Under the Gun (UTG) in Poker: What it is and How to Play

40. Go Down Gamblin’ - Blood Sweat and Tears

Released in 1971, Go Down Gamblin’ by Blood Sweat and Tears is a song describing a gambler who is “born a natural loser.” He never wins, no matter what game he plays, but, he doesn’t feel like a loser. As the song goes – “Cause I've been called a natural lover by that lady over there, Honey, I'm just a natural gambler but I try to do my share.”

39. Gambler - Madonna

Gambler is a song written and played by Madonna, made for the film Vision Quest. Although the song reached the top 10 in the charts of the UK, Australia, Belgium, Ireland, Netherlands, and Norway, Madonna performed it only once on her 1985 The Virgin Tour. It’s a catchy song, we suggest you play it as you spin the reels of some of your favourite retro online slots.

38. The House of the Rising Sun - The Animals

Our list wouldn’t be complete without the 1964 hit song - The House of the Rising Sun by The Animals. Everybody knows the famous lines ”My mother, she was a tailor, sewed these new blue jeans, my father was a gamblin' man way down in New Orleans.” This single had a major success and made it to the top 10 songs on mainstream rock radio stations in the USA. Likewise, the hit was featured in the video game Guitar Hero Live.

37. The Winner Takes It All - ABBA

Whether we admit it or not, we all love at least some songs played by the very well-known Swedish pop group, ABBA. According to some sources, Bjorn Ulvaeus wrote the 1980 hit song The Winner Takes It All which was inspired by his divorce to his fellow band member, Agnetha Fältskog. The winner takes it all is a sort of a comparison to a divorce (especially the part ”I've played all my cards and that's what you've done too, nothing more to say, no more ace to play”), where one of them is the winner and the other one is left with nothing. And things are just the same when it comes to gambling, so we’ve decided to put the song on our list.

36. Shape of my Heart - Sting

We’re all aware of the fact that our gambling behaviour can be influenced by certain types of music and that's because online gambling and music go hand in hand. So, we suggest you start playing your preferred games with one of everyone’s favourite songs by Sting called The Shape of my Heart. It was released in 1993 and used for the end credits of the film Léon. In one of his interviews, Sting explained that the lyrics of the song tell the story of a card player who places bets not in order to win but to figure out something that’s been bothering him - “some kind of scientific, almost religious law.”

35. All I Wanna Do Is Play Cards - Corb Lund

“Well, I guess I really oughta be makin up songs but all I wanna do is play cards. I know it's dumb and sick and wrong but all I wanna do is play cards. Got the studio booked in Tennessee, and my record producer's callin me, the tape will roll in just three weeks and all I wanna do is play cards.” Does it sound familiar? It’s a 2005 hit by Corb Lund called All I Wanna Do Is Play Cards, once you hear it you’ll be playing it on repeat.

34. Gambling Man - The Overtones

When you’re falling in love, it’s perfectly normal to feel like you want to gamble everything just to attract that person’s attention to notice you and love you back. Well, Gambling Man is a lively 2010 song that tells a story of a guy fascinated with his love, so he places all his bets on her, as the song goes - “I played my hand, I rolled the dice, now I'm paying for my sins, I got some bad addiction.” This time, he feels that this love affair is different from any other – “Baby, it's you, yeah, yeah, that's right.” The song was released in 2010 and has been popular ever since.

33. Poker Face - Lady Gaga

Although the Poker Face song is more about the game of romance rather than the game of poker, the catchy refrain that starts with “Can't read my, no he can't read my poker face” kinda reminds us of winning at the tables, so we couldn’t skip it this time. Released in 2008, the song achieved worldwide success, topping the charts in the USA, the UK, Australia, Canada and several European countries.

32. Little Queen of Spades - Robert Johnson

Moving on to the Little Queen of Spades, a song title by the American blues musician Robert Johnson who recorded the song in 1937 and first released it in 1938. The first version of this gambling-themed song has a playing time of 2:11, whereas the second one lasts 4s longer (2:15), and is considered an alternate take and first appeared on Johnson's album The Complete Recordings, in 1990.

31. Train of Consequences - Megadeth

Another great song Train of Consequences is the title created by Megadeth, released as the first single from their sixth studio album Youthanasia in 1994. The song was later included on their compilation albums and its music video was the 26th most played video on MTV. There’s this part of the song “No horse ever ran as fast as the money that you bet, I'm blowing on my cards and I play them to my chest” – which is about a person’s gambling problem, who realises something’s wrong with this lifestyle, but it still hunts him down. Could be just the thrill, but he just can’t stop playing.
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30. Gambler - Whitesnake

Released on the album Slide It In (1984) and appearing on the compilation album Gold (2006), Gambler is the song by the British hard rock band Whitesnake. These words may sound familiar - “No fame or fortune, no luck of the draw, when I dance with the Queen of Hearts, a jack of all trades, a loser in love, it's tearing my soul apart”. And in case you’ve never heard it, we think you should give it a shot, the chances are you’re going to love it!

29. Gambling Man - Woody Guthrie

Now here’s one single from 1957 - Gamblin' Man. The song was taped live at the London Palladium and published as a double A side, with Puttin' On the Style. Reaching #1 in the UK Singles Chart in the summer 1957, it was “the last UK number 1 to be released on 78 rpm format only, as 7' vinyl had become the norm by this time.” Written by Woody Guthrie and Donegan, this gambling themed song was produced by Alan Freeman and Michael Barclay.

28. Roll of the Dice - Bruce Springsteen

According to Songfacts, Roll of the Dice was the first Springsteen’s song he didn’t write by himself. In fact, E Street Band’s pianist Roy Bittan helped with the music, while Springsteen was in charge of the lyrics, starting with – “Well I've been a losin' gambler, just throwin' snake eyes, Love ain't got me downhearted. I know up around the corner lies, My fool's paradise in just another roll of the dice.” After he broke up the E Street Band in October 1989, Springsteen wrote lyrics for the Roll of the Dice (with two other songs) and liked them to the point where he began writing and recording more songs.

27. Queen of Diamonds - Tom Odell

Here’s one song about a gambling fanatic who’s trying to satisfy his own addiction but also someone else, hoping it’s going to save him. Released in 2018, Queen of Diamonds is Tom Odell’s song from the album Jubilee Road, based on the local characters that inspired this British songwriter to include the whisky-soaked gamblers who regularly visited one betting shop.

26. The Angel and the Gambler - Iron Maiden

Now, this song may divide Iron Maiden fans and it’s most probably because of its repetitive lyrics that can be a bit annoying. The release we’re talking about is The Angel and the Gambler. Truth be told, the melody in general is very catchy and, even a bit similar to The Who in some moments. As the song was released in 1998 while Blaze Bayley was its frontmen, it’s missing the well-known high-pitch vocals from Bruce Dickinson.

25. Ramblin' Gamblin Man - Bob Seger

We’re moving on to a rock single from 1978 - Ramblin' Gamblin Man by Bob Seger. The author meets an old acquaintance, a professional gambler who happens to be a swagger. As such, he attracts people’s attention whenever he bets. Putting so much of his faith in the cards (rather than in people), he walks away every time, just before avoiding loss. Along the way, the narrator realises that, if you scratch beneath the surface, you’ll find he’s a very cynical man, who will never change.
Another gambling-themed song worth mentioning by Bob Seger is Still The Same.

24. Blow Up The Pokies - The Whitlams

Blow up the Pokies is the next song on our list, played by The Whitlams. It is the second single by the group from their 4th studio album, Love This City. Released in the year 2000, the song became a hit and made it to number 21 on the ARIA Singles Chart. According to several resources, the lyrics written by singer Tim Freedman were inspired by the destruction he saw in original Whitlams bassist Andy Lewis's life, due to his gambling addiction.

23. A Good Run of Bad Luck - Clint Black

Now here’s one 1994-song packed with gambling-related terms. As you listen to A Good Run of Bad Luck, recorded by American music artist Clint Black, you'll have a bit of fun as you try identifying what all these gambling terms mean. The song is a bit fast and is about falling in love by using gambling metaphors. The main character is willing to spend a lot of money to win his special lady over and, although he has had a period of bad luck, he is not giving up – “I've been to the table, and I've lost it all before, I'm willin' and able, always comin' back for more.”

22. When You’re Hot, You’re Hot - Jerry Reed

Jerry Reed won a Grammy for the song When You’re Hot, You’re Hot which was released in 1971. Most people remember it as it was a major hit, ranked as number 1 in the country charts, also making its way up the Pop Top 40. It’s an enjoyable novelty song about the ups and downs of the gambling life, about one’s winning streak caught in an illegal game of Crap.
Country star Jerry Reed also came up with a version The Uptown Poker Club in 1973.

21. Lawyers, Guns and Money - Warren Zevon

Next one up - Lawyers, Guns and Money is a song by Warren Zevon, the closing track on his album Excitable Boy, released in 1978. An edited version of this song was distributed as a single and found itself on the A Quiet Normal Life best of compilation on the CD and LP. The song goes like this - “I went home with a waitress the way I always do, how was I to know she was with the russians, too? I was gambling in Havana, I took a little risk Send lawyers, guns, and money Dad, get me out of this, hiyah!”
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20. The Lottery Song - Harry Nilsson

According to the man in the 1972 pop-rock song The Lottery Song by Harry Nilsson, there's more than one way to get to Vegas. Addressing his lover, the narrator mentions a few different options for buying a ticket and going to Sin City – “We could win the lottery we could go to Vegas,” and “We could wait till summer, we could save our money” as well as “We could make a record, sell a lot of copies, we could play Las Vegas.”

19. Casino Queen - Wilco

Now here’s one black-humoured gambling-themed song, released in 1995 and titled after a casino. Featuring a dirty electric guitar, Casino Queen was composed by an American songwriter, Jeff Tweedy, who wrote this song after playing a game in a riverboat casino accompanied by his dad. Inspired by the event, the author wrote: “Casino Queen my lord you're mean, I've been gambling like a fiend on your tables so green.”

18. Have a Lucky Day - Morphine

Another song on our list that you simply must check out starts like this: “I feel lucky, I just feel that way, I'm on a bus to Atlantic City later on today. Now I'm sitting at a blackjack table and swear to God the dealer has a tag says, "Mabel." Hit me, hit me! I smile at Mabel, soon they're bringing complimentary drinks to the table.” Check it out yourself - it’s called Have a Lucky Day by Morphine.

17. Kentucky Gambler - Merle Haggard

Written by Dolly Parton and released in 1974, Merle Haggard’s Kentucky Gambler is another song on our ultimate gambling playlist that you should pay attention to. It’s about a miner from Kentucky who leaves his family to gamble, under the bright lights of Reno. Unsurprisingly, his winning streak comes to an end, and he loses all his winnings. All broke, he decided to return back home only when he arrived, he found out his wife was involved with someone else.

16. The Jack - AC/DC

The next song on our list will give you some adrenaline boost, for sure. It goes like this - “She gave me the queen, she gave me the king, she was wheelin' and dealin', just doin' her thing, she was holdin' a pair, but I had to try…” Sounds familiar? This song from the 1975s is called The Jack and is played by AC/DC and there’s no way you can skip it.

15. Blackjack - Ray Charles

Moving on to something a bit different - a melody that blackjack lovers can listen to as they play is Ray Charles’ Blackjack. Apart from being a good quality song from 1955, it carries an important message with an emphasis on how brutal the game of blackjack can be. Some sources say that Ray Charles wrote it after beating T-Bone Walker at a blackjack game session.
Yet another Ray Charles’ famous song about gambling is called a Losing Hand.

14. Ooh Las Vegas - Gram Parson

“Ooh, Las Vegas, ain't no place for a poor boy like me”... is a song-into for Ooh Las Vegas which was written by Gram Parsons and Ric Grech. It was first released by Gram Parsons with Emmylou Harris in 1974. Playing this song would be perfect for the beginning of the road trip (i.e. to Las Vegas), especially if you have the energy to sing along.

13. The Stranger - Leonard Cohen

Published in 1968 and performed by Leonard Cohen, The Stranger appears in the The Ernie Game movie about a man released from a mental asylum. More appropriately, it is the perfect opening song in the 1971 Western McCabe & Mrs Miller, in which Warren Beatty plays a gambler. As you listen to this song (without watching the movie), it makes you see fascinating images of card games, smoky dreams, and concepts of risk versus safety.

