Dreadsauce

Respawn

Replace "Pirate" with "Bandit".

If you're looking for a 3rd. Skype: oblivions.harbinger

Tried this map out today. Phenomenal, I love the atmosphere, can't wait to play more. Also: The wind. The goddamn wind. The periodic far-off screaming mingled in with the howling wind is absolutely terrifying. Y'did a good job with it.

I found a Ghillie in a low-value spawn, once. I've found all sorts of stuff too; grenades, Dew, backpacks. Check EVERYTHING, you never know what you might find.

MEANWHILE. IN NAMALSK. "Way up north, where the air gets cold, there's a tale about Christmas that you've all been told. And a real famous cat all dressed up in red, and he spends all year workin' out on his--" The sounds of gunfire interrupted Dread's song. Stopping, he readied his Revolver and turned in place, looking about. More gunshots rang out, and Dreadsauce could tell over the howling wind that there was a conflict going on in the northeast, by the Old Hospital. Checking his bag, and seeing that he had but a single lonely can of Beans, Dread made up his mind and began hiking over. ---- He did not have to walk far into the city to spot the source of the conflict. There, cowering in the doorway, crouched a young man with a revolver clutched in his hand. Striding down the aisle, taking pot shots, was a Bandit, armed with an AK-74. The marauder laughed, firing another burst and driving the other man back behind cover. Tossing away his clip, he turned to the side. Suddenly, Dreadsauce felt a warmth within his chest. Normally he would wait for the bandit to kill the poor lesser man before swooping in, but not this time. This Bandit would not take another life. With images of angels flashing through his head and a tingly feeling in his chest (that very well could have been pneumonia), he raised his gun and fired a single shot at the Bandit's head. Red mist and brain matter exploded from the rifle-toting man's turban. He convulsed once before falling over like a sack of bricks. Stunned, the man in the doorway could do little but gape at the twitching remains of his attacker. With a grin, Dreadsauce began sauntering over to the Super-Market, pleased with his good deed. The victim ran, heading for the back room. With a frown, Dreadsauce followed; he would be sure that his act of kindness was recognized. He darted after, following him out back. The man cowered in a corner, biting his nails. He looked up, eyes wide, as Dreadsauce entered his field of vision. Dread began to speak. "Hello! I am the man that just--" The victim fired a shot from his revolver, that passed just under Dreadsauce's tender bits. Dreadsauce slowly looked down at the man's gun, then to his groin, then back. "Hey, watch where you point that thi-- OH GOD." Dread stumbled backward, blood erupting from a bullet hole in his side. The crouching man simply stared, his expression hard. With a scowl, Dreadsauce drew his revolver once more. "Shooting the man that saved you? That's a paddlin'." And so they began. Dodging and weaving, bobbing and darting. The two men danced a deadly duet of guns and bullets, constantly side-stepping and circling one another as they popped off shots. Dread took three more bullets; Bambi took four. As they danced out into the street, Dread did a pirouette and pulled his trigger, barrel pointed at the man's head. Click. "...Oh, shit." Flopping his legs up comically high like a marionette, Dread ran back into the Store. Bambi took the time to huddle against the wall and bandage himself. Our hero swore under his breath, dashing over to the Bandit's corpse, leaking blood all over the place. "Shoot at me, will he? Take my generosity for granted, will he? We'll see how he likes this!" Bambi darted out to the back of the store, gun raised, eyes narrowed. He stopped, however, at the sight of Dreadsauce pointing an AK-74 right at his face and flicking the fire mode to "Automatic". Dread gave the young man one last, withering look before pulling the trigger. ---- That night, Dreadsauce plunked down onto the forest floor by his campfire, spooning beans into his mouth as he picked up a pencil, starting to write in his battered, worn notebook. "Dear Diary, Today, I helped someone in desperate need. I saved his life by slaying the filthy, gun-toting and murderous bandit that had pinned him down. Yet, he turned his gun on me." Dread swallowed a mouthful of beans before continuing. "I learned that Generosity and Kindness are both utter, absolute bullshit and practicing them gets you shot in the face." He paused, before adding one final line. "Sorry, Rarity and Fluttershy. But it's true. Sincerely, Dreadsauce."

Another victim of the Dew Curse.

