Predator Press
[LOBO]
Delivery of my most precious payload, a pair of claymores, is top priority.
I set the first to detonate in a highly-trafficked area deep behind enemy lines; the second on a support beam in the corridor from where a responding enemy triage unit is likely to approach.
And today I was particularly lucky. I got
three motherfuckers with the first clay.
Gravy.
My record with this technique is thirteen so far, and I'm in a record-breaking kind of mood.
Observations I made on the way in become infinitely handy now; a few well-placed grenades should shred some guards I saw nearby -this deep in their territory, they tend to let their guard lapse somewhat. And why shouldn't they? Five minutes ago, it was tranquil and clear. Now for all they know, there could be an entire
battalion striking.
But remember it’s the
medics I want. To maximize kills, those courageous, noble souls -so ardent to save my first victims, plunging headlong into the blazing structure utterly heedless of my deadly hail- must die too. In fact they need to be dead even
more -their complete disregard for my magnificent display of crimson carnage really pisses me off, and I'm starting to take it personally.
That's not "bravery."
-That's just plain
dumb.
Come see more then, I'm thinking.
Come see the sprayed mists of blood, the shattered exposed bone, the agonized screams from husks that only moments ago were your comrades. Come see them now begging for swift death through broken teeth and borrowed breath-
"Can you please shut the fuck up?" I hear myself yelling over the whimpering anguish around the corner. I hope I don't have to let those three soldiers suffer much longer ... listening to the agonized cries of dying men and women is somewhat, I dunno,
awkward. You know?
"You think this is bad?" I call. "This is
nothing compared to what John Wayne is going to be doing to you in a few minutes!"
Despite my lack of patience, it is only at the cherished, fleeting moment -
as the fruition of understanding and terror dawns upon their rescuers,
as all are exchanging those knowing looks how heartlessly hopeless this slaughter will be- that my blossom of death grows once more; the ground shakes visibly under the detonation of the second mine. Closer, it is deafening, and followed by a single brief, rapidly receding scream.
-And thus I have kicked eight of the most vile and despicable child molesting rapist-Nazi vegetarian tax cheats clear off this Earth, and directly to God.
Put in a good word for me, assholes.
Semper fi.
There is an audible clatter -likely the sound of several tossed headsets- as I pull my pistol. This is where the planning ends, and what follows is always utter horror and chaos. The acrid air is smoky, and I have six more little lead presents to deliver.
Welcome to my web.
“Awe, that’s
bullshit,” says Foxworth. “You ever use your
gun?“
“Only on smart opponents,” I reply. "It doesn't seem fair to use guns on you guys too."
“But you’re a
sniper!”
“I’m a
lousy sniper,” I correct.
His complaint has some merit ... I’m an expert-level ordinance handler. But I’m also, ironically, a flat out horrible shot with the rifle ... and that's precisely
why I’m an expert-level ordinance handler. “Besides," I add. "This close-quarters combat. How the hell am I supposed to snipe your headquarters when you didn't put it in an open field?”
“Fuck you.”
“Nice comeback, Potsie,” I says.
“Seriously. You have no skill whatsoever. You just Kamikaze.”
“You’re dead too,” I point out. “You and seven others.”
“Because you’re a faggotty-ass fucking
cheater."
“What a mighty wordsmith you are,” I says, watching the respawning countdown impatiently. “I'm totally in a fit of rage now. You, sir have pushed me over the edge! See that? I broke a pencil in half I'm sooooo angry! Take THAT, pencil … beware my wrath!”
“How does it feel to be a loser like you?”
“It sucks actually. I don't even
own a pencil.“
“Yeah well
you totally suck, loser!”
"Relax, man," I say soothingly. "I haven‘t been playing this game very long. I need practice and repetition. Like when you had to learn to give hand jobs for crack. Remember? You don‘t get good at it overnight.”
Suddenly my monitor seemed to freeze, and
“There is a problem with your connection“ flashed. I found myself ultimately at the Battlefield 2 splash page, with an alert that read the following:
YOU HAVE BEEN BOOTED FROM
THE SERVER FOR ONE (1) MINUTE.