12. Desperado - Eagles

Written by Glen Frey and Don Henley, Desperado song is one of The Eagles’ greatest hits from their 1973 album of the same name. The song features a classic tune while the ballad tells the story of a lone wolf imprisoned by his loneliness. As for the lyrics, they have loads of card references mentioning the queen of diamonds, the queen of hearts, and so on.

11. Huck's Tune - Bob Dylan

The next song on our list is about the risks of poker, money, and relationships, which are precisely what the movie Lucky You is all about. Does it ring a bell? That’s right, this 2007 song is called Huck’s Tune and is performed by Bob Dylan. Each of us can all relate to lines "You push it all in, and you've no chance to win, you play 'em on down to the end." Play the song and you’ll enjoy more than 4 amazing minutes of Bob Dylan.
Likewise, Bob Dylan recorded Rambling, Gambling Willie and Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts, both excellent and both inspired by gambling.
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10. Four Little Diamonds - Electric Light Orchestra

A song by the British rock band Electric Light Orchestra Four Little Diamonds was released in 1983 and found itself on the album Secret Messages. The single wasn’t so popular in the US, being only 2 weeks on the Billboard Hot 100 chart, at number 86, and number 84 in the UK. This song refers to the singer’s cheating lover who tricked him out of a ring which had 'four little diamonds' on it.

9. You Can't Beat The House - Mark Knopfler

Moving on to our next choice for the day, You Can’t Beat the House. It’s the third song on the Get Lucky studio album released in 2009 by British singer-songwriter and guitarist Mark Knopfler. The album and the songs received favorable reviews with the album reaching the top three positions on album charts in Denmark, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Norway, and Poland. The singer’s divine voice combined with beautiful music and lyrics goes like this – “You can't bear the house, you can't bear the house, tell the man somebody, you can't beat the house.”

8. Deck of Cards - Don Williams

Deck of Cards is a recitation song that tells the story of a soldier who gets caught while playing cards in church and then faces a sentence from a superior officer. The soldier defends his case, explaining he wasn't about to deal a hand of poker, but was rather confirming his faith with the cards. Performed by T. Texas Tyler, the song managed to become a major hit in the 1940s and 1950s. Also, Wink Martindale had an even bigger hit with his 1959 cover, with a successful version by Don Williams featuring Tex Ritter and Buddy Cole.

7. Gambler’s Blues - B.B. King

First recording of the song Gambler’s Blues by B.B. King was in 1966, and it was released in 1967. The song appears on the album Back in the Alley (1970). Some say gambling and blues go hand in hand, so if you (gambling fans) haven’t heard it, listen and see for yourself.

6. Tumbling Dice - Rolling Stones

One of our favourite songs on the list is Tumbling Dice, written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. It tells the story of a gambler who can’t remain faithful to any woman. Being released in the 1970s and featuring a blues boogie-woogie rhythm, the song was and still is one of the greatest singles of all time.
Rolling Stones also recorded Casino Boogie, and it’s from their 1972 album, Exile on Main St.

5. Luck Be A Lady - Frank Sinatra

The next song on our list is about a gambler who hopes that he will win a bet, the outcome of which will decide whether he is able to save his relationship with the girl of his dreams. You probably know what song we’re talking about; it’s called Luck be a Lady released in 1965 and performed by one of the most popular musical artists - Frank Sinatra.

4. Deal - Grateful Dead

Next one up is the song Deal. It was first performed by the Grateful Dead in 1971, as a regular part of the repertoire through their 1970's tour. Although being less common to the fans during the 1990s, the band continued to perform it. The singer opens with the message: “Since it cost a lot to win and even more to lose you and me bound to spend some time wondering what to choose,” that later kicks off with a chorus: “Don't let your deal go down...”
Loser is another song first performed by the Grateful Dead in 1971 as well, heavily played during 1971 and 1972.

3. Ace of Spades - Motörhead

Ok, the next song is loaded with some great gambling verses like "The pleasure is to play, makes no difference what you say, I don't share your greed, the only card I need is the Ace of Spades" will definitely set you in the right mood for hitting some winning combinations. Released in 1980, the song was inspired by slot machines that the lead singer Ian Fraser “Lemmy” Kilmister played in London pubs.

2. Viva Las Vegas - Elvis

As soon as you start playing the second song from our playlist “Viva Las Vegas,” you’ll probably picture a huge casino and a great gaming atmosphere. Performed by the legendary Elvis Presley, the 1964-released song brings the glamour of the city, and its beat will get you in the mood for some serious gameplay. This song was written for the movie of the same name starring Elvis Presley, in which he plays a race car driver waiting tables at a hotel to pay off a debt. There’s this famous scene when he performs this song at the talent competition alongside many showgirls.

1. The Gambler - Kenny Rogers

Performed by the legendary country singer Kenny Rogers, The Gambler song is our number 1 - it's full of some betting advice that are relevant today, even though it was released more than 40 years ago, in 1978. Here’s how it goes… “If you're gonna play the game, boy you gotta learn to play it right, you've got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em, know when to walk away, and know when to run.” These classic chorus lines were told from the first-person perspective inspired by a conversation the author had with an experienced poker player on a train. Written in the form of poker metaphors, Schlitz wrote the tune in honor of his late father.
Johnny Cash is also among other musicians who recorded The Gambler in 1978, on Gone Girl.

What do you think? Which one is your favourite?

