#but they will probaby just give the role to some american | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

creativitytoexplore · 3 years ago

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[AA] The Punk. https://ift.tt/3phGRux

‘Bang.’ Paul Buchanan’s ears cried out. A strong ringing resided within the walls of his skull for a moment, reverberating the obnoxious blare back and forth between his stirrup, hammer and anvil until his brain caught wind of itself. The musty smell of discharged sulphur was similar to his mother’s famous burnt steak, all the way back home in Point Pleasant, West Virginia. But Paul was far from Point Pleasant, he was currently caught in a moment of panic somewhere north of Saigon, Vietnam. You see, the year was 1972, the second to last year of American involvement in the Vietnam war, and Paul’s platoon, known as Peeler Squad, was on lookout duty, manning a small camp and acting as the first line of defence in the event that the Vietcong made a push for the capital of Vietnam, Saigon. The Punk was probably the closest thing the Vietnam war had ever seen to a real life G.I Joe action figure. Any closer to him and he would have been made of plastic. Buchanan had earned the callsign of ‘The Punk’ due to his reckless nature and his tendency to disobey the orders of his Commanding Officer, Commander Thorne. The only justifiable reason The Punk hadn't been discharged from the military already was because he was one of the most efficient, capable and competent soldiers the army had planted in Vietnam. At the adolescent age of twenty three, The Punk had already managed to earn himself a nifty scar going from the right side of his lip down to his chin back in some bar in Charleston. His eyes were a piercing cobalt blue, sharp enough to pierce military kevlar, He sported a classic military buzz cut, leaving very little of his gorgeous blonde hair left, only a coarse and rough stubble to match his face. Paired alongside his square nose and bushy eyebrows, he made quite the handsome man. The Punk never got along well with others, leaving him mainly isolated in the jungle, despite having his platoon for company. He left school at fifteen, in an attempt to join the army, not realizing he was too young. His reckless nature earned him the respect of Peeler Squad, when it usually paid off on missions, but lost the trust of Commander Thorne and became nothing more than a loose cannon in his eyes. Alerted by the gunshot that so rudely awoke him, The Punk rushed to his feet, the musty smell of gunpowder lingering in the air and pulsating through his nostrils. He grabbed his light machine gun, an M-60, which most American troops were armed with. The Punk cocked his eyes, scanning the jungle expertly for his platoon. He felt the warm hug of the sunlight, breaking through the thick jungle canopy, wrapping around the land with its great, golden arms. If Paul's past experiences could tell him anything, it would be how dangerous the Viet Cong were, once encountered within the deep recesses of the great Vietnamese jungles. The Viet Cong were expert guerilla fighters, using their vast knowledge of the local land to coordinate attacks upon the South Vietnamese and American Troops. While he searched, he saw nothing, but he was certain that the Viet Cong could see him. Whoever the mysterious shooter was, they could not be far. Examining the empty campsite for clues, the camp that Peeler Squad had settled in had three tents, each with one inhabitant that utilised the lousy excuse of bunks and tables that they had been supplied with. A single firepit brought each tent together into one communal area, in which the platoon would sit around, reciting old stories of the glories of childhood and past battles. While scanning the area for his two fellow squad members, Paul caught a glimpse of a pair of footsteps. One pair per tent. They were intertwined by a mud path that led further into the claustrophobic, damp jungle. The Punk maneuvered his way cautiously down the mud path, leaves brushing off his coarsely shaven head as he followed the ominous footsteps, ready for a fight. Not long after, Paul came to a clearing. He sensed he was heavily outgunned, and assumed the rest of the platoon was probably on their way to some rotten bamboo cage, filled with American corpses on the north side of Vietnam. Paul set down his clunky equipment and his M-60 upon the muddy, leaf covered detritus and bent down to his knees, ready for surrender. As he closed his eyes, the