Lord Long Rod
Diamond Member
- Jan 17, 2023
- 7,706
- 8,122
- 2,138
- Banned
- #1
It was a cold, dark and rainy late winter afternoon as I was high in the trees, situated rather uncomfortably on the limb of an oak tree, about 50 feet above the ground. I was lying prone on the large limb as best as I could, with my sawed off Barrett .50 BMG shouldered and ready. What had begun this morning as, what I thought, was a well-reasoned operation to take down our target suddenly devolved into a devastating miscalculation that placed our operation, and our lives in danger. My finger tightened around the trigger of my rifle as I heard a shuffling sound from the brush below. The time was nigh to engage the combatant below. I briefly closed my eyes and said a prayer. When I reopened my eyes they were red with rage and ready to engage. I quietly whispered, “Come on, you motherfucker. Show yourself.”
It is essential that you know the background of this tale before moving forward. My spec ops team arrived in the theater of operations pre-dawn. It was a small, but effective unit. We needed to go in lean and mean for the job. Everyone had been well vetted and thoroughly briefed on the objective. Moreover, great lengths were taken in training the men through simulated attack scenarios in realistic settings. But sometimes even the best laid plans go awry. You try to consider each and every possible scenario you may encounter so that you will be prepared. But from time to time you will run into a situation you just could not predict. This is one of those times.
I fucked up. I admit it. Those men had put their lives in my hands and I let them down. I let their families down. Most importantly, I let myself down. You see, I am a complete sociopath. It is a requirement for the job. Someone in my position has to be able to devise an effective plan then have the fortitude to execute it decisively, free from the debilitating trappings of emotion. But before you condemn me, you must realized that virtually all great combat leaders throughout history have had sociopathic personalities. Such is conducive to the strict determination and focus needed to conduct and succeed in hairy spec op situations. Combat is messy. Decisions must be made and executed ruthlessly, in split seconds. Most people have zero concept of this. Most people have no concept of what we do in the dead of night. I envy those people. I really do.
There were 5 of us in the attack unit. I was the leader, code name “Alpha”. My second in command was an old country boy named Roscoe Scumfuck from Alabama, code name “Big Dick”. The other three boys were grunts. There was Johnny Blade, the former bass player for a metal act that called themselves “Blood Fart”, from Panama City Beach, Florida. His code name was “Teardrop”. Then there was Ronnie “Two Sacks” Jones, but that was not his real name. He was one of those paranoid conspiracy theorist guys, big time. He is so hardcore that when he talks to you he whispers so the alien computer chip implanted in his brain cannot hear him. Ronnie’s code name was “5150”. Finally, there was Dwayne “Hog Jowls” Muhammad Jones from South Carolina. He was one of those angry black militant guys who thought Malcom X was too white. His code name was “Hawg Leg”.
You may be asking yourself how such a seemingly motley crew of lads from such different backgrounds wound up together for this mission. The explanation is a complex one. But that is a story for another day. We were drawn together for a singular and epic task in which we were all committed 100%. It is a matter of both national importance and a moral imperative.
See, there was this massive Sasquatch that was getting into my squash in my backyard garden. The sumbitch was picking me clean, and it was still spring. By the time summer rolls around I would have nothing left.
My backyard was up against 20,000 acres of national forest land; that is, land controlled by the feds! Those rat bastards know all about those damned monsters but do nothing about them. It’s just one prong of the attack currently being waged against our nation by the neo-Marxist revolutionaries. Therefore, it is up to us patriots to get rid on these damned critters. Do you understand?
I saw the culprit one night 2 months before the spec op of which I write. I knew I had an invader raiding my garden for veggies, so I staked it out one night. At just past midnight I heard what best can be described as a bulldozer plowing through the woods. Taken back by the noise of the approaching rascal, I readied my AR-10, though not knowing what to expect. Then, it came crashing out of the brush and into my garden before my eyes.
I am familiar with wood apes. I travel to Washington State every fall to hunt them for sport. In fact, I have a nice 10’x15’ Sasquatch rug lying in front of the stone fireplace in my study as the result of one such hunt (not to mention all the Bigfoot nuggets and Sasquatch burgers in my freezer). I just did not expect to encounter these fuckers here in western high country of North Carolina.