Day Two Here
Day Three Here
Gettysburg is by far my favorite battle of all time.
First, it is an all-American battle in an all-American war, and myself being an old school nationalist it carries significance that other battles simply don’t; I may find Austerlitz or Stalingrad nifty, but nobody there was my people.
More, it was an extraordinarily clean fight. At any point, a soldier on either side could hurl down their rifle and grab some sky and be reasonably assured of having their surrender accepted without reservation, and for that matter their captor could rely on their new POWs to trudge back to the rear under light guard in good faith. Even though much of the fighting took place in an urban environment with embedded civilians, only one civilian died in the fighting. Let me tell you, the more military history you read up on, the clearer it is that massacring civilians before, during, and after a rough fight is par for the course. One might even say that butchering unarmed men, women and children of the enemy tribe is the de facto military objective more than half the time; it might be some weird, half instinctual, proto-game theory going on: “We told them to surrender or else. They didn’t surrender, we won anyway, and now there’s gotta be an ‘or else’ to persuade the next batch of holdouts that we mean business.” In the long run, butchering the first village usually made it morelikely the next three villages would get the message and surrender without a fight, saving the invaders men, materiel, and time. Or perhaps it’s that killing civilians has always been pure bloody-mindedness. But not at Gettysburg. Gettysburg is where the American platonic ideal of soldiers fighting soldiers and leaving the civilians be actually happened.
Another aspect to the battle that fascinates me is how utterly unplanned it was. Neither army had intended to fight there, and between the scale of the brawl, the rapidity of developments, the intransigence of their subordinates, and the communications lag, neither the Confederate general Lee nor the Union general Meade had a grip on the situation at all until the second day of the battle, and neither could enact their ideal plans until the third day. It was something of a clusterfuck for both sides, and the course of the battle depended on the initiative and guts of small unit commanders with little idea of what the big picture was.
Gettysburg tends to be remembered as the turning point in the war, when it stopped being a gallant passage at arms between roughly equal powers and started being a slow, painful inevitable grind towards Union victory. This is not exactly accurate; only with years of hindsight could anybody construct a narrative that framed this fight as the turning point, for at the time Gettysburg was seen as just another grisly slaughter yard in a long series of them. Still, between this fight and the conquest of Vicksburg out west, this does appear in hindsight to be the high watermark in terms of Confederate progress towards successful seccession. Certainly it was the last time any Confederate army went on the strategic offensive. For diehard secessionists (both during the war and in the years after), this was the last hurrah before the war started being truly hopeless.
It is also, I should mention, a place of spiritual significance for me. Myself being secular humanist with a vaccination against Protestantism from my younger days, I don’t have much in the way of codified religion. But when I was a youngin’ visiting relatives out east, I got to visit the battlefield. I found myself standing in front of a monument on the field on the north end of Herbst Wood (where the right flank of Iron Brigade stood and charged on the first day of the battle). It described how a Michigan regiment of about a thousand men stood on that spot and suffered two thirds casualties over the course of the day. I read the details on the monument, and stared up at the mustachioed rifleman staring defiantly to the west.
Looking left and right, I saw more monuments every fifty yards or so in a straightish line, spreading out to mark where a human line had once stood and bled. And I turned my back on the monuments to face away, and behold, I saw an opposing line of Confederate monuments stretched out horizon to horizon about a hundred yards away. Two lines, violently opposed but unmoving; courage and horror frozen into place forever. And the world there seemed very big, and very grand, and I felt very small and unworthy. The air was at once colder and hotter than any air I’d ever felt. The wind cut through my clothing and reminded me that flesh was mortal but spirit was eternal. This was holy ground, soil consecrated by blood. Shi’ite Muslims have Karbala. Catholics have the Road to Calvary. Australian aboriginals have Uluru. I have Gettysburg.
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BACKGROUND
A brief note- I will be including maps periodically to show the progression of the fighting. These maps must be taken with a grain or three of salt. They are intended to show relations between the armies and the terrain, not to mark the exact positions or dispositions of the units, nor to show an exact proportion of numbers involved. This is because I am not an expert mapmaker, and I thank you in advance for your understanding. First, a map of the northern part of the battlefield. Note how many roads lead there, and note the high ground of Cemetery Hill and Culp's Hill to the south of the town.
The Battle of Gettysburg happened because Lee needed to go on the offensive, and Lee needed to go on the offensive because of the big picture. I shall cover the broad outline just so the significance doesn’t pass anybody by.
The Confederacy in the Spring of 1863 was in a terrible dilemma. The leadership had two urgent problems, either one of which could (if unaddressed) destroy their enterprise, and to make things worse they didn’t have the resources to solve either of them alone without a miracle.
One, the Union was fixing to shove yet another army down Richmond’s throat. Two years of failed invasions into Virginia had been brutal to both sides, but the North had immense reserves of cash, food, industrial output, and manpower with which to replenish themselves, and the South simply didn’t. The Army of Northern Virginia on which every invasion thus far had broken was underarmed, underfed, and undermanned, and if these issues were not fixed then they’d be seeing Union soldiers in the Confederate capitol before Autumn. There had already been a push that year, which Lee had staved off at Chancellorsville. There was plenty of time left before winter for a second attack.
And two, Vicksburg, the railway hub that sat on the Mississippi River, was under dire threat. The Union had already grabbed New Orleans at the south end and pushed north up the river, and had been pushing south down the river since day one of the war, but Vicksburg prevented the whole river from falling in to Union hands. Vicksburg alone let the South shift resources and information from its Western half to its Eastern half. Losing it could be a death blow. The garrison of Vicksburg was also underarmed, underfed, and undermanned.
The fresh crops taken off the farm and the fresh host of new recruits also taken off the farm were middling at best. Even throwing all the resources they had at either problem and letting the other develop as it would might mean losing on both fronts. Splitting the resources in half to prop up both didn’t seem promising either. Lee, being something of a strategist, developed a third option. There was no point (he reasoned) in trying to prop up Vicksburg at this point- it would take weeks to shift reinforcements that far west, and by then it would be midsummer. If the siege lasted that long, either the garrison would fold or disease would rip through the Yankee army and drive it back home, as it had the last two years running. In either scenario, further support would affect nothing. Therefore, he proposed a bold plan- don’t sit around waiting to get hit in the face. Invade north. Take the fight onto their turf.
The more the Confederate leadership considered it, the better it sounded. Northern land hadn’t been ravaged like Virginia had- it would be easy to live off of the enemy’s food for once, thus lessening the headache of their constant supply problems. It was also an election year, and the anti-war Democrats were raging at the ocean of blood and gold being wasted on bringing States back into the fold who very clearly wanted to go their own way. One good, solid victory on Northern soil could tip the balance, drive home the point that that war was unwinnable. Get the Black Republican warmonger Lincoln kicked out of the White House, get a reasonable Democrat in, and next year they just might get a negotiated peace that would lead in time to true and recognized independence.
To which end-
Lee snaked his newly reinforced army of about 75,000 men up through the Shenandoah Valley, using the mountain range to mask his movements instead of using to well-worn direct route that the Union was camped on. He would end up north of the bulk of the Army of the Potomac, simultaneously threatening Washington D.C., Pittsburgh, Baltimore, and Philadelphia, which for a guy trying to score a symbolic victory to discourage the enemy voters put him in a pretty nice spot.
Lincoln freaked out, told Hooker and his Army of the Potomac to go out and beat Lee, to utterly destroy his army, and also not leave any weak point undefended, which are just the kind of orders one enjoys receiving. Hooker, having a bit of an ego and a poor history of getting his ass kicked by Lee, got into a feud with Lincoln’s advisors and impulsively offered his resignation as Commander of the Army of the Potomac following some stupid spat with the bean counters back in Washington. Lincoln called his bluff and fired him three days before the battle, putting General Meade in charge of the whole damn army with almost no prep time.
I should cut the narrative here to cast moral aspersions right quick. The Union were the good guys, and the Confederates were the villains. That said, the North made for really terrible heroes, and the South had more than its fair share of virtues. This was not a grand crusade of freedom-loving Yankees tearing down the moral abomination of human bondage. This was a brutal, no holds barred death struggle between the efficient new urban Industrial Revolution and the rural Cavalier latifundias. Only a smallish segment of New England Puritans and bleeding heart Quakers hated slavery on moral grounds- the rest of the North either hated it on financial grounds, didn’t give a fuck one way or another, or were actively supporting racial slavery. And on the flip side, most Southerners who fought in the war perceived quite accurately that outsiders were coming into their world to demand submission, and had decided to give these invaders the William Wallace treatment. This is a normal and admirable response that every healthy society should have in its toolbox, and in my not-even-slightly humble opinion it is a damn shame that so many people endured so much agony in support of so un-American a cause.
For you see, when Lee’s army reached Pennsylvania, they kidnapped every black person they could find, free or not, and sent them all south in chains. There was no attempt to ascertain their status by some legal due process, no splitting of hairs. The bare skeleton of Confederate ideology, the great Truth that would have snuffed out by continued political loyalty to the Union, had been that all men were not created equal. To be more precise, men had white skin, and anyone with black skin was not a man and did not have the rights of man. As such, anyone with black skin was to be sold into slavery and threatened with torture and death if they refused to labor in the cotton fields. The army that invaded the North was, in practice, the biggest slave-hunting gang that had ever set foot on American soil.
The side wearing grey were staunch defenders of a country based on the Ideal of Ethnic Supremacy, and the side wearing blue were fighting for a country based on the Ideal of Equality. There were a million nagging features of material reality in the South and the North that challenged both of these Ideals, but there were no Ideals to challenge these Ideals, save only for each other. We know that this is true, because as the war shifted away from a Federal attempt to rein in wayward states to an all out assault on the institution of slavery, more and more Northerners balked at the idea of dying to set niggers free; men who had fought for years to bring the rebels into the fold again threw down their rifles and went home in disgust after they heard of the Emancipation Proclamation. And as it became clearer that poor whites who never owned slaves were expected to die for plantation owners’ right to stay rich, fewer and fewer Southerners were willing to jump into the meat grinder feet first; many of them deserted to go home and form Unionist bushwhacker gangs instead. Speaking of the draft, a higher percentage of southerners dodged the Confederate draft than in Vietnam, yet Vietnam is remembered as a deeply unpopular war while the Lost Cause has painted the South as a unified bloc striving as one against the Yankee oppressor.
Also, the Confederacy had a draft imposed upon the states by its federal government. So, yeah, State's Rights. Tell me how that worked out.
To reiterate. Both sides are not the same. We are rooting for the Union. Slavery. Etc.
Pushing on-
The two armies surged northward, on parallel tracks with Lee on the west side of the Appalachians and Meade on the east side. Being critically low on recon drones and spy satellites, the only ways to find the enemy army was to send guys out on horseback to physically look at them before riding back, and to talk to locals whether they’d seen anyone wearing the other team’s uniform recently. Clouds of skirmishers, cavalrymen, and small detachments of infantrymen from either side scattered themselves in all directions, straining to catch a glimpse of the other army. The first side to locate the enemy, amass sufficient force, and maneuver against them would probably win, without regard for right or wrong.
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JULY 1st, 1863
Early Morning
General John Buford had a 2,500 strong brigade of cavalrymen patrolling southern Pennsylvania, being one of dozens of detachments sent out to find the enemy army. Using human intelligence from locals in Gettysburg, he learned that there was a column of rebel infantry marching down the Chambersburg Pike.
And indeed there was. Advance scouts from Buford’s brigade made visual contact with a column marching south towards Gettysburg. The ball was now rolling.
The story goes that the Confederates were looking for new shoes and heard that there was a stockpile in Gettysburg. As far as I can tell, this is a baseless legend- inspired by the true fact that the rebel army didn’t have enough shoes, but baseless nonetheless. The three Confederate commanders marching towards Gettysburg (Archer and Davis with a brigade apiece and Heth as division commander coordinating them), were simply doing what their counterpart was doing- reconnaissance in force, hoping to develop a lead for the rest of the army to follow. 7,000 infantry under Archer and Davis were about to pick a fight with 2,500 cavalrymen under Buford. The currents of this morning fight would provide the grooves for the next three days to follow.
Buford’s men fought as dragoons; the horse let you scoot around to where you need to go, but you got off it and fought on foot. They Union cavalry broke into tiny little four man teams to bloody the approaching Confederates’ noses. The terrain was a bushwhacker’s paradise- plenty of rocks and trees to hide behind, and plenty of low, rolling hills to speed off behind to break line of sight. One man would hold the horses while the other three crouch-ran forward under cover to pop off rounds into the enemy column from the sides of the road. When the enemy infantry redeployed from a fast moving but harmless column formation into a slow moving but dangerous line, the three shooters would run back to their buddy to mount up and retreat to a new position.
The cavalrymen were outnumbered nearly three to one, and their carbines had less range and power than the rebel rifles; then again, the terrain was working for them and their breechloading carbines could shoot much faster than the enemy’s muzzleloading long rifles. It was very close to being an fair fight, as long as the cavalry could stay mobile and keep their distance. Buford and Heth both had unclear, contradictory orders- “Push forward aggressively to locate the enemy, but do not enter into a general engagement until we know what we’re up against.” It was an order that must have made sense in the tent when Lee and Meade sent their own versions off. You wouldn’t want to force a battle until you knew the enemy’s location and disposition and the terrain you were going to be standing on, any more than you’d want bet it all on a poker hand before looking at your cards. But to the guys on the front line, it meant “charge forward, but do not charge forward. Attack, but do not engage. Show some initiative, but don’t pick a real fight.” Heth decided they were up against a skeleton crew of skirmishers, and he had orders to check out Gettysburg. He send riders back with a quick report and a request for reinforcements. Buford decided that if the whole damn rebel army was heading his way, he needed to delay their advance for as many hours as he could to give the rest of the Union army time to get to Gettysburg- the high ground south of the town looked like ideal terrain to fight from and he wanted his buddies to get there before the rebels. He too sent riders back with calls for help.
And meanwhile, the murderous, hazardous stalking of the rebel column continued as it trudged towards Gettysburg.
Meanwhile, in the Rear with the Gear
Imagine running a marathon- 26 miles and a bit from start to finish. That’s how spread out a Civil War army is, from vanguard to rear guard. You can’t really concentrate 75,000-100,000 people together that closely. Disease starts killing people off really fast, feeding everyone is a headache, and if you have to march out, the lead element will march all day before stopping for the night, while the rear element hasn’t even left camp yet. It’s unwieldy. So they all spread out to grab some real estate and forage easier and not choke on each others’ dust and crap.
The riders from the Chambersburg Pike were spreading the word through the marathon length of the armies. Units were halting, turning around. Captains and colonels and generals were consulting maps to figure out what roads to take to get south or north to Gettysburg from where they were now. Regiments were putting their heads to together to figure out whose company oughtta go in what order.
The movements were slow and and ungainly and awkward, but they were starting up.
Mid Morning to Noon
The rolling hills on either side of the Chambersburg Pike stopped at McPherson’s Ridge, a grand place to make a stand- plenty of cover, steep incline. In any case, there wasn’t much further to retreat to. Archer and David pushed the cavalrymen, Archer on the south side of the road and Davis on the north. Thoroughly annoyed infantrymen backed up on the Pike behind them, eager to get at the enemy but without frontage to occupy.
Buford dug in on McPherson’s Ridge, and the full force of Heth’s division slammed into him. Denied their mobility by the necessity of holding territory, the fair fight turned into a meat grinder for the dismounted cavalrymen. When Confederate artillery set up on Herr’s Ridge, it turned into a bloodbath.
Buford, at last, got in contact with somebody who outranked him. General John Reynolds, second in command of the whole Union army, rode ahead of his division to get eyes on the situation.
The two struck a deal in the middle of a firefight. Buford promised to hold to the last man, and Reynolds promised to reinforce him. It was an exercise in trust; if Buford’s men held firm and Reynolds let them down, they’d be swamped and slaughtered to a man, and if Buford’s detachment broke and scattered, Reynolds’ reinforcements would march directly into a line of hills held by an entrenched enemy force of equal size. Failure on either side would be fatal. Reynolds rode south again, leaving Buford and his dwindling cavalrymen to fend off 10% of the Confederate army all alone.
Meanwhile, Buford’s thin line was cracking. Outnumbered, outgunned, and unable to advance or retreat... That which was inevitable to start with was happening now. Davis’ brigade was pressing against Oak Ridge on the Union right, and Archer's was taking Herbst Woods tree by tree. Buford’s men were giving ground they couldn’t afford to lose. Confederate artillery was blasting giant holes in the ranks of the defenders.
That’s when the relief came- two fresh brigades of infantry coming up the Emmitsburg road, under generals Cutler and Meredith. Cutler got there first, taking up positions on Oak Ridge and straddling either side of the Pike with cannons. Their massive volleys disrupted Confederate momentum and silenced some of the rebels’ big guns as everyone scrambled for cover. Grateful and exhausted cavalrymen sidled off to the flanks to safety. Meredith’s brigade is still lagging behind- that’s the problem with columns, only the guys in front can do anything.
If Buford and Reynolds expected everything to be right in the world once reinforcements arrived, they were very much mistaken. Those men out there attacking up Oak Ridge were some of the finest infantrymen in the world- dedicated, disciplined, contemptuous of death. They did not stop being efficient killers just because they now fought peers instead of the hornet-like cavalry skirmishers. Cutler’s brigade was facing a small tidal wave of battle-maddened Southern veterans, and had no time to dig in and situate themselves before the moment of impact. Davis’ men ripped into them like a pack of starving wolves. Cutler’s men fell back to safety on the top of Oak Ridge. In pieces.
Meanwhile, Meredith’s brigade was finally in position to retake Herbst Woods on the south side of the road.
Now, Meredith’s brigade were the absolute elite of the Union army. They were the grizzled veterans, the old crew, the best drilled, the most experienced, the hardest of the hard. They were nicknamed the Iron Brigade, and the Black Hat Brigade, because they were authorized to wear dashing black foraging caps to signify their status as the best of the best. With their comrades north of the road falling back, it was imperative that the Black Hat Brigade protect their left flank. To which end, Reynolds frantically snapped orders for them to line up and charge Archer’s men who were occupying Herbst Wood.
Their charge was met by a storm of musket fire that churned the Iron ranks into blood and guts. But this was the Black Hat Brigade. For them, taking ten percent casualties in a single minute was just another Tuesday. They got in close to the rebel line to return the volleys with a vengeance, and then charged with the bayonet. Archer’s men saw the distinctive black hats come for them through the musket-smoke. For the first time, they realized that these were no mere cavalry skirmishers, no half-assed militia company facing them. The best of the best of the Army of the Potomac was coming at them at terrifyingly close range. Archer’s men cracked and scattered. The ones who stood firm, died. The ones who threw down their rifles and grabbed sky were allowed to live as prisoners. The ones who ran, lived, but found the Iron Brigade hot on their heels. Meredith’s elites carved through Archer’s brigade like it wasn’t even there.
Reynolds was a good leader. A great one, in fact. He was decisive, experienced, competent. Many thought he should have gotten command instead of Meade. As his men retook Herbst Wood, he turned behind him to check on how close reinforcements were, some rebel rifleman did his cause a world of good, and shot Reynolds in the back of the head.
Now the situation got pretty weird- Davis’ brigade had kicked the shit out of Cutler’s brigade and was pursuing them on the north side of the road, and the Iron Brigade had kicked the shit out of Archer’s brigade and was pursuing them on the south side of the road. Neither victor was aware of what had happened across from them, and soon enough they would pass each other by almost touching the edges of their lines. The first one to figure out what was happening would get to win.
As it so happened, General Doubleday (in command now that Reynolds was dead) saw the danger and the opportunity first. He broke off an Iron regiment from his reserve to swoop in and protect the flank just in time, setting them up in a defensive stance facing the road. That regiment was joined by another broken off from the Iron assault, and yet another from Cutler’s brigade, who had seen the maneuvering and joined in on its own initiative. It was like a ballet, all three regiments coalescing into a single front facing north across the road, as though they’d spent the last week rehearsing. Under their protection, the rest of the Black Hats gave chase to their prey.
When Davis finally turned and attacked, they were chopped down by a mass of highly accurate fire from the newly entrenched men. Confederates died by the dozens and were maimed by the score. As they reloaded, the Black Hats were astonished to find that the whole Confederate brigade vanish into thin air, like magic. The firing stopped; no more targets. It was bizarre.
The three regiments advanced cautiously. And were gutted by a close range surprise volley by the hidden Confederates as they tried to scale the fences on either side of the Pike.
It turns out that there was a cut in the side of road, deep enough for a man to jump down into with only his head able to peek out. Davis’ men had leapt into it as a source cover when the firefight started and found it was a grand place to shoot out of. But it was also a death trap. Once the Union regiments figured it out, they got in close enough to fire blindly down at point blank range into the milling mass of men.
Davis’ men surrendered, thousands of them all at once. Unable to move, unable shoot back, it was really the only choice. And with that, the first round of Gettysburg was over. Oak Ridge and Herbst Wood had held, and about 150,000 odd soldiers were converging on Gettysburg to shift the tide of war this way and that.
AFTERNOON
The rest of the first day was not free of drama, and heroics, and mass suffering. But it was free of surprises. The iron laws of physics had decreed that more Confederate units would be on hand for the fighting in the afternoon, and so it was. Fresh rebel troops swept down from the north and from the west, relieving their exhausted comrades and preparing themselves to assault Oak Ridge and Herbst Woods. Fresh Union troops arrived from the south to reinforce what they had and to extend their line out east, protecting their right flank and screening off the town itself.
Hours passed without a shot being fired. Everybody was reorganizing themselves, resupplying, carting the wounded to the rear to let the surgeons saw their shattered limbs off. Two small things happened that delivered a Confederate victory on day one, and a Union victory on day three. Union General Barlow pushed his brigade out to occupy Blocher's hill, and Union General Steinwehr plopped two of his brigades on top of Cemetery Hill. The first created a huge gap in the Union right, and the second secured the invaluable high ground for the rest of the battle.
Meanwhile, three Confederate divisions set themselves up for a concerted attack- Heth would press into Herbst Wood on the Union left, Rodes would assault Oak Ridge at the center, and Early would swoop down the Harrisburg road to threaten the Union right. When the big push came at around 2 p.m., it was badly organized and mismanaged. Southern commanders couldn't get it together and attack at the same time. Individual units charged at Oak Ridge alone, like a mob of Hollywood henchmen attacking the hero only to be smacked around one by one. Cutler's men didn't just fight them off; it was closer to mass murder. General O'Neal's brigade swooped down off of Oak Hill only to be cut down by musketry and cannon fire, and they did it without O'Neal, because O'Neal stayed in the rear while his men died. When O'Neal's brigade fell back having suffered heavy losses, Cutler shifted his men to greet the new threat from Iverson's brigade, who also charged without their commander. Iverson's men marched in parade perfect order across open ground, without so much as a molehill for cover. The story goes that during the assault, Iverson looked out from safety and saw half his men lying down on the ground. Iverson was pissed off because he thought his men were surrendering. In fact, he was watching his brigade die in droves.
The issue wasn't morale. The Confederate troops were eager to get at the enemy. The problem was purely organizational in nature. The men in charge of telling people what to do were simply too confused and disoriented to work out the solution in real time. While O’Neal and Iverson were getting bloodied, Barlow’s men on Blocher Hill were getting slaughtered. Barlow’s desire to hold the high ground on the defense was understandable- high ground being a grand place to fight from- but he was about one mile ahead of any friendly units. This meant that it was trivially easy to flank and destroy his brigades.
Georgia men under generals Early and Rodes linked up to flank and destroy Barlow’s isolated brigades. A thick stream of filthy, bloody, and terrified Union men flowed back to the town of Gettysburg, leaving a gaping hole in the Union line and spreading their panic like the plague. Victorious Confederates whooped and hollered. As the men to the north of town trade massacres- the failed assault on Oak Ridge being roughly balanced by the disastrous dissolution of Barlow’s brigades- Heth finally attacked the Iron Brigade still occupying Herbst Wood in the west. He’d been delaying it all afternoon, stymied by the contradictory orders from Lee. Lee, who was several miles away and not at all in touch with the situation, still wanted to avoid a general engagement. But now, Heth has been let off the chain to avenge Archer’s brigade.
Heth’s full division attacked Herbst Wood. It was a slow, hot, gory fight. The attacking rebels are aggressive, but also methodical and well-organized. The Black Hats made them pay for every tree they seized. But there’s only one outcome for a fight like this.
The Iron Brigade has the ghastly honor of having the highest casualty ratio of any Civil War brigade, North or South. Out of the 1,885 men in their ranks that morning, 1,153 (61%) were be dead or maimed by nightfall on the first day. The fates of individual units from within the brigade are even more gruesome- in the 2nd Wisconsin regiment, 397 out of 496 (80%) were killed or wounded. But despite the horrific losses, they didn’t break. They gave ground slowly and in good order, but they gave ground nonetheless. Iron does not break, but it does bend.
By late afternoon, the dominoes fell as they were always going to. With the debacle at Blocher’s Knoll, any hope the Union had to hold the right was lost. The Black Hats were being ground into sawdust on the left. And Rodes has finally gotten his brigades to charge at the same time, overwhelming Cutler’s defense.
Every Union man was running now, some in a blind panic, some withdrawing in good order like professionals.
The open field battle turned into urban warfare as the Confederates chased the Union army through the streets of Gettysburg. Companies blocked the streets to hold off the enemy advance long enough for the comrades to scamper. Marksmen played sniper games in the windows, either shooting men in the back as they ran away or ambushing overly aggressive platoons, depending on the color of their uniform.
The Union men were desperate to reach Cemetery Hill, south of the town. High ground and the reinforcements already stationed there promised safety. The Confederates were just as desperate to catch them first and seize that invaluable terrain for themselves.
Nightfall
A great deal of “woulda coulda shoulda” ink has been spilled over the orders that Lee gave to General Ewell, the man in charge of Rodes and Early: “Take Cemetery Hill if practical”. But Ewell saw two brigades with a lot of artillery standing on top of what appeared to be a natural fortress designed by God to repel infantry, and his men were exhausted to boot. Ewell decided it was not practical, and so did not try. Just one of those things, I expect.
In any case, the day was a Confederate victory. Every spot on the map the Confederate troops wanted to go, they had went. They had crushed all resistance, had even gone toe to toe with the cream of the Army of the Potomac and won. Their enemies were in flight before them.
There was, possibly, a certain amount of disquiet because the enemy had merely been driven from one ridge into another ridge, one even steeper and with more cover than the last. And rumor had it the rest of the Army of the Potomac was coming at them.
But that was a problem for the next day.

