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This is to cover up my last post which was me being a bitter curmudgeon at being banned.
2 more years before we can tell the Mayans to fuck off.
I wrote this a couple of years ago for my English class, some remembrance day activity malarky..
My watch still works, how bloody Ironic; my rifle jams, my belt is too small, and my ammunition bag is falling apart, but my watch still works, telling I have 3 minutes before I go over the top. It's ironic that a part of me is glad to be getting out of this sodding ditch, this earthy trench caked in blood and soil, held together by crumbling wood and the prayers of every man in my squad. My wife always wanted to go to France; I think she had a different kind of "Shells" in mind though when she talked about the beaches. Does laughing in a situation like this make me insane? Or am I sane man holding onto any emotion I can muster up? By searching for anything in my psyche that isn't the sound of a shell going straight to hell or the pale masks my friends wear, in this purgatory. Some say this is a test, where we learn how pure we really are, where we get sent to the fires below, or live on to find this "heaven" another day. I'd rather be below; at least I wouldn't be freezing in some sodding ditch in Flanders with 20 other men....Good honest men, men who didn't care for guns, men who made bread or built cars or didn't spend their days sleeping under rats and getting shot at.
The boy next to me looks about 17...you'd think he'd just been born. I'm used to the shells, it doesn't make it any better, but I'm sure I'm not the only man who lies to himself to create some false hope or comfort. But him...he's heard the voice of god, its judgement day to him and he's about to find out if he dies in some filthy sordid grave in Flanders or if he survives...and wishes he had. He should be playing football, living his life...hell, he should be chasing girls, not fighting for some totalitarian cowards...we're ants to them, we're nothing...we're prepared to fight and die for a country whose leaders are complete idiots...yeah right.
I miss my wife...the only thing reminding me of her is covered in dirt and squashed in my boot. She's smiling on the photograph, she hates having her picture taken...so do I. But I'd gladly take a camera flash over that spiteful light that's blinding me on the horizon every 2 minutes. I won't check my equipment, knowing that it works will make me feel a right pillock when I take a bullet in the neck, I'd rather not blame myself.
I turn to the boy to the side of me, and smile at him. It's the worst thing I've done for 4 years...I've shot men, I've had to put my friends out of misery, but lying to this boy...well...I'm being torn apart.
He weakly smiles and swallows, he mumbles something about "God being with us".
I fight my way up the ladder....I have a bone to pick with God.
Banned 3 times in the past week...
It's not my fault people are imbeciles.
This is what boredom can do to a person..
Peter Peterson was a fairly ordinary citizen of Soup City, America, by day he was a mild mannered stand up comedian...(well as mild mannered as obscure pop culture references and filth jokes get), but by night...or when he was bored...he would defend the city as SARCASM LAD!! (Thankfully stand up comedy gigs took place during the day and criminals only struck at night..Oddly enough)
anyway we start this story while Pete had finished a successful gig, combing wit, puns, and wonderfully droll metaphors to result in one audience member laughing so much they burst into flames. Pete walked off stage and strutted to the bar like John Travolta in Grease...or Saturday night fever...he pretty much struts in most movies. Behind the bar was the mesmerising Sally Salt, a beautiful brunette with hair that could wash a car and eyes that could melt ice...and then evaporate it.
Sally had always spurned Pete's advances, but he was a persistent little git so he went up anyway.
"Hey Pete, great show as usual" She whispered in her...whispery...whisper.
"Cheers Sally, How about you and me go out to the movies later?" He asked
"Pete..." She began to murmur
"Aww come on...it's just like Doctor Pepper..What's the worst that could happen?" He smiled as he broke copyright infringement in order to advance his social life
"Peter Peter Peter..." She sighed
"So that's 2 for no..3 for yes?"
"I'm sorry, you're funny, caring, considerate, trustworthy and a damn fine fisherman" I just don't look for that in a man..
Just then a universe imploded somewhere at such an inane sense of logic, downtrodden Pete shrugged, bid her goodbye and went home to his lavish bungalow downtown.
He returned home and yelled several swearwords loudly..he wasn't angry..He just hated the neighbours.
Disappointed by yet another rejection he had a cool drink of alcohol free Ribena and began to prepare some chips..He was still British after all.
Whilst eating dinner and watching Celebrity Cannibal island, the watch on his wrist began to beep like a jerry springer marathon. He tapped the side and a video of a sturdy, stout and solid police officer appeared.
"Commissioner Alliteration! What's the trouble?" He spoke towards the watch with haste.
"Well S.L (He abbreviated his name for ease), a gang known as the 'beefeaters' are robbing the downtown bank...which doesn't close at 3pm like most banks in this country"
"Looks like they're about to withdraw a gold bar from the bank of me kicking their arse"
Pete dashed from the sofa, knocking his chips onto the floor as he sped across the room
"Never mind" he though "Steve will have them"
An alligator emerged from under a table in the corner of the living room and consumed the chips. (Pete has a pet alligator by the way...totally)
At the end of the living room was a grand antique piano..The kind that Marie Antoinette probably 'did it' on.
Pete played the first few bars of Van Halen's "Jump" and a the bookcase to the side swivelled to reveal a green cape with the letters S and L embodied in solid gold and a black eye mask. That was the costume basically...he put it on over whatever he was wearing at the time, jeans and a Rush t shirt would have to do.
Grabbing a belt full of equipment and totally not a batman rip off, Pete ran out of the door, yelling as he left.
"See you later Steve"
Arriving at the bank 5 minutes later, Pete parked the "Sarcasm Car" (A painted Nissan) around the block and headed to the police barricade outside of the huge majestic big ass bank.
Commissioner Alliteration graciously greeted Pete with a grasp on the situation.
"They call themselves the Beefeaters..a British group of Bank robbers, they're known for their violence and unwillingness to accept a Scottish monarchy" He spat in his thick new York accent (Although this wasn't New York)
"They've got hostages and are gonna roll some heads if a cop so much as farts near the entrance"
Pete...I mean..Sarcasm Lad pondered for a moment.
"Commissioner, if I scale the roof and drop down a vent I could surprise them and take them out"
"Good work lad, we would but the only grappling hook ever made was bought by some...stand up..comedian...thus removing the plot hole of why we don't do that"
Sarcasm Lad ran to the side of the building and began to scale it like an enraged Father's for Justice member. He saw a metal box in the centre and kicked off the lid..realising it was not an air vent but the Security Camera controls, he moved away.
"SORRY" He yelled across the roof, towards the swat team who were currently hacked into the cameras to survey the situation..
Finding a vent, he did his best Die Hard impression and crawled downwards till he was above the main lobby. Through the grill he saw several men dressed in old English guard regalia, hats, halberds, puffy shoulders and all. Four or five civilians coward on the floor...even though it's not that difficult to see if it was either four OR five. But nevermind.
"Alright you nancy buggers" S.L whispered "Time to show you that the monarchy blows"
Psyched up, S.L punched through the vent and dropped to the lobby floor...
TO BE CONTINUED...
Feedback would be nice...please...I really need the aspirations and moral support.
As stated in the title, i quit my job at the crappy local cinema..I'd rather not spend my time making popcorn for morons, which i then have to hoover up..