Once, scouring Elektro for loot after respawning, I came across a can of Dew lying by a hatchet in the middle of a house. Obviously I took it as a portent that I was to take the Dew and with it the Curse, so that I may prevent grave misfortune from falling upon others. Taking the Dew and wielding the Hatchet, I departed into Elektro and took up residence at the two-floor building by the school and supermarket. After an hour and a half of vigilantly scanning the streets from the second-floor windows there came a strapping young lad with a hatchet. After forcing him downstairs we came to an agreement that we would split the house even; I got top and he got bottom. It did not last. My homicidal tenet returned 10 minutes later, bolted up the stairs and chopped out all my blood. In my death throes, he bandaged me and proceeded to drag me whilst unconscious so that I could not move when I woke up (though given the fact that my legs were broken, I could not have moved anyways). Dragging me out back he ordered me to slay the horde of zombies that had gathered from the commotion. If I preformed admirably he would give me meat and morphine. I failed, but before I was eaten I managed to inform him of the Dew and my sovereign duty to defend it and keep the Curse in check. Understanding, he selflessly (or foolishly) pried the can of Dew from my cold, dead hands once the zombie scum had been dealt with. I can only pray that the Curse did not destroy him, as it had destroyed me, and that he did not partake of the beverage.

I seldom listen to music, as I prefer to be able to hear when folks are around. But when I do.

MEANWHILE, IN A PRIVATE HIVE, AT THE BALOTA AIRSTRIP. "Hey, man, I need your help! I've only got half a clip left in my revolver and there are zombies on my tail!" "Easy, bro, I won't hurt you. I only have a single bullet left in my Lee Enfield. We can help each other" Captain Enfield turns his back to loot a pile of debris. Dreadsauce puts his rapeface on, drawing his revolver. Two revolver magazines and five Enfield shots later, both men lie dead and feasted upon by zombies. The moral of this story: Lying is bad.

'Ello. It seems that, in fifty percent of cases, my attempts at taking beans by force via axe have proved futile. I have been out-maneuvered by other axe-men and had my brains turned into hamburger meat by folks with pistols. I seek your aid, bandits. How do I shot axes better. My current plan is to axe harder while playing "Be A Man" as I swoop in for the kill. But this probably won't (read: totally will) work. Hence, this thread. Gimmie tips. Pweez.

This. Like cold molasses being shoved through a bendy straw. It's nuts, this forum lag.

nope.avi I LOVE the current bandit skin.

Laughs and shenanigans. The sheer lulz of it all. I frequent a private server where you start out with a hatchet and supplies. Can't tell you how much fun it is to chase down fellow new spawns and even folks who've been up and running for a bit, gibbering like a madman over direct comms all the while.

Tabletop Roleplayer, here. Always fancied adding a bit of head-canon backstory whenever I play vidya gaems that don't have any sort of definitive lore and enjoy fleshing out my characters a bit. I've always played it off as the characters are either US/Russian soldiers that weren't pulled out when the zombies came or Chernarussian natives. In the case of Lingor, they live on the island itself or are extremely unfortunate tourists. The survivors in Takistan are American soldiers or Takistanis. Dreadsauce himself is, in all incarnations, an American press reporter who has become mentally unstable due to the stress of the zombie outbreak. He's a fearless, bloodthirsty, humorous, paranoid nutcase with an inexplicable fondness for canned beans. The characters never bother leaving Chernarus/Lingor/Takistan because there are no ships/jets left and the survivors are too paranoid to work together on an escape plan. The rest of the world is zombie-free, but Lingor/Takistan/Chernarus are all considered hardcore quarantine zones and as such there isn't any hope of outside aid. Recon choppers are often shot down, explaining chopper crashes. The zombies are the result of a virus, or some form of biological weapon. The latter would make sense due to the ongoing conflict in Chernarus and botched exportation of the bio-weapon could explain the presence of zombies in Takistan and Lingor. Characters start with no gear and on the coast because they'd have wandered up and down the coast looking for some sort of evacuation. Realizing that they're sorta boned, they head inland to scavenge supplies to survive the outbreak.

Someone MUST make a zombie Tyrannosaurus Rex mod. Erryone on the server united to try and take down a got-damn zombie T-Rex. Do it.

