This last year you've been absent from the TL for two or so months a lot of times. Any reason for that?
I just ask out of curiosity. Well, is more out of "I barely comment here so I'll ask this to let people know I'm still alive".
"What Madness Is This?" Volume II: Prophecies in the Dark
- Thread starter Napoleon53
- Start date
I just ask out of curiosity. Well, is more out of "I barely comment here so I'll ask this to let people know I'm still alive".
Yeah, this for sure. I struggle with depression, working overtime (I worked eight days, was off one, then worked nine just now), constantly finding out new insane things about my culty dad, health issues (that largely cause my depression), two horrible women I have dated this year, and (sometimes) writer's block. It's... Been rough for a bit. Lol
I apologize for not producing tons of updates. I have it all in my head and notes and it's all planned out perfectly, I just have to do it. I have run this timeline for literally years with steady updates and there have been ups and downs but I never stay down.
I WILL be a professional writer one day. I just have to keep plugging!
)
Hope things get better for you soon, Napo! I haven't been able to get anything done for months myself, and I'm not even working overtime.
I can only speak for myself but real life and personal health come first.Yeah, this for sure. I struggle with depression, working overtime (I worked eight days, was off one, then worked nine just now), constantly finding out new insane things about my culty dad, health issues (that largely cause my depression), two horrible women I have dated this year, and (sometimes) writer's block. It's... Been rough for a bit. Lol
I apologize for not producing tons of updates. I have it all in my head and notes and it's all planned out perfectly, I just have to do it. I have run this timeline for literally years with steady updates and there have been ups and downs but I never stay down.
I WILL be a professional writer one day. I just have to keep plugging!
There is no need to apologize to us, your personal life should always take priority over satisfying us with updates. I hope things get better for you soon, what you described sound rough.
SOUPCAN RIDGE: THE FRONTLINES 1941
SOUPCAN RIDGE:
THE FRONTLINES 1941
ORRA troopers tend to a wounded comrade-patriot (1941)
THE FRONTLINES 1941
ORRA troopers tend to a wounded comrade-patriot (1941)
The taste of gunpowder and ash in his mouth, intrepid reporter Henry Watts took a sip of warm water from his canteen. Watts had just arrived on the rearguard frontlines of Operation Manifest Climax the day before with his camera crew, James Johnson and Willard Hackles, and the trio were now being accompanied by an escort of several ORRA officers of the infamous Bad Luck Brigade, the 13th ORRA Mechanized. The sun shone bright over a sea of tropical foliage, and though there was an obvious lull in the fighting, artillery and small-arms fire could be heard in the distance, accompanied with black, brown, and white plumes of smoke and soil, with an occasional red bloom of blood as some poor bastard met God.
There were about five ORRA boys keeping pace beside them. Three appeared to be general infantrymen, one was a Torchboy in a stripped-down field kit, lacking the familiar chainmail armor, and the last was leading the way, an officer wearing the rank of captain. On his chest the name "Stevenson," and the man appeared to be in his mid-40s. His head was completely shaved and topped with a dark blue kepi tipped to a jaunty angle.
"Well, gentlemen, I trust your trip was comfortable. I am Captain Stevenson, Adlai, 13th ORRA Mechanized. I was told I was to serve as your 'tourguide', as it were."
Watts knodded and saluted informally while wrangling a notepad and pen from out of the leather satchel thrown over his shoulder. "Greetings, Captain. Our pleasure. I am Henry Watts, Poor Richard's Enquirer, Pittsburg. These are my assistants, Mr. Johnson and Mr. Hackles. We're looking forward to recording your progress to encourage the homefront, fellas. Tell the folks back home what is going on right this second, Captain?" Watts readied a clean sheet of paper and motioned for his crew to take photos of Stevenson and his men.
"God's work is what's going on right now, Mr. Watts. God's work. For the past, oh, fifteen hours, we've been engaged in a daring and intrepid assault of what we have called Soupcan Ridge--codename, you see. None of us can pronounce that hiss-a-pan-ola balderdash, so we name 'em ourselves. There's a small Neutie fort up there we call the Soupcan. I am sure your eyes work, but in case you can't see too good it's that hill over that way getting hit with shells."
