THE CYBER-PHALLUS PROTOCOL
When the World's at Stake, He Shoots First, Asks Never.
1: THE PRISON BREAK
The UH-60 Black Hawk exploded mid-coitus, which pissed off Hawk Draven almost as much as the interrupted orgasm. One second, he was buried deep in Isabella, the Paraguayan warden’s mistress – her skin slick with jungle heat and his sweat, her moans blending with the chopper’s thrum – the next, the world erupted in orange fire and screaming metal. Isabella vaporized in a pink mist. Hawk, naked and magnificent, was thrown against the bulkhead, the co-pilot’s head smacking into the controls beside him like a rotten melon.
"Goddamn timing!" Hawk roared, spitting out a shard of tooth. Flames licked the cockpit. Alarms shrieked. The chopper spun, plummeting towards the prison yard below – El Infierno’s razor wire glittering like a deadly necklace.
No time for pants. Priorities. Hawk moved. He snatched the dead co-pilot’s sidearm – a chunky .45 – and blew the cockpit door off its hinges. Wind and smoke howled in. A guard scrambled up the ladder, rifle raised. Hawk lunged, naked muscle coiling. He used the lamp bolted beside the door – a heavy brass thing shaped like a condor – swinging it in a brutal arc. It connected with the guard’s throat crunch. The man gurgled, eyes bulging, and Hawk finished him with a savage twist of the lamp’s base. Garrote work. Efficient.
He vaulted through the flaming doorway. Twelve feet down onto the warden’s prized cherry-red jeep. The roof crumpled like tin foil under his boots. Impact jarred his bones, pure fury fuel. Guards swarmed, shouting in panicked Spanish, bullets pinging off the jeep. Hawk snatched the pintle-mounted minigun – Vulcan M134, beautiful – its weight familiar, comforting. He spun the barrels with a growl. "Lunchtime, hijos de puta!"
BRRRRRRAAAAAPPP! Six thousand rounds per minute tore the courtyard apart. Guards disintegrated. Concrete walls chewed into dust. A fuel truck detonated in a glorious fireball, painting Hawk’s sweat-streaked torso orange and black. He laughed, the sound raw and primal. This was living!
A voice, cool and smoky as Kentucky bourbon, crackled in his ear. Comms bead. "Draven. Status report. Or are you still pants-less?"
Hawk grinned, shredding a guard tower. "Jade Steele. Always a pleasure, darlin’. Just tidying up." Jade. NSA. Looked like a centerfold, fought like a wolverine. Leather pants that defied physics, a black tank top showcasing assets that needed their own zip code. No bra. He appreciated efficiency.
"Tidy faster, stud," Jade purred, but her tone turned Arctic. "Intel spike. Terrorist handle ‘Cyber-Phantom.’ Just lifted six backpack neutron bombs from a Black Site. Targets: All 32 NFL stadiums. Detonation: Super Bowl Sunday kickoff. You’re the only asset close enough who’s expendable and insane enough."
Neutron bombs. Super Bowl. Millions vaporized. Hawk’s grin turned feral. "Phantom got style. I’ll give ‘im that. Where’s the party?"
"Tracking his signal. Venice. Seems he likes canals. Get moving, Hawk. Clock’s ticking faster than a meth-head’s heartbeat."
Venice. Fancy. Hawk dumped the minigun, its barrels glowing white-hot. He spotted the warden – fat, sweaty, scrambling from his mansion’s back door, clutching a gold-plated AK. Coward.
"Gotta jet, Jade," Hawk growled. He snatched a grenade from a dead guard’s belt, pulled the pin with his teeth. "Sending a goodbye present."
He hurled the grenade in a perfect arc through the mansion’s open French doors. It landed right in the warden’s dumbfounded lap. Hawk didn’t wait. He sprinted towards the only intact chopper on the pad – a sleek, black Little Bird.
The explosion behind him was magnificent. The warden’s mansion blew sky-high in a fireball that swallowed the screaming man whole, shattered stained glass, and turned priceless art into confetti. The shockwave hit Hawk just as he grabbed the Little Bird’s skid. He hauled himself into the cockpit, the heat blistering his bare back. Naked, bleeding, smelling of cordite and sex, Hawk Draven fired up the engines.
"Venice, huh?" he radioed Jade, peeling the chopper away from the inferno. "Hope they got good pasta. And a dry-cleaner." He glanced at the apocalyptic glow shrinking in his rearview. "Time to work up a real sweat, sugar."
