Status: semper fi
Snarkbait's Adventure
OOH-RAH
Shit.
I’m hugging the ground like a newborn facing prenatal death. I rip Jesus off my chest, but that’s okay; I have him chained to my neck. It isn’t until I feel my fingers working off the strap on my chin that I snap back. Like a slinky. Stretch aaaaand boink. Back to the hot zone like a bitch in heat. All my bros are trigger happy and I’m ducking here, fluffing my feathers and shit.
“Get some!”
Fucking get some. That’s all they’re screaming, along with a solitary fucking sandnigger. I wonder if something’s lodged on my Kevlar, because I sure as fuck don’t remember weighing so much. Nickleback is three steps away, panting like a slobbering bitch and cursing the hajis and I don’t blame him because I hate them fucking hajis. But if I could only stand up and light them up; burn all their pajama clad assholes. Make them get some.
“Hey.” I cough back a mouthful of dirt. Fucking asshole tried to baseball slide right into me. Hit me right on with his black cadillacs. Looks like a safe to me. “Bra, Snarkbait. Got a frag?” What are we fighting against, the krauts? Use a grenade launcher, you twat. Yeah, you’re fucking welcome too. Asshole.
I can almost hear Kansas sing about dust on the wind, ‘cause there sure ain’t a shortage of it. “Way to hit the deck Snarkbait!” That’s Parson, aka Ringer. Ringer comes from sucking other man’s assholes. But Ringer likes to say he knows how to KO with a punch. “Scared of the hajis now? Better watch your six in this hell ditch.” It almost rhymed, almost. “Seems to me like they’re pulling back.” He should’ve been called gap; like the space between his buck teeth. Who’s Ringer? The grunt with the Grand Canyon in his mouth.
“OOH RAH!”
That’s the chant now. Forget get some, start with ooh rah, cause all these motherfuckers know the choir to that piece. That’s when my Kevlar lights up, as if baby Jesus himself pitied my soul and yanked up whatever was holding me down. “Yeah, that’s right! Go back to your fucking beds, fucking hajis!” I can see Spots from here. Spots is a chick; one of the few that survive the slut tag. She’s waving her K-Bar like a good ol’ ‘merican flag and I can almost hear the spangled banner. She hates it when people call her Spots; just because it reminds her of her little ‘period’ accident. But this time, nobody calls her Spots. No way.
Forget ooh rah, forget get some. Start screaming “GET DOWN. GET DOWN.” ‘Cause that’s what panic is all about. I feel like Atlas again and this Kevlar is fucking me up, again. There’s more dust in my mouth and I can hardly breathe and all I can hear are a bunch of pussies screaming to get down. And, god, that irritating AK-47 shot again and again and again. Like a whip. Cracking. They never run out of ammo, they never aim right either. Those fucking
“Holy shit man.”
What the fuck.
Well, shit. Shit. Holy fucking shit. Ringer is holding Spot’s arm and I can feel something wet on my shoulder. “Holy shit, is that Lindsey? Holy shit.” Jesus fucking Christ. Shit, fuck, shit. It’s sliding off. Her tongue is sliding off.
“They’re coming from our six!”
Aim down your sights. Shoot those cunts. But I can’t. Lindsey is blocking my view. “Snark!” Spray and pray? I can’t even stop my fingers from dancing the boogie. This ain’t nothing like GTA or COD. This isn’t. My helmet is too tight. Everything feels way too hot. It’s an oven. I can taste salt on my lips and I can’t shoot because I can’t see and Ringer won’t stop screaming. “Snark, Trent, Trent, Snark, fuck.” I think he’s crying but there’s too much sweat on my eyes and I’m trying to see where those hajis are and
There.
That’s Jesus knocking on my door again, because this time? Oh boy. This time I’m John fucking Wayne. I can’t get a clear shot from here but if I crawl- oh that’s right you prick, walk right into my sight. That’s right. Lube up because I’m going in, bitch. Aim down your sights. Shoot those cunts. Lindsey ain’t an issue anymore. This is echo-two-tango and there’s no way these pajamas bastards are winning. “Trent, get down, Trent.” Ooh rah, and come get some, fucking haji. “TRENT. Hit the fucking deck!” Those assholes think they can beat me? A marine?
Well, guess what rump.