Watts scribbled down some notes and asked, "Excellent, Captain Stevenson. Tell us, what makes Soupcan Ridge so valuable?" As he prepared to write down Stevenson's reply, they continued on their way down the pathway. Five small, armored autobuggies went rolling along beside them, full to bursting with ORRA boys smeared in mud and dirt.
"Soupcan Ridge," Stevenson replied, "is our stepping stone to really countering this Neutie Advance and reversing the momentum. Not that we are losing, by damn, the damn Brazilians just caught us by surprise. We have been fighting the Peruvians for months and have those sumbitches worn down real nice. But they got some reinforcements from the Eduist scumbags and we're having to counter that. There's a bit of a quiet in the fightin' right now, y'see, but we're readying for an all-out push. Once we got pop open the Soupcan, everything is going to come up aces," he explained with a wry smile, tapping the gold ace of spades symbol adorning the front of his cap, a symbol of the 13th. "A few hours ago, the Brazilians took dominance in the air, but we took 'em down a peg thanks to the Knights of the Sky."
The sound of American Eagle 40s filled the air as the fighters flew in formation, coming so close that the wind sent trees bowing and Watts camera crew scurrying to the dirt on either side of the road. The planes sped on ahead, one leaking gray smoke from its engine bay. Watts recognized them as American by the sound, as he had done his research before becoming a war correspondent.
"It's alright, fellas!" Watts cried out to his men. "Those are our boys. Aeroforce. The Neuties don't have nothin' that nice."
"Damn right!" cheered the Torchboy, cracking a smile from behind dry, parched lips.
Stevenson also showed some pearly white fence-posts and said, thumbs tucked under his brown leather belt, "Yeah, the day the Neuties get Eagle 40s will be a cold day in Hell. Pinnacle ingenuity!"
After the cameramen recollected themselves, Watts asked the Captain, "Stevenson, sir, what next? After we take Soupcan Ridge, what is the next thing on the agenda?"
"Shoebox Ridge," Stevenson answered matter-of-factually and thumbed in the direction of the south. "About three miles thataway. We'll smoke those bastards out."
"I see. Captain, how many Neutie fortifications are there around here?"
"That's classified, Mr. Watts. They're dug in pretty good, but nothing we can't crack. You can tell the folks back home that we'll have 'em whupped real soon. And then it's on to the next fight until we have claimed our birthright, Mr. Watts. All the way down to the Magellan Straits!
"How many men do you have involved in this operation, captain?" Watts said, scribbling down more notes in shorthand before a whistling sound filled the air.
"HIT THE DIRT!" cried one of the ORRA infantrymen as everyone scrambled to hide as shells flew overhead.
In reality it was only several seconds, but it felt like an hour waiting for the shells to hit, to see if they would be taken out of this world. Watts felt his normally calm and collected demeanor shatter and his breaths came in ragged, shuddering bursts. Several more vehicles and been driving up behind them, one a buggy full of infantry and the other a truck full of wounded fighters. Several shells landed harmlessly in the surrounding jungle, but one came right down on the hospital truck, lighting it up in a ball of flames that instantly roasted over what had to have been at least fifteen men. The buggy tipped over from the force of the explosion and sent five men sprawling. The driver landed on his head, killing him instantly.
Hands shaking uncontrollably, Watts slowly poked his head up over the edge of the roadside ditch. Sand and mud flecked his dark brown hair and the smoke stung his bright blue eyes. He coughed wretchedly as he pulled himself up to see the carnage and to check for survivors. He couldn't hear anything but an intense, maddening ringing and blood trickled from his right ear and onto his olive drab tunic. He slumped to his knees as he saw the carnage, muttering a prayer. The truck was a smouldering crater, random parts and pieces of the Colonel Goodyear Transport Utility Vehicle (CG-TUV) mixed with bits and blobs of what had been American boys. A nurse wearing the uniform of Tau-Rho was tossed the furthest, having not been strapped into a stretcher. Her white apron was red with blood and she was missing her legs, a look of sheer terror frozen on her dead face. Over at the overturned buggy, wounded men scrambled to their feet, most bleeding from various bits of shrapnel and road rash.
