June 6th, 2007

  • roybot

Chapter 6: The weakness of Randall Banister

For previous episodes in the Randall Banister saga, please go here, here, here, here, and finally here.

At great personal cost, I had finally managed to replentish my hip flask. How is a tale in and of itself, but it must wait for another day.

Randall Banister's dastardly campaign was proceeding all too well for my tastes. After our discomforting hospital meeting, I had a-reviewed the footage of my attempt to storm his oratorical explusions. At the time, I thought I had tripped - as had the amassed crowd - but upon closer observation, I was shocked to find that this was not the case at all.

As with all political extravaganzae, security at the event had been tight. At the entrance, I had been patted down by illegal Mexicans in order to ensure I was not Mexican, or carrying any weapons. Randall Banister, the sly dastard, had obviously been keeping one eye on the gates. As I had greased the palm of a guard with a crisp eight dollar coin to allow me to retain my sword, Randall Banister spotted me - then continued speaking as if nothing had happened. Moments later, he gave a hand signal - also unnoted by my person at the time - apparently launching a well-conceived contingency plan. He had turned my attempted confrontation into a token example of his purported, but ersatz, goodwill.

Twice, Randall Banister had bested me: first by force, then by guile. This would be enough to cause an upswelling of dispair in most men, but I am the Reverend Tedward Q. Porktanker. No one fucks with me, especially not when my hip flask is full.

I had the lurking inclination to disregard his previous shows of massive force. Was it the full hip flask?

Nay... I had the sense that, given his questionable ethics and general lack of gentlemanly demeanor, Randall Banister had not counted on me being the sort of man I was. Both times he had defeated me, I had plunged into the situation with little preparation or forethought. It was a natural reaction to his smirksome attitude and halitosic sting, but not a wise one. Though I had no evidence, I was all but certain he was not nearly as powerful as he appeared - merely disciplined, and used to dealing with drunken Reverends surging forth for revenge.

I would have to outguile Randall Banister - carefully craft and execute my plan of revenge. The stakes were even higher now, however. Even the daftest of chaps would never plunge in thoughtlessly a third time, and Mr. Banister would know this. He would know that, if I struck again, it would not be without significant forethought and preparation. I briefly relished the idea of plunging in thoughtlessly a third time simply because it would be unexpected, but relented when I realized that this would not make a good story.

Obviously, I could not strike at one of his rallies - they were far too well secured and regimented. I would have to surprise him at a more vulnerable time. His mysterious first victory over me had not been his direct doing, but rather had come by way of his mysterious bastard sword. It had seemed a blade of merely average quality, its first strike smarting, but not decimating. I suspected that, if capable of such devistation with every blow, he would not have dilly-dallied about - he would have simply done eradicated me with a single swing. You do not underuse force when you have plenty, especially when dealing with an unknown. In short, I suspected the crackling energy his sword had unleased was his trump card. I deemed it likely that he had shown the lighter side of his sword only because he severely [mis]underestimated my own stamina, and, well, you don't use your only nuke when a rifle will do.

So, while I knew he could attack with such ferocity once, twice... or even thrice, it was like my hip flask, only good when charged. If I could isolate Mr. Banister from his security detail and survive the initial attacks, I would have a serious chance of victory.

Upon this realization, my thoughts immediately turned to the downtown disco factory, in which Mr. Banister was a majority holder. If I could infiltrate it and lie in wait, I would have my chance.

However, the disco factory would not be without significant defenses - it had survived numerous attacks by generations of hair metal vikings, punk punks, and cutting emos. I would be a fool to think I could simply haul my ass over the fence, as I did when jacking parishoners out of prison. I would need intimate knowledge of the layout and of the defenses. I would also likely need access codes, ducting maps, and a second hip flask.

There was only one creature I knew of that could provide me with all of this: kitty.

Though we had once been associates, our relations had soured, and our previous parting had most definitely not been amicable. I had no doubt he would give me audience, but he would not give me help for free.

Posted by Reverend Tedward Q. Porktanker