enthusiastic, outspoken and oblivious whistles of the neighbouring birds reverberated through his skull, like a peaceful gunshot and yet an angel's hymn simultaneously. The birds inadvertently created one magnificent symphony, briefly diverting Pauls attention away from the thought of the brutal torture he believed awaited him. The stridulation of the shrouded cicadas created an ever-present cacophony, denying any and all trespassers to their sanctuary the prospect of appreciating the silence of their jungle. The natural beauty was swiftly interrupted by a barrage of gunfire from a machine gun, darting over the space above Paul's head. Unfortunately for his assailant, The Punk was extremely well versed in his knowledge of firearms. He opened his eyes, let out a huge sigh of relief, stood himself up straight, and began to speak in his deep, but amused West Virginian accent; “All right, all right, Treeleaves, you got me, kid. You had me worried there for a hot minute though, I gotta hand it to you.” The Punk could recognise the tickle of an American M-60 machine gun anywhere. The Viet Cong only carried crude, homemade rifles constructed out of PVC pipes and copper, or they carried high class Soviet weaponry, supplied by the Reds themselves, with the sound of each being easily recognisable to any trained soldier. The man whom Paul identified as Treeleaves, was no other than his close friend and fellow squadmate. Treeleaves stepped out from the thick, emerald leaves of the nearby tree, revealing his face in the glorious sunlight. Bradley Smith, aka ‘Treeleaves’, was an Alaskan straight out of Anchorage. He gained the first half of the Treeleaves callsign from his height. The man was a giant, standing at a lumbering 6”3, making Paul look like a punk standing next to him, incidentally. As for the second half, Smith gained it from his reputation of always bringing a little fun to the party. Treeleaves always carried a few 10 gram bags of dope to share around with the rest of Peeler squad. He disregarded the military buzz cut rule as soon as he entered the deep jungle, away from commanding officers, and let his hair grow out. Bradley had healthy, brown hair that reached all the way down to his ears and matched his brown, African-American skin tone. He was only seventeen years old and one of the latest victims to conscription. His mother and father were the religious zealots of their neighbourhood, back in Anchorage and had condemned ‘the devils lettuce’ their little Bradley had found himself so fond of. Understandably, Old Mr and Mrs Smith gave the word to the local recruiters and ‘Treeleaves’ as he became known, found his way deep into the Vietnamese jungle, just to be assigned to Peeler Squad. The teenager was giddy after pulling a prank on the closest person he had to a friend, with his acne ridden face and gleaming white teeth, he stood hunched over with laughter as the kid he was, giggling like a hyena, upon exiting the bushes to greet Paul. The friendliest face of the bunch, Bradley always managed to set the mood for the rest of the squad, sometimes swapping roles between the kid of the group, into the mature, well needed leader they required, when Captain Stewart was too busy not caring about them. Captain Grant Stewart was the lazy Captain standing beside Treeleaves, with his face rooted firmly in a playboy magazine. Grant Stewart was a stern man in his early forties who miraculously managed to crawl his way up to the rank of captain and just about hung on to the military, way past the recommended age of thirty five. He wasn't a bad guy or anything, he just came off like a selfish jerk, who didn't care about anybody else. He had definitely seen some stuff though, and you could tell there was a grizzled war hero back with a heart back there, buried somewhere. But for now, the black haired, stubble covered, cigar-smoking ugly bastard was amusing young Bradley with his extreme wakeup call. Stewart hid his black, balding hair with an Olive helmet and cast the most unwelcoming look from his deep brown eyes, especially when compared alongside the grinning Bradley. Bradley and Captain Stewart stood, Bradley set his recently discharged, shiny M-60 down on the ground. The Punk gave Treeleaves a playful nudge on the shoulder. “You goddamn schemer, I coulda killed you dead, I hope you know”, The Punk said sternly. Bradley bantered back with Paul, “Nahhhhh, my grandpappy could probably shoot straighter than you and he's been dead for fifteen years! I was giving