I shit myself when I saw the size of that creature as it emerged from the woods. It was 14’ tall, minimum, and 6 feet across at the shoulders. It was solid black and covered with matted hair. And the smell … Jesus Christ, that smell! It smelled fresh catshit marinaded in piss and being fried up on the stove. It took all of my strength to keep from puking.
In that split second of my hesitation due to the shock of witnessing the infernal fucker, that damn thing reached down and started picking my tomatoes!! That right there snapped me out of my preternatural induced stupor. “PUT THOSE DAMN TAMATERS BACK, YOU UGLY SUMBITCH!!!”, I screamed. Then I dumped the first mag into the beast.
It did not move. I know I hit the thing, as I saw hair flying off of it as the bullets struck him. But the monster seemed unaffected. He remained standing there. Then it let out a low, authoritative roar directed at me. Those critters are known to possess the ability to project infrasonic waves at prey in order to paralyze it in fear so they can jump on it and kill it. I knew about this, but I have never been hit by infrasound, until this day.
I immediately knew that critter zapped me when I involuntarily crapped my pants (another result of infrasound). “Damn!”, I thought to myself. It turned out to be a bad decision to stop by "Al Qaida Kabobs and Wraps" for dinner that night.
As I felt the warm and chunky liquid waste product running down both legs, I popped another mag in my rifle and started firing at the Bigfoot. This time the monster roared at me then took off, seeking the refuge of the woods to escape my hell fire. I should have took off after it. But to be completely candid, I needed to clean my britches. So that is what I did.
I guess I pissed off that Sasquatch because thereafter he started acting out on my old homestead. In addition to stealing from my garden, it started coming around late at night and banging on the side of my house. It raped my donkeys and braided my horses’ tails. “What a homo”, I thought to myself upon seeing my Appaloosas.
But the worst part was that it was covering my house in shit. Apparently, it was crapping in its hand and then throwing said feces all over my house, where it usually stuck. Aside from the obvious issues this creates, I feel like it was also doing this to mock me for shitting my pants during our first encounter.
At a certain point I had enough and decided to put a stop to this shit. That is when I contacted these boys to form a crew for an anti-squatch operation. They were all down for it. They were always looking for an excuse to shoot their guns and kill something. So I gathered them up, briefed them on the situation, and began training. After a couple of days we were ready to engage.
I had put out a gut pile at a particular area in the national forest. After monitoring it I determined that the monster would regularly visit the spot to eat. I kept replenishing the pile in order make the Bigfoot return. It was a psy-op I waged against the wiley critter. And it worked brilliantly!
The plan was to have each man spread out to form a circle around the beast while it dined on guts, then approach. We would descend on the Sasquatch while it ate. I made sure to put a shit ton of Cheetos in the gut pile so all the crunching noise would mask our foot steps. If all goes as planned, then we would be putting fresh wood ape on the grill tonight!!
I gave the go sign and we all headed out. Little did we know that only one of us would survive the onslaught. The first to bite it was Big Dick. We all communicated via radio in our helmets. I heard poor Big Dick scream through his headset. Then silence. We were all spread out, so I had no way of knowing what had happened. I knew something was wrong. I decided to adapt to the dynamics of the situation and ordered everyone to attack the gut pile zone immediately.
As the boys followed my command I realized I was beginning to feel right peckish. So I pulled out a candy bar and my flask of Jack Daniels and took a little break. I would be no good to the boys if I started experiencing low blood sugar right in the middle of battle, would I?
After finishing my candy bar, and while enjoying a smoke, I radioed in to Johnny for an update. But there was no answer. I then tried “Two Sacks”. Again, silence. I was plum bumfuddled. In fact, I was started to get a little irritated thinking that maybe I had picked the wrong guys for the job. “They FUCKED me!”, I said to myself.
Suddenly my radio crackled to life. It was Hawg Leg, my least favorite of the group. “Report, Hawg Leg! What the fuck is going on?” Before he could answer I heard a loud shriek of desperation and pain blast through the woods. I was sure it was Hawg leg. “Fuck”, I said. But in reality it did not surprise me one bit that this Islam convert ex-con, Hawg Leg, fucked me. I sighed.