Dreadsauce stumbled south out of the Balota airfield, axe clutched tightly in his hand. The world had gone black and white, everything was a blurry haze. His freshly bandaged wounds oozed blood and his head felt as if it were filled with helium. He leaned against the wall of a warehouse, catching his breath for a moment and resisting the urge to vomit. He had wandered into the airstrip looking for guns and beans. What he had gotten was a firefight that left him barely alive. The opposing parties had slaughtered each other; he was one of several people caught up in the crossfire. Taking a breath, Dreadsauce pushed off of the warehouse wall. He circled around, turning a corner and slinking in. He froze. There stood on the opposite end a man with a military-issue shotgun and an ALICE pack. Dread's eyes narrowed; he knew better than to stand idly by. With a delirious roar, he charged. Shotgun Sam looked to the charging axe murderer, waving. "Hi." Dreadsauce cocked his weapon back, screaming. "BEANS! I WANT YOUR BEANS!" Shotgun Sam blinked as the cold steel slammed into his ribs. Backpedaling frantically he raised his shotgun. Before he could fire, Dreadsauce swerved around him, knocking the shotgun out of his hands and proceeding to outright butcher him, axing his face and chest again and again and again. As this occured, Shotgun Sam's friend, Makarov Manny, darted into the warehouse. He paused in horror was he watched Dreadsauce brutalize his friend. "Axe guy. What are you doing. Axe guy. Stahp." Dreadsauce paused, looking up from the pile of hamburger meat that was once Shotgun Sam. There was a moment's pause. Makarov Manny raised his namesake, Dreadsauce readied his axe and charged, letting loose a horrifying roar. "BEEEEEAAAAANNNNNSSSS!" Manny fired several rounds into Dreadsauce, but he would not be felled. With a scream he set himself upon Manny, hacking and chopping, chopping and hacking. When Manny stopped twitching, Dreadsauce finally relaxed, settling down into a pile of rubble. His wounds were too great, the exertions too much. Dreadsauce closed his eyes, cradling his trusty hatchet, drifting off into eternal sleep. (TL;DR I cornered two people in the warehouse by Balota while I was at 3k blood. Both had guns and gear, I hacked them to death. Lag prevented me from bandaging myself so I died.)

You're going to get shot in the face for your lewt and your beans no matter what you do. So I'd recommend joining the dark side. We have sexy face-wraps.

