My Short Story.

Chronic Diarrhea · **My Short Story. -** 03-21-2003, 04:15 PM

We have to write this short story for my Creative Writing class, and I wanted to know what you all thought about the first chapter of it. Keep in mind this is a first draft, and some things, well, probably a lot of things are innacurate or silly or whatnot. I'd like to know how crappy or good it is.

Chapter 1: The Drop

“How you like that shot, Jason?” remarked Agent Peter Mitchell, after sinking his 20-foot birdie on the 11th hole.

“You’ve been on fire today. It needs to stop, otherwise I’m gonna be broke by next weekend,” replied Agent Jason Connelly, leader of the FBI special forces unit. It was a warm, pleasant Sunday afternoon in Fairfax, Virginia, just the type of weather golfers would like to have. Agent Mitchell and Agent Connelly were celebrating Peter’s one-year anniversary since he joined the FBI back in 1997 by playing a game of skins before they went back to work the next day. Peter had made it his goal to serve in the FBI ever since he got out of West Point in 1992. He had served as an LAPD SWAT member for several years and enjoyed that job immensely, but there was always something about the FBI that appealed to Peter.

“Okay Pete, the tables turn now. I’m taking back these next two holes.” Jason Chance had also graduated from West Point in 1989, and served in the Gulf War before joining the FBI in 1995. He was a confident and courageous leader, and always pushed his squad to perform their best everyday. Jason naturally formed a good friendship with Peter, as they both had similar interests and attended the same school. Jason was glad to have Peter on his team, because Peter was fast becoming one hell of a sharpshooter.

Jason drove his tee into the ground and prepared for his swing. “This one’s going to the moon.” As the driver met the titanium ball, it quickly made a sharp swerve into the patch of trees to the right.

“Nice shot, Tiger,” joked Peter.

“Shut the hell up. That was a practice shot.”

“Sure, whatever.” Peter continued to rag on Jason’s poor golf game.

“Connelly, Mitchell, we need you at HQ. Agents Connelly and Mitchell, we need you at HQ,” blared the radio inside their golf cart.

“Damn Jason, just when you were going to beat my ass. Oh well, I guess we’ll have to continue this next Sunday,” Peter chuckled as he took off his glove and put it in his bag. Jason did likewise, hopped into the cart and drove back to their vehicles.

“Wonder what’s up?” Peter asked.

“Probably nothing much. Just a briefing on the week’s schedule.”
“On a Sunday?”

‘Who knows? We’ll find out eventually.”

“Okay men, we believe the house is filled with approximately 4.5 million dollars worth of cocaine. I want Team 1 to breach the back entrance, while Team 2 surrounds the area to scan for suspects.” Ordered DEA Agent Shawn McGarrity, top DEA agent for the Miami DEA district. Shawn’s large stature cast a shadow over the entire projector screen in the dark briefing room, and his gruff voice usually scared his fellow agents into working hard.

“What’s our rules of engagement?” asked one of the agents.

“Arrest and interrogate if possible. If fired upon, take your shots if you have to. I really don’t wanna have to produce any casualties in this affair, and I sure as hell don’t wanna have to explain to DEA up in Washington why we killed some coke dealers that have valuable information to us, so try and stun any suspects with OC-9 spray.”

Both teams nodded in acknowledgement, waiting for Agent McGarrity’s next order.

“Okay, that’s it. I want deployment no later than 1420 hours, so get ready to go kick some ass.” The agents stood up and quickly exited the briefing room. Shawn unplugged and closed his laptop on the table where he sat. He walked back to the equipment room, slowly pulled on a flak jacket, and grabbed a few .45 caliber clips from the ammunition shelf. He pulled out his existing clip, checked it, and slammed it back into his expensive silver Glock. He walked into the rec room, grabbed a Coke, and sat down on the couch to watch the local news that was on.

“It’s almost noon now, and temperatures have already reached the mid-nineties. Expect Partly Cloudy skies to sweep across greater Miami this afternoon, with a 30% chance of thunderstorms. I’m Linda Emerson with your local forecast, now back to you, Rita.”

“Thanks, Linda. This morning local authorities questioned two Haitian residents about the recent murder of three children in a Haitian neighborhood. The two men denied any accusations placed against them and were later released.”

Shawn sighed, disgusted at how liberal the Miami Police could be at times. It was then he noticed the two men questioned were two of the suspects DEA had for distribution of cocaine in Florida. Shawn picked up his radio and raised it towards his mouth.

“Hey Rick, I just saw on the news two of our suspects we believe are involved in this cocaine raid were questioned for the murder of three children. You heard anything about that?

“Yeah, I called MPD about it and they said they hadn’t heard about any cocaine distribution. They said they released them a few hours ago.”