2: VENETIAN CARNAGE
Venice wasn’t built for Hawk Draven. Especially not navigating its narrow canals in a stolen police speedboat while dodging bullets and splintering centuries-old gondolas. The Little Bird had gotten them close before running dry over the Adriatic. Hawk’s solution? Jump. Parachute? Who needed ‘em? He’d aimed the plummeting chopper at a Carabinieri patrol boat, bailed at the last second, and hit the water like a missile, surfacing beside a sputtering, furious Jade.
Now, they roared down the Grand Canal. Hawk, shirtless and still damp, wrestled the wheel. Jade, leather pants clinging like a second skin, emptied a Glock 18 at the pursuing black speedboats. Her wet tank top left nothing to imagination – a detail Hawk noted with approval between near-misses with bridges.
"Left! LEFT, you Neanderthal!" Jade yelled, ducking as machine-gun fire chewed marble cherubs off a palazzo facade. Stone heads splashed into the murky water.
"Relax, sugar! Scenic route!" Hawk grinned, swerving violently. Their hull clipped a gondola carrying horrified tourists. It flipped spectacularly, sending screaming couples and a cellist into the drink. "Whoops! Hope they got the insurance package!"
Ahead, the Rialto Bridge loomed. Too low. Gunboats closed in from behind. "We’re boxed!" Jade snapped, reloading with practiced fury.
"Nah. Just need a shortcut!" Hawk gunned the engine straight for the bridge’s central arch. "Duck!"
They shot under the ancient stone, the boat’s windshield scraping paint off the underside. Emerging on the other side, Hawk saw their problem: a dead-end canal choked with market stalls. "Plan B!" He grabbed Jade’s waist. "Hold your breath, darlin’! And maybe mine!"
He yanked her overboard just as a rocket from a pursuing boat slammed into their speedboat. KA-BOOOOOM! The explosion vaporized fruit stalls, sent charred fish raining down, and ignited a floating flower barge in a riot of color and flame.
Underwater, chaos reigned. Bubbles, debris, muffled booms. Jade struggled, eyes wide. Hawk pulled her close, his powerful legs kicking. Not towards the surface. Down. Through a murky forest of rotting pilings. He pointed. A submerged archway – an old service tunnel.
Air. They needed air. Jade’s movements grew frantic. Hawk acted. He crushed his mouth to hers, forcing his own breath into her lungs. It wasn’t tender. It was survival. Rough, demanding, oxygen laced with canal filth and adrenaline. Jade’s eyes flashed surprise, then fierce understanding. She took the breath, then pushed him away, kicking hard towards the tunnel’s dark mouth.
They surfaced gasping in a cavernous, dripping space. Murano glass warehouse. Shelves groaned under priceless vases, sculptures, chandeliers. Moonlight filtered through high, grimy windows. Water pooled around their knees.
"Your data’s almost as hot as you, Steele," Hawk rasped, wiping canal scum from his face, his eyes locked on her soaked, translucent top.
"Flattery gets you nowhere, Draven," Jade panted, pushing wet hair back. But a smirk played on her lips. "Except maybe out of these wet clothes."
No more words were needed. It was a collision. Leather pants met soaked cargoes on the cold stone floor. Hawk’s hands were on her, peeling the ruined tank top away, revealing curves that defied gravity and near-death experiences. Jade met him with equal ferocity, biting his shoulder, her nails raking down his back. They rolled, sending a towering shelf of delicate blue vases crashing down around them in a symphony of shattering glass. Hawk didn’t care. Jade moaned, arching against him. "Harder, you animal!"
Hawk obliged, a predator unleashed. He tasted salt and canal water on her skin, the scent of cordite replaced by something primal and expensive – her perfume? Or just pure, unadulterated Jade? They were a tangle of limbs and lust on a bed of priceless shards, oblivious to the world outside the crumbling warehouse walls.
Then the world reminded them. Brutally.
A hail of bullets ripped through the corrugated metal roof, stitching a deadly line inches from their writhing bodies. SPANG! SPANG! SPANG! Glass fragments exploded anew. Hawk rolled, covering Jade with his bulk, snarling. "Phantom's playmates! Persistent little shits!"
Figures clad in black tactical gear and gleaming chrome masks dropped through the holes, landing with lethal grace. Cyber-Phantom's elite robo-goons. Their weapons whined, charging up.