Took place over the course of two days and involved at least two other attempted victims, but I've condensed it for storytelling's sake. Dreadsauce pressed his back against the rear of the hospital. Trips to Chernogosk never ended well for him, and yet this time he was set. Beans, soda, morphine and a Lee Enfield loaded to bear with five magazines. Panting, he voraciously consumed a can of pasta as he considered his next move. He could always head up north, as he had all the gear he needed to survive in the bean-less wilderness. Another choice could be to head to Elektro and scavenge more supplies; the promise of phat lewts and slain bandits over the radio had brought most everyone to Chernogosk and he could slink away unnoticed. And there was always the option of finding a quiet place to rest his head, letting him face the next day refreshed and clear-headed. These were all good, safe, logical options. Dreadsauce wasn't one for logic. Deciding against leaving Cherno, our hero looked skyward, up to the roof of the hospital. He grinned. He had nothing to lose and five Enfield mags; it was high time he had a shot at infamy. With an excited chuckle, Dread scrambled up the ladder and took cover behind a no-longer functioning AC unit. He was going to be that douchebag on the roof of the hospital no matter what. His reign would be legendary, his wrath unmitigated. As long as he popped up only to shoot people he'd have complete cover. It was perfect. For the final touch, Dreadsauce fished a long length of cloth from his backpack, removed his baseball cap and wrapped the cloth around his head. Facewrap in place, Dreadsauce the Bandit peered over the edge of the hospital in search of victims. --- "COME ON OUT, BRO. I JUST WANNA GIVE YOU A HUG. WITH MY GUN." Dreadsauce yelled towards the axe-wielding man that hid behind the wall on the hospital's northeast side. Dread had expended an entire magazine shooting at him, and he wasn't about to give up. Although his rifle had attracted half of Chernogosk's undead population, they seemed incapable of climbing the ladders, meaning Dread was completely safe. "COME OUT, I WANT YOUR BEANS," the Bandit screamed as he fired another round at the now-moving axeman, clipping his arm. Angered, the badgered survivor jeered back. "SUCK IT, HEADWRAP." Dreadsauce popped off two more rounds, both of them missing as the axeman hid behind cover once more. "YOU'RE JUST PROLONGING THE INEVITABLE! GET YOUR ASS IN MY SIGHTS!" There was no response. For ten minutes Dread watched and for ten minutes the axeman didn't move. Dread growled, growing frustrated. Finally, he took his attention away from his prey to scan his surroundings. He was glad that he did. In the field by the house across the hospital's south side there scurried a man with an automatic rifle. Dread watched as the oblivious fool took cover behind a tree, his center mass exposed. Dreadsauce shouldered his gun, steadying his aim. If he missed this guy could gun him down. The man looked around himself, checking his magazine. Too late did he look to the roof of the hospital, eyes zeroing in upon Dreadsauce. "HIDING BEHIND TREES? OH, YOU BETTER BELIEVE THAT'S A PADDLIN'." Dreadsauce fired one bullet and one bullet struck the poor sap. He convulsed once and fell over, dead. Dread let out a whoop of enjoyment before whipping around to confront the Axeman. Just his luck-- Axeman had made a break for it. Bringing his Enfield to his shoulder once more, Dread fired off five more shots, finishing his magazine. Three hit the dirt and two struck home. Axeman fell mid-stride, slamming against the wall he was running towards and slowly collapsing, leaving a bloody smear on the wood. With a delighted giggle, Dreadsauce sunk back below the raised edge of the roof to feast on beans and coke. For several minutes he lay there daydreaming before flipping back around, peering carefully over the edge. To his surprise, he saw two odd shapes on the roof of the under-construction building at Chernogosk's far end. He frowned, unable to really make them out; he never ate his carrots as a child. Luckily, he had found a pair of Dora the Explorer binoculars earlier that day. He stood up, putting his binoculars to his eyes. The two blobs came into focus; snipers, two of them, both with ghillie suits and military-grade rifles. One of them made a hand gesture and lifted his gun, pointing it toward the hospital. "Damn, are those snipers? Maybe they're zombies... I... Oh god no they're snipers." It was then that the distinctive cry of an AS50 echoed through Chernogosk. Dreadsauce's sternum exploded in a shower of blood and gore, the bullet having torn a gaping hole clean through him. Dreadsauce the Bandit dropped his binoculars, twitching. With a gurgling exclamation of "Damn.... bro...." he fell backwards and expired. Dreadsauce's reign as Douche On The Roof had come to an end.

Gentlemen, I present to you my first encounter with a hacker in DayZ. Dreadsauce feebly dragged himself across the field, his shattered legs in tow. He had fractured them as he attempted to evade a zombie in a barn; the pain was too great for him to attempt to stand. All he could do was scoot along the ground, crossbow in hand, hoping that the living dead did not spot him. After several minutes of this, he stopped, head on the dirt. He could go on no further; he was exhausted and without sustenance, not a single can of beans on his persona. He breathed heavily and waited for sweet, malodorous death to take him. In the midst of writing his mental last will in testament, he stopped. There was an odd noise coming from above, a harsh breeze. He flipped onto his back and looked up. It was amazing. A mint-condition, fresh-out-of-the-hanger, shining Huey was slowly descending onto the field. Each turn of the mighty rotors bent grass and kicked up dust. Coughing and sputtering, Dreadsauce could only watch as the vehicle touched down feet away from him. The pilot, a man in a bandit-mask with crazed green eyes, got out of the pilot seat, leaning out the door to stare at him. "COME. GET ON." "I... what is this? Some sort of trick? Why haven't you killed me?" Dread couldn't believe it, for he was sure that in front of him was a living legend, one of the mysterious god-like entities known as "Hackers", bestowed with the ability to do whatever they please. How else could this man have gotten a brand-new helicopter, and known where to find him? The Hacker shook his head, his voice scolding. "THE BROCHOPPER DOES NOT KILL THE LIVING. THE BROCHOPPER PICKS UP BROS." "Bro...chopper?" "BROCHOPPER. GET ON, BRO." Dreadsauce's eyes grew wide; he had to consider the offer for merely a second. He swung himself upright, clasping the floor of the chopper. The pilot grasped his arm, hauling him up for him to take his place on the right machinegun. He didn't need to walk or really stand to operate it, so his broken legs were no impediment. There was a great lurch as the Huey took to the skies again, leaving just in time to avoid a horde of the undead. The Brochopper was on the prowl. --- The Brochopper would go onto pick up many more Bros, slaying many zombies and saving many survivors. The Brochopper, the hacker and the crew of Bros would perish in a fiery explosion on the coast outside Kamenka as a result of a failed backflip.. May they rest in peace.

