Online Comic Article

Facebook might take down my acct. so I'm posting this here. Its a 'comic' about gangs in a mining city, but it takes a funny twist:

Desmond was sitting in a chair, crudely yet albeit tied to a chair. From outside people could hear a thudding sound.
"Im the smartest person in the world don't tell me what to do!" Someone from inside said.

Desmond casually lifted his head murmuring the words, 'fuck you.' Too scared to jump from the window down to the road, the thug attempted to hit Desmond one last time only to slip on the floor from the blood in an attempt to maybe make a break from the door to safety.

No chance.

The drug infused thug fell down onto the road.

"Are you alright, boss?"

"Don't worry 'bout me, I am of no consequence. However, if you guys hurry you can catch Pizamo. He jumped out the window." Desmond said.

"Awh, don't talk like that boss, we'll have you out freed lickity split."

"I love that you'd take the time to do what Boss says, in entire honesty."

"Yes, Sir!!"

"First Lieutenant, nobody has ever taught me nothin' except fighting for what I believe in. Now, I believe Pizamo will keep coming back, so go do something important and listen to my orders."

"We cant catch Pizamo, boss! It started raining! With the ice and all, we'll definetly slip and fall." One of the lower ranking D-Mons said.
Angry now D-Mon explained: "Then Pizamo will be in the same god damned boat. Now get on that dance floor!!!"

"The boys don't wanna do it, D-Mon--'couple of them are alrady bleedin'." Montana said.

"Call a cab then for fucks sakes!!!"

Noticeably hurt, Montana pulled out his phone and began dialing. D-Mon in comparison obviously hurt physically, rested his head in his hands.
A couple minutes later Montana exclaimed: "Boss, the cab drove off what do you want me to do?"

"What! You think we're the only ones who need a cab in this city? Don't slow-cook your ideas, Montana. We'll be here all day.
Most of the DMons started to chuckle, all did until DMon gave Montana a friendly jab to the chest.

"I've just been stressed lately, Montana. Now let's settle down with a simmer; here's one I picked up on the reservation." D-Mon said.
Looking at the neatly rolled cigarette, Montana accepted DMon's apology and got to work calling another cab.

"They probably just knew it was us and got scared off, Montana."

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Part 1 *END
(HOW IT CAME TO BE)
It was a normal day according to the D-Mon. It started however when an ol' fren' named Pizamo came running down a cold fall morning. Sudbury had a lot of hills.

"X-Box Thief!!"
D-Mon tried to ignore it.

"X-Box THIEF!!"
That one clicked. He turned around; started marching towards Pizamo like a thunder storm, the words,
"X-Box THIEF," still fresh in his ears.

The wind not following the normal course but intertwined with the yelling of frightened people. You see, D-Mon was a legend. The kind of guy that didn't just walk by you, but according to said legend, would walk OVER you if necessary. He needed his daily treasure and being labelled a thief wouldn't cut it for the night, nor the outing.

He needed beer, and to get said item, would need to walk over Pizamo today.
Pizamo was the run-of-the-mill Donovan boys. Not only by looks and stature, but by title. His head was like a pumpkin, though, body shaped like a miner. He wasn't one to triffle with, but D-Mon always had soldiers, and, always had a pint of alcohol to brighten his liquid courage.
D-Mon threw his pack sack down simultaneously picking up some sand in the process, proceeded to walk towards Pizamo, who was a few feet from him now.

Pizamo started to say something, cut off by D-Mon throwing the sand in his eyes. He ran back to his bag, turned it sideways, used it as a makeshift piece of frontal armor.

"Let's go Pizamo! You wanna label me as a thief!!"
Pizamo knew D-Mon always packed something, blunt or sharp--it didn't matter, and soon afterwards called for his crew to come help. Simultaneously the people who flocked to D-Mon to protect them from the Donovan Boys also joined the face-off.
In the end, Pizamo was known to be too much of a match for D-Mon in a heads-up fight. So, D-Mon made the next move when he pulled out his scimitar; it was a dull knife made of rusted steel. Everything from box-cutter blades, kitchen knives were made with melted plastic that offered his hand some protection.

"Alright, D-Mon, you know you're done." Pizamo said.

"Don't get in the way of my cheddar and we won't have a problem."
With that, the day was done, his minions asked to find out which dealers were selling what, who was talking to whom. The Core needed D-Mon, however, D-Mon needed one thing: Alcohol. D-Mon looked at one of the lil' bros who asked him if he actually stole the X-Box.

"Simmer down now boys, get the jump on anybody who looks wealthy. I don't need you to tell me they're not holding something for us when they're at the wrong place at the wrong time."
There weren't many colors in this town, only blackened rocks and sickly trees.