"Everybody up!" shouted Stevenson, Watts' hearing beginning to come back slightly, just enough to make it out. "Move it! There's gonna be another few shells coming this way if their targeting crews spot the smoke! Move it! Move it!"
Out of the jungles came the sounds of trilling and whoops and foreign voices speaking Portuguese. Watts' heart sank. "It's the Brazilians!" he shouted.
Stevenson pulled out his sidearm and fired potshots into the trees. "Jev-damn it! How the hell did they get over here! This is half a mile behind our lines!"
Sure enough, from out of the jungle came dozens of Brazilian fighters wearing khaki and draped in jungle leaves and camouflage. Bullets whizzed through the air as Watts desperately grabbed a nearby corpse's service rifle and tried to fire into the advancing enemy forces.
"Watts! Get your men out of here! We'll cover you!" screamed the gaunt-faced Torchboy, flames licking the end of his Liberty Torch as he juiced it up to let loose on the Infee horde. Within seconds, he was spewing an orange-green fireball into the edge of the jungle. The sounds of screaming, burning Neuties was outmatched only by the roar of Eagle 40s speeding coming up from behind Watts' position. It was the same planes from moments before, one still smoking from the engine. They had obviously spotted the advancing Neuties and had turned around to meet them. The entire forest line was lit up with fully automatic wing-mounted 50 caliber grinder fire. The Eagles strafed deep into the jungle, causing the Brazilians to duck for cover and drag their wounded back into the trees.
Now Watts, Stevenson, and all the other survivors raced north, firing blind shots behind them as they went. "Stevenson! What the hell are those Neuties doing this far north?!"
"Your guess is as good as mine, man! Keep moving!" Stevenson said as they scrambled through a muddy cesspool, trying to not sink into the mire. "Damn these swamps! Keep moving! Move! Move!"
Several more planes went soaring overhead, spraying bullets into the trees. The cries of the Brazilians could be heard once more, no more than fifty yards behind Watts and company.
The next ten minutes were a chaotic mess of running, climbing, and dodging bullets before they at last arrived at a Union static fortification, Fort Sherman. Up on the ramshackle walls, built of logs, sandbags, and the wreckage of downed planes, ORRA boys were blasting away with belt feds and bolt-action rifles. As the distraught press corps and their ORRA escort made it behind the walls, Watts felt relief pulse through every fiber of his being. Several medics met them and began to patch them up. One swabbed and bandaged Watts' bloody ear.
Stevenson was up on the wall, looking through binoculars at the advancing enemy column. "My God! They must have sneaked in a whole Jev-damn brigade! Shitfire!"
"We going to hold, Captain?" Watts asked, shouting the question up at him from below as he maniacally chugged the contents of his canteen. Johnson was next to him, receiving care for a bullet that grazed his shoulder.
Stevenson put down the binoculars and tore open the silver metallic packaging of a Horton's Brand Protein Paste ration. After he sprayed the paste into his mouth and swallowed, Stevenson nodded. "We'll hold, by damn. We'll hold. Or we'll die fighting!"
"Oora, sir!" cheered a nearby sniper, a metal plate adorning the front of his navy blue pot helmet, attached by two bolts.
"Oora!" came the cry of the crew of Fort Sherman as a rusting, battle-damaged land battleship roared to life from a pillbox garage. Smoke spewed from its exhaust as its crew clambered up the sides to man their positions. It was an M37 Potbelly, a middle-of-the-road workhorse of the American land battleship roster. It had clearly seen better days and looked to be sporting more than a few amateur repairs. The front was completely covered in sandbags, and a shirtless gunner sporting a bloody bandage around his waist gave the thumbs-up to his nearby compatriots. Out of the garage came a young man holding a huge banner.
