Finally. She's done, thirty-two year old Arnold Ramsey thought as wiped his greasy hands on an arguably equally greasy rag.
The former CEO of Apex Firearms, a weapons manufacturing company he helped build from the ground up, tossed the rag aside and sat down on an old workbench. He ultimately wiped his hands on his pants, then pulled an ice cold Modelo from the blue cooler he had posted there and sipped while he looked over his finished masterpiece. The windows and windshield on his old pest control van were replaced with two-inch thick transparent armor. Despite popular belief, bulletproof glass isn't just very thick safety glass, but instead a sandwich of polycarbonate and leaded glass. He'd also swapped out the tires for Hutchinson-made Composite RunFlat tires, which are custom built polymer donuts that clamp around the centerline of the wheel. The working principle is that if one of the pneumatic tires loses pressure, the polymer ring inside will provide support that allows for sixty mile per hour speeds for more than sixty miles.
In addition, he removed, cut open, and stuffed the doors and pillars with a fifty-fifty combination of ballistic nylon and Kevlar. He then welded the voids closed and reattached the reinforced doors and pillars, which had been heavy enough for him to have to add a third hinge. After that, Ramsey had bolstered the interior walls with steel plating, as well as the doors and bumpers. The floor and ceiling of the van were lined with ballistic fabrics. With all the armor upgrades, not to mention the weapons and tech, the vehicle had gained a few thousand pounds. To combat this he modified the engine and chassis, as well as the drivetrain, beforehand. He also raised the damping and spring rates, in order to maintain drivability. Nothing would stand in his way.
The beer was working its magic. He was starting to feel a buzz. He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the garage wall, letting his thoughts drift for the moment. They ended up in reminisce, taking him to what his life had been like before all of this madness came about. Which, when he really thought about it, must've been quite a long time. At least in Martin's case it was. Ramsey, his old college roommate Timothy Banks, and their mutual friend Martin Davis came together to form a business some years ago. They were a powerhouse trio: Ramsey, the weapons engineer; Tim, the successful business mind; and Martin, son of Alan Davis and heir to the Davis Concrete fortune, who not only had the money to finance their start, but also the big vision for the company's expansion. It was through their combined efforts that Apex Firearms was created.
A long story short, a heated disagreement between Ramsey and Tim, as well as a long standing, unspoken resentment for the former by the passive-aggressive Martin led his co-founders to conspire against him. Ramsey had always been the forgiving, move forward type. Don't dwell, excel, he always liked to think. Tim and Martin were not, as he would soon find out. They were both overseas when they made the fatal investment deal. Ramsey had been so caught up with the new weapon designs and overseeing the staff in his department that he hadn't noticed the damage until it occurred to him one morning how long it had been since he'd checked on the developments with the newest wave of investors, and so decided go over it himself to see if the guys had all the bases covered. Oh they did, alright. More than he would have guessed. It was a setup. It was also a barehanded slap across the face. At first he couldn't believe it. He could still remember staring down at the documents in utter shock and hearing the sound of a pencil snap somewhere between his ears.
Those scumbag sons of bitchesā¦
Ramsey's ownership share had dropped severely as a result of many of these deals, from a little over a third in the company down to less than one percent. It was debilitating, trance inducing information. He appeared calm on the outside, but, inside, he was going ballistic. He was so close to the edge in that moment, it only took the presence of another human being to set him off.
He ferociously attacked the first person to make physical contact with him, which ended up being an older security guard named Sergio Bailey that had been ordered to escort him off the premises. Ramsey fractured Bailey's nose and jaw and broke a few teeth before being Tasered and handcuffed by one of the other security guards. The incident had made things sticky in court once Ramsey later filed a suit against the company.
It was a long year and a half proceeding that eventually left Ramsey as the one out to dry. The successful countersuits by Bailey on account of personal endangerment and Tim, Martin, and Apex Firearms on counts of negligence were the nine inch nails in his financial coffin. Just like that, he dropped down to the middle class. Tim and Martin eventually brought a new weapons engineer on board to fill his role and continued to grow into what would be one of the most highly reputable explosives and firearms manufacturing companies in the world. Ramsey, on the other hand, had lost everything.
