Merry Men fics

 

i[nvolves film quotes & idea prompts...]

What’s a Raspberry Pi? [from their site]

''The Raspberry Pi is a credit-card sized computer that plugs into your TV and a keyboard. It’s a capable little PC which can be used for many of the things that your desktop PC does, like spreadsheets, word-processing and games. It also plays high-definition video. We want to see it being used by kids all over the world to learn programming.''

 

''Have a great dave!''

 RM offices on Haywood

 ''Yo, Dave, do you speak German?'' Tank thrust his bald black head into the breakroom doorway, looked at the man seated inside.

Dragan Dardesqu' looked up from his gun cleaning kit. "German?"

''Yeah, we got a line on a skip, but he only speaks German and Ranger's not here."

Tank brandished a black and white Wanted poster, a printout of from Interpol's Ten Most Wanted [Europe] list. "Look." Tank placed the paper on top of Dave's dismantled Glock.

Dave looked down. "Perhaps a little...my grandmother was German, or so she said."

Pair-haapz a leetle...Tank stifled his shudder. Dragan---Dave's---accent was especially annoying because everyone knew he could speak perfect Midwestern English if he wanted to.

After a moment Dave added, "Interpol's Ten Most Wanted? Er...was my picture there by any chance?''

''Dave, we're not stupid, man. We didn't look.''

Dave nodded a little, scanned the printout. "This man, Helmut Meyers, what did he do? He is...mass murderer? War criminal?" Dave looked dubious.

''No, it's a cyber crime---actually it's more, uh, industrial espionage. He stole the plans for that raspberry pi thing, the Germans gave it a slick techno design and called it Strawberry Pie. They use that old Beatles song for the ads, you know: Strawberry Fields Forever?"

Dave frowned. ''That does not seem right. That song, eet eez ze iconic anthem....''

''Yeah well the Beatles will do anything for a buck these days..."

''Ah, so mercenary. But who are we to throw ze stones, Tank?"

''Not my problem, I leave philosophy to the boss." Dave snorts. "Now get your ass in gear, the guy is at a bar called Duffy's on Monroe Avenue, just off Stark."

Dave reassembled his weapon in perhaps 20 seconds. Without looking.

Tank was slightly impressed, though let's face it Glocks are simple machines, it's part of their charm.

Dave pushed back and stood up. Tank vaguely noted there was something besides RANGEMAN printed on Dave's black t-shirt, but Dave shrugged into his black windbreaker and the moment was lost.

''Take Hal,'' Tank called to Dave's retreating back.

''Sure. No problem.''

Tank: See?

...   ...   ...

Dave

He read the Interpol warrant and capture file while Hal drove them down Stark Street. According to the fugitive's information he was worth a lot, $50,000 US dollars. While Hal searched for a parking space, Dave focused on his goal. He wanted to impress Ranger, his old friend...enemy?...who was now his employer. And not just Dave's employer, Ranger was also the employer of the lovely Britta from Sweden, who held Dave's heart in her slim white hands.

"We're here, man.'' Hal shut off the engine.

Dave jerked to attention. They were parked right outside Duffy's Bar and Grill. In the black Rangeman SUV, hidden by the tinted windows, but as Dave realized, not all blending in, the two men wired up.

Hal asked, ''You know what you're supposed to do, right?"

''Yes. Interrogate the man and make sure he is the felon we  wish to capture."

''Yes, but not interrogate. Ranger likes low profile."

''This vehicles eez not low-profile, Hal."

"Look, Dave, just, uh, strike up a conversation...in German of course.''

''Yeah, yeah, I got it." Dave, reverting to his imaginary Illinois--- Kansas?--- roots.

...  ...  ...

So Dave the former Romanian hitman walks into the Irish bar....Dragan/ Dave smirks. Sounds like a bad joke.

Helmut Meyers is seated at a table not too far from the old-fashioned jukebox. He is perhaps forty years old, and gives the lie to tall blond Aryan beauty---Meyers is skinny and looks like a grey rat.

Dave walks over, takes a seat. "Guten tag, Mutti."

Helmut pales a little. "Oh mein Gott, bist du es? Wirklich? Bist du gekommen, um mich zu töten?"     omg, is it you? Truly? Have you come to kill me?

"No, man, I gave that shit up. I work for Ranger Manoso now."

Meyers nods, agrees. He says, also in perfect Midwestern English, "That's smart, Drag. Get out, now, go straight. Or otherwise....''

Dave laughs. ''Otherwise, I'll end up like you?''

''Yeah, you'll end up being a jaded, cynical asshole, just like me. Life on the run is not easy! Try living your life---get a haircut, say, and you look up see your face on CNN. Shit I can't even go to the laundromat in peace, I'm down to my last pair of socks... and one of them has a hole!"

Meyers sticks out a leg and Dave looks down. "Neon stripes? Dude!"

"My favorite...," sighs Meyers.

''Yeah well, you'll get new socks in prison. Probably no holes. Orange. Neon."

"I have not killed anyone lately, this Interpol quest is a witch hunt!"

"You stole the raspberry pi thing, my man. Nothing a bunch of businessmen hate more than being  conned out of a buck."

"Or a yen, or a euro....Yes, I know, my old friend. But, how humiliating."

''No one forced you to steal the plans."

"Helloooo? Two million euros?"

''There ya go."

''So what now?'' asks Meyers.

''Finish your beer, Mutti, I gotta take you in."