True Story. Dreadsauce grumbled to himself as he walked down the road to Balota. He had just looted Kamenka dry and had naught but an axe, some cokes and a can of beans to show for it. He wanted to get into Cherno, get a gun, and get up North before he was sniped or waylaid. As he trudged along the side of the road, drinking his soda, he froze. There was movement. He guzzled the rest of his beverage and dropped to his knees, drawing his hatchet. He scanned the cliffs, the railroad tracks, the road, the light-house. Then he saw it. There was a man on a bike. Not very old, not very young, clad in the gear of your average Chernarus survivor. He had a quaint smile on his face and a glazed look to his eyes as he pedaled along on his shiny green bike. He turned and spotted Dreadsauce as he rounded the Light House, giving him a little wave. Dread stopped. This guy had a bike. Something he did not have. Yet another person with shiny, crispy, deliciously awesome gear that he always had to do without. This person was probably the same kind of person that'd find a DMR on the coast or happen upon a truckload of beans. Lucky and never wanting, invincible and untouchable. This person probably got all sorts of good things, whereas Dreadsauce constantly found himself awakening on the coast, with no gear and a faint memory of having his ass capped. This person was luckier than him. This person had better things than he did. He had enough of it. Something broke within Dreadsauce as he stood there, eye twitching, watching as the man on the bike turned and headed his way, hand raised for a high-five. His adrenaline surged, his muscles clenched, all thoughts erased and replaced with one irresistable urge. Get. That. Bike. Dread cocked his axe back all the way as the person biked into arm's reach. With a roar, he swung it with the fury and strength of a thousand men. There was a sickening crunch as the biker's skull caved in, the force of the blow turning his bones to fine powder. He was flung clean off of the bike, doing a backflip in midair before falling flat onto his ruined and bloodied face. Dreadsauce breathed heavily, slamming his weapon into the biker's back for good measure, not bothering to look through his things. He took a moment to calm himself, and then started toward the bike. He climbed onto it, adjusted his hat, and pedaled off into the afternoon.

First Legit Kill in SELF DEFENCE was up in Stary Sobor. Decided to stroll into a house in search of glorious beans when all of a sudden some guy with a double-barrel blasts my kidney apart. I whip around and put half an AKM mag into him and then expend the other half of the AKM mag killing the swarm of zombies that my gunfire had attracted. First Legit BANDIT Kill was a while ago. I was out by the Balota Airstrip, derping about, when I came across a guy with an axe and a bandit skin, claiming he's friendly. Of course, I see right through that and axe him. Panicking, he runs over to the corpse of a slain survivor and fishes out a Revolver. He gets a few rounds on me before I break his legs and annihilate him. First Legit PLAYER Kill was just the other day. Some guy was biking down the road to Kamenka, by the light-house. No gun or anything, just an awesome bike. Seeing as I had just died and needed to get back to the Balota Airstrip, I ran over to him. For some reason he drove right into melee range. Axed him in the face and killed him in one hit. Stole his bike. Had fun.

EDIT: Based on a true story. Kinda long. Helicopter. That's what that noise was. A helicopter. Dreadsauce paused in the middle of his glorious feast of canned beans and Pepsi, head tilted, straining his ears to hear the rotors and the gunshots through the walls of the Chernogosk apartment building he currently sat in. He couldn't tell whether those shots were from the 'chopper or people trying to shoot it down, but either way, he fancied that he'd rather be up in the sky, going twice as high, on a metaphorical Reading Rainbow as opposed to being on the hard, zombie-infested ground. Finishing his beans and tossing away the can, Dread leaped to his feet, digging his radio out of his patrol pack. It had been chattering with the noise of other survivors all day, and for the purposes of not attracting a mob of the walking dead he kept it at low-volume, in his backpack. Gulping down his Pepsi, he clicked the radio and put it to his mouth. "Yo, you, in the chopper. Can you give a brother a ride?" There wasn't any answer; he didn't really anticipate one seeing as there were at least a dozen other survivors screaming and hollering to be picked up as well. He waited for a moment, radio held to his ear, before letting out a sigh. He'd have to flag it down the old fashioned way, the way his great-great-great-grandfather would flag it down if his great-great-great-grandfather had helicopters in his day and age. He grabbed his trusty, blood-stained hatchet and made his way out of the apartment building. --- It took our hero five minutes to find the chopper, because luckily the pilot decided to fly over Chernogosk. Dreadsauce darted through the fields on the outskirts of town at a swift pace, keeping a low profile. Zombies by the dozen were swarming out of the city, attracted by not only the sound of the helicopter but by the sound of gunfire. The hardy survivors and villainous bandits of Chernarus had no intention of being out-done or out-gunned by a couple of chumps in a helicopter. Eyes fixed on the swerving chopper, Dreadsauce didn't immediately hear the sound of the army-issue Jeep until he was only fifty feet from it. Gasping, he dropped to his stomach, peering out through the tall grass. Three men stood in front of the parked, running Jeep, emptying rounds into the sky. Two of them were clad in ghillie suits; the third in a flak jacket and brown pants. Screaming expletives, all three paused to reload as the helicopter began to move off into the distance. Brown Pants slammed a fresh clip into his rifle, cocked it, and darted forward, firing once more. The pair in the ghillie suit looked at each other, and Dreadsauce knew what was about to happen before it did. Red mist exploded from Brown Pants' chest and back as a pair of AS50's tore into him. Letting out a pained, gurgling death rattle, he fell flat on his face, dead. The Ghillie Suits began laughing, making their way toward his corpse, reveling in the ease of the kill. Time seemed to slow down for Dreadsauce. He had two options. One, he could stay where he was and hope the bandits wouldn't spot and kill him. It had a decent chance of succeeding, as happy and oblivious as the two bandits were at the moment. Two, he could bury his hatchet into their heads and take their loot. He had the element of surprise, and if he was quick enough he could kill them both before they got off a shot. Of course, Dreadsauce chose neither. His eyes were locked on that crispy, mint-condition, camouflaged Jeep. He could ride everywhere in that Jeep. He could store gear in that Jeep. He could pick up chicks in that Jeep. He could find other Jeeps with that Jeep, tape them together, and make a Super Jeep. He wanted that god damned Jeep, even if it was the last thing he did. So, he bolted upright, hefting his hatchet, screaming. He darted toward the leftmost bandit, swung his weapon back, and buried the blade deep into his hip. The rapscallion let out a shriek of pain and his companion swore in surprise, both of which were drowned out by our hero's piercing yell. "I'M DREADSAUCE, AND WELCOME TO JACKASS." Leaving the hatchet where it was, Dread threw open the door to the Jeep. As his friend collapsed (as people with hatchets in their sides often do), the right bandit opened fire. His rounds tore through the flimsy Jeep door and shattered the windshield, striking Dreadsauce in the gut and chest. But Dreadsauce did not care. He had a f%kin' Jeep. Hopping into the driver's seat, he clamped his hands on the steering wheel and slammed his foot into the gas pedal. The Jeep began accelerating forward. The bandit hopped out of the way as the vehicle began making its way down the hill. Dreadsauce cackled despite the fact that he was bleeding like a stuck pig. He leaned out of the remnants of the driver's side window, calling out. "IT'S MY JEEP NOW, PUNK!" A volley of rounds hammered into the Jeep's frame in response, breaking the back window. The left bandit had recovered, and although he bled steadily he joined in on the assault as well. Even if it meant the destruction of their glorious vehicle, they would NOT let some scrub with hatchet take it. Dreadsauce hammered on the dashboard, rounds whizzing past the car as it gained speed down the hill. His vision was blurry, he couldn't see color anymore, but he didn't care; if he went fast enough, he could outrun the filthy bandits, bandage himself, and escape with his prize. There was a sharp pop as the rear right tire went out and more rounds pounded the Jeep. Dreadsauce leaned his head out of the window again, calling back. "YOU'LL HAVE TO PRY THIS THING FROM MY COLD DEAD HANDS!" Dread put his head back into the car as the right bandit shrugged and aimed down his scope. "AIGHT, BRAH." Three more shots rang out. One hit the rear light, the other took out the rear left tire. The third sailed clean through the headrest and splattered Dread's brains all over the dashboard. His last thought before being slain was this. "Up yours, pal, I have a Jeep."