Here in the present, Ramsey is a part time pest exterminator living in a modest one bedroom apartment in Manhattan, New York. He'd been sort of drifting for a while. Wake up, go to work, get off work, watch TV, maybe have a beer or two, go to sleep, repeat. In that order. Day after day, for years on end. Going nowhere. His old co-founders truly had won. It wasn't until about eight months ago that things had changed. He came home late to an unknown visitor waiting for him in his living room. The man was tall and thin, with straight, jet black hair that went down past his shoulders. Ramsey had just set his keys in the tray on the kitchen counter and thrown his jacket on the couch when he spotted the intruder standing by a window, staring out.
Before he could speak, the stranger spoke first, "Hello Arnold."
This guy knew who he was.
What the fuck is this?
The stranger in black turned around to face Ramsey, wearing a crisp tuxedo and a strong red tie. He waved a hand around the small, unkempt apartment and said, "A long fall from grace, I see."
"What the hell are you doing in here? Who are you?" Ramsey demanded.
The stranger raised his eyebrows, slightly cocked his head and smiled before answering. Real self-assured.
Smug bastard.
Ramsey wondered why. Did he have a gun? This was too much weirdness to deal with right after an eight hour shift. He found himself inching back towards the door, where he kept an old wooden Louisville Slugger in the corner basket along with an umbrella cane.
"I, am Calypso," the stranger introduced himself. "And I wouldn't do what you're thinking of doing."
Ramsey had enough of whoever the hell this guy was.
Too late. Doin' it.
Except when Ramsey turned around, he was too shocked to do anything. It was as if he'd stepped into a Salvador Dali painting; both the umbrella cane and the baseball bat were draped over the basket rim like wet noodles.
What theā¦
He turned back to Calypso, who was still standing there, hands clasped behind his back.
"Now, now Arnold. Let's be civilized, yes? Come. Have a seat. You asked what I'm doing here? I have a proposition for you."
Ramsey lowered his fists he'd raised in self defense in reflex to the sudden surrealism. Either he was dreaming and would, sooner or later, wake up, or this was actually real, in which case getting into a fist fight with Mr. Calypso wasn't something he expected to end well. The two sat down across from each other on a U-shaped couch with the coffee table between them, no coffee.
"How would you like a chance for redemption?" Calypso began.
"What do you mean?"
"A start over. A second chance. A clean slate."
"What, like sending me back in time?" Ramsey offered almost jokingly.
Calypso was dead serious in his reply, "Precisely. To before your betrayal."
To before your betrayal.
Ramsey let the words sink in. A second chance. After what he had just witnessed, he had no reason to doubt Calypso's capabilities. He could go back to one of the earlier stages of Apex Firearms and cut his losses instead of working his ass off on the weapons designs that would shoot the company from local to national recognition. Then he'll start his own weapons manufacturing company and watch how well Tim and Martin do without his back to stand on.
One thing was still bothering him thoughā¦
"Why me?" Ramsey asked.
Calypso gave a sly grin and thought for a moment before answering.
"Because you deserve it," he said.
"Sure, that's it. You're just a nice guy, right?"
"Perhaps."
"For some reason I doubt that."
Calypso's grin went from sly to... what? Grim? Sinister? Whatever it was, it made him appear very evil.
"You want the truth?" he asked.
"Nothing but," Ramsey replied with boldness that was all show.
"I am a connoisseur of any and all violence. I run a contest, one I want you to join in order to win your second chance, with the sole intention of producing death and destruction on a colossal scale. There is a very real possibility that you will die."
I knew there was a catch.
Ultimately, this information didn't matter to him. Here was an opportunity to get his life back, and he was taking it no matter the cost.
Calypso continued, "You have a gift, Arnold. The ideas you have, the weapons you design, very creative. Brilliant really. You could cause so much damage. I can't stand by and allow you to wither away in here. I'm sure you understand."
That statement caused Ramsey to actually break his own smile for the first time since the encounter began. Not only did he understand, he was flattered. Even Calypso was a fan of his work. Calypso proceeded to explain the contest called Twisted Metal to Ramsey. It was abundantly clear that one thing was definitely a requirement to have if he was going to enter the competition. Ramsey built it over the course of the following eight months. Now, his exterminator's van was an armored killing machine, complete with various mines, missiles, and a pair of front-mounted fifty caliber rotary chain guns.
The contest was only two weeks away. A yellow placard given to him by Calypso with directions to it was sitting on the nightstand by his bed. Ramsey pictured this as he polished off his Corona and cracked open another one.
Two more weeks. Then I get my life back.