**Needs purpose or lead up to rap battle**
Deep down in the most hostile part of the city, the most threatening person of the DMons was sitting calmly in his chair. He made some modifications to it: extra storage compartments for a small 9mm handgun, an improved battery, plug-ins for his laptop and other devices, among other things.
"Bring them in, Montana." He ordered.

Moments later, two mid-level gangsters from the Chinese Syndicate strolled in.
"We've been waiting for over 20 minutes---"
Shwoosh* A crack from Montana's extendo bat locking into place echoed throughout the second floor apartment.

"Do NOT speak to the professor that way!!" Yelled Montana.

"Are the modifications done? Can we please just get the hell out of here? Here's the money." One of the gangsters said.

"It's in the garage downstairs... Should be open and my mechanic will teach you the ins and outs of the modified van. Should have no trouble with the license plates, I personally flooded the Ministry of Transportation's website with enough backlogged procedures and subroutines that they'll be incognito for decades. Scanners will pick up police radar and all the rest---it's all done."

"Many thanks to you, Professor. With much respect from Mr. Lao." With the Ts silent, the gangsters said, simultaneously placing the briefcase on his table.
The Professor simply nodded and the gangsters left.

The garage below the apartment was cool inside, a few degrees here or there. The Professor's mechanic did as was instructed and with his task completed, finished with cleaning up an oil spill on the concrete floor.

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I'm the national native from the north, my rhythms go back and forth, I know you know you're struggling, because you're struggling. For is to need pippin' pumpin'--I don't need your jibber - jibber (Desmond's failed rap battle).

"Booooooooooo."

"Hey all, I got some Q109.99 merchandise here. Hats, shirts, shoes." D-Mon suddenly got cut off by one of the lower ranking soldiers: "Nike!!!"

"The battle is done and by applause lets hear it for your favourite freestyler!!"
The crowd clearly supported their man, the so-called 'expert rapper,' nevertheless, the owner of Q109.99 ignored the decibles of the roaring fans and, before announcing the winner, gave a stern look to Pizamo's clique.

"Lets hear it for... The demonic deliverance of D-Mon!!!"

Clearly stunned, the crowd started grumbling eventually being overridden by the 'D-Mon Crew' whistling and clapping their hands. On the infuriating notion, Pizamo's ringer brushed aside the local news crew and confronted his humiliation.

"You know I spit better rhymes, D-Mon! That decision is bullshit!" He shouted.
Grinning, D-Mon replied. "We're all friends' of the family here and you HEARD the crowd; some time next week Ill be addressing the entire city thanks to the radio gig I just won..."

"You stole the meatballs out of my spaghetti today, D-Mon!" Pizamo, visibly furious yelled.
One of the senior ranking members of the D-Mons started to say something but D-Mon cut him off.

"Montana, give that radio host his cheddar and meet me back here before you head off."

"Koolio." Montana replied.

There was Montana, the would-be lawyer; D-Mon's childhood friend Devlin (or just 'Devo'), Ray Ray the native from the west, and probably most importantly the man known to everyone--even D-Mon--simply as 'the proffessor.' Not much is known about him other than he hacks into computer software with the alias, 'Data-Malicious.' In fact, the "reward" Montana gave the radio host was stolen by the former. Other than soldiers, those guys made up the senior ranks.

"So, what do you guys have for me today? Any new spots for scrap metal we can take on our next run with Henessy's truck." Dmon asked.

"Will do, Boss. We'll get right on it."
And with that, the D-Mons began their hustle for the day, hopefully getting some tribute along the way from lesser gangs.
**END

"DMon, the security guards won't tell us the codes to get to the alarm system hub. We have to go block A to shutdown the power system then go to block B without tripping the alarm. Then go to block A again to turn on the electronic doors." Montana told DMon.

"No need. We have the professor. He will take care of everything."
"Everything?" Considered Devo.

"Everything but those security guards. Now, Montana..." DMon took a deep toke of his marijuana cigar.
"I don't mind the cowboy boots, nor the pirate shirt but seriously, do you really need a lasso. I mean, we brought all the right tools."
Montana, fancy-dancy, tipped his hat: "I want to leave a calling card, unlike those recruits you sent to tag the city with TD (the DMons) who just ended up messing it about, causing the Chinese Syndicate to take the credit. How in tarnation do you mess up two god damned letters!?"

"Easy Montana. Here's a simmer. Go to block C and get some food for the boys. The professor probably already shutdown the security alarm or anything like that." DMon replied.

