Handwritten letter from H. Justin Pierce, c/o New England Opera Lovers' Society; Wednesday 17 December, close to Midnight, somewhere north of Lake Verret, Assumption Parish, Louisiana (Continued)

...That's when we heard the boat. We hid behind the crest of the island, opposite from the lake where we heard the boat coming. It turned out to be a skiff, with a searchlight and a big time outboard engine. And he's heading for us. So the boat pulls alongside the island. One bitch with a hunting rifle in the rear, with the engine. I'd seen her. Betty Sue. One big motherfucker, her hubby. Earl. And one other guy. So the other guy jumps out, and wades ashore. Frost and I in the undergrowth, and we're doomed. Guy's got an AK-74. He looks around, then whips his cock out and starts taking a piss. He died with his dick in his hands. Frost dropped him with his loa gift, which turned into a javelin. Took him in the throat. Guy drops like a sack of shit, and I am on him. I got his AK, switch it to full auto, and basic training sets in. First Immobilize. Betty Sue gets the full load, and is thrown in the drink. That's two. Then incapacitate. Her hubby's jaw drops to the bottom of the lagoon. Then I empty the rest of the clip on him. He joins his bitch-ass wife (probably his sister, too). We storm into the water and drag the boat ashore. It's holed, and we won't make it far at all, but now we got an AK, two nine-mills and a 357 magnum. And a radio. And GPS.

We're still sorting shit out, when another boat approaches. This one's a cabin cruiser type, and guess what? This one has Andy and his pooches, that sniffed us back on the plantation. He sends them ashore, and they come for us. No choice. We drop them. I'll bet that pissed Andy off - the only mongrels that he'll ever get some action with are now dead. So, exchange of fire ensues. Wilmot's on the AK, Chief's got his back with the magnum, and Frost and I are slinking off, to get to the skiff. It won't get us far, but it could get us far enough to board the cabin cruiser and do some housecleaning. The Reverend is on board. Have not mentioned this character before - he dresses like a clergyman, but it's the kind of clergyman that give child-molesting priests a good name. And he's chanting. I've been there before. Sorcery. Wilmot has a go at him, and he goes over the side.

Frost and I prepare a Pirates of the Caribbean action, when these other assholes show up in one of these skimmers. Big propellor, with a floorboard underneath it. They pass by the cabin cruiser, and I see them haul the Reverend on board. Wilmot later swore that he got him with a perfect five-round burst. I believe him, I really do. But the Rev is impervious to bullets. Oh, great. Skimmer picks up a guy from the cabin cruiser, and heads straight for shore. Bounces off the lake edge, and ricochets. One hick gets off, the other three hang on for dear life, as the skimmer turns around for another pass. The cabin cruiser starts to move, and heads towards the channel that the USS Delta Green, Capts. Frost and Pierce commanding, is trying to get through. Change of plan - we beach the skiff on the island, and hop out. As the cabin cruiser passes by, we pop off a couple of rounds, but to no avail. The guy on the beach is under fire from Chief and Wilmot, so he's busy. I tell Frost to hit the ground. The skimmer is coming around for another "storming Omaha Beach" attempt. I don't know if the skipper was distracted by Wilmot's barrage or whether he's just a complete fuck-up, but he does us a favour, and beaches the skimmer. Crushing his guy's leg in the process. Back to basics. Immobilize. Bang. Left knee out. Oh, look, it's the mayor. Bang, right knee out. That's four. The mayor is screaming. Probably the best speech in his political career.

Wilmot drops the goon on the skimmer, who drops a Stoner 63. Classy. And that's five. I decide to make a run for it, because there's a guy missing from the skimmer. I suspect they dropped him off before they made a turn, and  he's probably on the island right now. The mayor is still howling, but he manages to point a gun at me. 44 magnum. Am I feeling lucky, punk? He ain't. He shoots, he misses. I shoot. I don't miss. That's six. As I rush to grab the Stoner, I put my nine-mill to the head of the hick caught under the skimmer. He lays still, I don't feel like taking him out of his misery, but I'm not taking chances. Bang. Headshot. I reach for the Stoner, when someone drives a redhot poker through my ass. Or through my right butt cheek, to be more precise. It's a fleshwound, and the shot had been deviated by the grace of Isis, or it'd have shattered my spine. The slimesucker tries to dive back under, but it's too late. I see him, fifty feet off the skimmer, in shallow water. He's trying to bring his M21 back in line, recovering from the recoil, but it's not that easy when you're in muck, and on slippery footing. I have a Stoner. It's on full auto, and I let 'er rip. Seven.

And then the sky lights up, and I see Chief and Wilmot roll down the hillock, barely staying ahead of a wall of fire. I noticed Frost, near the dogs, trying to recover his silver missile. And I see the Reverend cresting the hill, with Andy the poochfucker next to him. The Reverend is holding a goddamn flamethrower. Chief sprints towards the water, and I am about to dive in. Frost hurls his silver spear at the Reverend, but it seems to pass through. Wilmot is firing five-round bursts, but all they do is throw the Reverend off-balance.

He recovers and takes aim. Wilmot and Frost are toast, and so are Chief and me, because the bloody heathen shrugs off bullets like one of Andy's pooches used to shrug off fleas. Then the tank goes off, and the entire hill becomes a ball of fire. A man on fire runs down the hill. I can only assume it is Andy. I'd be doing him a kindness by putting a bullet between his eyes. It'd be merciful. So I don't. He never makes it to the lake, but drops down, smouldering quite nicely. Not a trace of the Reverend to be found. The exploding tank must have obliterated him. The Reverend's first real taste of hell. I hope he wakes up Satan, and that Satan is recovering from a particularly nasty hangover, as well as a case of the clap (or not just the clap - a hearty round of applause, or even better - a standing ovation)...

To be continued...