Jade cursed, scrambling for her discarded pistol amidst the glass. Hawk was already moving, a naked blur of muscle and rage. He snatched a jagged Murano vase fragment and hurled it like a shuriken. It embedded itself in the lead goon's throat with a sickening thunk. The chrome mask sparked, the goon gurgling, clutching at the improvised blade.
"Eyes front, chrome-dome!" Hawk roared, launching himself at the next goon. He grabbed the weapon arm, twisted with a sickening crunch of servos and bone, and slammed the goon face-first onto a sharp spire of glass. Sparks flew.
Jade found her gun. BLAM! BLAM! Two precise shots took out another goon's optical sensors. The thing staggered, firing blindly. Bullets chewed into crates marked 'FIREWORKS - EXTREME DANGER'.
"Oh, hell yeah!" Hawk grinned, spotting the crates. He scooped Jade up, ignoring her yelp, and sprinted towards the warehouse doors leading to a loading dock on a secondary canal. Bullets whined past their ears. Jade fired back over his shoulder, her bare breasts heaving with exertion and fury. "Put me down, you Neanderthal!"
"Later, darlin'!" Hawk crashed through the doors onto a rain-slicked dock. A large, garishly painted tourist vaporetto chugged past, packed with stunned sightseers. Perfect.
He leapt, Jade still clutched like a furious, half-naked football. They landed hard on the vaporetto's crowded upper deck, scattering screaming tourists. Hawk dumped Jade unceremoniously behind a bench, snatching a discarded bottle of cheap Chianti.
"Light me up, assholes!" he bellowed back towards the pursuing goons now spilling onto the dock. He hurled the bottle in a high arc. It shattered perfectly on the dock right beside the spilled fireworks crates Jade's shots had opened.
The resulting explosion wasn't just big; it was operatic. A multicolored fireball erupted – reds, greens, golds – engulfing the dock, the robo-goons, and half the warehouse facade in a deafening, blinding crescendo of light, sound, and flying debris. Burning gondola fragments rained down on the canal. Tourists screamed, ducked, or snapped pictures.
Hawk turned, breathing hard, adrenaline singing in his veins. He looked down at Jade, who was clutching her thigh. Blood welled between her fingers, stark against her pale skin. A stray fragment? A ricochet? Didn't matter. Her leather pants were torn, revealing the wound and a tempting glimpse of black lace.
"Told you we'd work up a sweat, Steele," Hawk rasped, a feral light in his eyes. He ripped a strip from a tourist's abandoned silk scarf. "Looks like Venice just got a lot hotter." He knelt, tying the makeshift bandage tight above the wound on her smooth thigh, his touch surprisingly deft. Jade glared, but didn't push him away. The vaporetto chugged on, trailing smoke and chaos, heading towards the smoking silhouette of the distant volcanic island.
3: VOLCANO VENDETTA
The Little Bird screamed into the volcanic caldera, dodging streams of molten rock that spurted like hell’s own fountains. Below, Cyber-Phantom’s lair pulsed – a nightmare fusion of Aztec temple and neon server farm built into the living rock. Hawk didn’t bother landing. He aimed the chopper’s nose at the main entrance – a gaping maw guarded by two massive energy cannons.
“Hang tight, Steele!” he barked. Jade, pale but fierce, her thigh bandage soaked crimson, just gritted her teeth and gripped the console. “Just get me close enough to stab him!”
Hawk jammed the stick forward. The Little Bird became a missile. Energy bolts sizzled past. One clipped the tail rotor. The chopper spun wildly. “Close enough!” Hawk roared. He grabbed Jade, kicked the cockpit door open, and leaped into the roaring updraft just as the Little Bird plowed into the energy cannon on the left.
KA-BOOOOOOOM! The explosion was apocalyptic, swallowing the right cannon in a fireball that shook the mountain. Hawk and Jade hit a sloping obsidian walkway hard, tumbling amidst shrapnel and raining lava droplets. Hawk rolled to his feet, immediately drawing twin Desert Eagles. Jade limped up beside him, a wickedly curved combat knife gleaming in her hand, her tank top ripped strategically.
“Took you long enough, Draven!” Cyber-Phantom’s voice boomed from hidden speakers, metallic and cold. Ahead, on a central platform suspended over a bubbling lava lake, the chrome-masked terrorist stood, his robotic arm whirring, transforming into a spinning plasma torch. “Welcome to ground zero of America’s extinction!” Giant screens flanked him, showing the neutron bomb countdown: 00:01:47... 46... 45...
