Weasel tried to dismount the bike but instead wound up falling off it and on his face. The woman dismounted the bike, took several steps forward, and then looked back at him. He looked up holding his face and found the woman staring at him. "Where are we?" he asked. He saw trees in every direction and lamp lights illuminating ash fault walkways.

"We're in the middle of Central Park," she said.

Suddenly he felt sick and vomited in front of the woman. The woman took a few steps back to avoid from getting spattered with chucks.

He clutched his left hand over his right fist and brought them into his chest, as he breathed deeply sitting back on his knees, and then after a few silent moments he vomited again.

For a split moment the woman was against the idea of using this man in her operation, but quickly thought of the applications of who the man was and smiled because in his fragile emotional state, he'd do pretty much anything she wanted him to--drunk or sober.

"Be a man, stand up!" She said it like an order. And he did. "The first thing we need to do is to sober you up." She gave a nod to her two companions and they came to his side and helped him get to his feet. The two women then helped walk straight ahead, following their leader.

They went several yards to a bathroom facility under repair and then stopped, entering. The next thing Wild Weasel knew was he had the sensation of going down, like he was in an elevator. But he was so disorientated he didn't know what was happening.

The elevator stopped and Wild Weasel was carried out into a gigantic hanger bay and inside was the largest air craft he had ever seen. It looked nothing like a military cargo ship, this sucker was much, much bigger, and broader too. It was massive in size compared to any carrier in existence. "Whoa. What in blue blazes is that?" he asked.

"This is what you'll be flying," the woman said.

He started to laugh, and suddenly he was very sick and ran to the nearest wall to vomit. He moaned and then turned around and dropped on his ass, leaning up against the wall. He looked back at the ship. "That'll never fly," he finally said.

And then he fell unconscious.

The companions to the woman looked at her and she nodded to them. They went over and picked him up and carried him inside the air craft up a large stairway--

--and the next thing Wild Weasel knew was he was shocked awake by his head being dunked into a bucket of ice water. The two women did this several times to sober him up until he broke free of their hold and staggered back and shouted, "Enough, that's enough!" His long black hair drenched, he looked back at the two women through the strands, and said angrily, "What the hell!"

"Mistress Armada's orders, sir," one of the women said.

"We were told to sober you up," the other one said.

And for the first time since he had seen these two women he saw that they were twins, and they were wearing their clothes in the exact opposite fashion than the other. They reminded him of Tomax and Xamot, the Crimson Twin Brothers. The twin women had long blonde hair and each had their hair hanging on the opposite shoulder than the other. And they wore skin-tight, full body suits similar to the woman he had met earlier. "Is that her name is?" he said.

"Yes," one said.

"Yes," the other said at the exact same time.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"You're on the Behemoth," the first woman said.

"Suitable name for such a large ship," he said.

He shook his head and found he was more clear-headed, not feeling the effects of the booze as much as before, though it had only been a short time since he had collapsed on the floor of the hanger bay, where the Behemoth was stationed. He got up and looked around and found himself in a bathroom. Beyond the door was a well furniture room, and he ventured out and saw a king size bed and all the comforts of a well-to-do man. There was even a liquid cabinet on the far wall, but it was padlocked.

"The aforementioned question stands: Where am I?" he asked them.

"This is your private quarters," the second woman said.

"V.I.P. quarters," the first one said.

"Mistress Armada said only the best for you," the second woman said.

"And we are to extend…"

"Every courtesy to you."

A smile curled up on Wild Weasel's face. "Every courtesy?" he said.

It was several hours later when Wild Weasel awoke in the king size bed, but to his disappointment he didn't find the twins laying beside him. They had most-likely left after he had fallen asleep after sex. Although, due to the fact that he was still drunk at the time, he couldn't remember it. And yet, he felt a certain weight lifted off his shoulders. And he felt more relaxed, more confident.

He shifted his weight and planted his feet on the ground and not to his surprise he had a major hangover. He felt his head and groaned. But it was own fault for drinking that much booze.

He got to his feet and made his way to the bathroom where he splashed his face with water. He looked at himself in the mirror and then noticed that a gift basket was sitting on the toilet seat. It had half a dozen different soaps, deodorant, a pair of barber scissors and a shaving kit.

