Garden Gnomes are cute, right? Innocent and lovable. That’s what we all thought. Unless you’re a BIG fan of the Monster Hunter International Series by #ILOH Larry Correia, like I am.
While reading them, I got this brain worm that turned into a story. Not inspired by the main characters or the deeper stories laid out in the books. It just wouldn’t go away. So I banged the keyboard like it was a drunk cheerleader on prom night (If that triggered you, you’ll hate what comes next!).
My disclaimer: This is not canon. This is not “sanctioned Fan Fic” or in anyway a “for profit” venture on my part. I haven’t talked to, nor corresponded , with the copyright holder/ publisher of MHI previously to discuss this work. I’m not seeking any form of compensation from people that want to read it. It’s just a story inspired by that work.
That said, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. IF the powers from on high are displeased with it being on my website, I can move it to the “Fanfic” portion of Wattpad.
Now, if you want to know what brought this story about, you might want to read the works of the master (links below). You might not “get” my story until you read as far as the second book, but “G-Raff” is pretty fun within itself.
The story goes for 13 pages on this blog. Just click “continue” at the bottom of each page to keep reading…or… you want to read “G-Raff” offline by clicking here for PDF, or email me for MOBI or EPUB copy.
A work Inspired by the MHI Universe
By Tom Tinney
©2017 PiR8 Productions
Rolf Jørgensson lay on the wet pavement, the falling rain drops blurring his vision no matter how fast he blinked. The smell of expended ammunition and good weed hung in the air, fading under the relentless drizzle. The ground beneath him thumped to an aggressive tempo, causing the puddles of water surrounding him, mixed with his own blood, to jump and oscillate to the beat. Beside him lay his blue pointed hat, soaked with blood and water. Above him he saw a bright, orange-tinted light. Not some ethereal doorway to a waiting afterlife; it was a streetlamp, one of many spaced along the remote walkway, its halogen bulb filling the ever-shrinking circle of his peripheral vision.
He was dying. An unseen anvil weighed heavy, and unmoving, on his chest. His guts burned. His arms and legs flailed around like mindless flippers. It was all the bullets. Lots of bullets. They’d come from everywhere.
Started with those red hat wearing Chicago punks. The NaSnitch-Ez concert at the St. Louis Chaifetz Arena played on neutral ground. Both coasts agreed the rapper’s tracks were righteous and straight up legit. The Los Angeles and Chicago crews meeting evolved into a celebration. Music, booze and lots of women. A party to bury the old grudges.
Rolf, or “G-Raff” to his crew, lay gasping for breath outside the arena filled with his favorite music. Why had he come to the remote corner behind the loading docks? They’d all slipped out to get high. Everything righteous, a party mood. Laughing and joking. Their East coast crew in blue, and his West coast family sporting red, joking and playing the dozens. St. Louis was Switzerland, like on the old continent, for the two rival groups. A place to settle their differences and enjoy the local culture.
The mood changed at some point. Someone from the Chicago crew, sporting a blue hoodie with Bob Marley silk-screened on it, had stepped out, rolled up to G-Raff, pumping his finger into G’s face.
“Yo, Tallee, you da one? You da bitch that iced my man Johan in Vegas? That yo’ punk-ass move? Over some ho? That why he dead?”
The East coast thug’s nose was as red as his conical hat, bright against his Scandinavian skin, his ginger beard quivered. His green eyes intense, and focused, on G-Raff.
G-Raff had stopped listening after being called Tallee. He could only muster a “Huh, whassup, dawg?” in response.
“Dat what I thought. You is him. You need ta pay fo’ your transgress,” the East coast banger said, drawing a small automatic pistol from inside his deep front jacket pocket; “Ya gon’ pay da toll now, bitch.”
“Damn, a .380 Bodyguard with Crimson Trace,” G-Raff had thought as his eyes drifted down from the small black auto’s barrel to the red dot in the center of his chest.
“Whoa, homie, ain’t no cause for dat. We on a truce. Yo, I don’t know what your beefin’ about,” Rolf said, hands held up and relaxed. What the hell had happened? He knew he had to keep talking, figure out why the Chi-town thug was going crazy. He needed to say something. His mind went to his crew. Why weren’t Stitch, or Ham-Z, their crew leaders for the trip, stepping up to throw shade on the conversation? Why hadn’t they come to his defense and put that Chi-town punk in his place?
And then the shots came. Yes, the bullets hurt. Other shooters from the Chi-town crew pulled and joined in. G-Raff was rolling clean, just like their parlay dictated. No weapons. He had a blade or two, but no artillery. The bullets hit hard. And then his West coast crew drew their heat and fired back as they ducked and dodged. Blue hats moved away from Rolf. His crew had known to ignore the agreement, but nobody had told him.
He felt the impacts in his back.
Those bullets hitting him from behind hurt the most. They burned with betrayal, and something more. Magic and iron. Fired by someone in his crew to make sure he didn’t survive. Clarity came at that moment. A sacrifice to settle a beef. He’d never been to Vegas but knew who had. Stitch. His trusted brother had bragged about taking down a Chi-town bitch when he’d come back to their East LA bunker.
The shots slowed and stopped as he fell. Folks were yelling shit back and forth. Cooler heads took over. He’d heard the crews talking and making peace. He’d groaned. Somebody spat on him. It all ran together, voices echoed and watery. A misunderstanding? A score settled? They slapped each other’s backs and walked away. A tenuous truce reached over his gurgling dying objections and his unintelligible proclamations of innocence. They agreed he’d been the problem and “bid’ness” needed to commence. With the hit on G-Raff, there was no more vendetta. The East coast crew was ready to talk to his Westie homeboys. Rolf’s head swam. Rain fell harder and his vision blurred again.
The thump-thump of the concert called to them and they left him alone.
Rolf, formerly G-Raff, stared at his new friend, the streetlight, waiting for it to blink out of existence, taking him with it. That didn’t bother him. A gnome’s thug life comes with an expiration date. He’d accepted the truth of his lifestyle long ago. In his mind, he’d was going to go out making a final stand for his crew, or popped by a jealous boyfriend. Not as a framed-up bitch.
Tallee. That bothered him almost as much as the constant physical pain he was in. A slur. The worst for his kind. Gnomes hated tall folks, and he was tall for a gnome. Most of his people were 12”-15” in height. He was a hair over 20” without a hat. That’s why Rolf Jørgensson got the name “Giraffe” as a kid, when he was a punk wannabe. He worked hard to prove himself and became “G-Raff” when he got his street cred by taking down a Chupacabra that had moved into their East LA hood. G-Raff thought they’d accepted, or at least overlooked, his height. As the streetlight became a blurry small ball, he knew he’d been wrong.
Seconds seemed like hours. He heart pounded in his chest, his breathing ragged. The ball of light became a dot of light.
Noise. Steps. Yelling. What were those new lights? Whose face is that? What was she saying? The dark came on. That shit still hurt.