“Damn. Figures. Tell both squads about it again and tell them to be cautious. This might turn out to be more dangerous than we originally thought.”

“Right, Shawn. I’ll tell them ASAP.” Shawn turned off the frequency and sighed. I know Rick will do a good job. He always has, but something inside me tells me this might turn into a huge clusterfuck, Shawn thought to himself as he left the rec room and headed towards his black Lincoln Navigator.

Peter and Jason quickly arrived at FBI Headquarters and entered the briefing room. There sat several agents at the long briefing table, both Special Forces guys and chief executing agents. At the end of the table was Agent Thomas Farnham, assistant director of FBI Special Forces Unit. “Sit down, gentlemen. We just got word that a C-130 has crashed in a remote location in the Rocky Mountains.” Farnham clicked his projector controller, changing satellite screenshots. “The aircraft was not government owned, and we don’t think it came from another country. Either way, we want a few FBI teams to parachute into the Rockies, find the downed aircraft, search for survivors, and find out who and where this aircraft came from. It is suspected the aircraft was loaded with some type of drug, as indicated by our satellite systems.” He clicked the controller again. “We’re not sure if it really is drugs, but events like these usually end up being involved in drug distribution. We’re sending in three teams, all FBI, at the LZ at ETA 1710 hours tonight. I want this mission to be top secret, because God knows what the media will do if they find out some military aircraft not owned by the actual military crashed in the mountains.”

Farnham took a sip of water and scanned the room to make his point clear. “We don’t expect any kind of resistance, but as always you will be equipped with MP-5s, NVG, and other assorted equipment. I know this is a strange assignment, and I know it is Sunday, but this is urgent, gentlemen. We can’t let the public know about this incident, because they’ll think any deaths that may have happened were military personnel. At any rate, good luck. This should only last a few hours at tops, and we have exact coordinates of the plane’s location.” Agent Farnham paused and took another sip of water. “Dismissed.”

**END OF CHAPTER**

SoLiDUS · 03-21-2003, 04:22 PM

Go get 'em, tiger.

Capt. Albright · 03-21-2003, 04:24 PM

doesnt really sound like some thing the FBI would do.....at least not the crash part

Sergeant_Scrotum · 03-21-2003, 06:03 PM

my writing abilities are so bad! as i saw that it was a masterpeice compared to mine.

**Re: My Short Story. -** 03-21-2003, 08:02 PM

[quote="Chronic Diarrhea":6d376]We have to write this short story for my Creative Writing class, and I wanted to know what you all thought about the first chapter of it. Keep in mind this is a first draft, and some things, well, probably a lot of things are innacurate or silly or whatnot. I'd like to know how crappy or good it is.

Chapter 1: The Drop

“How you like that shot, Jason?” remarked Agent Peter Mitchell, after sinking his 20-foot birdie on the 11th hole.

“You’ve been on fire today. It needs to stop, otherwise I’m gonna be broke by next weekend,” replied Agent Jason Connelly, leader of the FBI special forces unit. It was a warm, pleasant Sunday afternoon in Fairfax, Virginia, just the type of weather golfers would like to have. Agent Mitchell and Agent Connelly were celebrating Peter’s one-year anniversary since he joined the FBI back in 1997 by playing a game of skins before they went back to work the next day. Peter had made it his goal to serve in the FBI ever since he got out of West Point in 1992. He had served as an LAPD SWAT member for several years and enjoyed that job immensely, but there was always something about the FBI that appealed to Peter.

“Okay Pete, the tables turn now. I’m taking back these next two holes.” Jason Chance had also graduated from West Point in 1989, and served in the Gulf War before joining the FBI in 1995. He was a confident and courageous leader, and always pushed his squad to perform their best everyday. Jason naturally formed a good friendship with Peter, as they both had similar interests and attended the same school. Jason was glad to have Peter on his team, because Peter was fast becoming one hell of a sharpshooter.

Jason drove his tee into the ground and prepared for his swing. “This one’s going to the moon.” As the driver met the titanium ball, it quickly made a sharp swerve into the patch of trees to the right.

“Nice shot, Tiger,” joked Peter.

“Shut the hell up. That was a practice shot.”

“Sure, whatever.” Peter continued to rag on Jason’s poor golf game.

“Connelly, Mitchell, we need you at HQ. Agents Connelly and Mitchell, we need you at HQ,” blared the radio inside their golf cart.

“Damn Jason, just when you were going to beat my ass. Oh well, I guess we’ll have to continue this next Sunday,” Peter chuckled as he took off his glove and put it in his bag. Jason did likewise, hopped into the cart and drove back to their vehicles.

“Wonder what’s up?” Peter asked.

“Probably nothing much. Just a briefing on the week’s schedule.”
“On a Sunday?”

‘Who knows? We’ll find out eventually.”