you a very special wake up call and plus, it was old Stewart’s idea in the first place.” The Punk glanced over at the moody Captain, who was nose deep in the latest edition of Playboy magazine. “Is that true, Captain?” Paul tested him to see if he was even listening. “Uhhh yeah, um sure, kid” Stewart replied inattentively, and unaware of what he was asked. “Alright, well whatever the case we oughta head back over to the camp, Thornes probaby pinging the radio like crazy for our wake up”, Treeleaves announced, as if overtaken by the need to take over the mantle of leader, seeing Stewarts laziness, as his opportunity. The platoon headed back to camp, with Treeleaves taking lead like a valiant soldier and with The Punk and the Captain not too far behind. The Punk arrived not long after retracing the footsteps that initially led him there, although this time, he had some well needed company in the form of Peeler Squad. As he set his legs up upon his bunk, the dusty, large radio that sat upon the table in Stewarts room began to signal an incoming call. “Get up and get that, captain!” Paul shouted, in a tone that desperately seemed to want to go back to sleep after all the useless commotion that had awoke him. Captain Stewart huffed. He was lazy but he followed Commander Thornes orders, like a good soldier. He arose from his bunk and made his way over to the small wooden table that the radio was resting on. He picked up the clunky, dusted technology to hear Commander Thorne’s gravely voice on the other end. In a voice not too dissimilar from a stereotypical drill sergeant, Thorne began to scream,with his voice, clearly accented from the deep south pouring out of the speaker of the radio “PEELER SQUAD, REPORT IN, YOU INTOLERABLE SCUMBAGS, THIS IS YOUR FINAL WAKE UP CALL UNTIL I MAKE MY WAY OUT THERE AND WAKE YOU BASTARDS UP MYSELF! Captain Stewart replied in typical Stewart fashion; by not giving a damn. “Awh come on now Thorne, you know better than anyone that we were up at the crack of dawn hunting for the Reds and helping your sorry asses in holdin Saigon.” Paul and Bradley had to hand it to old Stewart, he was the only one who personally knew Thorne, and knew him well enough to know how to make him go back on himself. Thorne sighed, audibly beaten and slightly embarrassed, “Alright. I suppose that's okay then. Captain Stewart, but in future I ask for you three to bring that radio with you on any future early morning expeditions and the next time we don't get a reply, I’m coming out there to deal with you fellas myself, and I will NOT be as forgiving! Anyways, I have other news to report that I hope y’all will be happy to hear, seeing as you boys love to leave that camp so much. A private, by the name of Carl Jennings has gone missing on a stealth operation to scout the area north of your camp for potential base locations.” As Thorne calmed himself, his fiery voice extinguished, turning the loud radio call to a quiet, private conversation between himself and Captain Stewart. As Stewart sat down, he took out a small, blue notepad and began writing notes for this operation. Paul hesitantly sat with Bradley by the firepit and began to play a game of poker to pass the time while Stewart was being given some sort of secret information to scrawl in his notepad. About five minutes into the poker game, Stewart sat up from his chair and began to holler orders. “All right, fellas. Special day. We’ve got to cross into Viet Cong turf and look for the private known as Carl Jennings.” Treeleaves picked himself up, took a military stance and asked eagerly; “Um, Captain, who's gonna be taking charge of this mission?” Stewart didn't want to be in charge anyways, so he responded; “Go crazy, kid, it's all you. Simple mission, about 40 klicks north of here, we’re looking for a tall, african-american guy, probably dead in some crocodile's lair, but as long as we find what's left of him, we’re going home heroes. Treeleaves grinned. The kid loved nothing more than being put in charge so he could feel like the big man and make his parents back home finally proud of him, and maybe accept him back home. “Alrighty troops, this trip is looking to be about 8 hours, but only if we keep pace! As long as nothing unexpected occurs we could make it home for nightfall. Now let's get ready to kick some ass!”, he hollered enthusiastically. Captain Stewart went to the arms cabinet he kept in his tent and tossed a few fragmentation grenades and the mysterious blue notepad into his satchel. Treeleaves