"Oh, shit," murmured Watts, sinking to the ground next to Johnson. "Oh, shit. They're crazy!"
"Why's that?" asked Johnson, nursing his freshly bandaged shoulder. "This whole damn place is insane to me. Some PR stunt this is!"
Watts pointed at the kid carrying the banner. "That's THE banner, Johnson. That's the Eagle of the 13th. Never before lost in battle."
"Fuck," muttered Johnson under his breath, the magnitude of the situation sinking in. "Fuck."
The trooper slammed the banner into a sconce on the side of the Potbelly's turret and waved his fist in the air. "Now or never, boys! Let's whup 'em!"
"OORA!" cheered the fort's defenders once more.
"Everyone calm your damn tits!" roared Stevenson from the top of the wall. "We ain't losing the banner on my watch! We're staying here!"
It was too late. The Potbelly had already closed its hatch and was racing for the fort's doors. Every nearby soldier was rushing to get behind it, using it as a shield for their ad-hoc assault. Even Stevenson's Torchboy had climbed on up and was perched atop the sandbags on the front, ready to let loose once more with his Liberty Torch. Stevenson said a few curses before falling in for the attack, now carrying a trenchsweeper.
The following events were a propaganda filmmaker's dream come true. The energized and rallied ORRA troopers pushed their single-tank attack into the Brazilians like a knife through butter. The move was so unexpected that they were caught entirely off-guard. Watts and his crew tried to take photos from atop the wall and were amazed at the success. Though many Yankees boys were falling, the assault was a steamroll. The Brazilians had run a long way in a very short time and were stretched to the point of exhaustion. The Eduists broke off, fleeing back into the jungle.
"We have to press our attack!" exclaimed Stevenson. "I'm gonna be a Jev-damn governor by the time this war is over. This is gonna make my career! C'mon, boys! Let's send 'em to the Void!"
Watts and company followed the attack, snapping pictures the whole time, amazed at the progress they were making. The American forces had already pushed the Brazilians back to the road where the hospital TUV had been destroyed. Now the momentum had swung the other way. They were taking the fight to the Neutie lines! More planes soared overhead, hitting a convoy of Brazilian vehicles and sending a glowing fireball into the sky. More cheers came from the Yankees as they pressed on.
An hour later and Watts could barely even think over the sound of the artillery and grinder fire. Screams were everywhere, bloody, bedraggled men were limping back to the rear, and Stevenson's men were still pushing. The Potbelly was smoking badly but still spitting out shells and wiping out whole platoons in single shots. The corpse of the Torchboy decorated the sandbags on the front like a broken doll, countless bullets riddled through his body. The only reason he hadn't detonated from the backpack fuel canister was he had run dry and had resorted to a sidearm before a grinder took him out. Watts was huddled with his crew in a ditch with Stevenson and a field telephone operator.
"Damn it, sir, respectfully, sir, my men are up to our cocks in Neutie bastards down here and we need to press the attack!" Stevenson shouted into the mouthpiece receiver, spittle flying, before taking a quick drag of a Firebreather cocaine cigarette. "I understand our reserves are thin in this area and the planes need refueling! Respectfully, sir! But my men have gone through hell in a shitsack and I don't want to go another day without crushing that damn Soupcan! Respectfully, sir!"
Watts shakily took a puff of his own Morton. Cocaine was the last thing he wanted to be on in this situation. He took a photo of Stevenson huddled with the field telephone operator, cigarette clenched in his teeth, a portrait of a frontline commander.
"Sir! I know we don't want to use the Boys unless we have to, but damn it, sir, we need reinforcements and we can take this damn ridge! ...Sir, yessir. I understand. May Jehovah forgive us, but tell the Boys to get their asses up here! We'll hold till they get here! Yessir! All hail!" With that, Stevenson slammed the receiver onto the backpack unit and muttered another curse before sinking his head into his hands. "Fuck it. Fuck it. We do what we have to push this attack."
