The Longest 24 Hours...Part 2

Sorry for the delay with the exciting conclusion of the Longest 24 Hours but with the writers strike, binge drinking and my penis falling off because of Fernando Torres induced priapism, I've had a lot on my mind. I don't want to bore you with the mundane details, so I'm just going to pick up the story right where it left off. For those who need a brief refresher, check this out. For those of you too lazy to click on that link, I applaud your lethargy. All you need to know is that Jack Bauer is going to the driving range and shit is about to get all motherflipping twisted up in this biznatch.

****The following takes place between the hours of 1am July 19th and 12:59am July 20th.****

12:10pm - Bauer winces as he releases the grip of his Nike Sasquatch driver. He looks down upon his left hand to see what has caused the discomfort: a blister, larger than a decent sized pearl, has erupted on his thumb. A vermilion tinged pus rivulet begins to trickle from his open sore. He smirks and decides to hit 35 more balls. It's nothing compared to what the Chinese did to him.

After finishing up his bucket of balls, Bauer wanders to the driving range's clubhouse. The bar is empty. Why shouldn't it be? It's only 1pm, for God's sake. Taking the seat farthest from the door, Bauer grabs a menu and waits for some service. Alone with his thoughts, he once again examines his thumb. The clotting process has begun. The creamy viscous goo has now dried on his palm. It reminds him of the time that he had to jerk off a male panda bear while incarcerated in a secret Chinese POW camp just to get a piece of bread. He is one of the few men on the planet that know that pus and panda semen are practically identical in nature. Suddenly, Bauer isn't so hungry.

"Where the fuck is the bartender," he mutters underneath this breath. Thirty seconds pass. He says it again, this time only a little louder. Two minutes go by. "Where the fuck is the fucking bartender!"

A portly man emerges from a doorway and heads towards Bauer. His wispy hair no longer fully covers his scalp and his cheeks are pockmarked from acne scares from decades long passed. Bauer looks at him and points directly to a bottle of Jack Daniels. No words need to be exchanged. It's a scene that has been played out at this location multiple times. The barkeep fetches the bottle, places it in front of Bauer and walks away. He leaves no glass. One won't be needed.

The whiskey burns the ruptured blister as Bauer douses it with alcohol. Finally, bringing the bottle to his lips, he drinks deeply from it, opening his throat and letting the acrid mash flow down his esophagus unimpeded. Within a minute, he has downed half the bottle. That's enough for now. There is still half the day left.

He stands and exits the bar without paying. The bartender watches Bauer walk out the front door. "Thank God he's gone," says the man. "At least he didn't start blabbering about the Chinese again."

1:32 - Back at home, Bauer barely makes it through the front door. The whiskey is firmly in control now and has decided not to play nice. The room begins to spin wildly and Bauer's legs feel wobbly. Stumbling forward, he crashes through an unassembled cardboard box laid over two stacks of cinder blocks. It was his living room coffee table. Now it is just another thing Bauer has destroyed. He lapses in and out of consciousness as he lies face down on the soiled carpeting. While still awake, he attempts to make a mental note of the carpet's condition. The dirt and grime caked into the Berber carpet make him long for his past life. The life before he knew that backstabbing cunt Nina Meyers. The thought of Meyers leaves Bauer feeling nauseous.

He closes his eyes. The world continues to spin.

4:58 - Hours later, Bauer is stirred to life by a loud thumping noise at his front door. After trying to ignore it for five minutes, he relents, rises to his feet and peers out the peephole. Nothing. Could be an ambush. Quietly, Bauer steps away from the door and grabs whatever he can get his hands on first. This time, it happens to be an umbrella.

"Come on, let's finish this once and for all," Bauer says in his most threatening voice even though there is no one around to hear him.

Again, the knock. One more time. Finally, like a recently uncaged mongoose, he springs to life, kicking open the door and performing a perfectly executed front somersault to get behind his opponent. Deftly rising to his feet, he lunges forward, the point of the umbrella directed at the unwanted visitor's throat. He is millimeters away from puncturing the jugular of his would-be assailant. But he stops just short of that fatal blow. The knock at the door came not from a Chinese assassin, but rather one of the neighborhood Girl Scouts. She is carrying the box of Thin Mints that he ordered two weeks ago. Tears stream down her face.

"Um, sorry about that," says the apologetic Bauer. "Here, let me, um, give you a little something extra for your troubles."

He hands the umbrella to the girl and dashes into the house with the box of cookies. Holed up in a corner of his bedroom, Bauer enjoys the refreshing mint kiss of the sugary wafer. All the shit in his life is washed away, if only for that moment. All the Nina Meyers memories, the Chinese torture stories, the time his wife died in his arms. None of that matters right now. The only thing in Bauer's world at this very moment is that box of Thin Mints. And that's a good thing.

7:18 - Thin Mints finally depleted and still huddled in the corner, Bauer awakens from his peppermint induced reverie. The sun has begun to pass beyond the horizon and, like a werewolf craving manflesh, he longs for alcohol. Without it, the unthinkable might happen: he might have to stay sober through the night. It's enough to make him gag.

Much to Bauer's dismay, there is no booze in the disheveled bungalow that he calls a home. He scours the cupboards, rummages through the pantry and even looks in places where he thinks he might have once hidden a bottle or two, but to no avail. So he faces a difficult choice: to go outside and buy a liter of fire water or to count the seconds as he waits for bedtime. He isn't sure he can make it to 9:15.

With no booze and nothing on Game Show Network to pass the time, Bauer turns to his last resort, his old standby, the one thing in life that's never let him down: Guitar Hero I. To no one's great surprise, Bauer never graduated to the next gen consoles. He plugs his plastic Gibson controller into the port and begins to stretch out his fingers and wrists. There is about to be some serious shredding going down in his home and he doesn't want to be sore tomorrow. Fully limber, he picks out his favorite tune- More Than a Feeling by Boston- and prepares to unleash Hell on his video game guitar.

Enjoy the show:


Merely satisfied with his perfect performance, Bauer decides to call it a day. It's only 7:45, but he has experienced more in the past hours than most people will have to go through in their entire lives. He is weary and knows that he needs his rest. For tomorrow is another 24 hours and he knows that the Chinese will be waiting for him.

Just like every other day.