Tag: war

Goliath’s Fall

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It was the final battle.
For all the shekels.
Goliath never knew what hit him, that dumb son of a bitch.
One moment, he was waving his war club around and rallying the troops.
All of the sudden, a rock hits him in the skull.
The giant didn’t even say “OUCH!”
His eyes took on that thousand-cubit stare and he toppled like a broken column.
A minute later, his lieutenant arrived, breathlessly apologizing to his commander for his tardiness.
“You really should keep your pack mule better organized,” he muttered. “It took me forever to find your helmet.”
“Sir? Sir?”

Payback’s a Colossal Bitch

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Lady Liberty wanted to weep as she watched the towers burn.
Later that night, she pried loose the Emma Lazarus poem at her feet and read it for the first time.
Disgusted, she tossed it into the harbor.
“Go somewhere else, huddled masses,” she grumbled. “Pollute someone else’s shore.”
After careful thought, she decided to keep the torch and book.
The torch came in handy for seeing threats at night.
The book was great for whomping them.
After a few assaults on passing ships, the government shut the island down for “Security reasons.”
Eventually, she slept, and the tourists returned.

The Scurvy Dog

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“Stowaway! Stowaway!”
“Grab the landlubber!” shouted the Captain. “Make him walk the plank!”
The crew grabbed the man and the First Mate slid the plank out, but it fell overboard and floated away.
“Well, shiver me timbers,” said the Captain, “What will we make him walk now?”
“We could make him walk the dog,” said the First Mate.
“Yarr,” said the Captain, releasing the stowaway and handing him a plastic bag. “Be sure to pick up all the dog crap.”
“Why?” asked the stowaway.
“We don’t want this to turn into a poop deck, you see,” said the First Mate.

My Captain

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When it got dark, The Captain and I climbed out of the bunker for a smoke.
My pack was empty. The Captain had just one.
I watched as The Captain lit up.
“We’ll get more soon,” he said, taking a deep drag. “I’ll smoke half, you’ll smoke half, okay?”
The tip glowed red in the night.
Then, more red.
Laser dots.
He dropped before I could shout.
I sat still, watching The Captain’s body in the tiny glow of the cigarette tip.
No more shots. The snipers just saw him, not me.
I haven’t smoked since.
Now pass the needle.

Double A Meets Four F

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Planetary Defense Command doesn’t want you to save the last bullet for yourself.
We’re supposed to fire it at the enemy and charge with fixed bayonets, but nobody’s had bayonets for centuries.
As for bullets, I look at my rifle. One last bar on the battery indicator.
Then it flashes… flashes… flashes…
I should have brought a spare.
Not enough for a last shot, but enough for a spark.
The rifle battery hooks on the oxygen tank perfectly.
They designed it to do this. When we’re out of batteries, we’re nothing but bombs to PDC.
I hunker down and wait.

The Church Bells Of Jenin

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The soft-haired folksinger sat on his stool, strummed his guitar, and sang his sad tale of the church bells in Jenin.
Seven thousand miles away, the last of the churchbells was hauled down from its burnt-out tower.
The Christians had left months ago, driven out by their unneighborly neighbors.
Three masked men picked up the bell and smiled, hauling it to the foundry.
It was melted down into shell casings and bullets.
Weeks later, a paramedic pulled a bullet from a dead child’s chest.
He pulled another three from the child’s dead mother.
Murdered, by the church bells of Jenin.

The Wormholy Land

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The official name of the technology is Geographic Phase Displacement, but it’s marketed as Phasics.
Got a land dispute? Just set up a Phasics engine, set the boundaries of the field, and now both parties can occupy the region at the same time.
The Nobel Prize for Physics went to its inventor, and then three years later the Peace Prize went to resolution of the ancient conflict over the Temple Mount and Haram Al-Sharif.
Phasics engines were spread throughout the territory, and refugees hopefully and joyously poured into the parallel Al-Quds pocket-reality.
Problem solved.
So, why isn’t the terrorism stopping?

You shoah me yours, I’ll shoah you mine

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Despite eating five meals a day, Schultz was as thin as a rail.
The doctors tore out too much, he thought, and he fell asleep listening to the camp radio.
He woke suddenly, hearing the alert.
The Americans are coming!
Schultz looked around the camp, but his comrades were long gone.
All that was left were… those filthy survivors.
Schultz shed his uniform, rolled in the ashen dirt, and stumbled along with the skeletal crowd.
The Americans caught up with his group, put blankets over their shoulders, and led them to a Red Cross station.
“Goldstein of Lvov,” groaned Schultz.

Sequel

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When Lisa woke up, Ethan wasn’t in bed.
She walked to the den and saw Ethan playing his new game.
“Morning,” she said. “When did you wake up?”
“Never slept,” said Ethan, watching the two titanic figures on the monitor beat each other senseless.
“You’ve been playing that since last night?” asked Lisa.
“Yup,” said Ethan. “It’s a really tough game. I get really, really close, but in the end just can’t beat it.”
“What’s it called?” asked Lisa.
“Immortal Kombat 2,” said Ethan.
Lisa thought for a moment. “How did you solve the first Immortal Kombat?”
Ethan didn’t answer.

Weaponized

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After years of research and experimentation, Dr. Odd managed to isolate the chemical compound which was responsible for luck.
He tried to bottle the stuff and sell it over the counter, but he kept running into all sorts of problems in production and distribution.
The Food and Drug Administration sprung a surprise inspection of his facilities and ultimately shut his labs down for a wide variety of violations.
“This is concentrated Bad Luck!” moaned Dr. Odd.
The Pentagon was very interested in a weaponized form of Bad Luck, so Dr. Odd shipped them a sample…
Back on September 10, 2001.