07-27-2018, 06:44 AM
Augustine, Libertas Omnium Maximus
July 26th - 22:00
Vilav Trotsky suddenly awoke from his restless slumber when a cockroach crawled onto the mattress next to him. Trotsky had been living in this dumpy motel for nearly 6 months. He had hated every moment of it. Trotsky sat up and flipped the light switch on the wall, which illuminated the small apartment. Just his mattress, a small card table with Trotsky's laptop on it, his backpack in the far corner, sitting next to it was a .44 mm handgun. All was quiet. Suddenly, Trotsky made out the faint sound of a car rolling into the vacant lot next door. His heart skipped a beat. Trotsky pulled an undershirt on over his muscular chest, got out of bed, and grabbed his gun.
Slowly, 4 police officers made their way through the weeded lot and onto the motel parking lot. "Room 192." Whispered one of the cops. The cops stepped slowly approached the door labled, 192. "Go!" One cop suddenly called out. The quartet ran to the door and began shooting the lock off.
Trotsky heard the first gunshot and went immediately to work. He grabbed a canister from his back pack, pulled the pin attached to its top, slung the sack over his back, and climbed out the rear window. His home made smoke bomb began to gush smoke, quickly filling the room. Now was his chance to escape. No sooner did he begin running towards his car, which was parked behind the motel, than two burly women jumped from out of nowhere and dragged him into a neerby van. The last thing Trotsky saw was the interior of the van followed by a canvas bag, which was hastily shoved over his head.
July 26th - 22:00
Vilav Trotsky suddenly awoke from his restless slumber when a cockroach crawled onto the mattress next to him. Trotsky had been living in this dumpy motel for nearly 6 months. He had hated every moment of it. Trotsky sat up and flipped the light switch on the wall, which illuminated the small apartment. Just his mattress, a small card table with Trotsky's laptop on it, his backpack in the far corner, sitting next to it was a .44 mm handgun. All was quiet. Suddenly, Trotsky made out the faint sound of a car rolling into the vacant lot next door. His heart skipped a beat. Trotsky pulled an undershirt on over his muscular chest, got out of bed, and grabbed his gun.
Slowly, 4 police officers made their way through the weeded lot and onto the motel parking lot. "Room 192." Whispered one of the cops. The cops stepped slowly approached the door labled, 192. "Go!" One cop suddenly called out. The quartet ran to the door and began shooting the lock off.
Trotsky heard the first gunshot and went immediately to work. He grabbed a canister from his back pack, pulled the pin attached to its top, slung the sack over his back, and climbed out the rear window. His home made smoke bomb began to gush smoke, quickly filling the room. Now was his chance to escape. No sooner did he begin running towards his car, which was parked behind the motel, than two burly women jumped from out of nowhere and dragged him into a neerby van. The last thing Trotsky saw was the interior of the van followed by a canvas bag, which was hastily shoved over his head.