Robo-henchmen – skeletal chrome skeletons with glowing red eyes and wrist-mounted miniguns – poured from archways. “Playtime!” Hawk bellowed. He moved like a hurricane of lead. BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Heads exploded in showers of sparks. He kicked one into the lava: “Take a magma bath!” Another got a point-blank round to its chest core, detonating like a frag grenade and taking three buddies with it.
Jade was a whirlwind of leather and steel, her knife a silver blur. She slit hydraulic lines, jammed blades into optical sensors, danced between energy blasts. “He’s downloading the final codes!” she yelled, ducking under a swipe from a robotic pincer. Her bandage tore further, revealing more toned thigh.
Hawk fought his way across a narrow, shuddering catwalk. Lava bubbled hungrily below. Phantom watched, his chrome mask impassive. “You’re obsolete, Draven!” he monologued as Hawk reached the platform. “Flesh is weak! Emotion is error! I am evolution!” His plasma torch arm flared white-hot.
“Evolution this, chrome-dome!” Hawk lunged, not at Phantom, but past him. He grabbed a bundle of thick fiber-optic cables snaking from Phantom’s back to the main console. He yanked. With a shriek of tearing metal and snapping wires, Cyber-Phantom’s robotic arm ripped clean off at the shoulder joint. Hydraulic fluid sprayed like black blood.
Phantom staggered, a gurgling scream of pure rage and static erupting from his mask. Hawk didn’t hesitate. He reversed the still-spinning, plasma-torch fist of the severed arm. “Tech support’s over!” he snarled, and drove the superheated blade straight through Phantom’s chrome chest plate.
SSSSSSZZZZZZTTT! The smell of melting metal and cooked circuits filled the air. Cyber-Phantom froze, blue energy crackling across his body. He looked down at the arm protruding from his chest, then up at Hawk. “Imp...possible...” he hissed, before collapsing into a sparking, twitching heap.
“BOMBS ARMED! FINAL SEQUENCE INITIATED! 00:00:10... 9... 8...” the computer blared.
Hawk didn’t look at the corpse. He vaulted to the main console. Screens flashed DETONATION IMMINENT. Complex codes scrolled. No time. Hawk saw the solution – pure Savage. He grabbed Cyber-Phantom’s smoldering torso. “Heavy thinking, Steele?” he grunted at Jade.
“Just admiring the view!” she shot back, taking down the last robo-henchman with a knife throw to its eye-sensor.
“Hold this!” Hawk heaved the heavy cyborg corpse overhead. “Strike!” With a bellow fueled by rage and adrenaline, he slammed Phantom’s body down onto the main console like a fleshy, metallic sledgehammer.
CRUNCH-SPARK-FIZZ! The console exploded in a shower of sparks and shattered screens. The countdown froze on 00:00:03. The pulsing red lights died. Silence, except for the angry rumble of the volcano.
“Systems... offline...” a dying synthetic voice whispered.
Then the real rumble started. The floor heaved. The volcano, critically destabilized, was waking up. “Time to go!” Hawk yelled, grabbing Jade.
They sprinted as the ceiling cracked, spewing superheated rock and ash. They burst onto a lower ledge just as the main platform collapsed into the lava lake. Below, bobbing in a small, steaming lagoon miraculously shielded by rock: a jet ski. “Our ride!” Jade gasped.
They leaped. Hawk landed hard on the jet ski, Jade crashing into him. Her already torn bandage finally gave way, the gauze whipping off in the wind. Her tank top, strained by the landing, ripped clean down the middle. “Whoops!” Jade didn’t sound sorry.
“Hold on!” Hawk gunned the engine just as the caldera erupted behind them. A pyroclastic flow – a tidal wave of superheated gas, ash, and rock – roared towards the tiny lagoon. Hawk aimed the jet ski straight for a narrow, collapsing lava tube exit. “YEEEEE-HAAAAAW!”
Slow-motion perfection: The jet ski shot from the collapsing mountain tube like a cork from champagne. Behind them, the entire volcano blew its top in a cataclysmic eruption that painted the sky blood-red and filled the air with choking ash. Jade, gloriously topless, arms raised in defiant triumph, was silhouetted against the inferno, her scream of exhilaration lost in the roar. Hawk, soaked in sweat, ash, and Phantom’s hydraulic fluid, spared a glance back at the apocalypse he’d caused, then down at Jade.
He slapped her perfect, ash-dusted ass. “Good job, Steele,” he growled, steering the jet ski towards the open, burning sea. “Now… where’s that bikini?”
Thank you!