I did not have much time to ponder my predicament before I heard what sounded like a freight train bearing down on me. Whatever it was was crashing through the dense forest, plowing through brush and knocking down trees. If I did not do something fast I was going to be in for a world of pain. I knew it was Sasquatch. But I was yet to learn exactly how bad it was.
I immediately pulled a rope out of my pack with a grappling hook attached, flung it over a big limb high in a huge old oak tree, then climbed. Once I reached the limb, I continued climbing, as high as I could go. Then I readied my rifle for combat.
Soon thereafter I saw the genesis of all the commotion in the woods. Yes, it was Sasquatch. But it was not just a Sasquatch; it was 5 Sasquatch. They were big ones too. I decided not to fire unless I had to. See, while I am certain I could snuff a couple of these overgrown Fraggles with headshots, I figured one of them would probably get up the tree to me before I could get them all. Then it would rip off my head and shit down my neck hole. I was not down with that.
I remained motionless. I soaked myself with Sasquatch piss earlier in the morning to mask my scent. I keep some on hand back at the house for Sasquatch hunting. Thus, they never made me, and they passed on through the area with nary a hint they knew I was there.
Clearly, I fucked up. I knew there was one Sasquatch in the area. I had not even considered that maybe my gut pile would draw more into the area. It must have been like a fucking Country Buffet to those mangy beasts. I decided to see if I could find the rest of my crew.
I found old Big Dick. He had been ripped in half at the waist. The top of him was about 40 feet up in a tree. The other half was laying in a creek, with red streaks in the water leading from his body. Next I came across what was left of old Hawg Leg. He was ripped in two as well. Except he was split from top to bottom. Guts and stringy shit was everywhere. It was fucking disgusting. I found Johnny’s corpse laying face down, ass up over a tree stump. He was bare ass naked and his butthole was the size of the open end of a 5 gallon bucket. It was also bruised and bloodied. Clearly, Johnny had been gang-banged by these damned creatures. Pervy motherfuckers! Finally, I found Two Sacks behind a big brush pile. Those beasts pretended he was a wishbone, turned him upside down, then ripped him apart by his legs. It was ghastly. Indeed, it was.
I backtracked and went back to the house. I poured myself some Jack on ice and made a fire. I sat there for hours pondering what had happened. How could I have fucked up so badly? I finally resigned myself to the fact it was my fault. It was all my fault. “If I had only picked better men then this disaster would of never happened”, I said out loud to nobody. But it was true. I done fucked up and picked the wrong goddamn crew for the job. "Next time I will not put a fucking muslim on the team", I declared.
It is essential that you know the background of this tale before moving forward. My spec ops team arrived in the theater of operations pre-dawn. It was a small, but effective unit. We needed to go in lean and mean for the job. Everyone had been well vetted and thoroughly briefed on the objective. Moreover, great lengths were taken in training the men through simulated attack scenarios in realistic settings. But sometimes even the best laid plans go awry. You try to consider each and every possible scenario you may encounter so that you will be prepared. But from time to time you will run into a situation you just could not predict. This is one of those times.
I fucked up. I admit it. Those men had put their lives in my hands and I let them down. I let their families down. Most importantly, I let myself down. You see, I am a complete sociopath. It is a requirement for the job. Someone in my position has to be able to devise an effective plan then have the fortitude to execute it decisively, free from the debilitating trappings of emotion. But before you condemn me, you must realized that virtually all great combat leaders throughout history have had sociopathic personalities. Such is conducive to the strict determination and focus needed to conduct and succeed in hairy spec op situations. Combat is messy. Decisions must be made and executed ruthlessly, in split seconds. Most people have zero concept of this. Most people have no concept of what we do in the dead of night. I envy those people. I really do.
There were 5 of us in the attack unit. I was the leader, code name “Alpha”. My second in command was an old country boy named Roscoe Scumfuck from Alabama, code name “Big Dick”. The other three boys were grunts. There was Johnny Blade, the former bass player for a metal act that called themselves “Blood Fart”, from Panama City Beach, Florida. His code name was “Teardrop”. Then there was Ronnie “Two Sacks” Jones, but that was not his real name. He was one of those paranoid conspiracy theorist guys, big time. He is so hardcore that when he talks to you he whispers so the alien computer chip implanted in his brain cannot hear him. Ronnie’s code name was “5150”. Finally, there was Dwayne “Hog Jowls” Muhammad Jones from South Carolina. He was one of those angry black militant guys who thought Malcom X was too white. His code name was “Hawg Leg”.