Hello HFY, the next in my series of what happens when humanity's special gift in the stars is to have children with whoever they damn well please. As with the prior 5, I welcome constructive criticism.
I don't really have much to say this time around, other than let's see if Cass's CCT ends up being 2 or 3 stories. Also, given that the perspective is shifting around I'm going to be starting each section with the date and character whose perspective it currently is.
As always, all you humans and mixed breeds: Keep those comments exciting!
Author Wiki | Series Wiki | World Anvil
First | Previous | Next
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Post Writing Author's Note

Well, it took me 3 days to get this written and it came out as probably the biggest thing I've ever written. Part of the problem of trying to take som many things going on and put them into a single story. But, hey, I managed to get both parts of the CCT arc into good cliffhanger states.
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August 20, 2214: Cassandra Ferrell, Adams III Space Force Resupply Base
Cass looked over the grass field from the tree she had taken a seat under. Along the perimeter of the field was a patchwork chain-link fence with a haphazard mix of barbed wire and razor wire laid on top of it, beyond which the well kept and only slightly out of date facilities of Adams III were visible. Looks like they were stuck with the overstock. Within the field of grass was 10 tastefully planted trees, crisscrossing packed dirt roads, a scattering of large, garage style, white tents and 3 permanent structures: A large, square stone building that had 2 doors with the Unity symbols for male and female painted on them, a 3 story, mark 13 prefabricated office building (made primarily from steel, aluminum and titanium), and a wooden building, in the shape of an ancient round house with the word "MESS" painted above the main door. This place looks half-assed. Guess the Space Forces doesn't take civilian combatants seriously.
Lazily sweeping over the field again, Cass focused in on what was closer to her. 9 other groups of about 20 humans and mixed breeds mulling about, each group under one of the well planted trees with a little sign with a number on it, ranging from 1 to 10. All of the people within the groups where wearing the same white t-shirt, with CCT and a number written on the back in black, and black athletic shorts that Cass was, each with a day bag and a duffle bag placed at their feet. I feel like I'm in gym class again. Moving almost silently around and between the numbered groups, on the dirt roads, were 3 pickup trucks with metal pipes welded onto the beds to serve as mounts for a russian looking machine gun. Nothing screams militia like a technical. At least they're electric.
Finally, Cass brought her attention to her group: 18 human men, all of them obviously pure blooded except for the older man with yellow eyes and green tinted hair, a skittish looking werewolf woman, and herself. Hopefully they don't get any ideas in their heads. Of her group, the men formed 3 groups that seemed to fluidly gain and lose members, with the occasional straggler talking to the old man with yellow eyes.
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August 21, 2214: Doctor Brooke Reid Ferrell, UGEC Space Force New Eden Staging Station 8
Dr. Ferrell stood on the last rung of a step ladder connecting cords into the back panel on a 240 cm tall suit of black metal armor. After attaching the final cord, she climbed down and walked over to a terminal sitting in the center of the room. With a few taps on the screen, something resembling the dashboard of a plane appeared on the terminal's screen, Dr. Ferrell quickly swiping through the pages of gauges and graphs. Finally finding what she was looking for, Dr. Ferrell pressed a 3 different big red buttons before inputting a code into the terminal.
"Alright Jupiter, talk to me. Air still flowing in there?" The Doctor asked, facing her head at the metal goliath.
"Yeah. Am I finally on internal power?" Asked the suit in a thundering voice that echoed in the mostly empty room.
"Yes, the microfusion core is active. I've also taken the liberty of equipping Fenrir 4 with a matter anti-matter device, which will detonate if you are dead and more than 50 meters away from Mars or Jupiter. Also, turn down your output volume."
"Corporate? Also, is this better." The black giant asked in a volume similar to the Doctor's.
"Yes it is. The matter anti-matter device was my idea. Can't have the suits being captured. Of course, if you need to you can just remove the device and plant it like any other bomb you've used in the past." Said Dr. Ferrell as she turned back to the terminal.
"That's not really that reassuring. What happens if I'm hit with an EMP?"
"First, the onboard shields should absorb it. If those fail, all the important electronics are shielded. If you happen to be hit by something powerful enough to disable a destroyer, you'll already be dead."
"So, care to give me the real briefing while we finish up the pre-flight checks?"
"First, turn your head to the left then the right and then center your vision on the green dot on the wall. As for what is happening, Mars, Venus and you will be waiting in the asteroid belt around where the namies are predicted to move through. The area is a mix of disabled satellites, asteroids and comets that have been mined out, and trash that we don't have space for on New Eden. You will be lying in wait for the biggest ship you can sight, then using the cold thrust to attach and attack. From there, break into the ship, vent heat once stealth is no longer required, and kill everything that moves." Doctor Ferrell said matter-of-factly while scanning over the gauges and graphs displayed on the terminal in front of her.
The hulking Fenrir suit moved its head left, then right, then centered as it listened. "Our objective? The actual one."
"A live fire test and stop the fleet from reaching New Eden. If you do need to place the matter anti-matter bomb, make sure to get the hell away from it and activate Fenrir 4's distress beacon. Alright now move your right arm from straight down to straight up, then fully back to fully forward."
The right arm of the metal suit move deftly as it followed the Doctor's orders. "So, go in guns blazing and pick the biggest fight I can? Got it."
"That's the short version. Now repeat with your left arm."
As the left arm made its movements, nearly nocking the suits docking station over, it asked "How are Mars and Venus?"
"They're waiting at the shuttle. We're almost done. I need you to walk around a bit, then we'll double check the weapons." Doctor Ferrell said, finally looking up from her terminal to watch as her metal titan moved from its dock.
"By the way, why are you doing this? This station is guaranteed to be a target. You're taking a big risk being here." The titan queried as it marched around.
"This is important. Not only to New Eden and her defenders, but also to the people paying the bills. Honestly, the whole damn project and 6 years of my personal toils are at stake here. I need to be certain the suits are at 100% and that I'm on standby for if something goes wrong. I can't trust anyone else to that yet."
"Oh. Shit. Guess I'd better make one hell of a show."
"You better. You ready to test the weapons?"
"Yeah. Shoot the already shot up armor panel?"
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August 20, 2214: Cassandra Ferrell, Adams III Space Force Resupply Base
I've just met this asshole and I already want to throttle him!
Cass stood with at attention, along with the rest of Squad 4, all facing a caramel skinned, square jawed, 2 meter tall slab of human muscle wearing his blonde hair high and tight. The man was dressed in a set of camouflage fatigues with matching combat boots and the stereotypical, wide brimmed drill instructor hat. On his fatigues was a small patch above his right breast pocket with the word "ERICSSON." Did this the Instructor get his getup at a costume shop?
"NOW THAT YOU MAGGOTS HAVE FIGURED OUT HOW TO STAND IN A LINE, IT'S TIME FOR INTRODUCTIONS!" Instructor Ericsson shouted, at the top of his lungs, pacing back and forth on the grass and looking over his "students" like a wolf looks over a heard of sheep.
"I AM INSTRUCTOR ERICSSON AND YOU MAGGOTS WILL ONLY REFER TO ME AS INSTRUCTOR ERICSSON! WHEN YOU SAY SOMETHING TO ME, IT IS GOING TO START AND END WITH SIR! AM I UNDERSTOOD!?" Instructor Ericsson continued, stopping his pacing after his question.
"SIR, YES, SIR!" Came the reply from Squad 4 as Cass's gaze drifted over to Squad 6. Danny and company where sitting cross legged on the grass while Instructor Sam called out names. One by one, hands were raised and names were crossed off her list.
Instructor Sam turned around to set her clipboard down on the back of an SUV with some ablative panels attached to it, giving Cass a good view at the object of Danny's affections. She was an elf, wearing a camo T-shirt with the same black athletic shorts everyone else was wearing and blessed with fully human colored, yellow skin, sharp, squinted eyes, silky, chocolate hair done up in a bun, and blemish free skin. Her youthful, soft face became clear as Cass focused harder, as well as an athletic body with a tastefully large bosom. Jesus, Danny's setting his bar high.
"NAME!" Shouted Instructor Ericsson as hard as he could, barely 20 cm from Cass's face.
"Cassandra Ferrell." Cass replied, unamused. Do I look like a marine to you, asshole?
"WAS I NOT LOUD ENOUGH FOR YOU, MAGGOT?! WHEN YOU WERE OFF DAY DREAMING, I TOLD YOU MAGGOTS TO START AND END EVERY SENTENCE WITH SIR!" Ericsson shouted, spraying Cass with his spit and his breath. You need a breath mint.
"You actually said 'When you say something to me, it is going to start and end with sir,' but with more shouting." Cass replied, continuing to speak calmly and evenly.
"Listen here, maggot, you will do what I say as I say it or I will make sure that I see every meal you eat twice." Whispered Instructor Ericsson, as he stared Cass in the eyes. Brown and blue. He's heterochromatic.
"So you can talk like a normal person."
Instructor Ericsson took in a deep breath before growling out "Name."
"Cassandra Ferrell." I'm so glad you were paying attention the first time.
"Do you have a problem with authority, maggot?"
"No."
"Do you have a problem hearing, maggot?"
"No."
"THEN WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM?! MAGGOT!!" Instructor Ericsson spat out with pure venom.
Cass spoke with a slightly condescending tone as she said "We could start with that I'm not a marine, that you're a Civilian Combat Training Instructor, or that CCT is meant to teach how to be a creative militia, not how to be a soldier that blindly follows orders."
"THIS IS MY SQUAD, MAGGOT! YOU ARE IN MY SQUAD! I AM IN CONTR..."
Cass took in a deep breath before speaking. "You have already broken 4 UGEC laws in under an hour, including verbal abuse, verbal assault, and making threats. You have also broken at least 13 different social laws, split between the Federation of Yyyn Controlled Planets and the planetary government of G31-1-4 and you've probably committed hazing, but I would have to talk to some of my coworkers to get the exact details there."
"What of it?" Growled out the Instructor. I didn't realize he could turn a shade of tomato.
"A minimum of 30,000 Unity credits in fines and I'm sure that the legal team over at CCT Command would love to hear about your rampant law breaking, as well." Hold the poker face. Don't smile.
Before Instructor Ericsson could respond, a loud rumbling sound mixed with mechanical whining filled the air as a well used replica of a M3 halftrack drove out of one of the garage style tents. All of the groups and instructors watched as the M3 lazily rumbled across the dirt roads before parking in the center of the assembled groups. A speaker attached to the M3 shouted out "Squad 1, retrieve equipment."
Walking back to the front of Squad 4, Instructor Ericsson began pacing back and forth as he shouted "LISTEN UP, MAGGOTS! WHEN SQUAD 4 GETS CALLED, I EXPECT YOU MAGGOTS TO FORM A STRAIGHT, SINGLE FILE LINE, TAKE THE EQUIPMENT THE QUARTERMASTER HANDS YOU, THANK HIM, AND RETURN TO EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE STANDING! AM I UNDERSTOOD!?"
Squad 4, including Cass, responded with a "Sir, yes, sir." This battle isn't worth it.
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August 22, 2214: Doctor Brooke Reid Ferrell, UGEC Space Force New Eden Staging Station 8
"Mars, in position, awaiting orders."
"Venus, in position, awaitidng orders."
"Jupiter, in position, awaiting orders."
Doctor Ferrell sat in the command room, surrounded by computer terminals, monitors big and small, and Space Force officers. Her current chair was placed on a raised platform in the back, second in height to the chair in which the Admiral Wolf of the New Eden Defence Fleet sat, giving her the ability to see the whole of the command room.
The ironically quarter itari Admiral Wolf looked down at Dr. Ferrell, his 2 sandy brown, sort, cat-like ears standing straight up and facing forward. "Doctor, all units are in place and our ships have returned to defensive positions. Any words to the troops before I call radio silence?"
"Yes Admiral." Dr. Ferrell said, grabbing the microphone attached to her chair and pressing the TALK button. "All units, this is Doctor Ferrell. Operation Rocky Grave officially starts once Project Silent Night is activated. Until it has, you are to stay hidden. As you all know, the primary objective of Operation Rocky Grave is to prevent the namy fleet from reaching a firing position that can target New Eden, but what many of you don't know is the secondary object: To capture as many namy ships as possible. They possess tactically useful information and technology, but remember that to somebody on New Eden, each of you is more important than those ships. For that reason, I expect to see each of you return safely. Good luck and god speed."
Dr. Ferrell looked up at Admiral Wolf. "I'm done."
"All units, this is Admiral Wolf calling radio silence. It will be lifted 10 minutes after you successfully board an enemy vessel. Over."
One by one, the dots on the tac-map at the front of the command room slowly blinked out, until only the quantum-linked comm sat remained. With that, the whole of the command room breathed a sigh of relief before continuing their duties.
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August 20, 2214: Cassandra Ferrell, Adams III Space Force Resupply Base
Cass sat at the square wooden table with the skittish werewolf, her muscles aching. So far, she had set up her tent and cot, had a silent lunch with her squad, and then PT from lunch till dinner. I now understand why far worlders never seem to get fat. Cass took a moment to study the werewolf: a little under 3 meters tall, a wall of muscle covered in course black fur, with the assortment of arms and legs with the only notable change to the hands being ocean blue painted claws, and head that looked stolen straight from a wolf, gold eyes and all. She must be a gentle giant.
"Sssssssssooooooooo, what's your name?" Cass asked, poking at the mystery meat stew that claimed to be beef.
"Kathrine." The 3 meters of scaredy-cat replied, before nervously adding "But, but, but, my friends call me Kat."
"Bet the Kat jokes get old. I'm Cassandra, but everyone calls me Cass. It's a pleasure to meet you." Cass said, holding out her right hand and putting on a gentle smile.
"Yeah, they do and it is, uh, nice to meet, um, you too." Kat said, grabbing the comparatively tiny hand of Cass and giving it a good shake. I wonder if a belly rub would help her calm down.
"Have you had Ericsson before?" Cass asked, picking up her bowl of mystery meat stew and drinking it quickly, before she could taste it.
"Yeah, for 2 years now. I-I-I hope that you calling him out this morning makes him less shouty." Kat stated, hunching over the table as she spoke. Me too, girlfriend.
"Yeah, I think everyone agrees with you there, Kat. What do you do for a job? For fun?"
