Post by nirvash on Feb 20, 2010 16:39:25 GMT -5
Tracer's Log, Stardate: Man I don't fuckin' know stop asking seriously
Okay, the ship is really fucked up. I can't hide from Sarge forever. I'll just finish this pack and then go help.
Anyway, so Simmons fucked up a little while ago, and now we're paying for it. Simmons, that shit face. I swear, we should've broken his ribs. Okay, I'll be honest. I'm not really supposed to know that he fucked up, you know, what, being a private and all. But you hear things. Marines fucking hear things, man.
So here's the deal. Simmons blew some fucker up he wasn't supposed to blow up, and now we got some Zeeks gunning for revenge or kicks or puppies or kicking puppies or whatever. I don't know why they do what they do, but they just do. I fucking love puppies. They're adorable as shit. But I digress, bitch.
Anyway, they shot us up something mean, a few pilots got blown up (total pussy-faggots, the whole bunch of them), and now we're sitting around, sticking bandages on this bigass ship, and jerking ourselves off until we the fuck out of here. What I want to know is why WE HAVE TO JUST FUCKING SIT HERE ON THIS DUMB ASS FUCKING SHIP INSTEAD OF SHOOTING ZEEKS WHAT THE FUCK.
I fucking hate this. I could be shooting Shitstuffers, shoving grenades up their asses, knives down their throats, or maybe up their dicks, Huck said he's gonna teach me that one, but instead, we are just sitting around, playing cards and jacking off until some Zeeks try to board the ship. Really. They just want us to sit here with our thumbs up our asses until some lucky faggot gets inside the ship. So we can shoot them. So we can do what anyone who has the slightest clue how a gun works could do. It's not like it's a fucking battlefield. It's like a fucking shooting gallery.
Cigarettes gone; I need more.
Risking detection, seeking out cargo container.
Wish me luck.
Tracer out.
_____________________________________________________________
"Magnum." Tracer's hunched frame froze and tried to analyze the voice.
"...That you, Chaos?" He risked a question, but didn't loosen his tense muscles. Just in case he had to run.
"Yeah, it's me, Private. The hell are you doing, boy?" Tracer turned around to see the Martian giant with his arms crossed in front of his chest. His eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses, just like always, so Tracer couldn't tell whether he was in deep shit or not, and if he was, just how deep the shit-river ran.
"I'm, you know, supervising some dumb motherfuckers, you know how it is. Can't tell their asses from their hands. Like they've got ass hands or hand asses, am I right?" He laughed uneasily, still ready to make a break for it.
"I don't see any ass-handed motherfuckers around, Tracer."
Oh thank FUCK, Tracer thought, he wouldn't use my first name if I was in trouble. He sighed and stood up straight. He rubbed his neck and shrugged.
"Well, it seems you've caught me red handed. Red handed and out of smokes. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to keep on keepin' on, and go back to what I was doing. Later, boss." Tracer turned to head back along his original path, but a gigantic hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"Look what I found, Magnum. A normal suit. With your name on it. It looks like it'd fit you too, what a coincidence, eh?" The steel vice grip tightened. "Why don't you put it on and go do your fucking job, Private."
Well, fuck.
Okay, the ship is really fucked up. I can't hide from Sarge forever. I'll just finish this pack and then go help.
Anyway, so Simmons fucked up a little while ago, and now we're paying for it. Simmons, that shit face. I swear, we should've broken his ribs. Okay, I'll be honest. I'm not really supposed to know that he fucked up, you know, what, being a private and all. But you hear things. Marines fucking hear things, man.
So here's the deal. Simmons blew some fucker up he wasn't supposed to blow up, and now we got some Zeeks gunning for revenge or kicks or puppies or kicking puppies or whatever. I don't know why they do what they do, but they just do. I fucking love puppies. They're adorable as shit. But I digress, bitch.
Anyway, they shot us up something mean, a few pilots got blown up (total pussy-faggots, the whole bunch of them), and now we're sitting around, sticking bandages on this bigass ship, and jerking ourselves off until we the fuck out of here. What I want to know is why WE HAVE TO JUST FUCKING SIT HERE ON THIS DUMB ASS FUCKING SHIP INSTEAD OF SHOOTING ZEEKS WHAT THE FUCK.
I fucking hate this. I could be shooting Shitstuffers, shoving grenades up their asses, knives down their throats, or maybe up their dicks, Huck said he's gonna teach me that one, but instead, we are just sitting around, playing cards and jacking off until some Zeeks try to board the ship. Really. They just want us to sit here with our thumbs up our asses until some lucky faggot gets inside the ship. So we can shoot them. So we can do what anyone who has the slightest clue how a gun works could do. It's not like it's a fucking battlefield. It's like a fucking shooting gallery.
Cigarettes gone; I need more.
Risking detection, seeking out cargo container.
Wish me luck.
Tracer out.
_____________________________________________________________
"Magnum." Tracer's hunched frame froze and tried to analyze the voice.
"...That you, Chaos?" He risked a question, but didn't loosen his tense muscles. Just in case he had to run.
"Yeah, it's me, Private. The hell are you doing, boy?" Tracer turned around to see the Martian giant with his arms crossed in front of his chest. His eyes were hidden behind the sunglasses, just like always, so Tracer couldn't tell whether he was in deep shit or not, and if he was, just how deep the shit-river ran.
"I'm, you know, supervising some dumb motherfuckers, you know how it is. Can't tell their asses from their hands. Like they've got ass hands or hand asses, am I right?" He laughed uneasily, still ready to make a break for it.
"I don't see any ass-handed motherfuckers around, Tracer."
Oh thank FUCK, Tracer thought, he wouldn't use my first name if I was in trouble. He sighed and stood up straight. He rubbed his neck and shrugged.
"Well, it seems you've caught me red handed. Red handed and out of smokes. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to keep on keepin' on, and go back to what I was doing. Later, boss." Tracer turned to head back along his original path, but a gigantic hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"Look what I found, Magnum. A normal suit. With your name on it. It looks like it'd fit you too, what a coincidence, eh?" The steel vice grip tightened. "Why don't you put it on and go do your fucking job, Private."
Well, fuck.