You may be asking yourself how such a seemingly motley crew of lads from such different backgrounds wound up together for this mission. The explanation is a complex one. But that is a story for another day. We were drawn together for a singular and epic task in which we were all committed 100%. It is a matter of both national importance and a moral imperative.
See, there was this massive Sasquatch that was getting into my squash in my backyard garden. The sumbitch was picking me clean, and it was still spring. By the time summer rolls around I would have nothing left.
My backyard was up against 20,000 acres of national forest land; that is, land controlled by the feds! Those rat bastards know all about those damned monsters but do nothing about them. It’s just one prong of the attack currently being waged against our nation by the neo-Marxist revolutionaries. Therefore, it is up to us patriots to get rid on these damned critters. Do you understand?
I saw the culprit one night 2 months before the spec op of which I write. I knew I had an invader raiding my garden for veggies, so I staked it out one night. At just past midnight I heard what best can be described as a bulldozer plowing through the woods. Taken back by the noise of the approaching rascal, I readied my AR-10, though not knowing what to expect. Then, it came crashing out of the brush and into my garden before my eyes.
I am familiar with wood apes. I travel to Washington State every fall to hunt them for sport. In fact, I have a nice 10’x15’ Sasquatch rug lying in front of the stone fireplace in my study as the result of one such hunt (not to mention all the Bigfoot nuggets and Sasquatch burgers in my freezer). I just did not expect to encounter these fuckers here in western high country of North Carolina.
I shit myself when I saw the size of that creature as it emerged from the woods. It was 14’ tall, minimum, and 6 feet across at the shoulders. It was solid black and covered with matted hair. And the smell … Jesus Christ, that smell! It smelled fresh catshit marinaded in piss and being fried up on the stove. It took all of my strength to keep from puking.
In that split second of my hesitation due to the shock of witnessing the infernal fucker, that damn thing reached down and started picking my tomatoes!! That right there snapped me out of my preternatural induced stupor. “PUT THOSE DAMN TAMATERS BACK, YOU UGLY SUMBITCH!!!”, I screamed. Then I dumped the first mag into the beast.
It did not move. I know I hit the thing, as I saw hair flying off of it as the bullets struck him. But the monster seemed unaffected. He remained standing there. Then it let out a low, authoritative roar directed at me. Those critters are known to possess the ability to project infrasonic waves at prey in order to paralyze it in fear so they can jump on it and kill it. I knew about this, but I have never been hit by infrasound, until this day.
I immediately knew that critter zapped me when I involuntarily crapped my pants (another result of infrasound). “Damn!”, I thought to myself. It turned out to be a bad decision to stop by "Al Qaida Kabobs and Wraps" for dinner that night.
As I felt the warm and chunky liquid waste product running down both legs, I popped another mag in my rifle and started firing at the Bigfoot. This time the monster roared at me then took off, seeking the refuge of the woods to escape my hell fire. I should have took off after it. But to be completely candid, I needed to clean my britches. So that is what I did.
I guess I pissed off that Sasquatch because thereafter he started acting out on my old homestead. In addition to stealing from my garden, it started coming around late at night and banging on the side of my house. It raped my donkeys and braided my horses’ tails. “What a homo”, I thought to myself upon seeing my Appaloosas.
But the worst part was that it was covering my house in shit. Apparently, it was crapping in its hand and then throwing said feces all over my house, where it usually stuck. Aside from the obvious issues this creates, I feel like it was also doing this to mock me for shitting my pants during our first encounter.
At a certain point I had enough and decided to put a stop to this shit. That is when I contacted these boys to form a crew for an anti-squatch operation. They were all down for it. They were always looking for an excuse to shoot their guns and kill something. So I gathered them up, briefed them on the situation, and began training. After a couple of days we were ready to engage.
I had put out a gut pile at a particular area in the national forest. After monitoring it I determined that the monster would regularly visit the spot to eat. I kept replenishing the pile in order make the Bigfoot return. It was a psy-op I waged against the wiley critter. And it worked brilliantly!