"Uh, um, well I'm a botanist. I mostly work on genetically engineering plants for new colonization efforts, but I've also done some work for planetary enterprises. If you've had corn, green beans or wheat products here, I worked on making those farmable on G31-1-4. As for what I do for fun? Floral gardening, mainly. I also like going to nezba concerts. It's nice, slow, quiet music." Ah ha! Got her talking confidently for a moment.
"I work as a translator for the diplomats up in Yadakulter station. Not many know this, but I'm actually fluent in 3 different wresh languages. For fun, I go to parties, thought there aren't that many on Yadakulter, hang out with fiends, listen to music, and sometimes play video games. Mostly just the ones that my friends get me into."
"Wow, that's way more intere..." Kat trailed off as Instructor Sam pulled a chair back from the square table.
"May I join ya?" Asked Instructor Sam, while setting down her bowl of what looked to be actual beef stew.
"Of course. I don't think we've met yet. I'm Cass." Cass said with a smile.
"I-I-I'm Kat. Nice to, to meet ya." Kat said, her body pulling back from the table a few centimeters.
"Instructor Samantha Kirk. Yes, both my parents were elves." Instructor Sam said, dismissively waving her right hand as she spoke of her lineage. Right, yyyn and elves take longer to happen than the rest of us.
"What brings you over to our little table?" Inquired Cass.
"I'm curious what got Erik so riled this morning. He shouted loud enough my squad couldn't hear what I was telling them and when I looked over he was close enough to kiss ya." Stated Instructor Sam before taking a bite of her actually beef stew.
"He just couldn't handle someone who wouldn't play boot camp with him." Cass said nonchalantly.
"You're maybe the second person I've met who can stand having Erik bear down on them. The other was an actual drill sergeant, if I remember correctly. So, how did you handle being under Erik's fire?" Instructor Sam asked, a couple of onion substitutes still in her mouth. Someone's seriously curious.
"Dad's in the SF. Back when I was little, he worked shuttle maintenance for a Space Force resupply base on New Eden. Spent half my childhood following Dad all around Hawthorne. Not only have I met sensor techs scarier than Ericsson, I also spent more than a few days watching poor saps go through boot camp. Most SF RDCs actually make good babysitters." Master Chief Schmidt was actually a really nice guy when he wasn't making recruits Schmidt themselves.
"RDCs?" Kat managed to get off before Instructor Sam could respond.
"Recruit Division Commanders. They're the drill instructors for the Space Force, and most UGEC navies." Cass recited back.
"Well that explains it. Bet he doesn't even compare to the professionals." Instructor Sam inquired. You don't even know the half of it.
"He lacks the creativity and the colorful words. It's hard to see someone whose entire repertoire of 'bad words' is maggot and fuck as intimidating." Cass stated.
Kat shivered a little before saying "Well, Instructor Ericsson scares me."
Without a moment's hesitation Cass blurted out "That's okay. You're a sweet girl, and he has no right to yell at you!"
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August 23, 2214: Codename Jupiter, Fenrir 4, New Eden Asteroid Belt, Anados Debris Field
Jupiter squirmed in his suit of Fenrir Assault Power Armor. Sure, it was designed to be lived in for 5 days, but not comfortably. Through the visor he could see the target of the test fire, a half kilometer long, beak shaped namy battleship, slowly shedding black plating to reveal the bright yellow and red hull beneath. Can the fucking birds make anything that doesn't look like it belongs in a children's book?
The Fenrir suit unlocked at Jupiter's command. Ah, it feels nice to be able to move again. With a careful squat and push, Jupiter and his armor began the slow hurtle towards the, now obviously a Kek-class, battleship. He looked around as he drifted, watching as the gamble started to show signs of paying off. Seems like the admiralty's belief that the namies were gonna bunch up was right. Within visual range (with only a 4x zoom require to see), there were hundreds of almost invisible black dots descending on the visible ships, and even a few slightly more visible shuttles.
As Jupiter looked back at his target, a small jet of white fluid shooting out from his suit to correct his course, he could see Mars (Fenrir 2) and Venus (Fenrir 1) clearly against the colorful Kek-class, each drifting a hundred, or so, meters ahead of him. Guess I'm gonna be stuck buying drinks when we get back. Within five minutes, Jupiter was reorienting himself to land feet first on his target, quickly checking where Mars and Venus had landed before him.
THUD. Jupiter took a moment to just walk for the first time in almost an entire day, lazily looking for where Venus was headed. Shit, if Venus finds the entrance first I'm gonna have to buy Mars dinner and drinks. To his dread, Jupiter spotted Venus already opening the maintenance panel to one of the Kek's external airlocks.
It didn't take long for Jupiter to group up with the other 2 Fenrir operators, who could only communicate by hand signals and aggressive nodding. Before Charades in Space was over, Venus managed to open the airlock. The 3 of them piled in before closing the outer door and, within 2 minutes after landing, entered the battleship.
When the airlock door opened, Jupiter could see a namy standing there, frozen in terror. The thing looked like someone took a dodo, made it the size of an emu, and then made it as colorful as a parrot. Fuck, fuck, shit. Jupiter dropped his shoulder down and charged, the Fenrir suit slamming into the namy, then the wall, leaving only a blood stain, a dent, and some feathers as evidence of the poor bird. That was... smooth. Looks like the doc was serious about operating at 100.
Jupiter took in the bright green hallway as his team readied their weapons: Each of them was equipped with an M301 Variable Yield Magnetic Acceleration Rifle, which borrowed its appearance from H&K's G36, a different wrist and shoulder weapon for each operator, and a backup M2-T3 Machine Gun, a modification of the almost 300 year old .50 machine gun that gave it a shorter, heaver barrel, shoulder stock, and pistol grip with trigger for use with powered armor. Rifle, check. Wrist mounted plasma projector, check. Shoulder mounted grenade launcher, check. Powder weapon, check.
By the 5 minutes after landing mark, Jupiter and his team had already captured the battleship's main computer and cleared it of hostiles. I'm amazed the namies put it so close to the airlock. While Venus set about pulling all the information they could, Jupiter spoke, the Fenrir suit turning his voice into something comparable to an artillery strike. "We've passed the five minute mark. Turn comms back on. I'll handle the sync with command. Mars, watch the door. Venus, keep doing whatever you are with the computer."
As the stream of data started flooding in, Jupiter commanded the suit's comm suite through the automated systems, finally getting a connection to command. "Command, this is Assault Team 100. We've boarded a kek class battleship and have gained access to the main computer core. We are pulling a full data dump and will upload immediately after. Over."
"Assault Team 100, this is command. We are ready to receive the packet whenever you are ready. Current positional data indicates you have boarded the Glorious Kek Class of Rightful Retribution and Mesmerizing Fire. I'm assigning your team to Battle Group 9. Over."
"Assignment received. Operative Venus has the packet and is sending it now. Will coordinate with Battle Group 9. Assault Team 100 out."
Jupiter waited as the tactical information of Battle Group 9 flooded in. 5 Thor suit fire teams, 20 SWAT units and 1 anti-terror unit. Primarily focused around the rear of the ship. According to the map Venus found, we're the closest to the bridge.
"Battle Group 9, this is Assault Team 100. According to a map we found, we're the closest to the bridge. Going to make a mad rush for the bridge, but we'll be down one. After Operative Venus is done uploading what she can pull from the central computer, she'll group up with the closest Assault Team. How copy?"
"This is Assault Team 29, serving as lead for Battle Group 9. We hear you Assault Team 100. We'll clean out the ass and perform the anti-scuttling operations, you go ahead after the bridge. Out."
Jupiter turned to Mars. "You're with me. Venus, you think you can keep yourself safe?"
"Go and have your guy time, I'll be fine." Venus replied with an annoyed tone.
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Jupiter and Mars tore through most of the path to the bridge with ease, their M301s taking care of most of the Rightful Retribution's security crew, but they had to resort to their M2-T3s and wrist weapons when they ran into namy powered armor units. Half an hour after the landing mark, Jupiter stood at a massive armored door, which Mars was pulling open far easier than he had any right to.
Why do I get the feeling this is the boss zone?
Jupiter entered the massive room with his left arm extended, his M301 securely in his right. As the namy powered armor suits of ocean blue and scarlet red jumped from their ambush, Jupiter let loose with his wrist's plasma projector. The bright green and blue beam took barely a second each to cook his seven assailants inside their own armor.
A blast of yellow plasma made Jupiter's shields activate fully, the operator quickly rolling to his right. Capacitors at 3% and reactor generating at full power. Please don't be a tank. Jupiter stood up from his roll and ran quickly, dodging the barrage of yellow plasma consistently being sent in his direction.
After finding a position the new enemy could fire at him in, Jupiter peeked around the corner of the half melted namy tank he had hunkered behind. Firing at his position were 3 namy heavy tanks, each mounted with dual tank killing plasma projectors, anti-infantry laser cannons, and ramming blades. That is some bullshit levels of firepower. Were they planning a ground invasion?
When Mars entered the vehicle bay, Jupiter had already gotten all three of the heavy tanks attention, allowing him to easily walk far enough in the bay to have the vertical clearance to launch both of his shoulder mounted anti-tank missiles. Each missile launched straight into the air, turned almost on a dime, then flew downward onto their targets. At this range, the tanks' active defenses didn't have time to intercept the missiles, allowing them to penetrate the tops of the tanks' turrets and explode leaving a lone heavy tank, which now angrily turned towards Mars.
Perfect timing, you son of a bitch. Jupiter ran to the next bay as the tank followed his teammate. Capacitors at 12%. The wrist projector is going to suck up too much juice. The bay that Jupiter ran into held only the floating equivalent of a humvee, daintily hovering with a power line keeping it alive. This'll do. Jupiter grabbed the rear of the namy humvee and ran, pushing it into the vehicle bay's main corridor and giving it a single, hard push towards the last tank. As the namy humvee ripped from the power line, it quickly began falling towards the ground, skidding underneath the tank and pushing its rear higher, throwing a shot that could have killed Mars into the floor with a loud crash.
Mars hauled ass into the vehicle bays as the last tank turned back to Jupiter. Capacitors at 18%. Still no good. Jupiter jumped towards a pile of crates, using the cold thrusters to provide what little extra help they could. Please be empty, please be empty. A burst of molten metal shot from the front of the crate Jupiter hid behind as the first shot from the tank hit it. Jupiter quickly looked around and found another namy humvee in its bay and sprinted over to it, barely avoiding the tank's second shot.
22%. I wish Mars had taken that wrist rocket. The namy heavy tank rumbled as it rushed towards Jupiter's position, plasma projectors glowing yellow and ready to fire. Jupiter braced to run again when the tank's plasma projectors suddenly shut down, followed by yellow plasma shooting out of the top of the turret of the tank. He quickly walked out of the vehicle bay that could have been his grave.
Mars stood opposite the tank from Jupiter as he exited, holding one of the plasma projectors the namy tanks used with a long power line attached to it. Motioning down to the projector, Mars asked "Hey Jupiter, can I keep it?"
"Will you remember to feed and groom it daily, Mars?"
"Aww, fine." Mars tossed the tank projector to the ground, a loud thump echoing through the vehicle bay.
Jupiter turned towards the fore door of the vehicle bay. Two hallways, a set of stairs, then the bridge itself.
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40 minutes after after the landing mark, Jupiter and Mars stood at the blast door to the bridge, Jupiter ramming his shoulder into the bridge door repeatedly, making the dent in it bigger and bigger.
"I should have taken the grav pulse cannon Venus had." Mars said between the sounds of 30 centimeters of metal slowly giving way.
"The shotgun's gonna be more useful once were in!" Jupiter said as he finally sailed through the door, sending the piece of metal into the bridge, crushing one of the too colorful birds. Mars charged in shortly after, the gatling shotgun on his wrist sending over 2,000 lead pellets into the whole of the bridge.
As Jupiter stood up, recovering from winning his fight with the door, he surveyed the damage. Looks like we were just in time. Jupiter moved over to the pilots panel, which was thankfully holographic and undamaged by Mars's torrent of lead. Turning down every slider he could identify, Jupiter looked up just in time to witness a namy use the last of his life to press one of the holographic buttons.
A bright yellow flashed over the view screen as a ball of plasma was launched at relativistic speeds, leaving view as quickly as it had come into it. Jupiter and Mars stood still, taking in what had just happen, when a message was broadcast to all New Eden units.
"This is Captain Colbert of the Finality! Staging Station 8 has been hit! I repeat, Staging Station 8 has been hit!. Looks like atmosphere is leaking out and the Finality is picking up fires near the impact zone... Oh god, it's spinning and it looks like auto-correction is causing the station to enter a de-orbit trajectory. The Finality is moving to provide emergency aid!"
Jupiter felt paralyzed. If the station de-orbited and hit anywhere on New Eden, it would be devastating. And if the Doc goes, I'm gonna have to tell Taylor. Mars, on the other hand, moved like a blur, appearing over the dying namy, unloading the last of his rotary shotgun and the final 50ish rounds of his M2 into the bird, leaving only a hole where the bird once was.
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August 25, 2214: Cassandra Ferrell, Nerolter's Ethanol Hut and Grill
Cass sat at the bar, nursing a beer and rubbing her sore muscles. 5 days in a row of PT, team building exercises, and sleeping in tents on shitty wooden cots and the worst of it was the wannabe drill instructor! At least I get a two day break from it. She looked at the kigkig bartender, a 10 limbed, ant-like horror with 4 of its limbs forming a quadpod stand at its hips with the other 6 being arms with 3 clawed digits that were currently cleaning glasses and serving drinks, with two gecko-like eyes planted into an otherwise ant-like head, mandibles and all. The dirt brown exoskeleton of the kigkig made the body, head and abdomen appear as if they were armored, despite the little guy only being 120ish cm tall.
"Hey Cass, how you holding up?" Came the voice of Danny as he sat down next to Cass.
"Sore, but alive. They don't talk about the CCT PT in the core worlds. Wait... what are you doing here, you're not old enough to drink yet!" Cass replied.
"Getting dinner and checking up on a friend. I was originally hanging out with my squad, but they've gone barhopping."
"Oh. Was Sam with them?" Cass questioned, eyebrows raising.
"No, she had a checkup meeting, or something like that." Danny said, his upper shoulders drooping slightly.
"Have you tried asking her out?"
