BP/ACRA: Bob & Charlie #1

[Tim Munn]

Boring Publications Presents...

Bob and Charlie #1

By Tim Munn


	A scene of war confronts us.  This war has been waged several years
now, in the hopes of preserving democracy.  Despite its good
intentions, the war is being lost by the side of good, if you will,
and hopes of victory grow slimmer by the second.  That is, with the
exception of the subject of the scene.  Our subject wants war.  He
wants the war to rage on until he can no longer kill the enemy under
his own power.  Our subject wants death and destruction.  Even the
military in which he serves cannot dish up enough of these items to
appease his hunger.  It would be that fact he would likely later say,
that led him to kill the entire populace of the village that lay
before him-- the village where Charlie once lived, which he would
avenge.
	However, the subject could not dwell on this scene much longer as the
sound of helicopters filled the air.  He couldn't hide in any nearby
structures, as he'd burnt the village to the ground.  From the center
of the village, it was at least half a mile to the nearest cover, a
sight which he eyed with great concern.  At that spot, the backup the
village had managed to call in was gathering its forces for an all-out
attack.  He was stuck between a rock and a hard place.  Face the
village's far superior backup, or face the greater danger of the
helicopters.  It was obvious: face the group on the ground.  He
couldn't face the helicopters because he couldn't fly; he was no super-
hero, at least in regards to flight.  He darted between the burned out
homes and businesses of the village, some smoldering now, others still
fully aflame.  He picked up an AK-47 from the ground, checking it over
quickly.  After checking over its usefulness, he quickly turned his
attention to the corpse from which he took the weapon.  A happy little
dead person!, thought he, too bad he wont be able to see what I'm
going to do to his backup!
	A grin rose to his face and he laughed a little, knowing full well in
advance of what he would do to the enemy.  It got him down when he
thought of the helicopters; his fun jaunt would have to turn into a
quickie if he wanted any action.  So with the grin on his face, the
AK-47 leveled off and his trusty combat knife in his belt, he went to
fulfill his three greatest desires.  He darted to the last remnant of
building between himself and the growing military presence.  The sound
of the approaching helicopters was growing greater, and now he was
certain the enemy could hear them, as most of their heads were bobbing
up and down from their preparations.  They probably thought this was
the work of a couple of hundred men or so, what with all the
destruction, not just the work of a single man.  Let them think that,
he thought smiling another smile, maybe the War Gods will look
favorably on me.  He didn't worry about the latter, as they were
constantly staring at him.  Time to make the War Gods happy; time to
get to work.
	Using the noise of the helicopters to his advantage, he darted to the
edge of the clearing, garnering shouts from the enemy.  None had dared
take a shot.  If they had a good marksman however, even he would be
dead.  At the edge of the clearing, he shouldered the AK-47, drawing
the combat knife from his belt.  The distance now between himself and
the enemy was dreadfully close.  He'd take his time killing them, oh
yes, and for the most part he'd let them see his progress.  He raised
his arm, the knife blade glinting in the sun, and swept diagonally
against the brush of the forest.
	A cry rang out as he swept the blade down.  It took him less than a
tenth of a second to realize he had ripped through flesh.  Brushing
aside the foliage, he saw the body.  That of a young woman, perhaps in
her later teens.  Beside her lay another AK-47.  In her hand, a
grenade.  Barely alive, her innards largely strewn about her, she
popped the pin and let loose the grenade from her hand.
	Growling while being thrown back-- taking at least two shrapnel hits
to the left arm-- he managed to bring about the AK-47.  Half the
contingent had quickly broken off in search of him.  Until that point,
he didn't know he'd been thrown further into the jungle, which would
explain why they were spewing commands in Vietnamese to find him.  He
growled again as he loosed a three-round burst into a surprised
soldier.  Immediately those behind their fallen comrade slowed and
stopped.  Several ran into each other, showing their greenness,
creating opportunity.  With deadly accuracy, the combat knife was
thrown into the base of the neck of the next closest.  He went to
retrieve his knife and within seconds they were upon him in hand-to-
hand combat.  A fractured wrist, crushed sternum and a jaw broken in
at least three places were the first injuries dealt, the only.  Of the
first wave, they were obliterated.  One hundred and fifty casualties
and the three injured.  Oh well.  The normal Rules of War didn't apply
to him, and who was to know there were survivors of that first wave?
It surely wouldn't be the second wave, no, they'd go slower and more
painfully than the first.


Copyright 5/21/2006 11:18 p.m.  Tim Munn