grabbed the essentials, including marijuana and a spyglass, that could prove useful in surveying locations. The Punk grabbed his freshly cleaned M-60 machine gun, lugged its belt over his shoulder and into a cradle around his waist, before grabbing his swiss army knife that his mother gave him back in Point Pleasant. Paul rarely followed orders, but under Treeleaves, he felt like it’d be a good idea to play along with him, since he was only a teenager and doing so might make him feel better about himself. He enjoyed seeing Treeleaves actually enjoying the adventure, opposed to most other guys his age, who seek the adventure, but all they get is PTSD and their legs blown off, or even worse, killed. When they had all supplies necessary packed, the trio headed north through the dense jungle. As Peeler Squad trudged onwards through the dense jungle, and thick bamboo, things seemed serene. The birds were chirping, the cicadas stridulating and the sun was shining a gleaming glow through the cracks of the green canopy. After the third and a half hour of the journey, it dawned upon Treeleaves how boring an 8 hour walk could really be. The green of his surroundings poised a question, to which his response was the marijuana he had packed. As he pulled a 10 gram bag out of his satchel, He offered a joint to The Punk and to the gruff Captain Stewart , to which The Punk graciously declined out of respect for the mission. While he was reckless and didn’t usually follow orders very well, The Punk was well aware of the risks that came attached to being high on such a crucial operation, an operation that could potentially result in the life or death for Private Jennings. Paul was not prepared mentally to have the blood of Private Jennings on his hands. If his reaction time was even half a second off, Peeler squad could be wiped out in just a moment. Stewart on the other hand gladly accepted the offer of the joint and began to smoke with Treeleaves. Many drags later, Stewart began to tumble out a few words that eventually rolled themselves into a few sentences that seemed heavily out of character for the battered soldier. His speech was slurred, but he still began to speak; “You know, at the end of the day, I actually do love you guys. I really do. Soo much. So so so much. I just don't really fit in, I really don't and I know that. Like you guys are young and you have the cool soldier callsigns and you probably got loads of babes back home but I don't. My wife left me a few years ago for a girl. I’m useless. I got nobody. Not even a cool callsign like The Punk or Treeleaves or whatever, I’m just the grumpy old Captain to you guys. What's even lousier is that I signed up for this shit. I wasn't conscripted. I’m too old. I had nobody at home. I came here because if I’m gonna die anyways, I want it to be for a cause. I just want you guys to know that while I dont show it, I am happy as Larry to have you guys as my only two friends.” Bradley and Grant embraced in a goofy hug, the two of them flying as high as kites. While Paul didn’t join the uncanny new friends in their hug, he smiled, having not seen the humanised side of Stewart before. It entered Paul's head that he could perhaps make some friends, and become more than a merciless soldier. Hours passed of clawing through the dense foliage, and Treeleaves noted that the map indicated that they had left Southern Vietnam and they had entered into the North, which was controlled by the Viet Cong and backed by the Soviets. As they continued on, Bradley bantered with Grant and offered him another pull of his joint. But before Grant could accept, the trio came to a clearing, and the air went cold. The once enthusiastic and outspoken whistles of the neighbouring birds had now fallen dead silent. The cicadas had paused their humming. For the first time since The Punk had arrived in Vietnam, he heard total silence. “What had interrupted them? Something was seriously wrong.