WhoaitsZ

i omited the last short paragraph and we pick up below.

this is heavily flawed by ways of mispellings and errors. i have commited lit suicide often on accident due to editing before finishing. a comment would be appreciated.

also note that some of it will seem writtend very oddly. i am using Word so i have italics and bold and so on to help, but on here it's just typed out.

if anyone wantsa a doc of it, PM me



Since the whole heroine drama, Wil lived with Z for a few weeks, then slipped into his own apartment. Wil set up a good PC and some connections so Z could stay on-line and connected with different people and stay a bit more up to date with the news. He couldn’t believe he had been missing out for so long!

The two had their moments after Wil was untied. Drastic mood swings and sickness hit Wil relentlessly and showed no mercy whatsoever. But he made it through and Z somehow managed to not loose his temper or nerve. He expected it to be worse, really, but Wil did seem to want to quit; he didn’t just do it by force alone.

Z had created Wil a new birth certificate and some various IDs so Wil could get planted in a city and start a new life.

“How do you get all of this… stuff?” Wil asked at one point.

“I know a lot of people who do a lot of stuff both good and bad. A tool is a tool, use it anyway you can. I had given you some H once, remember? Its nasty shit and should never have existed, but it did and I got some awhile back. It went to good use, eh?”

“I guess it did at that. Just strange..”

“Strange is good, Wil. It is very good.”

So Wil got a part time job at a newspaper shop and worked with Z on different things. Wil had a knack for finding gossip and news and determining which was real of the two. Working at the newspaper shop left him tons of time to read and dozens of papers; he became a nice ascet to Z.

Z worked at a hospital or two and did a little home care work He loved helping people, but the medical field was not what it once was. Now medicine means ‘helping those who can afford it and close your eyes to those who cannot’. This attitude and the stupid politics got under his skin every day. But Z’s real downtime in this field was seeing patients wither away when there was hope, and nobody else gave a fuck.

For example: Sam was, if you recalled, had cancer. They did all they claimed they could in the hospitals, then sent him home to die. With Morphine. Morphine is one thing that sets Z’s temper into the stratosphere. He knew it was a great chemical for those on the verge of death who just need to let go. But for patients like Sam who have no less than a year and possibly a few years to live, it shouldn’t be an option, much less a solution.

But congress had decided to kill the patients who were no longer of real value. Sure, the government will adamantly deny such things, but they do not care for anything than their own needs.

Farm after farm after farm could be saved by hemp harvests. Pain could be managed, jobs could be created… but congress won’t let these ideas even try to form because their mind is set in cement. They stick with the ‘it’s a drug! Drugs are bad!’ sayings, too lazy to even find out facts.

Oh, and when you try to show them such facts they close their eyes and refuse to see.
Things like this kept Z’s mood down and he staid in a deep depression when he worked. Patients thought he didn’t like them, his co-workers didn’t care for his attitude. In general, he loved the people who needed help and resented the rest. So Z took a long vacation and tried to make some things happen. No rhetoric, no debates, no years of people debating over if something is black or white. He had people to help save. Fuck the others, they aren’t the ones in pain.
Z figured it was best to possibly add years of peace to two or three people than watch several patients unwittingly commit suicide. And people wondered why he was often in a sour mood.


Z had gotten a disturbing bit of news not too long ago concerning a dogfight. Fuckers buy pitbulls or mastiffs or what have you to do nothing but fight.

Z had to fight nightmares for about a month once after finding a boxer and pit mix. The dog was barely breathing, blood oozed from his ears and mouth, one eye punctured.

In his life, Z had seen a lot of bad shit. He’d seen dead folk, animals, he attended an execution at the local jail. It all sucked, naturally enough, but it was rarely something that happened due to the victim having lack of control. The reaped what they sowed.

This dog. This innocent victim of greed, brutality, and evil was blameless and maimed beyond reasoning. This was one night he could not hold the tears back after he got home and slowed down.

He still hoped to offer some kind of help and looked at the mutts’ body. It was cut, punctured, bones were broke, his black left paw was almost severed. There was no hope.
A fury had filled him that night, along with an unearthly sorrow, that took a very, very long time to exorcise. The anguish was simply everything but too much to bear.

He took a blanket from his car and place it over the dogs’ face and whispered in its ear “here, baby.” Z place a decent sized gun with a silencer to the dogs temple and unleashed mercy.

The dog jerked and stopped. Z stood up, place the dog in his truck, buried the body next to a favorite plum tree and went inside to weep like a child.

He called a cop her knew personally. They pretended to care, the went to the area, they filed no reports, they asked no questions. They didn’t give a damn one way or the other.


He was ready to do… something. What exactly he knew not, but something. For this very reason he avoided the area altogether. He had a lot of stuff he’d be best not caught for and he had too many people to help to risk.