“RPG, RPG!”
Those hajis are fucking
I’m hugging the ground like a newborn facing prenatal death. I rip Jesus off my chest, but that’s okay; I have him chained to my neck. It isn’t until I feel my fingers working off the strap on my chin that I snap back. Like a slinky. Stretch aaaaand boink. Back to the hot zone like a bitch in heat. All my bros are trigger happy and I’m ducking here, fluffing my feathers and shit.
“Get some!”
Fucking get some. That’s all they’re screaming, along with a solitary fucking sandnigger. I wonder if something’s lodged on my Kevlar, because I sure as fuck don’t remember weighing so much. Nickleback is three steps away, panting like a slobbering bitch and cursing the hajis and I don’t blame him because I hate them fucking hajis. But if I could only stand up and light them up; burn all their pajama clad assholes. Make them get some.
“Hey.” I cough back a mouthful of dirt. Fucking asshole tried to baseball slide right into me. Hit me right on with his black cadillacs. Looks like a safe to me. “Bra, Snarkbait. Got a frag?” What are we fighting against, the krauts? Use a grenade launcher, you twat. Yeah, you’re fucking welcome too. Asshole.
I can almost hear Kansas sing about dust on the wind, ‘cause there sure ain’t a shortage of it. “Way to hit the deck Snarkbait!” That’s Parson, aka Ringer. Ringer comes from sucking other man’s assholes. But Ringer likes to say he knows how to KO with a punch. “Scared of the hajis now? Better watch your six in this hell ditch.” It almost rhymed, almost. “Seems to me like they’re pulling back.” He should’ve been called gap; like the space between his buck teeth. Who’s Ringer? The grunt with the Grand Canyon in his mouth.
“OOH RAH!”
That’s the chant now. Forget get some, start with ooh rah, cause all these motherfuckers know the choir to that piece. That’s when my Kevlar lights up, as if baby Jesus himself pitied my soul and yanked up whatever was holding me down. “Yeah, that’s right! Go back to your fucking beds, fucking hajis!” I can see Spots from here. Spots is a chick; one of the few that survive the slut tag. She’s waving her K-Bar like a good ol’ ‘merican flag and I can almost hear the spangled banner. She hates it when people call her Spots; just because it reminds her of her little ‘period’ accident. But this time, nobody calls her Spots. No way.
Forget ooh rah, forget get some. Start screaming “GET DOWN. GET DOWN.” ‘Cause that’s what panic is all about. I feel like Atlas again and this Kevlar is fucking me up, again. There’s more dust in my mouth and I can hardly breathe and all I can hear are a bunch of pussies screaming to get down. And, god, that irritating AK-47 shot again and again and again. Like a whip. Cracking. They never run out of ammo, they never aim right either. Those fucking
“Holy shit man.”
What the fuck.
Well, shit. Shit. Holy fucking shit. Ringer is holding Spot’s arm and I can feel something wet on my shoulder. “Holy shit, is that Lindsey? Holy shit.” Jesus fucking Christ. Shit, fuck, shit. It’s sliding off. Her tongue is sliding off.
“They’re coming from our six!”
Aim down your sights. Shoot those cunts. But I can’t. Lindsey is blocking my view. “Snark!” Spray and pray? I can’t even stop my fingers from dancing the boogie. This ain’t nothing like GTA or COD. This isn’t. My helmet is too tight. Everything feels way too hot. It’s an oven. I can taste salt on my lips and I can’t shoot because I can’t see and Ringer won’t stop screaming. “Snark, Trent, Trent, Snark, fuck.” I think he’s crying but there’s too much sweat on my eyes and I’m trying to see where those hajis are and
There.
That’s Jesus knocking on my door again, because this time? Oh boy. This time I’m John fucking Wayne. I can’t get a clear shot from here but if I crawl- oh that’s right you prick, walk right into my sight. That’s right. Lube up because I’m going in, bitch. Aim down your sights. Shoot those cunts. Lindsey ain’t an issue anymore. This is echo-two-tango and there’s no way these pajamas bastards are winning. “Trent, get down, Trent.” Ooh rah, and come get some, fucking haji. “TRENT. Hit the fucking deck!” Those assholes think they can beat me? A marine?
Well, guess what rump.
“RPG, RPG!”
Those hajis are fucking