“ Thousands of different thoughts flooded The Punks brain, as he searched his mind for an outcome that didn't end with the death of him or his squadmates. The silence was ultimately interrupted violently, by a shaky barrage of gunfire from an unidentified weapon, stinging the air just overhead. The Punks lungs became heavy, as if replaced by stones. He was now certain. That was no M-60. That was the noise of a crude, homemade weapon, cobbled together from copper and PVC pipes. Viet Cong. “Alright. It's them. Fellas, lets just stay calm,I’ll…uh we’ll think of something”. The Punk was out of ideas. From the thick bushes stepped a group of shadowy figures. Stepping into the golden sunlight, there appeared to be about five or six vietnamese rice farmers, wielding homemade rifles. They began furiously shouting in vietnamese; “Bạn đang xâm phạm tài sản cá nhân! Hãy bỏ đi ngay bây giờ và chúng tôi sẽ tha mạng cho bạn, vì chúng tôi không tham gia vào cuộc chiến ngớ ngẩn này!” The Punk had no idea what any of that meant, but it couldn't have been good. “Any plans?”, The Punk asked Grant in a frightened tone, hoping his years of experience would kick in. Captain Stewart dropped his weapon. “Listen up.” The Captain began to speak in a conflicted tone, “When I say ‘GO!’, you fellas better run for your lives.” Treeleaves and The Punk shared a confused look with Grant “I hope you guys know you made this old Captain happy for one last day. Enjoy your lives, and get out of this damn jungle as soon as you can.” He shuffled around in his satchel and tugged on a fragmentation grenade. “GO!” Before Bradley or Paul had any time to reason with him, Grant lunged forward towards the rice farmers and pulled the pin on the grenade. The Punk and Treeleaves leapt their way through the air, out of the way of the explosion, missing the impact by just enough to avoid serious burns. The pair turned around, only to see the gruesome sight left behind, which had gone from being the lush, green forest floor, to a now scorched and pitch black covered waste, covered in the scarlet blood and limbs of Grant Stewart and the rice farmers. After performing a quick scan of the area to ensure their safety, Paul found no traces of extra hostiles. Paul and Bradley took the time to create a small grave sight; a cross, fashioned out of bamboo from a nearby tree and engraved with the initials ‘G.S’, and the remnants of Grant’s olive helmet resting on top and a single burnt and torn page of playboy magazine resting on the bottom, as a rememberance. What remained of the platoon mutually agreed that silence might be good for them for the time being and they could talk about the incident in the morning. They decided resting up would be smart, if they were to finish the search for Private Jennings. They hastily set up a small camp, just well enough to keep them safe until dawn. But as morning broke, so did Bradley Smith. Paul awoke to find him knelt, sobbing by the gravesite. “Listen, Treelea-, Bradley. I know it's tough. He was a good man and a hero.” Paul too began to break down into tears, “It's a shame we saw that side of him just too late. But after living in pain and sadness for years, I think we can both take solace in the fact that he died happy and on his own terms. Surrounded by his friends, the only people who he loved.” Bradley sniffled. The poor child was only seventeen and he had already experienced the true horrors of war. “Your right, Paul. Thank you, friend. That means a lot to me” It seemed that Treeleaves had made peace with it, but he was a changed man. “I think it would be best for us to keep moving”, Paul motioned to Treeleaves, “whenever your ready, pal.” Treeleaves picked himself up, and the pair began to head north once again, but not before Paul noticed a small blue notebook lying burnt on the forest floor, next to the destroyed radio that must've been blown from the explosion. As Bradley continued walking, Paul knelt down to pick it up. Not much of the notebook was left, however one legible page presented itself, one that simply read, ‘avoid th- .tell the ot-.’ There was clearly more to it, but with the page being burnt to a crisp, that's all that remained. Judging by the English writing, it must have come from Grant's notebook, and probably the same one he wrote the directions from Thorne in earlier. Keeping that enigmatic information in mind, Paul caught up with Treeleaves down the jungle trail, where the two walked in silence for a couple more hours. The jungle was not as beautiful as it once seemed. The cicadas had begun to rumble once more, and the birds were singing a beautiful tune, but the atmosphere was dry and depressing,with a heavyshower of rainfall setting the mood. As the remnants of Peeler Squad continued onwards, a small settlement poked itself out from between the trees, showcasing what appeared to be their destination. Treeleaves stood, and raised the military hand signal for ‘halt’. He took a knee and began to inspect the area expertly with a spyglass. It was most definitely a Viet Cong hideout, and judging by