Force On Force

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Enola: NOFUN in every way. I was having a good time.

Back to the Black Market.

[National Security; viewable to Warmongers]
Birdy's bagged and tagged, Boss. Left the mess for your people, and fairy wings is with me. Taking him to the Cellar. Orders?

Soldier up! I'm heading west. Someone out there's singing marching orders.

Ha. Ha!

What'd I miss? And how do you get coal dust out from under your fingernails?

Dom continued to laugh long after Karl's buddy-in-arms chucked him down a mine shaft. Despite the copper-soot taste which ran down the back of his throat, the inability to breathe without hacking up wads of fuck-knew-what, the bones jutting out from bloodied flesh, it was all moot. All proud battle scars from a fight Attrition Warfare did not regret picking, not for a moment.

His only lament would be missing the tape National Security sent out to most of the warmongers. Had he seen it at the planned time, Dom would have thrown his head back and howled with broken glass delight. Instead, he was busy wandering a coal mine lit by nothing but his own bravado.

But he'd find a way out. For all the ego, all Dom's swagger, he always found his out. How else was he expected to clamor for more?

Best fucking fight I've had in months, maybe years, and it came from a miner instead of an army. You're all sad sacks of shit.

Let's do it again.

I've got a weekend gig coming up, so let's get this show on the road.

Old Man Miner and I have a date. See y'all in the suck!

Hooah! Swinging Richard's back in town and all the world's smiling again. Thanks for the present -- it was like a nice, warm hug full of shrapnel.

I'm bored with the block and the blue-heads.

And the jackasses. Lead by example.

[Cyber Warfare]
Game's on hold.

[National Security]
Whaddya know, whaddya say, Boss?

All these dick-measuring contests are a laugh, but seriously. Don't swallow your words like pussies, you maggot-eating super freaks. There's only one way to solve your conflicts.

Gladiatorial combat. Go, go, go!

Recon photo. Didn't like that I was drinking the Ruskie's vodka.

First attempt:
Long range, gunman on the grassy knoll during house training. Jumped on the dog like it he was Secret Service protecting Kennedy. Took the hit. Dog was fine. Long range is for pussies, anyway.

Second attempt:
During supply delivery. Dosed the puppy chow. Right on the money -- commie bastard tested the kibbles and bits before it ever went near Fido's pristine little mouth. Intentionally half-assed, but it was worth the laugh.

Third attempt:
Up close and personal during afternoon walkies. Fighting Russians is like a birthday present. Dog was yipping up a storm, and after the fourteenth stab wound I let them go. Drone gets an A for effort.

Fourth attempt:
Attack from above. Got on the compound's roof and dropped on the fucker's head. Tussle was fun as hell. Kept a few of his teeth for souvenirs.

So I go to the movies thinking, might as well be on shore leave, so why not? Besides, there were supposed to be explosions.

Three hours of my immortal life later, I walk out of James Cameron's Tribute To James Cameron dazed and confused, like I've been snorting dishwasher detergent and injecting bleach. (Of course I don't know what that's like. Of course.)

Y'know, I never understood what people meant when they said "[this is] like bad sex" until I saw that movie -- there was a certain point where I could have stopped, but next thing I knew it was past the point of no return, and Avatar and me had to finish doing the nasty. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw, son, could that have been any more whack-ass boring, inane, predictable or otherwise snooze-worthy? The girl next to me kept cracking jokes about Fern Gully Dances With Aliens.

On the plus side, we wound up making it a memorable experience 'til security had to throw us out for public indecency. The mouth on that woman..!

[Posted from the Marine Corps. Recruit Depot in Parris Island, SC.]
Good game, Little Sister. I'd be proud of you, except sending some Russkie robot to do your dirty work is a cop-out. Pussy. Oh, and tell it that next round, I'm gonna give that bullet it left behind right back.

Time to come clean, you maggots -- where the fuck is Cross hiding?

( [Industrial Warfare] )

[Posted by a third party, some hapless mortal paid by Dom for his time and ability to type quickly. Also, he was paid in quarters.]

Off the grid again, baby! Catch me kill me, Little Sister.

I heard about Jack Ketch and his Thanksgiving love-fest. Screw that hugs and turkey bullshit -- I want to see you punks to whale on you. Y'know, out of love.

Whaddya say, whaddya say?

[Voice post from a pre-paid phone bought in someone else's name.]

Cross, you maggot! When I said "line up", that meant you, too. You better be on an op if I'm not hearing from you, soldier. No excuses!

[Posted from a hacked smartphone lacking IMEI and IMSI/MEID numbers.]

Big Daddy's on leave and Big Brother's back in town. Line up, bitches! I know you all missed me.

[The next time Cyber Warfare receives one of her provision shipments, it will include 100+ lbs. of coffee, just like always. The brand will be the same, the labels will be the same, even the delivery person will be the same.

Except it'll be decaf.]