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Nov 29, 2023 18:03:23 GMT -5
π½adical and Jetta Tall-Tide like this
Post by Chris Chaos on Nov 29, 2023 18:03:23 GMT -5
The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. Know thy self, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.
Bullets fly by in every direction, making a whizzing noise that was louder than a sports ref's whistle. They explode into the ground with a thud that sounds like a brick hitting wet mud. You have to push forward, because it is your agenda, your assignment....it is your life. Out here you live or you die. But if you stand still, death is a sure thing.
Your brother in arms is next to you, mud sticking his feet to the ground as well. His gun was out in front. You knew his legs felt like Jell-O too, but you knew he had to push on. Your country doesn't necessarily like his country, but due to fate you have the same enemy. If this were any other day you would probably be in fisticuffs with this same man, but now you both ran up a wet field of death for the prospect of what lies ahead.
More whizzing.
ZRRRRTT
ZIIIING
ZRRRRT
Somewhere not far away from you, there was an explosion. You could feel the heat from it. You could feel a small pain in your hip. You must have gotten some recoil. That doesn't matter. Your enemy is looking you dead in the eye and you need to continue to push forward. It is you or him.
There is screaming all around you. Blood stains the moist ground, along with trails of human anatomy. You aren't sure if you are stepping on a mud patch or a piece of intestine. Clouds of dirt and dust blurry the air. Your retinas burn from it and you aren't even sure you are moving in the right direction---you just know you are moving.
The ground gives way underneath you as another explosion rocks the entire world, seemingly, not too far from you. Your knees hit the soft surface below you but you push with your core muscles to get back in a somewhat upright position. You can see your target, but still it seems like an eternity away. It seems like it is impossible to reach. But anything is possible is the mind believes. Your mind will continue to run long after your body quits. Your mind is the strongest organ in your body.
You can't feel your legs, your arms are too heavy, the liquid on your face is clearly blood---you aren't even sure you can feel your own soul anymore.
You wipe it from your face
---is it even your face?---
It clears up your view, for the moment. Men pointing and shouting. Men in hard hats and camo fatigues shouting incoherent phrases about objectives and talking to "God" on a two way radio. Another explosion rocks your very core and the whistling orange streaks continue to fly by like lasers with miniature megaphones attached. You have a slight pain in what you think is your foot. It's mostly cold and numb, squeezed by your too tight sock in too tight boots.
When you get close enough to where these men are pointing and shouting about, as bodies fall all around you like an invisible child pushing action figures over, you can see the tearing flesh of your peers of the barbwire surrounding your "objective". There are actually pieces of those not strong enough to over come latched on to the wretched steel for eternity. Stains that wont come off no matter how much water and soap is applied. Men behind you are shouting for their mothers because they know they have failed and she is the only one left who will tell them they have done a good job.
All while their intestines hang cruelly from their torso's.
"Momma, Momma!"
You feel yourself get tugged at by the metal of death but you push forward because your mind tells you to. Now that you are close you see fire. Flames jumping at you, almost as if in 3D.
Flamethrowers.
My god you are a sitting duck.
A human piece of toast.
You can feel the small apple sized device in your hand. You pull something with fingers that are too busy shaking to feel what they've pulled and you throw with your best noodle arm (you played Quarterback in high school----Oh if only your coach could see you now!)
Another vicious explosion. You assume this one is your doing. How many people have you killed? How many more will you kill?
Then, as if the world comes to an end in front of your very eyes, everything stops. No more bullets. No more explosions. No more screams.
Silence.
You back up with caution, waiting for another command to send you into the arms of satan. You bump into a solid structure behind you, but with a little bit of give to it. Your finger, heavy now but noticeable still, presses down just the slightest bit on the curved agent of death. You turn around as fast as you can, even though it feels like it takes you a week. Facing you and looking into your eyes is the man you hate from the country you are told you have to accept. You stare deep into his eyes, and he stares deep into yours. It takes everything in you not to pull that trigger and end his life.
You are told you must be together.
Then a voice, as if projected into your very core from the heavens above, says "War does not determine who is right - only who is left. Let's get these titles and get out of this shithole! "
Chris wakes up, covered in sweat, knowing that he is about to go to war with a man he told himself for years that he hates
---maybe he just believed their lies, fed into their deceit--
All for the greater good of an establishment that for all intents and purposes "owns" him.
Looking into a mirror, he doesn't know what he sees anymore. It is all just destruction, death and screaming.
It is Chris Chaos and Gabe Reno--side by side again--with the entire world awaiting their success with baited breath.