the information supplied to them, most likely the place of capture, or possible death of Private Jennings. Paul awaited orders from Treeleaves, loosely gripping his dirty machine gun patiently. Treeleaves turned around and began to speak in a stern and commanding voice. “This is a small camp, but I estimate that we have approximately twelve Viet Cong patrolling the area. Whatever they’re guarding, it must be important, I would wager its Private Jennings. We should set up a small lookout base, overlooking the camp on that small ridge to the east. It should shroud us from them, where we will wait until nightfall to commence the rescue, in order to preserve the element of surprise.” Paul was taken aback by Treeleaves’ behaviour. He was no longer some child, playing pranks. He was now a man and a soldier. An emotionless being, just trying to survive another day. Seeing him like this resonated with Paul, as he noticed they walked the same road, just Bradley was walking his at a later point in time. As Paul thought of the road he had to walk in life, it dawned on him just how young he still was. All his time he had been thinking of Bradley as the child, when in reality, Paul was only 5 years older than him. Before he delved further into his own psyche, The Punk snapped himself out of it. He couldn't let his emotions tamper with the mission at hand. Private Jennings' life rested upon his shoulders, and he needed to be on his A-Game if the platoon were to succeed, and survive. As the two continued to survey the camp from the ridge, nightfall crept closer and closer. The jungle never slept, like a living machine, it kept turning its cogs, working endlessly to fit in the wildlife that resided there. The time was creeping. The air was tense. Everything had led up to this moment. As The Punk and Treeleaves readied themselves for their final mission, Paul remembered the blue notebook, but before he could mention his findings, an odd hissing sound began to fill the air. The pair turned around to investigate, but it was far too late. The sound was followed up by a noxious green gas, that surrounded them from all angles and engulfed them within. The next thing The Punk heard was the cackling of six Viet Cong, giggling as they captured the two Americans, followed by the chuffing of what sounded to be a helicopter and gunshots. The darkness soon overtook them, leaving the pair unconscious, lying on the dirty jungle floor. When Paul awoke, he found himself to be alone. Treeleaves was nowhere to be seen. He took a look at his surroundings, finding himself in what appeared to be in a Viet Cong camp of some kind, laying on a surprisingly comfortable bed inside a scrappy wooden building. There was a bed next to him, with a single Viet Cong resting like an angel. Paul wondered why he wasn't tied up, was he too, a prisoner? A hostage? Where was Treeleaves? As Paul stood out of the bed, his head began to spin. The Viet Cong in the bed next to him began to wake up and took notice of his odd behaviour. He began to speak to Paul in an alarmed tone. “Anh bạn ổn chứ !? Điều cuối cùng tôi nhớ là chúng tôi đã được cứu bởi chiếc trực thăng đói!” Paul did not understand the Vietanmese, but with the large chance that the man could possibly raise the alarm, The Punk reached for his swiss army knife and mercilessly took his life with a quick slash to the throat, killing him instantly. The blood spurted over The Punk, splashing his rough, unshaven face in the crimson red. The soldier had an M-60 machine gun by his bedside, most likely stolen from Treeleaves upon their capture. He turned and grabbed the pristine machine gun, and left the room in search for his only friend. Exiting the building, The Punk was greeted by about twenty armed Viet Cong, all staring at him, confused and somewhat alarmed. Without hesitation however, The Punk gripped the machine gun, and began to open fire on the Viet Cong. As he ripped through them, he only had one objective on his mind; to rescue Bradley, wherever he may be held. The Punk watched the Viet Cong fall one by one, the clatter of his machine gun roaring, as the life left each of their bodies. The splash of the blood hitting the dirty forest floor, the lingering smell of gunpowder filling his nostrils, and fueling his bloodlust even further. Like G.I Joe, The Punk expertly weaved and dodged his way around the base, murdering every one of them. He had done it. Each and every one of the twenty soldiers were dead. But Paul began to feel uneasy. Twenty Viet