He smirked. "Guess they want me cleaned up," he said, and then opened it. Thirty minutes later, after a shower, a shave and cutting his hair, he left the bathroom and returned to the main area of his quarters and found some clothes spread out on his bed for him. It was a uniform of some sort, all black, with a modern-stylish look. After drying off, he put it on, and it fit like a glove. "Perfect fit," he said. "I must complement Armada's tailor. I don't even remember being measured."

A chest holster and a gun came with it. He strapped the holster on and it came to sit on his left side. It complimented the ensemble perfectly. His confidence was coming back. Now all he had to do was learn why Armada chose him to pilot this air craft and what it was for.

He left his quarters and followed a corridor to an elevator. On the inside panel he pressed what he thought was the button for the bridge, it was Level One. Less than a minute later the elevator doors opened, and he stood awestruck at what he saw.

The bridge was circular in shape and manned at all the stations were the most beautiful women he had ever seen. If he didn't know better he'd say all these women were Sports Illustrated Swimsuit models at one time or another. Surrounding the bridge was a large view port that extended halfway around it. In the middle was what could only be referred to as the captain's chair, and Armada was sitting in it with her legs crossed, obviously supervising the activity.

Wild Weasel ventured onto the bridge. He was still a little slow from the hangover, but the effects were gradually easing off. The elevator doors closed behind him. This is when Armada noticed him. She stood up from the chair and opened her arms in a gesture of welcome. "Ah, good afternoon, WW. I see Anita and Atina provided you with stimulating company last night. You look well rested." She said.

"So, that's what their names were," he said.

"Welcome to the bridge," Armada said.

Wild Weasel was amazed at the sight of everything. "How in the world did you manage all this? This is extraordinary." He went around and first-handedly witnessed the operation of the bridge, all the stations: tactical, communications, navigation, and weapons control. And there were a few other consoles he would need to be versed on.

"This is the culmination of ten years of blood, sweat and tears," Armada said. "I put my entire fortune into building her. Everything I had." She then wiggled to fingers as a gesture for him to come over to her. He did. "And this is yours--" She put a hand on the backrest of the chair. "You're the captain of the Behemoth, WW. Treat her with respect."

He turned to her. "One question--why?" he asked.

"I'm fighting a war," she said.

"Looks like you're about to start one," Wild Weasel said.

"In a matter of speaking I am. I'm on a mission of opitulation. To stop the suffering of millions of people around the planet who fail to see the threat from a rising tyrannical power."

"What are you, some sort of anti-somatic government crusader?"

"No, nothing like that," she said. "I'm after the man who killed my husband."

"And you need a war-machine to do it?" he said. "Why don't you just go out and kill the man?"

"Because he's too-well protected behind an iron curtain of evil. And this is the reason why I need you. I need your expertise at the helm, to be the captain of this vessel, to lead me to victory. But of course, you'd like to discuss your fee first, right? Ten million dollars. Is that a favorable equity?"

Wild Weasel's mouth dropped, then he quickly closed it. "Ten millions dollars just for being the captain to this thing?" He said. His next question was 'Who was the target?' but for that much money, he didn't care. And from what little he had seen of this vessel, nothing could stand against it, not even the collective armies of NATO.

"So, are we partners?" Armada asked him.

"Agreed," he said. "I'll need more time to familiarize myself with the ship's systems, but everything looks pretty straight forward. I'll learn as I go I guess. When do we begin the operation?"

"Tomorrow, at 07:00 hours," she said.

"That soon?"

"Yes," she said. "We must move quickly to catch the man off-guard. You can spend that time getting to grips with the Behemoth. All schematics on tactical, communications, navigation, and weapons control will be provided for you."

"Excellent," he said. "I see that I'm going to enjoy this baby! Though I prefer to be in the pilot seat, right up there in the thick of the action."

"But you will be, soon enough," Armada said. "I must attend to a few things, but please sit down. If you require anything, my crew will only be happy to oblige."

He sat down. "Very comfortable," he said.

"Only the best for the captain," she said, faking a smile.

She turned and headed to the elevator. Once inside and the doors had closed, she said, "Soon your murder will be avenged, my dear husband. And the head of Cobra Commander will be a prize on my mantle."

--

Author's Note: This has the potential of being a very good story, so I think I'll let it ferment here for a little bit until I can finish it.