Tag: war

Vet

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Bo spent two years in Sadr City.
Some bearded fuck was running the place.
The government gave this fuck guns and money to keep the peace, but this asshole used them for all sorts of other shit.
Women suicide bombers. Those were the worst.
Stick a bunch of crazy shit in their heads, put a bomb under their robes, and tell them to shriek like hell if anyone tried to search them.
All it takes is one. Just one.
Bo came back in a bag last week.
The bearded fuck is still there, making women crazy and giving them bombs.

Control Room

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The king wants to go to the control room.
Half of the lights in this room blink for no reason. The others do not blink at all.
The switches aren’t connected to anything, and all that the buttons do beyond changing color when pressed is to make a faint clicking sound.
It makes the king happy, though. He loves to push buttons and flip switches and laugh.
“Die die die!” He yells.
A display lights up with a random number.
He cheers. “High score!”
We laugh with him and pray to God that he never finds the real control room.

Salad Bar

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The two kings were bitter rivals.
One marries a beautiful woman, the other marries one more beautiful.
One gets a fast horse, the other gets one faster.
Castles. Armies. Jesters.
Always one-upping each other.
Then came the salad bars.
This time, neither would back down. For miles, each one stretched across the rolling hills.
One added to their salad bar. Then the other.
Back and forth.
Until they met at the border.
The greatest salad bar of all time.
The two kings gave up their rivalry and became friends.
That’s when a third king’s army invaded and killed them all.

Vista

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The videos of Al-Qaeda training in Afghanistan – firing guns, running obstacle courses, and all that running – you never saw them with laptops, programming and coding, did you?
Those guys got H1 visas and headed to Seattle, where they were greeted by Microsoft.
“We’ve got housing ready for you,” said a blonde in a suit. “Just sign the NDAs on top of your welcome packets and we’ll head down to Redmond.”
Each programmer signed their forms, praised Allah, and looked forward to the day when their latest weapon against the Western infidels would be unleashed.
“Vista,” Osama had told them, grinning.

Bulletproof

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Someone who’s ready to buy something right then and there has The Look.
The salesman saw it on all the customers he’d just finished demonstrating a high-end laptop to.
“So, any questions?” he asked, snapping the laptop shut.
“How rugged is it?” asked a banker.
The salesman swept the laptop off of the table and it hit the floor.
He picked it up and turned it on.
No damage.
“It’s practically bulletproof,” he said.
A shot rang out, and a bullet dented the case, but the laptop stayed on.
“We’ll take a thousand,” said the Army Colonel, holstering his pistol.

The Tracks

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They say that countries used different gage tracks for their railroads so that enemy trains couldn’t invade without changing wheels.
That took time, delaying them long enough for enough defensive forces to arrive.
I walk through the railroad museum, going from exhibit to exhibit wondering which trains are allies and which are enemies.
It’s not easy to tell, but if you look closely, you can separate the two.
In fact, this World War II display has a friendly engine pulling three enemy boxcars.
Prisoners of war, perhaps?
They aren’t talking. They’re just trains in a museum, sitting on the tracks.

The Hive Queen

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Ambassador Grindmar’s report to the Hive Queen was positive: the negotiations were going well, and peace would come at an insignificant price, easily made up for with future mutual trade and growth.
“Where is that Grindmar now?” asked the Queen.
The bodyguards upended a preservation-cask, spilling Grindmar’s butchered carcass on the throne room floor.
“That’s unfortunate,” said the Queen. “But the negotiations completed, correct?”
“Yes,” said Grindmar’s replacement. “The war is over.”
“Good,” said the Hive Queen. “Let us Prepare a feast in Grindmar’s honor.”
That night, Grindmar was as delicious as she had been skilled in crafting peace treaties

The Best Tea

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Back in WW1, as our boys fought the Kaiser, we made sure they were provided with the best.
The best guns. The best uniforms. The best food. And, most of all, the best tea.
Now, conditions weren’t always the best, and it’s hard to transport millions of teacups through enemy lines. And no civilized man drinks tea from a tin cup.
So, the boys would put tea leaves on their tongues and we’d pour in the boiling water.
They made a contest of it, who could hold their tea the longest before swallowing.
Sugar? Lemon?
Pathetic Nancy boys, those were!

The Mad King

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King Rasmussen The Mad
For centuries, that name has haunted us.
If you listen carefully, you can still hear his living corpse shout and scream bloody murder from within his ruined castle.
Trapped inside a warlock’s time-bubble, his dying moment has been preserved for all eternity.
Sure, by law, he is still king. And we must obey his orders.
So that’s why we have hired deaf laborers to seal him up forever. They are filling in the cracks of the castle, and then they will pile dirt on the stone
Maybe we’ll plant some apple trees when it’s all over.

Blacksmith

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Son, I know you want to be a blacksmith, but come over here and take a look at these swords in the display case.
Each and every one of them has a history:
Forged in hellfire.
Slew twenty dragons.
Once owned by a king.
Enchanted by the Grand Mage of the Mountain
The truth is, they’re just ordinary swords.
But the human mind is a strange thing. Give a man a sword, and it’s just a sword. But give him a sword with a history and he fights better.
And he’ll pay for that, too.
Forget blacksmithing. Go into sales.