Dave shrugs, Meyers sighs. They both stand up, and Meyers sees Dave's t-shirt. His eyes widen a little. In his version of perfect American English, he says, "Ranger gets a glimpse of that t-shirt you'll be joining me in the gulag, Dragan.''

Dave looks down, reads his shirt. He loves this shirt! And images tear through his brain: Britta  wearing a tight black shirt that says Forever and a dave...or: Somedave.

His shirt says: the hottest dave of the year.

Dragan aka Dave starts to grin. How about: I've had a long hard dave. Or: One dave is all you'll ever need....nope, ''Carlos just doesn't work, does it?''

He clicks on the handcuffs, tells Helmut, ''Ranger's just jealous 'cos his name isn't Dave.''

 

 

the end.

davewear t-shirts

dave wear pix

http://www.davewear.com/qs/page/3638/0/53

from the davewear website: ''my name is dave. i started this company with my buddy dave. dave and I always knew we were special but it wasn't until we met each other that we understood it was because we're daves. one day (ve) we discovered "have a nice dave" and our world changed. i can't remember who first came up with it… probably dave, he's the funny one. already feeling superior we rejoiced in taunting nondaves with "have a nice paul" and "have a nice barry". occasionally dave and i would go to the bar and from those meetings was born "one fine dave" and "bad hair dave" and eventually this website.''

some choices:

your daves are numbered / training dave / those were the daves / this just isn't your dave / tough dave at the office / wrong dave to quit smoking / wrong dave to quit drinking / worst dave of your life / this is your lucky dave / this dave in history / not enough hours in the dave / good ol' daves / first dave of the rest of your life / the dave the music died / the dave I was born / dave after dave / the day after the night before/ some daves you just can't win / some daves you win, some daves you lose / some daves seem to last forever / daves of wine and roses / some daves are better than others / a couple daves ago / the shortest dave of the year / the longest dave of the year / seize the dave / same shit, still dave / 0ne dave after another / one fine dave / once a dave / momma said there'd be daves like this / it's been
a hard daves night / it's a brand new dave / dave after dave / make my dave /  best dave of your life / hottest dave of the year / long hard dave / forever and a dave / I've had a great dave

..................................................
 

Need I Say More?
 

Lester

Back in Sandland, doing a typical RMPMC job. My name is Lester Santos and my boss Ranger likes to send me to these hellholes when he isn't interested enough to go himself. Maybe I should clarify that: this is a bodyguarding job, not a black ops high risk  adventure. Or at least that is the hope.

We, my crew and I, are guarding a US embassy that is currently in intimidation mode. Not exactly under attack but the folks here don't leave the compound anymore and there's frantic talk of getting out the wives and kids. Having spent a tense ten days with Mrs. Ambassador I am in deep sympathy with that notion; we should fly her to...Aruba or somewhere. Somewhere I won't run into her again.

Today the  RPGs are flying close by and the tension level has risen exponentially. I am dialing up Ranger to insist he get some helis here for evacuation, when I am interrupted by an imperious summons from the wife of the current ambassador here. Huh.

The ambassador, Aldous M. Jackson The Third is a limp-wristed Yalie circa 1980. The kind of guy who played lacrosse instead of hockey. Or maybe he played cricket, who knows. I am hoping for an underlying strength and leadership here but Mrs. A, his wife,  seems to wear the balls in the family.

I appear in the embassy main reception parlor as ordered. Mrs. Ambassador glares at me over the polished silver tea set  she is commanding. Her girlfriends surround her, all are in pastel golf attire. Mrs. A  snaps out, "What is going on, young man? I am wanting just five minutes peace and quiet, but not getting it."

"Ma'am..."

"And this tea is stone fucking cold!"

excuse me?

"Excuse me? I am not in charge of tea, ma'am."

''What are your plans?!''

''I should speak to Ambassador Jackson, madam."

''Speak to me! Do you know how many Americans are attached to this posting?"

''Yes ma'am. The number we have is 8,770, which includes all staff and support personnel, children, wives, pets, plus Americans doing business here in the capital at this moment. We'll probably begin flying people out this evening. If the streets become unsafe we will evacuate with military helicopters to the airport, then load you all onto big jets. Probably ship you, I mean fly you, to Germany."

"I would hope you could arrange my flight to land in Paris."

"No ma'am, we have no large Air Force base in or near Paris."

"This is a clusterfuck, young man."

"It  is Captain Santos."

''What is?''

''My name. My name is Lester Santos, US Army rank Captain. Not 'young man'.''

''My understanding is that you are part of a mercenary group."

''Yes ma'am."

"...and you're certainly not dressed as I'd expect an army man to be." She stared down her nose at my Rangeman hot climate bodyguard outfit. Khaki cargoes, black RMPMC golf shirt. Weapon in back waist inside holster. She shouldn't complain---if Ranger had sent my cousin Anthony he'd be wearing disintegrating surf shorts and a wifebeater. Flipflops.

I refocused.

''Be that as it may....'' I said politely. "And it is not a clusterfuck, ma'am. At least not yet. I suggest you ladies get a shower and pack up. The planes are at the airport now. First come first served."

The girlfriends scampered off.

"I...we have no intention of leaving this post, young man. The ambassador...and I! --- we have worked too hard, too many years . US diplomats who want their careers to prosper do not turn tail and run."

''Yes, ma'am. Enjoy your tea." I turned on my heel and walked out.

Next time Ranger wants to send me to Scotland I promise I won't complain! Not one freakin' word.

the end