By Quin Asselin
An excerpt from our latest issue, The Fake News Issue!
I’ve seen the worst of it. Got a bad case of rug burn from one of them Velcro casings a while back during the Siege of Vander Poel. I owe my life thrice-fold to Ol’ Doc Stitches for patching up my flaky meat-wrapper…on more than one occasion. I’ve got a scar in the shape of my cousin Doyle’s fake leg on my lower back.
The point is, Chris, I know my shit, and you totally could not have hit me from all the way back there. The only blaster with that kind of range is a Longshot™ and that’s before you even take into account the wind, my amazing reflexes, or the Coriolis effect. The report back from intel states that our opposition doesn’t carry that kind of armament, and even if they did have access to that class of hardware – I told you I didn’t feel it hit me, you tool!
Listen, greenhorn, when I joined up with The Triple B (Bloody Blaster Battalion) I had no idea. First day in basic they made me disassemble a pair of Nerf Doomlands 2169 Negotiators™, using just a couple of moldy darts like chopsticks. Sarge spat in my mouth when I said I didn’t know that zombies were the resident bad boyz. He spat right into my open mouth. But I grew to love the taste and subtle pulpy texture of his residual oat-based knowledge nectar. I was like a baby bird, gleaming scraps of blaster discipline from Sarge’s salivary surprise. I know my shit, ya little Krumph.
I don’t care that you think you shot me. Look at me, cadet. Take a deep whiff of me with your sight sponges. Do you see that I’m more greased up than a baking sheet full of Crisco? I’m caked in the goddamned stuff. The purpose of this is two-fold:
- I think my salamander has really started respecting me more since I became such a slick muchacho.
- The bullets fucking glide off you, Chris.
Chris, do you even give a shit about accuracy in this realistic dart-based war simulation? Because, judging by your utter lack of grease, mud, or any sort of dart-proof lube, I’d wager that you didn’t even account for non-Newtonian drag. Oh no? You didn’t, huh? What a surprise that “Big Piss” Chris here doesn’t even know about muzzle drop OR in flight trajectories once that dart is out of the muzzle.
My ears are attuned, you wempled duck brain of a boy. I can hear a dart whizzing by like the honks of a legion of Canada Geese flying overhead and raining white hot salvation upon the war-grounds. I’ve got the reflexes of a little league baseballer on two Redbulls and a couple bumps of those sweet sweet... battle salts.
Here’s the deal, Chris: I’ll play the game with you, but I don’t have to… did you… did you just shoot me? Point blank? No way, I called a time-out earlier. This shit doesn’t count. I won’t be toppled, let alone degreased, by an outsider. Don’t make me. I HATE this game.