November 22nd, 2005



An interesting proposition has been made. A comment post was addressed to "The Dude" in one of the blog entries. I responded to it. Check out this thread. Start from the bottom:


Within the Assassin's Cookbook under Section 3.1114.223(a), the following choice of terms are agreeable in said situation:
1. Bottle of Jack Daniel's OR
2. 48 hours amnesty from any assassination attempt. You would be able to come and go freely for 48 hours from the time we assassinate the WWO, completely drunk if desired.OR
3. After assassination celebatory drinks. No assassination attempt would be made during this time, and your drinks for the evening would be on the Dragon.

Unfortunately, I cannot release my harem for handjobs or private dances, or rest assured I would. Take a moment, choose one of the previoius options if acceptable or offer your own terms.

I remain open to suggestions. I have offered my cell phone as a good faith gesture, but prefer to deal electronically. You never know who may be listening.


Kill Brian <> wrote:


I'm willing to help. By lying about the incident that occurred at my place on Sunday, WWO has enraged me. In my comment, when I said if they want to play dirty, I'll play dirty, I was alluding to this very strategy (giving my address to their own killer).

I can't just flat-out give up the goods, though. What will you do for me?

Dragon Assassin <> wrote:

Excellent assumption.

I'm another rogue agent, sent from Albania (via the Castro) to eliminate We Wet Ourselves. My team has staked out, broken in, made valiant attempts yet remain fruitless.

After reading the blog, I've rekindled the smoldering fire under my ass into a raging inferno of wetting insanity. This is a classic case of uniting for a common cause to eliminate a mutually troublesome annoyance. I hope to eliminate the Wets while they stake out your place, thus giving me a kill and accelerating the stakes in this game.

Of course, that means I would know where you live as our next target (which I would pretty much know anyway once smoking the KatieDuck). Understandably, this creates a conundrum. However, given the trouble and whining they've already instigated, perhaps we may strike a bargain.

All that to say - where do you live? And my cell phone number is 415-260-1430. I offer this in good faith and will use it as my own personal BatPhone in the event Wet shows up at your door dry.

Let's discuss options.

Kill Brian <> wrote:

Proof of identity? I'm the Dude, man. So that's what you call me. That, or Duder, El Duderino... His Royal Dudeness, if you're not in to the whole brevity thing.

Assuming you're looking for Agent Lebowski, I'm him. What can I do for you?

I'm thinking about responding with the following:


I think we can make a deal. Here is my proposal:

1. You will email the Supreme Commander and verify with him that an amnesty period is not against the rules. If he agrees, then you will have him respond to a recent email from me (we've corresponded a bit in the last couple of days) with your team name and photos of all of your team members and verification that you are in fact assigned to WWO. This is how I will verify that you are legit, as I trust the Commander.

2. I will provide you with my home and work addresses, as well as a briefing on the encounters I've had with WWO, so you may analyze their patterns and hopefully predict their movement.

3. I will agree to call or text your cell if they are spotted around my house or work.

4. You will provide me with the photos and all information from their dossier, so that I may more easily avoid being smoked by them.

5. You will notify me as soon as WWO have been eliminated. We will agree upon a time when your entire team is to assemble at my house. Once there, they will be hosed from the safety of my dining room window, thereby neutralizing them for 24 hours and guaranteeing me 24 hours' amnesty (I don't see a way to do 48 hours, but that's ok).

6. We will go out for celebratory drinks, with nobody carrying an obligation to buy.

7. We will say our goodbyes, and agree that the next time we meet will be on less friendly terms.

I'm wary though. I think these rules would have me pretty well buttoned up, but if the Supreme Commander would decide to use me for his amusement, then he could royally screw me over here by betraying my trust. Further, I'm not sure I want the team that's after me to be eliminated. So far it hasn't been incredibly difficult avoiding them. I've only had one real encounter with them and that was not all that threatening. If I help this dude's team take them out, then they could turn out to be more skilled and therefore more of a threat.

What would you do, LiveJournal?


Ok... I just listened to the top three Coldplay tracks on Rhapsody and I can honestly say: THEY SUCK! What the hell? Why are people so in to them? They sound like a U2 wannabe band playing and singing over Enya tracks.



I made my second kill! I was finally able to intercept my victim on his way home from work. I chased him down on my scooter, eventually causing him to crash his bike. I then hosed him while he attempted to scramble to his feet. I'm not usually one to soak a guy while he's down, but I got mouths to feed, you know?

Watch the Streetwars blog tomorrow for the full report.

Shortly before taking his final breath, my victim warned me that my next target is going to be extremely hard to get. I shall prove him wrong.

My writeup of the kill -
I made an attempt this evening on BC. It was well executed and highly professional and I should be flogged repeatedly by the Mustache Commander's super-hot assistant. I deserve nothing less than to have her hand repeatedly spank my naked buttocks while I am told what an awesome agent I have been.

