Chapter 1 - Welcome to the JungleA Chapter by Simon Welsh A draft. It was a glorious afternoon in the Port of Miami as several ships took their daily route in and out of the harbour. The smallest of these boats remained stationary however; a tall man with a bad moustache lingered by the driver; his eyes hidden behind $5 sunglasses. He spoke in strong Spanish tones and, acting as though he understood him, the driver stood suddenly and handed over a large suitcase. The driver himself was seven foot; yet his own eyes darted nervously
which belied his intimidating exterior. Another man had stepped into the harbour bypassing all the other boats. Unlike the two other men, he was well toned and imposing; he walked with confidence and purpose. A leather jacket was stretched over a ‘Slammers’ t-shirt and a large belt with the buckle of the state of North Carolina. The two men eyed him suspiciously but neither clocked who he was till all Hell broke loose. Jack Blake had joined the party. “Hi fellas!” He
called out with a smile on his face. Pausing as they began to realise who he
was, he withdraw a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. “Anyone know where I can
find some Chiva?”. In a flash, they withdrew uzi’s of foreign import, as Jack
pulled the Desert Eagle MK VII from his holster. He shot repeatedly, before
diving to the side as he escaped the hail of uzi fire. The moustache man’s
chest disappeared in a large, black wound which engulfed his body in a cascade
of blood. The driver tried hitting the gas on his boat, but a bullet from Jack’s
gun clearly had a desire to penetrate his skull as he slumped forwards without
a sound. “Desert Eagle 2,
Bad Guys 0. Try again next time, a******s” Jack said, still smoking his
cigarette. But, before he could enjoy his cigarette, a number of Hawaiian shirt-clad men burst onto the scene in a storm of gunfire. “S**t certainly does stick together” He said frowning slightly. But he began to step back and began to pick them off, one by one. Ducking behind a canister as he was almost overwhelmed, he spied the locals who were baying for his blood. ‘Sixteen a******s’ he spat, exchanging the clip in his Desert Eagle. ‘Looks like it’s hunting season’. They spoke in strong Spanish tones but one thing was clear from their babble ‘Kill Jack Blake’. “Sorry to
disappoint” he smirked, as he shot one brave bad guy. Another dodged and almost
fell in the sea. They were coming at him down the narrow pier now and there was
nowhere to go.
Something caught Jack’s eye however. A large crate labelled ‘Acme’ hung open
precariously and it was filled with grains of familiar substance. Gun powder. Jack flicked his
near smoked cigarette into the open crate and dove forward. He hid his head
under both of his muscular arms as the explosion rang all around him. The boat
was tossed into the air in a plume of great fire which expanded in the great
Miami heat. All the bad guys were thrown some feet away and all did not rise
again. However three managed to avoid the blast and in the ruckus, managed to
steal both suitcases (miraculously unscathed) and jumped into a fancy sports car
(that can’t be bought on an ordinary salary) before screeching away into a mist
of burnt rubber. “They say cockroaches would survive a nuclear winter. Time to stamp those fuckers out!” He called defiantly, as he raced to his own 4x4. He dove in through the window; his leather boots almost scraping the car door. As he burned after them, he did not look back at the carnage in his wake that was once Miami Port. Both cars slalomed into the light traffic, as frightened civilians spun out of the way, thankfully unharmed. The bad guys began to open fire which hit everything but anyone living. Jack, however, was fumbling with his cassettes. He parted the KISS and Megadeth tapes to retrieve an Accept album which he dutifully placed in the player. Balls To The Wall emanated loudly from his car’s speaker system into the din of the traffic. And, with a second thought, Jack leaned out of his window and returned fire from the fleeing vehicle. He caught the rear tire, causing the sports car to skid through a lemonade stand which shattered in a hail of splinters. The bad guys increased fire, causing a large truck to hit the brakes hard. However, it flipped sending the carriage hurtling towards Jack who leaned further left whilst holding onto the steering wheel. It sent his car onto two wheels which bypassed the truck by mere inches. “I always saw myself as ‘left of centre’” smirked Jack. The bad guys
took a sharp left into a neighbourhood. Jack followed vigilantly, frowning. He
replaced the Accept tape with Led Zeppelin and thundered on. Luckily, no
child chose this moment to chase a red ball into the road. It was eerily clear
other than the frozen homeowners who watched the chase transfixed. The bad guys
seemed to have an endless supply of bullets which felt a certain attraction to
the spaces that Jack did not occupy. As Good
Times, Bad Times shook his 4x4, Jack hit the gas and rammed into the back
of their sports car. He shunted them out at the next exit onto a freeway and
then onto a large flatbed. As the car flipped, Jack made three perfect shots
into the car’s engine. In a near flawless swan dive, the car then exploded
sending flames a mile high in all directions as Jack sat back triumphantly. He
didn’t even look back at the destruction which caused traffic to halt. He was more concerned with what his Lieutenant would make of his latest adventure. © 2013 Simon WelshAuthor's Note
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