Post by nirvash on Feb 12, 2010 18:06:33 GMT -5
Tracer's Log, Stardate, When the Fuck Ever:
Tracer laughed. "Heh, balls, units."
"...I'm telling you, these tits were the size of my head! You should've seen the crazy fucking shit she could do with them, it was in-fucking-credible." Tracer slammed the can down on the table, a drop of amber sustenance breaking free from the lip, only to be sucked out of the air by the soldier.
He opened his mouth to talk again, but a shadow stretched over him and across the table he sat at. The shadow was nearly as wide as it was long, and smoke emanated somewhere from the very end of it on the table. A voice like gravel being crushed by a burning tank spoke, filling the air like greasy tar, emanated from the shadow's source.
"Magggggnum. No one wants to hear about your wet dreams. Shut the fuck up."
Tracer froze in place, only daring to throw his eyes from the shadow to Private Huckleberry, who sat across from him. Huck was smiling, apparently unaware of the fear that burned at every man in Sarge's presence, something that Tracer was accutely aware of.
"FUCKIN' SIR, YES SIR I READ YOU LOUD AND CLEAR SIR."
"Damn right you do, Magnum. Huckleberrrryyyyy. Stop drooling on yourself or I'll cut your fucking tongue out."
Private Huckleberry, huh? Chaos was wondering about him earlier; saw him damn near kill some shithead mechanic. I tried to stop the fight immediately, of course, but the Corporal took care of it. Heh. Chaos is falling right back into place after being stuck at that retarded rock.
Speaking of it, why the fuck is it called Luna II? We might as well call it "Moon II." How about "Moon Moon?" No, wait, how about "Moon X?" That sounds totally fucking killer. But whatever.
But anyway, oh man, Denver Huckleberry. Motherfucker's name is almost as bad as Corporal Chaos's. "Denver?" "Private Huckleberry?" I mean, seriously.
The Huck might be fresh blood to us here at the five-oh-one, but to be honest, he's anything but a noob. We picked him up some time after Corp' got sent to Luna II to do... I don't know what the shit he did he did, but it definitely wasn't stealing a motherfucking battleship. Anyway, before we stormed the shit out of this fine example of Zeek penis-compensation (and, oh, do they need it) we picked up Huck.
Technically, we combinined units with him, but since he was the only dude alive in the goddamn thing, he just got shoved into ours. I wonder why his unit was still technically existent, even though there weren't enough people in it for a goddamn squad. Maybe they figured he was a bad enough dude to be a unit all on his own, and you know what, if what the documents say is true, he's got balls big enough for three units.
Tracer laughed. "Heh, balls, units."
So here's the deal: They were at some colony, not really doing anything, just holding position at some fortification, and then shit hit the fan. A single unit of Panzers, believe it or not, stormed the fucking place, guns blazing and grenades everywhere and all that shit, and they killed every fucking dude there. Every fucking dude except for Huck, who somehow slept through it, he got lost in an airduct and fell asleep, supposedly. I don't doubt it, I've seen him get lost in his bunk.
So here's this single private, nothing but the clothes on his back, and like, twelve armored nutjobs between him and getting the fuck out of there. Most people, not including myself, of course, would shit themselves there and then while trying to wait it out before the stink of shit gives them away. But no, this is not even close to what Denver Huckleberry would do. Not even fucking close.
He somehow got out of the airduct or whatever and killed all of the Pantsers. Without getting hit. Look, I don't know how he really did it, but when the Feds came to find out what the distress signal was about, they found Huck sitting on a pile of black corpses, a bloody boot in one hand and a toy gun in the other. When they asked him what happened? He said, and I quote: "I think I done made one shit himself!"
So, basically, we've got some psychopath in the 501st now, but Sarge apparently really likes having him around.
Man, I think I'm going to go get a beer or something.
MAGNUM OUT
"...I'm telling you, these tits were the size of my head! You should've seen the crazy fucking shit she could do with them, it was in-fucking-credible." Tracer slammed the can down on the table, a drop of amber sustenance breaking free from the lip, only to be sucked out of the air by the soldier.
He opened his mouth to talk again, but a shadow stretched over him and across the table he sat at. The shadow was nearly as wide as it was long, and smoke emanated somewhere from the very end of it on the table. A voice like gravel being crushed by a burning tank spoke, filling the air like greasy tar, emanated from the shadow's source.
"Magggggnum. No one wants to hear about your wet dreams. Shut the fuck up."
Tracer froze in place, only daring to throw his eyes from the shadow to Private Huckleberry, who sat across from him. Huck was smiling, apparently unaware of the fear that burned at every man in Sarge's presence, something that Tracer was accutely aware of.
"FUCKIN' SIR, YES SIR I READ YOU LOUD AND CLEAR SIR."
"Damn right you do, Magnum. Huckleberrrryyyyy. Stop drooling on yourself or I'll cut your fucking tongue out."