"No. I live on the station and she lives planet side. I don't think that kind of long distance relationship would work. Besides, when would I even ask?" Danny threw up his arms as he spoke, setting them back down gently as his food arrived.
"Listen, Danny. Ask her when the rest of the squad isn't around, because if you ask in front of a crowd, any yes you get'll be forced. You may have to ask her if you can talk to her in private. She seems like a nice girl, so I doubt she'll be a dick about it." Cass spoke with her motherly voice. Here I am giving sage advice.
"Yeah, but that doesn't help the whole long distance thing. Having to get a shuttle down to the planet kills the idea of impromptu dates and stuff." Danny said, sounding even more defeated than before.
"Look, Danny, she works for CCT. She isn't really going to be able to do the impromptu stuff, so you'd have plenty of warning on when you could go down and visit, or she could come up and visit. Outside of that, find a game, or something, on the web the two of you can have fun over. That helps to shrink the distance."
"That's a good point, Cass. You win this one. You just here to drink or do you need me out of your hair?"
"Don't know yet, but I'm planning on drinking proper, so you may want to go off on your own before I end up ruining our friendship while I'm drunk."
Danny stood up while grabbing his food. "Enjoy your night. Oh, if your up for it tomorrow, there's an arcade I know about that the rest of my squad is 'too old for.'" Bet Danny's squad can't handle having their asses kicked by preteens with nothing better to do.
"Thanks, we'll see tomorrow." Cass said, taking another sip from her drink.
After an hour, or so, of drinking, eating and talking with the locals, Cass was approached by an elven woman, turning to look at the lithe figure as she approached. The woman was a roughly 160 cm tall brunette, her silky hair falling halfway down her back, with perfectly tanned skin, a soft face, as far as a drunken Cass could tell, and a body straight from baywatch. The elf's ears stuck out from her hair, the right ear having 3 silver earings rings that hugged the lobe near its point while the left was left as nature made it. I can't tell if its the booze, but she might be a goddess.
Sitting down next to Cass and putting a bill, that Cass was too drunk to read quickly, on the counter, the elf turned to Cass and said "Can I buy you a drink beautiful?"
"You can buy me as many as you like. I'm Cass. You?" Cass replied, a hungry smile spreading itself across her lips.
"Erika. Now, what brings a cute kitsune like you to my favorite watering hole?" The elf woman replied, taking a seat and holding up 2 fingers to the kigkig bartender.
"Got today and tomorrow off from CCT, so I figured I'd save tomorrow for hangover day." Cass casually shrugged as a 2 shots of clear liquid were placed before her and Erika.
"First week? You gotta be sore after that." Erika jokingly said before throwing back her shot.
"Hell yeah I'm sore, but I feel great right now!" Cass grabbed her shot and tossed it back.
"What do you think about waking up sorer tomorrow?" Erika said, holding up 2 fingers to the bartender again, a grin matching Cass's upon her lips.
"I'm listening." Cass said, leaning in closer to Erika and tossing back her shot the moment the bartender let go of it.
"Well, a friend of mine is setting up an orgy tonight and when I saw you, I thought 'That cute little kitsune at the bar would make for a great friend to bring to the orgy.'" Erika said, her smile growing larger as she spoke.
"You know what, I'll bite. How much longer do I have to get to know you?" Cass asked.
"About an hour."
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This post started out as a comment for this thread, but then it got long and I decided it warranted its own post. It's about what to do when people stare you down and say things like "I think you have AK."
I love when people do this. The person is rarely if ever being honest, and most often looking for a reaction. Similar statements include "I'm thinking of calling," "I don't feel like you have anything here," or the classic "I don't know if I can fold this."
There are basically three levels of livetell training one can have. Either untrained, classically trained, or scientifically trained.
Untrained ranges from your online player who's mixing in live games to your rank novices and even includes some livegame veterans who actually ignore their opponents for some reason. These players will often have heard generalized advice about what to look for, but you can generally assume these players don't have any kind of system in place. If you don't have a system in place, then all you have is what's called a "calling reflex." Players want to call, because they want to win. They will look for something to convince them to call. Doing anything -- smiling, laughing, looking angry, fidgeting, receiving a phone call from your mother, they'll be looking for a way to interpret it as "that means he's weak."
What to do if an untrained player says this: If an untrained player says "I'm thinking of calling" or something similar (it's usually more aggressive like "I think you just have ace high" or "I feel like you're bluffing here"), they're looking for a reaction. If you want a call, do something. Anything. Touch your face (except not now, because COVID). Shrug. Smile awkwardly. Check your cards again. Shift your weight in your seat. Make a jerk-off motion with your hand. Scream out loud and then try to hide under the table. Doesn't matter if it's weak or strong, but things actually work best if they look less deliberate. Any of these things, though, can trigger a calling reflex. If you want them to fold, don't change anything. Pretend you didn't hear them. Wait for the dealer to tell you that you've won.
Classically trained means anyone who's read one of many hundreds of books on poker tells and/or has played a fair amount of live poker. You'll recognize experience and attention to poker tells by someone who's "standardized" their poker behavior. They often try to look at their cards the same way every time. They often try to use the same hand to act. If they use a card protector or a chip on their cards, they try to do so every single hand. Most poker pros have the same advice for how to avoid giving off tells, and players that follow this advice have usually heard advice on how to find tells, as well. The advice they've heard is almost always the same -- "Strong means weak. Weak means strong."
Players like these are more likely to call you when you announce your bets and raises loudly, or throw your chips in. They're less likely to call a carefully-placed bet done silently. They think you'll stare at them when you're weak and look away when you're strong. They're looking for all these behaviors. However, when they say something to you in a big spot, they're usually not looking for any of these things. You have to know what they're looking for and what they're thinking before you can really know how to respond.
Most modern tell books and even some old ones (like Mike Caro's book) recognize the difference between what's now called controlled and uncontrolled behavior. Controlled behavior is what you choose to do -- you choose to throw your chips in aggressively, to puff your chest out, etc. These are the behaviors that follow the "weak means strong and strong means weak" rule, and because they're controlled, they're the ones that classically trained players are least trusting of. They're the most common "tells", but also the least-reliable. Someone who's read the same book could easily be doing the opposite. So they look for the uncontrolled tells. The quick, automatic glance at your chips when you have a big hand. The way your hands shake a little when you hit a monster. The partially-concealed smile when they sound like they're going to fold. They've also read, or heard, that if they stare you down longer, they often will get a reaction after 20-30 seconds that they wouldn't if they acted faster. One of the most common questions they ask is "If I fold, will you show?" This has two objectives -- first, to see if you react positively to the concept of folding or are willing to offer something to get them to fold. Players with strong hands often immediately say "no." Second, because they want to see as many hands as possible to see if they're right. These players have a system and they'll follow it until you prove them wrong, so obviously never ever show them your hand unless you've reached showdown and have to.
What to do if a classically trained player says this: If they say something implying you're weak? They're probably thinking of folding. They're looking for a positive knee-jerk reaction. They're ready to fold if you smile (especially if you try to stop or cover it), if you look at your chips, or if you somehow look more comfortable. Speaking back is a mixed bag. Saying anything makes you seem comfortable -- one of the most commonly-quoted rules is "speech means the nuts." Of course, because they said they're thinking of calling you, a lot of players will speak deliberately to change their mind, saying something like "Well if you think I'm weak, you should call," which some books will advise as weak. This is why controlled behavior is less-trustworthy, both for them to read and for you to use to get them to do what you want. You don't know what books they read or what they believe, so it's best to rely on convincingly dropping some "uncontrolled" behavior. (This is also why they're more likely to say something that sounds weak, like "If I fold, will you show?" Some books advise this to make players who speak in response more reliably strong, although almost all consider the offer to show cards to be weak.)
So if a classically trained player says they think you're weak, they're looking for comfort. If you want them to call or raise, the best thing to do is to look like you're trying to seem comfortable, but aren't. If you catch yourself smiling reflexively, don't hide it -- force it bigger. Make it seem more fake. But generally, the best thing to do is to be as still as possible, hold your breath for a bit, then "break." Start breathing again, shift in your chair, make eye contact with them, force a smile... the big gun is to touch your cards. NOT to look at them, like there's anything worth looking at there. To simply touch them. When players are considering whether to call or fold a big bet, one of the things they often do before they fold is to touch their cards, and classically trained players know this. They'll often raise you with nothing if you do this.
If you want them to fold, just be comfortable. If it helps, know that they're usually saying something to you -- anything, really -- because they're thinking of folding. You've already won, so relax. Don't hold your breath or try to hold still. Don't even worry too much about seeming nervous. The more you're willing to engage, the more afraid to call you your opponent will be. One thing that has literally never failed for me when getting one of these players to fold is to stare at them for a second and then say, in mock seriousness: "Now, I don't know everything, sure, but correct me if I'm wrong here, because I've heard it both ways... I believe that putting nipples on a butt does not make it boobs. What are your thoughts?" That won't work for everyone, but basically, classically-trained players are warned that such behavior doesn't come from players who are afraid of being called.
Scientifically-trained players are few and far between. It's expensive and rarely cost-effective to learn how to actually find tells. The reality is, classical poker tells training is easier to learn, easier to implement (requires less concentration) and is usually effective enough to get by when combined with sound poker strategy. Actual scientific training can cost thousands, requires serious dedication and takes a lot longer. Rather than looking for general rules of thumb and common tells, scientific training involves watching an individual player, cataloging his behavior over time and in various situations, and then trying to come up with a strategy and implement it. A scientifically-trained player will say, "This player looks like he's got a fair amount of table experience and has somewhat standardized all his actions. He waits till his turn to act before checking his cards every time. He'll check his cards, usually looking at them for about 1 second, then plays with his chips with his right hand before placing a chip on his cards and finally calling or raising. Three times, he called or raised before putting a chip on his cards, then remembered to put one on after. All three times, he showed a premium hand of AK or better."
These kinds of live tells can be incredibly powerful if properly exploited, but obviously, collecting that kind of information is time-consuming and requires a lot of focus. Generally, the advice for playing against these players is not to worry about them. First, you're so rarely going to encounter one, and they're not unlike card-counters in blackjack -- they may very well have a system in place, but that doesn't mean they know how to execute it. For every successful card-counting blackjack player, there are three or four who learned a little about it but aren't good enough to actually make money. If anyone's interested in how to get such training, they can PM me and I can give them some information, but keep in mind that it takes long hours of study AND a significant course fee, and for most people, I wouldn't recommend it.
If you actually WERE sitting at a table with a strong player with good scientific training on how to spot tells, you still wouldn't have to worry too much. That kind of training means you can only really watch three or four players, so selecting profitable targets is the first step. When I sit down, I'm looking for someone who 1) gets into a lot of pots, so knowing whether they're strong is more worthwhile, 2) has somewhat standardized behavior and generally stays still, so things like breath rate and blink rate are easier to watch for, 3) always checks their cards at the same time -- preferably when its their first turn to act 4) looks like they have a reasonable understanding of poker (often, I'll reference a name like Phil Galfond or Fedor Holz and see if they recognize the name, as this is a good indicator of how intently they study the game). So for a lot of players, you won't be playing the playstyle that I'm looking for anyway. If you are, you can turn me off by checking your cards at a different time in the hand -- not as soon as you get the cards, but while it's someone else's turn to act, and my attention might be elsewhere. Also, the more mercurial you are in your actions, the more differences in behaviors I observe, the harder it is to watch you. Some behaviors mean something, and some mean nothing, so the more "noise" there is, the longer it'll take me to observe you. I prefer to play against casino regulars whom I can observe over long sessions (or, most ideally, several long sessions) and so can exploit productively long-term.
If a scientifically-trained player says he thinks you just have ace-high, he's definitely fishing for a response, but most of the time, he's already made a decision. Usually in this spot you want to treat him like a classically-trained player, because he's either got you figured out or he doesn't. If he does, just don't try to bluff him so often. Introducing more noise once he knows what to look for is rarely effective. The main benefit behind scientific training is that it's pretty reliable once you know what you're looking for on a specific player, so if someone's genuinely got you figured out, it's probably not profitable to play against him. You can try to figure out what you're doing wrong and do it differently, but you'll usually just be guessing, and that's hit-or-miss. Mostly miss.
But yeah, for every player who's actually able to find individual tells on you, there are literal thousands who can't and won't, so most of the time, when you hear probing speech play, it's an opportunity. The player's looking for something to influence his decision, and figuring out what he's looking for is key in getting him to do what you want.