"Who are the 'Boys,' Captain? And why do we not want to use them?" asked Watts, concern in his voice. "Torchboys?"
After a moment between them that was as silent as the moment allowed, Stevenson turned to the newspaper reporter and said, "Break your cameras."
"What?" Watts asked flatly, completely bewildered.
"I said break your damn cameras! This shit is classified! The government will pay you for your fuckin' losses," Stevenson screamed, pulling out his sidearm again and aiming it at Watts and his men.
The telephone operator was shaking, frantically puffing from his own Firebreather as he took out and aimed his own pistol at Watts. "I'd do what the captain says, boys!" he said shakily. Outraged but following the orders, Watts and his men took the film rolls out of their cameras and then smashed the lenses underfoot.
"Happy, Captain Stevenson?" asked Watts, his tone bitter and full of contempt.
"No, I ain't damn happy. Now keep your asses in this foxhole till I tell you you can leave. This whole area is about to be lit up like the Fourth of July."
After about twenty minutes of continued hell, the ORRA boys were still blasting away, heroically holding the line and keeping the Brazilians on the defensive. The fighters on Soupcan Ridge could be seen on the horizon, desperately firing away at the ORRA troopers, but the Yankees were dug in behind rocks and trees and artillery couldn't be used at this range unless they wanted to hit their own men. Out of the trees to the north, behind the foxhole Stevenson, Watts, and company were still huddled in, came the sound of military music.
"What in the hell is that?" asked Watts. "We having a damn parade down here, Captain? And me without my camera! I hope they throw candy!"
"Shut your mouth and keep your head down, Watts," Stevenson barked as he looked in the direction of the music.
The source of the music was soon visible. A fresh Potbelly was coming into view, and strapped to the back were massive speakers blasting "This Little Light of Mine" as the shortest infantrymen Watts had ever seen brought up the rear.
"Oh, what the fuck," Watts muttered, his stomach dropping. From out of the trees came an army of literal children, dressed in simple off-white cotton uniforms and carrying bolt action rifles. They appeared to be around the age of 10-15, and numbered at least over several hundred. Some wore RU Army helmets, but most of them would have been unable to see wearing adult-size helmets. Most wore simple olive drab kepis. All of them carried bolt-action carbines, short enough for them to use easily. They were being ushered on by adult officers in ORRA uniforms, yelling threats and curses at the children who didn't push on or showed cowardice. Atop the Potbelly was a white banner adorned with a simple golden sun design.
"That is the Redemption Youth Sunshine Legion, Watts. Top secret. They are the children of enemies of the state or street urchins and petty criminals. Better to let them prove themselves then let them rot in a boys' home."
"You can't be serious!" cried Watts. "Those boys can barely carry a rifle! They will get massacred!"
"You'd be surprised, Watts. While they haven't been deployed on mass, the enemy has shown a clear hesitation to fire on them in battle. We're going to use that to our advantage."
"They're schoolchildren! They belong at a Custer Youth campground!" Johnson said, a look of pure sadness on his face.
"They belong wherever we say. I take no pleasure in ordering their advance, but they are wards of the state and members of disgraced families. It is here they can reclaim their families' honor. Let them do their duty!"
The sound of singing children filled the battlefield, letting loose with the lyrics of "Little Light of Mine" over the sound of the screaming, dying, and shellshocked ORRA troopers. Many stared with glassy eyes at the advancing column of children like they were losing their minds, a final hallucination on death's door. Even the ORRA potbelly, still smoking like a chimney, stopped firing for just a moment as its crew tried to understand just what was going on.
"Jesus is the light! I'm gonna let Him shine! Let Him Shine! Let Him Shine!" came the chorus of wide-eyed child-soldiers. Now even the Neutie guns fell silent as the rays of the midday sun shone down on the Sunshine Legion. Pint-sized jackboots trod over the wounded and dying, adult hands reaching up with trembling fingers toward the seemingly-impossible white-clad figures. Some female Sunshine Legionaries stopped to provide aid to the wounded, many of whom thought they were like angels sent from Jehovah.