REASON: DISRESPECT TO ADMIN
“Really Foxworth?” I says. “That’s pretty cowardly.”
“He didn’t boot you,” says Warhead101. “
I did. You run you mouth a lot.”
“In a sea of words like ‘fucktard’ and ‘cocksucker,’ -all sprinkled liberally with creative recommendations of tampon use- I’ve somehow pissed off
two administrators? I'm flattered. Is some elementary school missing some hall monitors?”
“We pay for this server through subscription and you are our guest,” says Warhead101. “We deserve some respect.”
“So I have to pay to respond to insults?” I counter. “That’s a pretty good way to make a living.”
“You aren’t banned,” he replies. “And your boot was for only 60 seconds.”
“That’s not the point,” I says. “Foxworth and I talk trash and psych each other out all the time, only to turn around and be in the same squad in the next round. Moreover, it was germane to the gameplay. This isn’t our problem, it’s
yours. Butt out.”
“People don’t like your style of play,” says Warhead101.
“There’s nothing wrong with my style of play.”
“What about when you don’t like how I’m commanding our team?”
“You mean that thing where I blow myself up with C4, and try to make my corpse parts land on you?”
“Yes,” says Warhead101. “The first twenty times it was funny. Poignant even. Now you’re only trying to give my location away to the enemy.”
“I have no idea what those guys are thinking,” I concede. “The enemy should be running
from a gifted and fearsome commander such as yourself. War is nothing if not an harsh and unpredictable mistress.”
“I’ve had enough valuable time wasted on this,” interjects Foxworth. “Just
ban him already!”
“Sorry this took up so much of your time Foxworth,” I says. “I’m sure there is some pressing neurosurgery that didn’t get done while you were here. Please carry on. But while you are scrubbing up, please note that we were
both trash-talking, and -come to think of it- you usually
start it! If an Admin trash-talks me, it seems reasonable to conclude that is an invitation to participate. Stop bein such a dainty, skirt-swishin POSIE about some playful backlash. With some meds and therapy, you’ll probably be fine. Now can we please get back to the obscenity?”
Hell, these people should see me play golf.
“There’s a difference between trash talk and disrespect,” argues Warhead101. “And I’m just calling it like I see it. That was disrespect.”
“But where is the
line then?” I ask. “The words 'fucktard' and 'shitstick' are okay, but bad-mouthing the Yankees is completely off the table? Apparently what is needed is a thick ‘Official Trash-Talk Rulebook' -nay, a SERIES of excruciatingly detailed rulebooks! Picture it: a biblical and multi ligual all-comprehensive cross-referenced 'dos' and 'donts' library, complete with awe-inspiring pie charts and bottomless, dizzying Excel spreadsheets. I recommend Foxworth for putting the project together, too. He'd be great at it.”
Foxworth snorts. “Fuck you, assmunch.”
“Was that disrespect? Or merely trash talk? I seem to be really confused on the issue,” I reply. “You guys seem too dainty a flower to play on the battlefield with us adults. Perhaps you should try Legos. Or avoid games altogether while ovulating … your ovaries might fall out or something.”
“I’m not going to be insulted here,” demands Foxworth. “This is our home!”
I ponder this for a moment, briefly remembering how I once accidentally found the application to this 'Clan' via their website. The thing was more comprehensive than many
job applications I’ve seen. History, references, the works.
-These guys are really, really serious about Battlefield 2. They live and die based on cunning, wit, and combat prowess. Further, they have their own server, website, an active forum with long conversations about their combat exploits -the whole big honkin dealie.
“Perhaps you should get an apartment,” I suggest.
Predator Press
With Shark Boxing still tied up in pre-production due to a quagmire of insurance hassles, I generally spend my weekends coaching a pee-wee football team I signed up for Pop Warner called the Starfishes -a spirited and rugged little squad of ‘can do’ types, all afflicted with advanced stages of leprosy.