Hello there internet! I know you've all missed me. I just worked the FABULOUS Baton Rouge gun show right here in the heart of cajun country, and have I got stories.
Do you want to hear stories about dealers selling $350 SCCY 9mm pistols? Or Magtech 9mm for $550/thousand? Or how I sold 14 guns in one day for a new PB on saturday? Or how I set my gross sales for a gun show weekend PB?
No. You don't want to hear that.
You clicked on this thread for the stories. And stories you are going to get!
My loadout was epic. Glocks, HK's, Sigs, Colt 6920's, Springfield Hellcats, you name it I had it in stock. And priced accordingly. I set everything up the night before and I had even more stuff to bring in Saturday morning.
The PA crackled and announced all guns should be tied and ready to go and at 9AM the masses came in looking for deals. And in some cases, they found some.
I had one guy saunter over looking for an S&W M&P 15-22. I only had two left in stock and not enough space on the tables for them. He says he'll take one sight unseen, I do his paperwork and get his money and tell him to show up at the show tomorrow and I'll have it ready for him to pickup. He's got his ID and everything together and it's smooth sailing. $500 in hundreds and he's on his way. I run him through the computer and I've got an instant approval. Woo.
My login screen warns me that background checks are taking 24 hours.
I had a feeling this would happen. I velcroed a small dry erase board to the wall just above my table that states: ALL BACKGROUND CHECKS ARE TAKING ________ MINUTES to be updated as the day gets weirder. I wipe off the minutes part and write "24 HOURS" in red dry erase marker.
I can hear the crowd behind me gasp and go "24 hours? I need a gun NOW!" in their heads and the pro salesman inside my noggin cracks a smile, leans back in the eames chair and puts his feet up on the ottoman. I have just implanted the most powerful driver of sales ever: fear.
Boy howdy, did it work.
The next hour is epic. I write ALL my Gen 5 Glock 19's up at $850. I am sold out by 11AM. Everything is flying off the table. Shield 9mm's, Stripped lowers, EZ shields, $300 Ruger LCP's, $700 Glock 43's.
What's the best $850 gun? An HK VP9, Glock 19 or Kel Tec Sub 2000? Fuck if I know. I sold one of each of them at that price.
It is nonstop asses and elbows and cash coming in left and right. I cannot count the money and run 4473's fast enough.
Noon flies by and I'm unable to touch my roast beef sandwich. I'm wearing gloves and a mask. This fucking mask SUCKS. It STINKS. It's brand new and it smells god-awful like someone used it to wipe their ass before packaging it and selling it in the store.
I don't shake anyones hand but I do count the money. The first lull hits at 1345. I ask my numismatist neighbor to watch the table as I go to the bathroom and wash my hands several times. I scarf down my sandwich fast and by 3PM things have calmed down. Crazy day. People asking me over and over for Taurus junk, Glock 43X's, Glock 48's, Glock 19 Gen 5's etc.
1: Hey do you have a Glock Generation 17?
FC: I will be dead in the cold cold ground before Glock ships a generation 17
1: Oh I meant a Glock 17
FC: right here
1: Are you seriously asking $850 for a Glock 17?
FC: Not asking. Getting.
I gesture to the person filling out a 4473 who has just asked me to write up a Glock 17 Generation 5 MOS for $850 and he nods with affirmation that that is in fact the price.
It is explained to this guy that there is not a single dealer in the ENTIRE GUN SHOW that has ANY glock pistols for sale from the 17 buyer since he's gotten here. I am the only one with inventory left. I debate hiking my prices another $50 but decide not to.
Some more folks saunter up
1: Do you have a ruger RS 9?
FC: ruger does not make an RS 9
1: Sure they do! It's called the service 9 now
FC: Can you google a photo for me?
1: I only use duckduckgo
FC: Fine, show me what an RS 9 looks like and let me see
(15 minutes of furious duckduckgoing ensues with no results)
FC: Are you sure it's an RS9?
1: I'm positive!
FC: Are you sure it couldn't be something else?
1: It's an RS9! I'm sure of it!
FC: Look at this
(FC shows image of Ruger SR9)
1: That's it!
FC: See how it says SR9?
1: Yeah, service 9 right?
FC: No, SR9 is SR9.
1: Then who makes the service 9?
FC: I don't think that's a thing.
1: Sure it is!
(More fuckfuckgo ensues, and it is abundantly clear that RS9 = SR9 = Service 9 = Security 9)
I have an old lady and her husband walk up and she picks up a Glock 19. Asks me if I take trades. I say sure.
1: It's a ruger revolver.
FC: What model?
1: Ruger
FC: No, what model? You're saying hey, I own a ford.
1: Oh okay. It's a Ruger 38. It shoots 38.
FC: I need a little more than that. What kind is it.
1: Oh I see. It's a revolver.
FC: Your statement is like "hey, I need an oil filter. I have a ford car" - ford makes lots of cars, ruger makes lots of guns.
1: What would a model sound like?
FC: SP101, GP100, Single 6, 22/45, SR22, LC9
1: Oh I have no idea what it is
FC: Bring it in and I'll take a look. But I only trade when I can make money.
Wrote a Sig 1911 up for $1000 as my last sale of the day. I head home, I am beat.
My neighbors took advantage of the fireworks store and their buy one get 9 free special and have enough mortars and bottle rockets to simulate Falliujah, circa 2004. They're shooting fireworks well past 1AM. Fuck me to tears.
Day 2
I wake up late and get to the show late. I kick off the show 15 minutes late and I have a guy trying to buy a Glock 19 from me. His ID does not have his current address and does not match up with the 4473. He asks if it will be a problem. I say it's no problem just get me something with your current address on it before the firearm releases.
1: But the dealer on the other side of the hall had NO PROBLEM taking this ID!
FC: I've made a living on my attention to detail. The federal regulation book says you need current ID.
1: Never mind! Gimme my ID back!
He snatches the clipboard and rips his ID from the board and walks away in a huff. His girl tries to apologize. I roll my eyes. Not my circus, not my elephants.
The morning starts off slow, I'm sleepy but it's not a total snoozefest. A very nice lady came by and picked up a PWS Mod 2 without argument on the price,
I wrote up another couple guns before lunch. One person has the WORST HANDWRITING ON THE FACE OF THE PLANET. I mean, it's bad. I emailed my brother who works as a pharmacist and said "hey, can you read this?" and he said "It looks like it says 492 milligrams of penicilin? what am I reading?"
Yeah.
The rest of the show goes on, I write up a few more glocks and I deliver everything that I wrote yesterday once the background checks come back. Everyone is super nice and polite. One lady stops by and she cannot decide between the Glock 17 Gen 5 MOS and the Sig P238. She asks if she can get a deal on both.
I look up at her and her life partner and this is the precise moment I was waiting for all weekend.
You see gentle readers... some guys like to go get drunk and party. Others like to hang glide or skydive. They like that adrenaline rush. Me? I like the deals. I love to make deals. Nobody makes deals like this America. Nobody. Not China. Not Crooked Hillary. Not Lyin Ted Cruz. Believe me, these deals are going to make America great again. You will be sick and tired of the deals that I make. Unprecedented deals.
I gesture for her to come in a little closer and put on my best sotto voice.
FC: I don't normally do this, but just for you.......if you take both guns. I'll throw in one of these. I don't normally do this.
FC reaches under the table and pulls out a mega pack of Charmin Ultra Strong TP and places it on top of the PD trade in Glock 17's and 21's.
I slap the top of the package triumphantly.
FC: You two can have all the Chipotle you want with this bad boy!
1 looks at me with the "you cannot be serious" face
2 looks at me with the "you know this isn't a bad deal" face
1: Is this a joke?
FC: Nope! I'll write both of em up right now, you get the guns AND the TP!
1: This is......I don't even know what to think. Lisa?
2: That's Charmin.
1: Are you seriously considering this?
2: Everybody poops! Make the deal!
1 pulls out the Amex. I write up both the guns. They leave happy with their guns and TP. I'm sure it all fits in the back of the subaru outback.
I write up a few more items and near the end of the show, three guys show up. One is on the phone talking rapidly in a foreign language. He waves me over.
1: The police trade Glock 17's. This all you have?
FC: The three on the table is all I got.
1: I’ll take three of these Glock 17’s. Make me a deal.
FC: $2100 cash on all three.

