Nothing was delivered.

Eagles rest where no man can reach. Their golden eggs sit snugly in fortress nests. No words for poachers such as the ones found in rescuers down under. Cant say i don't sympathize with such a lofty goal, but not one at such a cost. Eagles are essentially what dreams are made of. Dream killing is best left to the religious zealots. (Terrorists, Southern baptists, Scientologists, etc)

I live off of dreams. They are always better than real life. Better faster stronger creepier. Like the time James crashed his car into the security gate at the fox lot. He had a seizure while driving and crashed into a fence, or something close to that. Later his boss gave him a bill. The memory i choose to create for myself is something much more spectacular.

I imagine james, steady with bloodshot eyes, and smelling of whiskey and grass and cottage cheese, gripping the wheel tightly, while skirting and maneuvering turns and obstacles with all the skill and nonchalance of a jackie chan stunt driver tokyo drifting on a top secret steve mcqueen CIA mission. He approaches the gate and zooms in on the elite republican guard, machine gun resting on his shoulder. James floors it and busts through the gate. Tiny splinters of white and black painted wood explode in slow motion and rain back down. the guard begins firing at him from behind, shattering the back windshield. James squints his eyes and rips the steering wheel hard to the left. spinning around 180 degrees, and floors it again. this time headed straight for the booth. close up of the guards face as he realizes what is about to happen. just before the collision everything goes black.

fade in on james in the car, slumped over the steering wheel, blood smeared across his face. He is foggy and slowly surveys the chaos as sirens blare in the distant background. he is directly over the rubble of what was once the guard booth. He bangs the glovebox, like a fonz to a jukebox. It pops open and james grabs his pistol. He shoves the door open, and stumbles out. He steps out, and trips forward, his foot right having just set down on the face of the guard who is wedged between the car and the rubble. "thats the way she goes" he mutters, and stumbles on. He surveys the scene, noting a flood of troopers running towards the scene. He waivers his pistol in the direction the mass of elite military personnel rushing towards his general direction. He tries to aim, but his vision is still blurry. POP, POP, POP. He fires off some rounds into the blurry mass. Some fall, others keep running. POP, POP, POP. they are firing back, a bullet hits him in the shoulder, as he spins around hard, his giant body thudding to the ground. The soldiers crowd around him. They haven't killed him yet, the must have some questions for him. "sometimes she goes, and sometimes she doesn't." He fires off one last shot, hitting one of the guards right in the face. "cuz thats just the way she goes" The butt of a riffle smacks james face with a loud crack. Blackness.