“Okay men, we believe the house is filled with approximately 4.5 million dollars worth of cocaine. I want Team 1 to breach the back entrance, while Team 2 surrounds the area to scan for suspects.” Ordered DEA Agent Shawn McGarrity, top DEA agent for the Miami DEA district. Shawn’s large stature cast a shadow over the entire projector screen in the dark briefing room, and his gruff voice usually scared his fellow agents into working hard.

“What’s our rules of engagement?” asked one of the agents.

“Arrest and interrogate if possible. If fired upon, take your shots if you have to. I really don’t wanna have to produce any casualties in this affair, and I sure as hell don’t wanna have to explain to DEA up in Washington why we killed some coke dealers that have valuable information to us, so try and stun any suspects with OC-9 spray.”

Both teams nodded in acknowledgement, waiting for Agent McGarrity’s next order.

“Okay, that’s it. I want deployment no later than 1420 hours, so get ready to go kick some ass.” The agents stood up and quickly exited the briefing room. Shawn unplugged and closed his laptop on the table where he sat. He walked back to the equipment room, slowly pulled on a flak jacket, and grabbed a few .45 caliber clips from the ammunition shelf. He pulled out his existing clip, checked it, and slammed it back into his expensive silver Glock. He walked into the rec room, grabbed a Coke, and sat down on the couch to watch the local news that was on.

“It’s almost noon now, and temperatures have already reached the mid-nineties. Expect Partly Cloudy skies to sweep across greater Miami this afternoon, with a 30% chance of thunderstorms. I’m Linda Emerson with your local forecast, now back to you, Rita.”

“Thanks, Linda. This morning local authorities questioned two Haitian residents about the recent murder of three children in a Haitian neighborhood. The two men denied any accusations placed against them and were later released.”

Shawn sighed, disgusted at how liberal the Miami Police could be at times. It was then he noticed the two men questioned were two of the suspects DEA had for distribution of cocaine in Florida. Shawn picked up his radio and raised it towards his mouth.

“Hey Rick, I just saw on the news two of our suspects we believe are involved in this cocaine raid were questioned for the murder of three children. You heard anything about that?

“Yeah, I called MPD about it and they said they hadn’t heard about any cocaine distribution. They said they released them a few hours ago.”

“Damn. Figures. Tell both squads about it again and tell them to be cautious. This might turn out to be more dangerous than we originally thought.”

“Right, Shawn. I’ll tell them ASAP.” Shawn turned off the frequency and sighed. I know Rick will do a good job. He always has, but something inside me tells me this might turn into a huge clusterfuck, Shawn thought to himself as he left the rec room and headed towards his black Lincoln Navigator.

Peter and Jason quickly arrived at FBI Headquarters and entered the briefing room. There sat several agents at the long briefing table, both Special Forces guys and chief executing agents. At the end of the table was Agent Thomas Farnham, assistant director of FBI Special Forces Unit. “Sit down, gentlemen. We just got word that a C-130 has crashed in a remote location in the Rocky Mountains.” Farnham clicked his projector controller, changing satellite screenshots. “The aircraft was not government owned, and we don’t think it came from another country. Either way, we want a few FBI teams to parachute into the Rockies, find the downed aircraft, search for survivors, and find out who and where this aircraft came from. It is suspected the aircraft was loaded with some type of drug, as indicated by our satellite systems.” He clicked the controller again. “We’re not sure if it really is drugs, but events like these usually end up being involved in drug distribution. We’re sending in three teams, all FBI, at the LZ at ETA 1710 hours tonight. I want this mission to be top secret, because God knows what the media will do if they find out some military aircraft not owned by the actual military crashed in the mountains.”

Farnham took a sip of water and scanned the room to make his point clear. “We don’t expect any kind of resistance, but as always you will be equipped with MP-5s, NVG, and other assorted equipment. I know this is a strange assignment, and I know it is Sunday, but this is urgent, gentlemen. We can’t let the public know about this incident, because they’ll think any deaths that may have happened were military personnel. At any rate, good luck. This should only last a few hours at tops, and we have exact coordinates of the plane’s location.” Agent Farnham paused and took another sip of water. “Dismissed.”

**END OF CHAPTER**[/quote:6d376]

Pretty Good!!!!

Coleman · 03-21-2003, 08:17 PM

I was too lazy to read the whole thing. The first paragraph was good though freak:

Sgt. Pepper. · 03-21-2003, 11:24 PM

Takes a minimun 10 years to be on Lapd swat.

Chronic Diarrhea · 03-21-2003, 11:24 PM

*EDIT* I changed Shawn McGarrity's name to Wayne. Shawn is just so... gay sounding.

*NOTE* I did this just for you, pyro.

Pyro · 03-21-2003, 11:25 PM

Thankyou...you made my day.