The plan was to have each man spread out to form a circle around the beast while it dined on guts, then approach. We would descend on the Sasquatch while it ate. I made sure to put a shit ton of Cheetos in the gut pile so all the crunching noise would mask our foot steps. If all goes as planned, then we would be putting fresh wood ape on the grill tonight!!
I gave the go sign and we all headed out. Little did we know that only one of us would survive the onslaught. The first to bite it was Big Dick. We all communicated via radio in our helmets. I heard poor Big Dick scream through his headset. Then silence. We were all spread out, so I had no way of knowing what had happened. I knew something was wrong. I decided to adapt to the dynamics of the situation and ordered everyone to attack the gut pile zone immediately.
As the boys followed my command I realized I was beginning to feel right peckish. So I pulled out a candy bar and my flask of Jack Daniels and took a little break. I would be no good to the boys if I started experiencing low blood sugar right in the middle of battle, would I?
After finishing my candy bar, and while enjoying a smoke, I radioed in to Johnny for an update. But there was no answer. I then tried “Two Sacks”. Again, silence. I was plum bumfuddled. In fact, I was started to get a little irritated thinking that maybe I had picked the wrong guys for the job. “They FUCKED me!”, I said to myself.
Suddenly my radio crackled to life. It was Hawg Leg, my least favorite of the group. “Report, Hawg Leg! What the fuck is going on?” Before he could answer I heard a loud shriek of desperation and pain blast through the woods. I was sure it was Hawg leg. “Fuck”, I said. But in reality it did not surprise me one bit that this Islam convert ex-con, Hawg Leg, fucked me. I sighed.
I did not have much time to ponder my predicament before I heard what sounded like a freight train bearing down on me. Whatever it was was crashing through the dense forest, plowing through brush and knocking down trees. If I did not do something fast I was going to be in for a world of pain. I knew it was Sasquatch. But I was yet to learn exactly how bad it was.
I immediately pulled a rope out of my pack with a grappling hook attached, flung it over a big limb high in a huge old oak tree, then climbed. Once I reached the limb, I continued climbing, as high as I could go. Then I readied my rifle for combat.
Soon thereafter I saw the genesis of all the commotion in the woods. Yes, it was Sasquatch. But it was not just a Sasquatch; it was 5 Sasquatch. They were big ones too. I decided not to fire unless I had to. See, while I am certain I could snuff a couple of these overgrown Fraggles with headshots, I figured one of them would probably get up the tree to me before I could get them all. Then it would rip off my head and shit down my neck hole. I was not down with that.
I remained motionless. I soaked myself with Sasquatch piss earlier in the morning to mask my scent. I keep some on hand back at the house for Sasquatch hunting. Thus, they never made me, and they passed on through the area with nary a hint they knew I was there.
Clearly, I fucked up. I knew there was one Sasquatch in the area. I had not even considered that maybe my gut pile would draw more into the area. It must have been like a fucking Country Buffet to those mangy beasts. I decided to see if I could find the rest of my crew.
I found old Big Dick. He had been ripped in half at the waist. The top of him was about 40 feet up in a tree. The other half was laying in a creek, with red streaks in the water leading from his body. Next I came across what was left of old Hawg Leg. He was ripped in two as well. Except he was split from top to bottom. Guts and stringy shit was everywhere. It was fucking disgusting. I found Johnny’s corpse laying face down, ass up over a tree stump. He was bare ass naked and his butthole was the size of the open end of a 5 gallon bucket. It was also bruised and bloodied. Clearly, Johnny had been gang-banged by these damned creatures. Pervy motherfuckers! Finally, I found Two Sacks behind a big brush pile. Those beasts pretended he was a wishbone, turned him upside down, then ripped him apart by his legs. It was ghastly. Indeed, it was.
I backtracked and went back to the house. I poured myself some Jack on ice and made a fire. I sat there for hours pondering what had happened. How could I have fucked up so badly? I finally resigned myself to the fact it was my fault. It was all my fault. “If I had only picked better men then this disaster would of never happened”, I said out loud to nobody. But it was true. I done fucked up and picked the wrong goddamn crew for the job. "Next time I will not put a fucking muslim on the team", I declared.