Cholo and Enigma, they are simply......well....collateral.
A war has to be fought one battle at a time.
Radically and Chaotically.
If nothing else.
Bullets fly by in every direction, making a whizzing noise that was louder than a sports ref's whistle. They explode into the ground with a thud that sounds like a brick hitting wet mud. You have to push forward, because it is your agenda, your assignment....it is your life. Out here you live or you die. But if you stand still, death is a sure thing.
Your brother in arms is next to you, mud sticking his feet to the ground as well. His gun was out in front. You knew his legs felt like Jell-O too, but you knew he had to push on. Your country doesn't necessarily like his country, but due to fate you have the same enemy. If this were any other day you would probably be in fisticuffs with this same man, but now you both ran up a wet field of death for the prospect of what lies ahead.
More whizzing.
ZRRRRTT
ZIIIING
ZRRRRT
Somewhere not far away from you, there was an explosion. You could feel the heat from it. You could feel a small pain in your hip. You must have gotten some recoil. That doesn't matter. Your enemy is looking you dead in the eye and you need to continue to push forward. It is you or him.
There is screaming all around you. Blood stains the moist ground, along with trails of human anatomy. You aren't sure if you are stepping on a mud patch or a piece of intestine. Clouds of dirt and dust blurry the air. Your retinas burn from it and you aren't even sure you are moving in the right direction---you just know you are moving.
The ground gives way underneath you as another explosion rocks the entire world, seemingly, not too far from you. Your knees hit the soft surface below you but you push with your core muscles to get back in a somewhat upright position. You can see your target, but still it seems like an eternity away. It seems like it is impossible to reach. But anything is possible is the mind believes. Your mind will continue to run long after your body quits. Your mind is the strongest organ in your body.
You can't feel your legs, your arms are too heavy, the liquid on your face is clearly blood---you aren't even sure you can feel your own soul anymore.
You wipe it from your face
---is it even your face?---
It clears up your view, for the moment. Men pointing and shouting. Men in hard hats and camo fatigues shouting incoherent phrases about objectives and talking to "God" on a two way radio. Another explosion rocks your very core and the whistling orange streaks continue to fly by like lasers with miniature megaphones attached. You have a slight pain in what you think is your foot. It's mostly cold and numb, squeezed by your too tight sock in too tight boots.
When you get close enough to where these men are pointing and shouting about, as bodies fall all around you like an invisible child pushing action figures over, you can see the tearing flesh of your peers of the barbwire surrounding your "objective". There are actually pieces of those not strong enough to over come latched on to the wretched steel for eternity. Stains that wont come off no matter how much water and soap is applied. Men behind you are shouting for their mothers because they know they have failed and she is the only one left who will tell them they have done a good job.
All while their intestines hang cruelly from their torso's.
"Momma, Momma!"
You feel yourself get tugged at by the metal of death but you push forward because your mind tells you to. Now that you are close you see fire. Flames jumping at you, almost as if in 3D.
Flamethrowers.
My god you are a sitting duck.
A human piece of toast.
You can feel the small apple sized device in your hand. You pull something with fingers that are too busy shaking to feel what they've pulled and you throw with your best noodle arm (you played Quarterback in high school----Oh if only your coach could see you now!)
Another vicious explosion. You assume this one is your doing. How many people have you killed? How many more will you kill?
Then, as if the world comes to an end in front of your very eyes, everything stops. No more bullets. No more explosions. No more screams.
Silence.
You back up with caution, waiting for another command to send you into the arms of satan. You bump into a solid structure behind you, but with a little bit of give to it. Your finger, heavy now but noticeable still, presses down just the slightest bit on the curved agent of death. You turn around as fast as you can, even though it feels like it takes you a week. Facing you and looking into your eyes is the man you hate from the country you are told you have to accept. You stare deep into his eyes, and he stares deep into yours. It takes everything in you not to pull that trigger and end his life.
You are told you must be together.
Then a voice, as if projected into your very core from the heavens above, says "War does not determine who is right - only who is left. Let's get these titles and get out of this shithole! "
Chris wakes up, covered in sweat, knowing that he is about to go to war with a man he told himself for years that he hates
---maybe he just believed their lies, fed into their deceit--
All for the greater good of an establishment that for all intents and purposes "owns" him.
Looking into a mirror, he doesn't know what he sees anymore. It is all just destruction, death and screaming.
It is Chris Chaos and Gabe Reno--side by side again--with the entire world awaiting their success with baited breath.
Cholo and Enigma, they are simply......well....collateral.
A war has to be fought one battle at a time.
Radically and Chaotically.
If nothing else.