So he had gotten word on this next fight. He consulted his Brothers and Sisters and they told him to do what he felt he should. Harming animals for necessary food was permited, harvesting off of the dead was alright, but uneccesary pain was not only not condoned, it could get you buried. This is why Z was one of the Brothers of the Protectors. He had a feeling that if he could avoid the fuzz a few more years he may become a Big Uncle; maybe even The Father.

Z had talked to various members about such problems, and to his relief, they agreed with him that such acts against natured could not be allowed to continue.

Flick had shown a little special interest in such matters and had advised Z to do what he must. Flick said he would support him and come to aid if needed. If Flick came, he could call on another. If the second came, there would be a meeting and they would discuss if such matters are to be avoided from there onward or if they need to take special interest.

Then Flick had shown up when Z was getting groceries and told him he had heard.

Z spoke quietly, “Tonight at 9 PM.”

Flick nodded and kind of. . . bounced. His energy was barely contained and it almost un-nerved Z. If he thought Flick would be on the other side of moral ground, he would be scared. Flick liked violence.

Moral violence, thought Z. He shook his head.

“Well look, I’m getting the duct tape and I have put in a few bottles of cleaner fluids in with my groceries so as to not appear suspicious of anything. Can you cover the rest?” Z asked quietly, getting a touch paranoid. This conversation is going by too long.

“No problem. A stronger man needs to carry the heavy shit anyhow. Until tonight, Brother.” And with those words, Flick was gone, all seven foot height, 280 pounds of muscle.

Z continued to shop some. Why not finish up? He picked up some soup and a few other goods and was home again in forty or so minutes.


Using some searching advice gotten from Wil, Z looked into ways to make decent devices to cause chaos and confusion. He didn’t need bombs or any such shit. Their own sick minds would end them this night.

This was one night that the net just didn’t quite do as he needed. He couldn’t find the information he wished to obtain. After dwelling on the events that the night would bring, he decided to leave early and snoop. He arrived at the abandoned warehouse about 7:50 or so. Good timing.

He peeked into a building or two to get an idea of what, where, and why of the situation and soon found an obvious lead. Stench of sweat, blood, vomit and other things he’d rather not dwell on lead him to the kennels.

What he witnessed hurt him even more. Puppies were being torn apart by dogs, animals were maimed and thrown at the dogs. The dogs were being driven mad. These dogs weren’t even meant to make it past the fight; these were meant to entertain.

Z felt his eyes cross in rage and he had to do a few breathing excercises before he did something completely idiotic and gave himself away. All would come to naught if he got caught.

8:20. Time was running out. He quickly went over the warehouse detail and took mental notes of all exits. He had always had an innate ability to memorize directions, routes and such in his mind’s eye and in moments he had all visible exits in his head.

8:55. Z heard a low sound that was most likely an automobile not too far off from where he hid. No lights, no noise. Flick.

Time to work.


“Do you have yourself an escape route?” asked Flick.

Z nodded. “Thanks for coming, Flick.”

“I wouldn’t miss it. Believe me.”

Z wondered what in the world this Flick fellow did as a normal person holding a job. There was no telling. He could be a pharmacist or an animal trainer or a friggen priest for all he knew. It didn’t matter, really, but Z wondered. It was his nature to question.

Z quickly gave Flick the low down on the exits, the techniques the bastard dog fighters were using and mentioned how he didn’t know where the money winners were being held.

This obviously confused Flick.

“The dogs in there”, Z pointed toward one side of the building “are for excitement, entertainment, to get the blood pumping in the betters. They have driven the dogs mad and they will not fight well, but it’ll be slow and bloody. The betters will get the gist of the excitement and start placing bets. Thereafter, the real fighters come out. It is such a sick event.”

Flick nodded and growled under his breath. “No prisoners, yes?”
“Not a one. These fuckers should have been aborted. I have to tell your something though. A fact I hate, but have little choice about.”

“When this goes down, in the end, the dogs will all be dead too.”

Flick’s eyes blinked and he gave Z a look that made him shiver. “I believe I see but I suggest you explain. Now.”

Z frowned. Not at the hidden violent intentions Flick may produce for what they were to do, but for pure sorrow at the carnage that would ensue.

“Well, to get the people correctly, we have to give the dogs time to do their deeds. And now think: even if every dog is uninjured at the end, they will be put down in the end by a vet or the police. These dogs are not rehabible. They will die. This will only draw the cycle out longer.” He breathed a moment and then continued, “Now, the dogs will fight to the death. Against the people as well as each other. The blood that flows tonight is enough to cover both of our souls fifty times over, yet it is necessary. This way people will hesitate over doing more fighting.”

Flick agreed. “I want no part in hurting the dogs.”

“Neither do I, Flick. It is a necessary evil. We will save some dogs by assuring the death of a few.”

“Time to start up, Z.”

Z nodded and walked away.