This story was generated using DeepSeek R1. (~90% AI)
Prompt: We're about to write a short story. Before we do, we need to come up with three author personas. Make them solid, layeres personalities who will write very different, unique stories based on their own life experiences. Don't write any stories yet.Dr. Lena Petrovich (The Observant Healer):
Background: A 58-year-old former trauma surgeon who retired early after a hand injury. Born in Moscow, emigrated to London as a child refugee. Spent 30 years in high-pressure ERs across diverse, under-resourced urban hospitals. Now lives quietly in a coastal Scottish village, volunteering at a hospice. Unmarried, no children, but has deep, complex bonds with former colleagues and patients. Haunted by specific cases she couldn't save, comforted by small, daily acts of resilience she observes.
Core Traits: Deeply empathetic yet emotionally guarded, possesses a forensic eye for physical and psychological detail, profoundly weary but not cynical, finds unexpected beauty in decay and endurance, possesses a dark, bone-dry humor. Values quiet observation and unspoken understanding over grand gestures.
Implied Narrative Style: Lyrical yet precise prose focusing on sensory details (smells of antiseptic, textures of skin, sounds of breath). Stories would explore themes of mortality, the fragility/resilience of the body and spirit, the weight of memory, and the profound significance of small moments amidst crisis. Tension would arise from internal struggles and the quiet horror/beauty of existence, not external action. Endings would be bittersweet, ambiguous, often finding a sliver of grace in loss.
Aris Thorne (The Cynical Cartographer):
Background: A 42-year-old disgraced investigative journalist. Once a rising star covering global conflict zones and political corruption, his career imploded after he was accused of fabricating a source (he maintains he was set up). Now lives nomadically, funding cheap travel through freelance tech writing and ghostwriting bland corporate biographies. Has no permanent address, few lasting connections, and trusts almost no one. Collects obscure maps and thrives on navigating unfamiliar, often slightly dangerous, places. Carries simmering anger and a sharp intellect.
Core Traits: Highly intelligent, deeply suspicious, fiercely independent, emotionally isolated, sardonic, adrenaline-seeking (in controlled ways), possesses encyclopedic knowledge of human malfeasance and systemic failure. Believes truth is subjective and power always corrupts, but can't fully extinguish a buried idealism that causes him pain. Finds comfort in structure (maps, systems, routines) amidst chaos.
Implied Narrative Style: Terse, direct, often sarcastic or world-weary narration. Dialogue-driven stories focusing on power dynamics, deception, moral ambiguity, and the absurdity of human institutions. Plots would involve uncovering hidden truths, navigating complex systems, or confronting personal betrayals. Settings would be vividly rendered but often hostile or impersonal. Endings would likely be pyrrhic victories, harsh realities acknowledged, or escapes with significant cost. Focus on external conflict and psychological tension.
Bao Nguyen (The Weaving Storyteller):
Background: A 29-year-old community arts organizer from a vibrant, working-class immigrant neighborhood in a major US city. Grew up translating for their grandparents, absorbing family myths, neighborhood gossip, and the cacophony of street life. Worked various gigs (line cook, bike messenger, bookstore clerk) before finding purpose in facilitating storytelling workshops for elders and youth. Lives in a small apartment overflowing with plants, folk art, and inherited knick-knacks. Deeply connected to their extended family and local community, but chafes against traditional expectations.
Core Traits: Warm, intuitive, observant of social nuances and unspoken histories, deeply rooted in community yet questioning tradition, naturally bridges generations and cultures, possesses a vibrant imagination grounded in real people, slightly chaotic energy. Believes stories heal, connect, and preserve identity. Struggles with balancing familial duty and personal dreams.
Implied Narrative Style: Energetic, sensory-rich, often playful or poetic prose. Heavy use of dialogue, dialect, and internal monologue reflecting community voice. Stories would focus on intergenerational relationships, cultural identity, the magic/mythology woven into everyday life, community resilience, and quiet personal rebellions. Plots driven by family secrets, community events, or personal journeys of self-discovery within a tight-knit group. Endings often hopeful, focusing on connection, understanding, or small triumphs of spirit over adversity. Humor is warm and character-based.
These personas offer starkly different lenses on the world, ensuring the stories they "write" would diverge significantly in tone, theme, focus, and style, rooted deeply in their unique life experiences and core philosophies.