After yesterday morning's debacle, I had a considerable disadvantage in that my target knew what I looked like. I, however, knew a little more about him, as this was the first time I'd actually seen him in person. Knowing he rode his bike to work, the unique style of his helmet, and the likely route he took to and from work, I bugged out of work a little early myself to camp out along his route. I
found a spot close to his home where I could wait on my Top Secret X-1 Super Assassin motorcycle in front of a large van that would conceal my suspicious nature. I waited patiently for the baby blue helmet to cross in front of me.

I fired up the X-1 and pulled out behind BC, who was oblivious to my presence. His mind was obviously on the box of KFC that was in a bag hanging from his handlebars. He approached the traffic light at Mission Street a block from the road that leads to his home. It was here that I would casually roll up on him, and soak his unsuspecting

My plan was quickly thwarted when the light turned green and BC was able to cruise on through. There were no more stops between here and his house, so it was time for pursuit.

I had two choices: Fall back and give him enough time to get to his house and get off his bike, then whip around the corner and haul ass half a block to his house and nail him, or run him down like a dog in the street. I decided to go with the latter.

I followed the still unaware BC on to his street. As he lives on a dead end street with only a few houses, he quickly became aware that something was up when he heard the deafening roar of the X-1 rolling behind him. He looked over his shoulder and recognized the friendly face of moist wretched death staring back at him through the
face shield of my helmet.

BC reminded me that he was on a moving vehicle. I acknowledged, thinking to myself that my moving vehicle had a full tank of gas and a range that even Lance Armstrong couldn't out-pedal. He was getting off that bike sooner or later, and I was gonna be there when he did.

He took off back out to Mission Street with me close behind. Violating posted signage, BC tore down a crowded sidewalk with a fury, dodging pedestrians and scaring the shit out of everyone in his vicinity. I tracked him from the street until he ducked down an alley that was unaccessible to motor vehicles. I quickly turned around
and high-tailed it back to his house, breaking several traffic laws and endangering the public.

Arriving at BC's home, I screeched up to the bottom of his stairs, blocking any chance of him arriving safely. His wife and child appeared in the open doorway, hungry for chicken and apparently unconcerned with the deliciously soggy fate that was quickly closing in around their beloved breadwinner.

BC appeared again and made a quick food drop for his wife, out of range of my gun. He then blew by me on his bike at speeds seldom achieved by any of nature's creatures. I took off after him, engaging the X-1's turbo. We screeched through a right turn, dragging our knees and screaming expletives at each other. This right turn would be the beginning of the end for young Brian.

Competing against gravity, and obviously weak from a lack of chicken ingestion, BC's pace slowed to what can be described as "less than ludicrous". I stayed in wingman position, shouting at him to just give up.

Halfway up the hill, BC's gears jammed up and he tumbled to the ground on the side of the road. His bike immediately exploded in to flames as he sprung to his feet to make a last ditch effort at escape. Realizing that BC's vehicle could no longer be classified as "moving", I opened fire as BC took another staggering fall, having
lost an arm in the crash and three or four pints of blood. He was hit.

Brian congratulated me on my kill, introduced me to my next victim, and handed me his card. I drew a quick chalk line around his body and notified the authorities of his whereabouts, then fled the scene as a crowd of concerned onlookers gathered.

I commend BC, a worthy fucking adversary, on his mad skills of evasion and emergency bicycling. I'll see you in hell, my friend. I'll see you in hell.

And my writeup from the day before, when I failed to soak my target:

I made an attempt this morning on BC. It was poorly executed and unprofessional and I should be flogged repeatedly by the Mustache Commander's super-hot assistant. I deserve nothing better than to have her hand repeatedly spank my naked buttocks while I am told what a bad agent I have been.

It went down this morning at about 9:30. I waited near the impenetrable fortress that is BC's house for about three hours (why I decided to start staking out a software developer at 6:30 in the morning is beyond me). After a while, I started getting bored, so I called a friend and was chatting when I saw someone on a bicycle come off of BC's street. I ducked out of sight and watched the corner for him.

As he stopped for the light, I pulled my most accessible gun, "Greenie", and opened fire. The problem is that Greenie hasn't been used for a few days so he was not primed. By the time he stopped shooting blanks and drops actually engaged BC, he'd begun to move. Then, as if to symbolically drive a knife in to my very soul, Greenie slipped from my hand and fell to the ground, breaking. Greenie is no more.

I did not contest the fact that BC was on what would be considered a moving vehicle by the time he was shot, so he lives to see breakfast. He got himself a nice long look at me, as well as a little taunt, which brought a shit-eating grin to his soon to be soaking wet face.

Today, I hang my head in shame.

The former won me the award of Best Kill Story.