A child-soldier sporting the rank of captain came racing into the foxhole. "Captain Stevenson, I assume!" the cadet officer said, a smile on his face.
"In the flesh, cadet captain. What is your name?" Stevenson inquired.
"Cadet Captain Ernest Monroe, Sunshine Legion, sir," the youth replied. "Are you ready to take this hill, sir?"
"... Yes. Yes I am, Cadet Captain Monroe. Order a general attack," Stevenson instructed, his face white.
Monroe, all of fifteen years, drew a short sword from his black leather belt and held it over his head. "Sunshine Legion! Take this hill for Jehovah, for your country, and for your President! Onward!"
A sea of tiny white figures stormed through the jungle, shooting, bayoneting, and clubbing shocked Brazilian fighters twice their size. The hesitation to shoot children, even 'Yanqui bastards', was very real instinct, many of the Neuties crying if they could even pull their triggers. Most simply ran. Like jackrabbits through the underbrush, they ran and ran. The Yanquis had always been insane, but this was next level. There had been stories of Custer Youth Brigadiers on active duty during the Immolation of Old Mexico, but that was decades before. This was something unheard of in the modern era, however brutal it might already be.
The attack was a complete success. Soupcan Ridge fell within fifteen minutes, its defenders massacred by children. The exhausted but finally victorious ORRA troopers fell to the ground by the children who lay wounded and dying, their turn to provide comfort. White bodies were scattered all over the ridge, but there were far more dead Brazilians. Tactically, the attack had been a complete and overwhelming success. But even the most hardened ORRA trooper balked at the sight of child soldiers with bullets in their heads. It was an atrocity.
Later that night, Captain Stevenson and Cadet Captain Monroe stood atop crates of Brazilian munitions and supplies and held aloft the green Brazilian Eduist banner. "Let's send this rag back to Philadelphia!" shouted Monroe. "We'll show President Steele that the Sunshine Legion can beat these savages!"
A chorus of cheers arose from the sea of child-soldiers. The ORRA troopers were much more reserved but still clapped along.
"Just as Christ died for our sins, we fight and die to redeem our families' legacies. With our actions today, we proved our worth to society! In a Pinnacle Society, there are no worthless eaters! There is only sacrifice! All hail!"
"All hail! All hail! All hail!" cried the children.
Watts felt a chill down his spine, even in the warm tropic air. He needed a drink. He needed to get drunk right now. Some PR stunt this was.
Over the next few years, the Sunshine Legion would suffer 40% casualties, but never lost a battle or their eagle standard. They would fight in over forty engagements, often in correlation with the 13th ORRA, who grew somewhat accustomed--but never quite fully--to their presence. By the time the Peacemakers were dropped in 1944, the Sunshine Legion was battle-hardened and the cadets had aged up to their late teens. When the Sunshine Legion was declassified in 1945, they were shipped home to their base in Texas where they were welcomed by Chuck Oswald himself and awarded a triumphal march through Philadelphia. The criminal records they were associated with were expunged and they were all awarded service medals, pensions, and benefits.
Many remained in the military, as it was now all they knew, and were dispersed to other units, including many to the 13th ORRA Mechanized. Several veterans went on to notable careers, such as the moon rocket scientist Wally Henderson, actor Clive Fritz, notable for his series of cowboy movies, and Field Marshal and Oswald confidante Jabin Jeremiah Strong. Cadet Captain Monroe would be killed in action one week before the Peacemakers were dropped and was buried at Patriot's Rest at the personal behest of many members of the 13th ORRA who fondly remembered him. He had just turned 18. He was posthumously awarded the Pentagon Star First Class, the Gold Cross, the Order of Patriotic Brethren, and the Distinguished Service Medal. His father, a secret proponent of Infee rights, had been caught distributing Illuminist propaganda in Oregon in 1938. Too sickly to be deemed useful in the adult Redemption Legions, his son had been pressed into service in his stead. He was told of his son's heroism and death before being released with a record wiped clean by his son's blood. He would die of alcoholism in an AFC Charity Home in 1953.