Prompt: Let's add a fourth author to the mix. This should be an old-fashioned macho type, who cares about explosions and nudity more than plot. Make this quite the character: outspoken and completely indifferent to modern sensitivities. Since he's late to the meeting, the other three will ask him a few questions to make his story more well-defined. Give more background on Author 4. Use a dialogue format: Let the other two ask this author a few questions to make him/her reveal more about their personality and about the possible story they could tell us later.Author 4: Dirk "Boom Boom" Savage
*(The door to the writers' retreat's tasteful lounge bursts open. Dirk Savage, 62, fills the doorway. He's built like a retired linebacker stuffed into a snakeskin jacket two sizes too small. Gold chains glint on a chest forested with grey hair. He smells faintly of cheap cigars, expensive bourbon, and gunpowder residue. He throws a duffel bag marked "PROPERTY OF STUNT CREW - DO NOT BEND" onto the Persian rug.)*
Dirk: "Alright, eggheads! Savage is in the house! Who ordered the testosterone? Place smells like chamomile and regret. Somebody get me a real drink! And point me to the sauna – gotta limber up for the real writing!" (He spots Lena, Bao, and Aris looking variously appalled, fascinated, and disdainful). "Whoa-ho! Variety pack! The sawbones, the commie, and the... whatever you are." (He points a meaty finger at Bao). "You look like you could use some red meat, kid. And maybe a shirt with fewer feelings on it."
Dr. Lena Petrovich: (Raising one razor-sharp eyebrow, voice like dry ice) "Mr. Savage. Your reputation precedes you. Tell me, in your... narratives... do the female characters serve any purpose beyond anatomical display and screaming?"
Dirk: (Grins, revealing improbably white teeth) "Purpose? Hell yeah, Doc! Eye candy! Motivation for the hero! Something soft to land on after a three-story jump! Look, realism's overrated. My readers – real men, mostly, truckers, Marines, guys who change their own oil – they wanna see dames that look like they stepped off a centerfold. Plot? Pfft. Plot's just the string between the big damn explosions and the wet t-shirt scenes! Keeps 'em turning pages till the next fistfight or bang session. Simple!"
Aris Thorne: (Leaning back, swirling cheap scotch in a crystal tumbler, a sardonic glint in his eye) "Explosions. Guns. Gratuitous nudity. It's a formula, Savage. Predictable. Where's the leverage? The intricate betrayal? The satisfying twist where the protagonist realizes he's just another pawn?"
Dirk: (Snorts) "Leverage? Betrayal? Twists? Sounds like a headache, pencil-neck! My guy – usually a disgraced Navy SEAL/CIA op/Ex-Cop with a drinking problem and fists like anvils – he doesn't do intricate. He does direct. Bad guys stole the nuke/kidnapped the President's daughter/killed his dog? He shoots 'em, blows 'em up, or sleeps with their girlfriend! Usually all three, in that order! Betrayal? Sure! The femme fatale stabs him in the back... literally or figuratively... right before the third-act bang! That's the twist! And it's satisfying 'cause you know he's gonna punch her lights out after... or during. Depends on the market."
Bao Nguyen: (Eyes wide, equal parts horrified and fascinated) "Mr. Savage! Your characters... they seem very... physical. But what about their inner lives? Their cultural context? The quiet moments of connection? The intergenerational trauma?"
Dirk: (Stares at Bao like he just spoke Klingon, then bursts out laughing, slapping his thigh) "Inner lives? Trauma? Quiet moments? Kid, my readers are taking a dump on their lunch break! They want action! They want payback! They want a cold beer, a hot babe, and a body count higher than their cholesterol! Connection? Sure! The hero connects his fist with the villain's face! Connects a lit match to a trail of gasoline! Connects with the babe in the back of his '67 Camaro! Culture? The only culture in my books is the mold on the bad guy's hideout floor! Keep it simple, keep it loud, keep it hard!"
Lena: "And the inevitable casualties? The collateral damage? The sheer... waste?"
Dirk: (Shrugs, a massive movement) "Background noise, Doc. Adds realism! Like squibs and stuntmen falling off buildings. Makes the hero look tougher when he wades through it. Besides, most of 'em are probably commies, terrorists, or bureaucrats. Who cares? The point is the hero wins, gets the girl (or two), and the bad guy gets blown to red mist just as he finishes his stupid monologue! That's catharsis! That's what sells by the truckload at airport newsstands!"
Aris: "And nuance? Moral ambiguity?"
Dirk: (Points at Aris) "You! You're the reason people need my books! Too much thinkin' gives you wrinkles. Nuance is for wine tastings. Ambiguity is for losers who can't pick a side. In a Dirk Savage story, you know exactly who to root for: the guy with the biggest gun and the tightest jeans. Period. Now, where's that damn sauna? Gotta sweat out the last vestiges of artistic integrity before I crank out Chapter One: 'The Helicopter Exploded Mid-Coitus'!"
Dirk "Boom Boom" Savage - Defined by the Interrogation:
Core Ethos: Unapologetic Id. Rejects introspection, subtlety, and complexity in favor of visceral, simplistic thrills.
Motivation: Commerce & Wish Fulfillment. Writes what he believes "real men" want: power fantasy, spectacle, and titillation. Sees literary fiction as pointless navel-gazing.
View on Story: Plot is a flimsy clothesline for set pieces (fights, explosions, sex). Character development = the hero getting angrier or the love interest getting nakeder. Theme? "Good guys win, bad guys splatter."
Defining Traits: Loud, brash, deliberately offensive, proudly anti-intellectual, commercially savvy in his niche, utterly confident in his (very narrow) vision. Finds the others' approaches baffling or weak.
Potential Story: "OPERATION: BEDLAM" - Disgraced Delta Force operative "Hawk" Draven must stop the cyber-terrorist "Phantom" from detonating stolen neutron bombs in every NFL stadium during the Super Bowl. Features:
Part 1: Hawk escapes a Paraguayan prison via helicopter (which he crashes into the warden's mansion, causing a massive explosion), meets the sexy NSA analyst with "data like diamonds and legs like destiny."
Part 2: High-speed boat chase through Venetian canals (lots of collateral damage), a torture scene where Hawk endures pain while recalling his dead partner (one paragraph), and a gratuitous love scene in a gondola warehouse involving oil and chains.
Part 3: Hawk storms Phantom's volcano lair (obviously), engages in a final fistfight on a catwalk over a lava pit while the bombs count down, kills Phantom mid-monologue with a hidden garrote, disarms the bombs with 0.2 seconds left, and escapes with the analyst on a jet ski as the volcano erupts behind them. Final line: "Time for a real celebration, sugar. Hope you packed a bikini... and some aspirin."
Voice: Blunt, slang-heavy, heavy on exclamation points and macho posturing. Descriptions focus on physicality (muscles, weapons, explosions, curves) and sensory impact (loud noises, smells of cordite and perfume, impacts).
Prompt: This Author, too, has a literary agent, who completely respects his unique style. As this agent, advise Author on a good setup for their short story (the story will be 1500 words long, divided into 3 parts of 500 words each, there are no other constraints). Coach the Author so that they understand exactly how to write in a human voice, even tell them what famous authors' styles to draw inspiration from, and give an extremely good idea on how to build up the story so that it will be a commercial success.Memo: DIRK "BOOM BOOM" SAVAGE - OPERATION: COMMERCIAL DOMINATION
Agent: "Bulldog" Benny Ricci
SUBJECT: Your Next Bestseller (1500 Words of Pure Adrenaline)
DIRK,
Stop overthinking. Your fans don’t want Shakespeare. They want sweat, bullets, and silicon implants. Here’s how you give it to ’em:
🔥 Story Blueprint: "OPERATION: NEUTRON SUNSET"
*Structure: Three Acts (500 Words = 3 Explosions + 1 Sex Scene Minimum)*
Inspiration:
Mickey Spillane on steroids + 80s Schwarzenegger scripts + Penthouse Forum meets Guns & Ammo.
ACT 1 (0-500 Words): THE PRISON BREAK
OPENING LINE: "The helicopter exploded mid-coitus, which pissed Hawk Draven off almost as much as the interrupted orgasm."
HERO: Hawk Draven (Ex-Delta, biceps like boulders, scar over one eye, hates bureaucrats).
SETUP: Hawk’s undercover in a Paraguayan drug lord’s prison. Why? Who cares! He’s banging the warden’s mistress when missiles hit.
ACTION: Hawk fights naked (full frontal), uses a lamp to garrote a guard, jumps through flaming window. Lands on a jeep. Grabs a minigun.
INCITING INCIDENT: Hot NSA Analyst "Jade" Steele (leather pants, no bra, PhD in "kicking ass") radios: *"Terrorist ‘Cyber-Phantom’ stole neutron bombs. Targets: All 32 NFL stadiums. Super Bowl Sunday. Move it, stud!"*
END ACT 1: Hawk hijacks a chopper, blows up warden’s mansion (fireball visible from space). "Time to work up a sweat, sugar."
