JohnnyGoodyear get your gun.
It's been 5 long years
since the last war
, but here we are again. The faces have changed, but the fighting... the fighting never goes away. New faces lead by grizzled veterans
, chasing the dream. God, it all seems so naive
now, down here in the mud. I hear another newbie screaming for his momma down in the No-man's
land of Catbox
Alley while I search my pockets for my last smoke. IWhoSawTheFace
holds the lighter patiently while my hands shake in the cold nodey trench.
"Do you remember what we're fighting for any more?" I ask him as a nodeshell bursts high above us, raining hot letters.
"Not really man, I'm just in it for the chica
I shake my head and adjust the helmet straps between puff
s. The raygun
is still hot in my hands, and the cheap blue plastic is starting to crack. We let the Offendulon
loose days ago and you can still hear it, late at night, howling insult
s at the moon. It's better that way. Like the old days
They issued us rose-colored glasses
back at boot camp
, just after the draft. Poll
after poll got passed around, trumpeting doom and the end times. Waves of immigrants
poured in from foreign shores, shipped in by Google
smugglers while we worried about a brain drain
to the Commonwealth of Livejournal
and the Wikipedia
Republic. Writing Quality Inflation
ran wild, and people were trying to buy basic votes
with wheelbarrows of low-denomination
nodes. The golden age
of brotherhood between the wars was short lived. Politicians ramped up the rhetoric, electing fiery leaders with strong opinions, flooding the airwaves with utopian
visions and screed
s against the problem elements in society: The new, the old, the powerful, the powerless. When the Borg
deterrent lost its teeth, pent up aggression ran like spring sap
Democracies rot from the bottom up they say, and when John Q. Noder
got wrapped up in the debate over why his vote
should or shouldn't be for or against a node, I knew it was only a matter of time. Editor
s changed to generals, the node-market crashed, and the God
s on high stood back from the fray, just like the old days.
I was reading a daylog when Old Man Halspal
came on, decked out in his Sunday best, brandishing the note high for the cameras, promising "Peace in Our Time
". I put my Pope Hat
in the attic and fished out the old grey crate full of firmlink
grenades and short range insulting softlink
shells. I'd made my bed, now I would have to kill for it.
It was raining when I met Jet-Poop
down at the train station while heading for the front. He stood at the edge of the platform, getting soaked in the spray. When I asked him why he wasn't staying dry, he replied:
"You have to get used to being wet."
Then he smiled a Cheshire Cat
smile and hefted his Knapsack
lovingly. It was still dirty from the last war. "Do you know who is right?" I asked.
"Does it matter?"
Jet-Poop whistled the theme from The A-team
and wandered off down the platform.
was totally there too. Wearing boots and everything. Seriously. I have pictures.