* Moments later *

"I got us some dijon for our Frank's, D-Mon." Montana, arms filled with food from the caf."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Devo asked.

"He means hotdogs and mustard. You see, Montana was a chef before becoming one of us." D-Mon clarified.
"Ahhh, duly noted."

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"Look at the chick, DMon! Shes fn hawt!" Devo said.
"I KNOW that chick is hot and I DON'T need you to tell me."

"In fact, I'm gonna walk up to her to prove to you she's human, not some bag of meat." DMon said.

The girl started giggling when DMon approached to talk to her. When he came back, he was looking gitty as Devo ever seen him. Being leader of a rough and tough gang, DMon had to convey some idea of sophistication.

"And THATs how its done, my good man." DMon said.
All Devo could do was smile and shake his head in amazement.

"DMon, I got some cologne for your date tonight!" Montana said.

"I KNOW whats in that stuff...---toilet water, or 'eau de toilette'!"
"Its not what you think, boss! Its just---"

Concerned, DMon cut Montana off: "Mayhap, if this girl dont trust me smellin' like Ol' Spice she can beat the bricks. Besides, it says perfume in the ingredients."

Couple of the lower-ranking DMons looked to Devo for some reasoning behind DMon's logic, but seeing him visibly dissapointed at the notion, they all held their tongues.

After a couple seconds, Vinnie, one of the stronger 'lil bros, finally said something: "Good luck, DMon! You'll charm her alright, slow and steady. No need to wear that crap."
"Why thank you, Vincenzo." Replied DMon.

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The Professor looked at DMon's keycode, analyzed it with deleted enumerations within final and initial error-correcting code paradigms. Seeing the discrepancy, he changed his mind---decided not to alleviate DMon's technological signature: what came to fruition was horrifying: DMon was the famous 'Neferatu, Order of the Dragon,' otherwise known as 'Dracula.' In over 40 countries, "DMon" had deeds to houses, land, estates, and medieval castles. Additionally, there were death certificates, currency dated 300 years ago. And most compeling of all a painting Vlad III, one of the most lucrative and rare paintings in the world. All of these were dispersed over several firms and banking institutions.

"This day has been in torturing my mind for the past 5 years..." The Professor said. Taking out a small box that looked like it weathered the test of time, Montana asked him: "Are those simmers, Professor?"

"God damnit, Montana! No! Its something I wished I could throw in the deep sea; now that the cat is out of the bag, we have to be alert; I must reveal who I truly am---von Helsing, vampire-hunter..."

"Montana, I must show you the way or you must leave at once."
"Ill stay." Montana said earnestly.

Attachment 3658

The Professor was sitting quietly in his chair. The room was dark, dimly lit by a lamp when DMon entered.
"Hey, DMon!?" Montana said. "Why is it you only drink alchohol---never juice, or anything?"

"You gotta better system for that?" Was the reply.

"I got some more cologne for you in case you wanna try some..." The Professor cut in.
"That gal was charmed already. Didnt you guys get the photo I sent to our facebook page? Ive been courting her for weeks lately." DMon said.

Turning around, the Professor motioned for DMon to try on the cologne, saying: "Its not toilet water, DMon."

DMon instantaneously stepped back. "Im alright... just wanted to get some sleep today. Ill talk to you guys later tonight."

"Ya, you always sleep during the day and when youre outside, you can barely make sense... Remember that rap battle? Youre usually way better than that... Try the cologne..." Montana said stubbornly.

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"What!? You guys' aint gonna let me be, sleeping up under the stars tonight?!" DMon replied.

"Theres another thing, DMon... I didnt want to say anything---out of respect for the fellowship, but your lingo is like a mix between 1800s American slang and British quip." Montana said.

The oil lamp by the Professor's desk went out as DMon stared at both members of the fellowship, whos namesake had just been presumed the magnations of an ancient devil.

"Why your faboulus minds came up with them ideas, worryin' not about those poor folk whos one lunatic away keeps them drivin' in their tombstones. All it will take is one, turning slight-like, ending all hopes of God's glorious risin'. Now, Ive gotten rid of my acccentuations both in lingo and demeanor, hitherto the Professor's born-again kingdom come. Why you grasped eternal life and somehow managed to forgo the extremities I come to no clue; on how you did this I yet am unable to know. Seeing how Ill never be your Lord, I think Ill step away from you two, armed and ready for the infinite battle that lies ahead---heck, Im not gonna give that satifisfaction, however I WILL give up the day to you fine human beings."

And with his last sentence, and, faster than Montana (Richter) or Dr. Helsing could ascertain, DMon vanished from the room, leaving nothing but mist vapour.

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