Cong vs one American? Something about this didn't sit right with him. He should really be dead, outgunned to that capacity. Paul began to look around in confusion. What was going on here? He looked to his left and saw an American attack helicopter. How could the Viet Cong have stolen an American chopper? He continued to investigate the area, something was definitely up. Paul knelt down beside one of the slaughtered Viet Cong. He looked around him, but there were no weapons near him. Unarmed Vietcong? He swore they had just shot at him not ten minutes ago. Things were getting stranger. He began to inspect the soldier, who appeared to be wearing dog tags for some odd reason. They read ‘Jennings, Carl F., 411-0340-201, B-POS, Catholic’ Paul examined the Viet Cong wearing the tags once again. As he took a second glance, he was horrified. The soldier wasn't Vietnamese. He was an American soldier. He was black. Tall. Young. That was Carl Jennings. And The Punk had killed him. His head began to spin. Paul felt sick. He began to question if he was human or if he was simply a soldier. He looked around. He came to the horrified realisation. There was no Viet Cong camp. There never was. He looked around. Body after body. Lifeless Soul after soul. American after American, they lay on the jungle floor. Paul vomited, horrified by the atrocity he had just committed. He swore they were Viet Cong. He swore they had spoken Vietnamese just fifteen minutes ago. He swore they had gassed and captured him. It dawned upon Paul what events must have occurred. When Captain Stewart's died, and the radio was destroyed, Commander Thorne must have sent a platoon out to search for them by helicopter. As the platoon located Paul and Bradley, the Viet Cong ambushed them using the mysterious gas, causing the pair to lose consciousness. The platoon arrived by helicopter and rescued the two, wiped out the true Viet Cong and rescued the still alive Private Jennings while doing so. The platoon must have brought Paul, Bradley and Jennings back to a medic base for medical assessment. But the gas must have damaged Paul's brain, causing him to begin to crack between the man and the soldier within. This was mad. Paul couldn’t believe it. He was horrified by his own actions. He was a stone cold killer, and a traitor. It was ridiculous. But then it dawned upon Paul the fate of Bradley Smith. Horror-struck and sickened, Paul Buchanan entered the building he awoke in, which now appeared to be nothing but an unarmed American medic outpost. Paul knelt to the soldier he believed to be Viet Cong and had brutally murdered in bed, only twenty minutes ago. As Paul began to sob, the seventeen year olds cold, lifeless corpse dropped to the side, his ghostly, face staring Paul directly in the eyes. Bradley Smith’s face was stuck in an endless expression of horror, a poor child whose last sight was his only remaining friend in the world, slitting his throat in a fit of pure, psychotic rage. A kid who never earned the respect of his parents, and died just when he had made it into safety. As Paul mourned the loss of his friend, the loud, metallic whirring of helicopter blades sounded from the outside. The grief-stricken and mentally scarred Paul left young Bradleys side, to meet the small fleet of attack helicopters that surrounded him. Commander Thorne began to speak on a radio; “IT'S OVER, BUCHANAN! WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED! IN THE NAME OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, YOU'RE UNDER ARREST, TRAITOR. LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS AND COME QUIETLY, YOU MONSTER! WE WILL NOT HESITATE TO KILL YOU ON SIGHT. YOUR REIGN OF TERROR HAS COME TO AN END! Paul couldn't believe what he was hearing. He felt a tear within himself, like the soldier inside had now fully separated itself from the human. He then began to chatter apprehensively; “No. No. NO! It wasn't me. It was the gas, it was The Punk. I would NEVER - no I would NEVER do those things. It wasn't me, It was THE PUNK.”

His brow began to twitch furiously,

“It wasn't me, it was The Punk. It wasn't me, it was THE PUNK!. IT WASN'T ME, IT WAS THE PUNK”

The punk gripped his bloody machine gun tight and stood firm, his crimson blue eyes darting savagely, up at the mechanical beast in the skies above, and prepared to take aim.

But it was him.

He was The Punk.

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#June 03 #2021 at 07:22AM

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