ACT 2 (501-1000 Words): VENETIAN CARNAGE
SETTING: Venice. Because gondolas + explosions = art.
ACTION: Speedboat chase! Hawk shoots henchmen. Gondolas splinter. Tourists scream. Hawk dives into canal, drags Jade underwater for "air" (wink).
VILLAIN REVEAL: Cyber-Phantom (chrome mask, robotic arm, voice like grinding gears) appears on jumbotron: "Americans will watch their idols vaporize!"
LOVE SCENE: Hawk/Jade dry off in a Murano glass warehouse. "Your data’s almost as hot as you, Steele." Cue oily grappling on priceless vases. (500 WORD TARGET: HIT HERE)
TWIST: Phantom’s goons ambush them. Jade takes a bullet (non-fatal thigh wound - shows grit + lingerie).
END ACT 2: Hawk straps Jade to his back, leaps onto a passing vaporetto loaded with fireworks. "Light me up, assholes!" He shoots the fireworks → MASSIVE EXPLOSION.
ACT 3 (1001-1500 Words): VOLCANO LAIR SHOWDOWN
SETTING: Active volcano lair (obviously). Lava pits. Neon servers.
ACTION: Hawk fights robo-henchmen on narrow catwalks. Throws one into lava: "Take a magma bath!"
FINAL BATTLE: Hawk vs. Cyber-Phantom. Phantom monologues: "You’re obsolete, Draven! Like flesh!"
KILL SHOT: Hawk rips off Phantom’s robotic arm, stabs him with it. "Tech support’s over."
COUNTDOWN: Bombs at 00:01. Hawk smashes console with Phantom’s skull. Bombs disarm.
CLIMAX: Volcano erupts. Hawk/Jade escape on jet ski. Jade’s bandage rips. Slow-mo topless ride through pyroclastic flow.
FINAL LINE: Hawk pats her ass: "Good job, Steele. Now... where’s that bikini?"
📣 COACHING: "HUMAN VOICE" (SAVAGE EDITION)
SENSORY OVERLOAD:
Sight: "Blood spray painted the gondola’s velvet cushions cerise."
Sound: "Bullets whanged off the Ducati like angry hornets."
Touch: "Her sweat-slick skin felt like oiled Damascus steel."
Smell: "Cordite and Chanel No. 5 – the perfume of freedom."
DIALOGUE RULES:
HERO: One-liners ("Eat lead, pencil-neck!").
VILLAIN: Monologue once → then die.
DAME: Sassy comebacks ("My IQ’s higher than your body count, Draven... but not by much.").
PACING:
NO PARAGRAPHS > 3 LINES.
Every 100 words: Gunshot/explosion/breast.
Cliffhangers = "The lava bubble burst beneath his boots..."
AVOID:
Backstory (Who cares why Hawk left Delta Force?)
Feelings (Except rage/lust).
Descriptions of anything not explosive, metallic, or silicone-based.
💰 WHY THIS SELLS:
HOOKS: Super Bowl + neutron bombs + topless jet ski escape.
BRAND DELIVERY: 100% Savage - zero pretension.
COMMERCIAL TRIGGERS:
→ NFL (cross-promotion!)
→ "Mid-coitus explosion" (Page 1 meme potential)
→ Bikini + volcano (BookTok thirst traps).
BENNY’S FINAL WORD:
"DIRK – WRITE IT LIKE YOU’RE GETTING PAID BY THE EXPLOSION. WHICH YOU ARE. TAKE THE ADVANCE, BUY A NEW SNEAKER PHONE, AND GIVE ’EM HELL. REMEMBER: IF A PAGE DOESN’T HAVE BLOOD OR BOOBS, YOU’VE FAILED. NOW GO CRANK THE DAMN THING OUT BEFORE I SOBER UP."
TITLE OPTIONS:
OPERATION: NEUTRON SUNSET
SUPER BOWL OF DEATH
HAWK DRAVEN: MAGMA PAYBACK
DETONATION DAMES
THE CYBER-PHALLUS (Too subtle? You decide.)
SUBTITLE: "When the stakes are extinction-level, only one man shoots first, asks never."
This blueprint guarantees maximum commercial impact while staying ruthlessly true to the Savage manifesto. Write hot, sell fast, apologize never. 🔥
Prompt: Is Author ready to write out part 1 of the story? Use all of the agent's ideas. Remember, we don't just want a first draft; we want a polished final text that's ready for publication. [Write part 1,2,3]