Cadet Captain Monroe's gravemarker bore the inscription, "The Angel of Soupcan Ridge. 'There are no worthless eaters. There is only sacrifice.'" In the 1970s, Monroe's body was exhumed and stolen by infamous cultist and cannibal Sweeney Ericson, author of the Necrotic Manuscript. The mission that eventually rescued Monroe's corpse was the subject of much media attention, as several retired ORRA veterans personally took it upon themselves to recapture the body and encase it in concrete back at Patriot's Rest.
Memorial to the Sunshine Legion at Patriot's Rest, Philadelphia, next to the grave of Cadet Captain Monroe
Statue at the center of Sunshine Legion Square, New Oxford, Oxacre
Statue of Cadet Captain Monroe installed at Lake Wabatchee, Oregon, by "grateful comrade-patriots of the 13th ORRA Mechanized" in 1973. The landmark is known as the Sunshine Soldier and is a major tourist attraction for his hometown.
Variant flags for the Sunshine Legion
Last edited:
Their kids are now brainwashed, devout servants of the state. What part of them isn't broken by that knows that they are still under massive scrutiny and will be executed on sight if there is any further illegal activity or anti-statism. Plus, Monroe's dad was an odd one out, as he was too sickly to serve himself in a Redemption Legion. Most of the parents will prove their newfound loyalty on their own or be executed.
PNWKing
Banned
Hey, @Napoleon53, try to pay off whatever money troubles lead to you keep buying beaters. Then buy a nice, reliable car. Try looking for a Subaru Legacy or Outback. (Proudly assembled at Subaru Indiana Assembly in Lafayette.) Then find yourself a doctor who will try whatever you want for your depression and possible PTSD. As for the "more stuff about your dad", realize it's not something to be stressed about, it's more inspiration for the Madnessverse.
I'm driving a decent-shape 2008 cop car with 95k miles now. I think my car troubles are at an end.
*crosses fingers* And you're damn right about my dad being inspiration. lol
Last edited:
Way back in Volume 1 of this Redux, Alexander Hamilton said something along the lines of the American people taking the country to hell along with themselves and presumably their descendants as well. Well, looks like he's correct in his last minute act of spite turned unforeseen prophecy. Fellow readers need no examples for me to list off, as we have surely read them ourselves.
The Yankees have gone from stepping across the line out of vengeful wrath to sprinting over them faster than an Olympic runner at the 100 metre dash. And as of this date, they've gone from a mad pace to something perhaps just as, if not, a bit more disturbing. They're skipping over the line, as carefree as in a schoolyard game of hopscotch or as ecstatic as a young lad struck dumb with glee would go about his day with pep in his step. Imagine it, the noise of hundreds of children skipping of to war.
It is only in due time that we will find out whether the moral boundaries will be bypassed either by the grown-up skippers, or by the sound of the winds carrying radioactive ash.
Whenever I think I can't make the Union any worse and if I do I will make them entirely unsympathetic down to the last brainwashed mook, I come up with some new horror, lol. As I said the other day in a comment, this chapter was inspired by the John Wayne classic Horse Soldiers film, and the visual of seeing a bunch of half-height soldiers charging a bunch of grown men who don't really want to shoot at them even though they know they are in total war. Your line about hundreds of children skipping off to war is especially relevant to the visual of the film.
Morty. You and me. Five minute adventure. Whole new Madness arc that ties into all the other arcs, Morty. And it's all about you, cartoons, movies, and your weirdass fucking Krummy theme park, Morty. And Chuck Oswald is there, and Joe Steele, and lotsss of drugs, Morty. Just drugs everywhere. C'mon, Morty, let's do it. These people need comic relief after the last chapter.
I'm glad that even during the chaos of war and bloodshed, our brave reporter remembers to refer to products by their full trademarked name.
Equal measures of blasphemy, Madness™️, and SPARTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA