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Newsgroups: alt.startrek.vs.starwars
Subject: [Humor] Sonnenburg the Red
From: Rob Dalton <daltonatorNObuSPAM@hotmail.com>
Date: Thu, 02 Sep 1999 19:45:53 +1700

I hope you like it...heh heh heh!

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It was a quiet night in the 7-11. Tim looked up from his
register at his partner Paul, who was cleaning up around the
aisles of snacks, drinks and household goods. "Paul,
remember the soda spill by the big gulp machine," he
reminded the other.

"Ah, keep yer pants on. I'll get to it soon enough," he
replied in his typical wiseass manner.

Tim simply smiled. Paul had been in a bad mood that day ever
since that punk kid had 'accidentally' spilled a slurpee all
over his pants. It was damn hard to get out a slurpee stain,
and Paul had to run home just to change his pants. On the
way back he had almost gotten into two accidents and had
received a speeding ticket, so he was fairly ticked off.

The door opened. Rather violently, in fact, which caused the
glass to shatter and Paul to duck behind the candy stand.
Framed in the moonlight-bathed opening stood a man. No, not
just a man; a great man. He was over six feet high, swathed
in a flannel shirt; his grisly, long beard grew down to his
hairy, muscled chest. His eyes, bright and gleaming, pierced
Tim's soul almost as much as the heavy double-edged axe that
he held in his hands would pierce his skull. His jeans were
torn and bloodstained; his Timberland boots, caked with mud.
Topping it all off was a chrome-and-fur helmet with a pair
of long, nasty-looking horns from some animal coming out of
the sides.

He swung the mighty battleaxe, cleaving a magazine stand in
two. "I am Sonnenburg the Red! Give me your food, your money
and your women, and your lives will be spared! If not..." he
brandished his axe menacingly.

"Who the fuck is this nutcase?" demanded Paul. In a blinding
instant of pain, Paul was cleaved in two by Sonnenburg's
mighty battleaxe. "Your food, your money, your women! Now!"

"But...we have no women," said Tim shakingly, scared out of
his wits.

"Very well," said Sonnenburg. "Your food and your money."
Tim shakingly pointed. "Take what you will, but please spare
my life!" he said.

Sonnenburg the Red turned to examine the shelves, noticing
out of the corner of his eye Tim ducking below the counter.
Quickly, he whirled around to see Tim stand up again,
fumbling with a small, powerful revolver. Sonnenburg took a
step-- "Not one move, psycho!" said Tim.

Sonnenburg took another step, moving ever slowly towards
Tim's shaking hand and the gun in it. Tim fired around--

With a loud spang, the bullet deflected off of the blade of
Sonnenburg's axe, richocheting to lodge itself in the soda
machine, causing a fountain of Coke to pour down. Another
shot, another spang, this time into the donut case. Tim
blinked, not believing this bad luck. He pulled the trigger,
heard a click. Damn! They had forgotten to reload the gun
the last time they were robbed.

Sonnenburg smiled. With a huff of breath, he heaved his axe
straight at Tim. It flew, straight and true, and cleaved
Tim's head in half, exposing his brain. He had time only to
mutter a bewildered 'Huh?' before he tilted over and crashed
to the floor, blood and brain matter leaking from his open
skull.

Sonnenburg retrieved his blood-laden axe, cleaning it off
with his victim's shirt. Just then, the door opened again
and a customer entered. "Win for Life," he said, sliding
over a pair of bills before noticing the bodies strewn on
the floor. He didn't even wince. He looked at Sonnenburg's
axe. "You did this, huh?" he asked. Sonnenburg raised his
axe--

"Thank God. Those two were real assholes," he finished,
reaching over to grab the scratcher. Sonnenburg stood there,
dumbfounded, watrching as the man scratched off the ticket
with a coin. "Damn, bad luck, eh?" he said, tossing the
worthless ticket aside as he strode out the door.

Sonnenburg blinked, then began stuffing his sack with as
much food as he could find. _Today was bountiful_, he
thought as he headed home. _The children will eat well
tonight._ He walked out the door and left for home, the
shape of his body soon lost to the mists of the night.

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Dalton

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