1. CASH?

FC: Cash out the door.
1: Deal
(I hand over clipboard)
1, 2 and 3 begin talking in machine gun Romanian. 1 has taken a seat and 3 is filling out the paperwork. I say what the fuck. 3 keeps filling out the form. I rip it off the clipboard, Hand it to 1 and tell him to fill it out. He completes the form.
1: I only want one now
FC: you just said you wanted three
2: yeah If you’re not going to work a deal on three he only wants to buy one
Me: who is he?
1: I’m buying
Me: no, who’s the gun for?
2: it’s for his father
1: It's for me
FC: What?
1: it’s for me
2: It's for his father!
FC: then why isn’t your father here?
The looks on their faces tell me everything. They are shitty poker players. The phone and the machinegun romanian, he was a straw doing a buy on behalf of another party. I call shenannigans.
FC: These aren't for you are they?
1: They're for me!
2: They're for his father! come on! His father wants him to have a gun for him too
3: let’s get out of here we can take our money elsewhere gimme my id
Me: it’s not your ID, it’s 1’s ID. Who's ID is this?
3 tears the clipboard out of my hand, takes his ID off the board and I don’t speak Romanian but these guys are now pissed at me
Total people I’ve ticked off today: 4
I didn't choose this life. So now I've got a totally complete 4473 that I need to fill out for three PD trade Glock 17's. I look down at the address. It's three hours away.
It's in ATF Jane's district. You all remember ATF Jane?
Jane puts bad people in jail and likes Shake Shack. We get along SPLENDIDLY. In fact, I consulted her on the firearms/stalking/restraining order article I wrote about Megan and her Ex. She's a super professional federal law enforcement superstar in my book.
Well, time to make a call. I get her VM and leave her a message as I pack up everything and count my cash. 21 guns for the weekend. $13k in sales for one gun show at coronagunrun margins make me one happy boy.
My investments in the collapse of society are now paying dividends in spades!
I'm driving home and ATF Jane returns my call. I tell her the story about the Rumanian gypsy straw purchase ring I had to shutdown.
ATF: You have got to be shitting me
FC: Nope. The guys literally ran their mouth and made me shut it down.
ATF: What a bunch of idiots.
FC: Yeah, they were buying from a few dealers judging by their bags and their haul. I think there might be an investigation warranted.
ATF: Thanks for the tip! Let me know if I can help you out in any way!
I look down at my watch, it's 645PM and I'm too tired to cook tonight. I pull the F350 into the Olive Garden parking lot, head in for dinner and the place is PACKED.There's a few people in the bar but not too many, everyone wants tables. I can see other salesmen on their laptops so I know the wifi is up. This is a good sign. I take out my laptop and write this out in the bar from a high top as I feast on breadsticks and chicken gnocchi soup.
My phone rings halfway into my second bowl of creamy chicken gnocchi goodness.
FC: Go for Will
1: hey man, I saw your post on armslist
FC: Okay, how can I help you?
1: I need a gun. You got a glock fawty?
FC: What model? 22, 23, 27, 35 or what?
1: aw man you got more than one?
FC: I have four to five hundred guns for sale at any given moment. What are you looking for?
1: aw hell yeah! lemme tell you what i need! I need some dracos, mini dracos. got any?
FC: no, sorry. I just did the gun show this weekend and I sold out of a lot of stuff.
1: What about an AR pistol? You got any of those?
FC: I got one Sig 516 pistol left in stock
1: will that shoot 223 AND 556?
FC: Sure, chamber is cut wide enough
1: yeah that'll work. When can we meet? I got CASH. Straight cash yo!
FC: Why don't you come down tomorrow, I'll get your cash and do your paperwork. Three day wait if you don't have a concealed.
1: WHAT DO YOU MEAN PAPERWORK?
FC: You gotta do paperwork, is that a problem?
1: I'm looking for a STRAIGHT CASH DEAL man I don't want to do no paperwork, I want to just cash and carry same day!
FC: You want to make one trip and pickup?
1: Yeah man!
FC: Okay no problem, just give me your credit card and when your wait clears come in and pick everything up.
1: Yo I'm three hours away! Why you gotta make me do paperwork?
FC: What's the problem here? You don't trust me?
1: I don't trust you! I want to just give you cash to not do paperwork. Like I'll give you $1000 extra so I can get everything without a wait.
(Note: I'm having this conversation ON THE PHONE IN THE BAR of the Olive Garden with all the other diners in earshot. This is where it gets good.)
FC: Let me get this right. You want to pay me $1000 extra just so you don't want to have to do a waiting period and paperwork?
1: yeah! thats right!
FC: Why's that worth that much more to you?
1: I got a felony so I can't do no paperwork
FC: So it sounds like you got a felony and you got cash to spend and you want a no paperwork deal on a bunch of guns.
1: that's right! So can you help me?
FC: Where you at?
1: I'm outside Mobile, about three hours away
FC: Okay here's what I'm gonna do. I probably can't help you, but here's what I'm gonna do. Whats the best number for you? I got a buddy of mine from high school who works with guys like you all the time. I'm going to give him a call and give him your number and if he wants to meet up with you, he's gonna set that up - you're talking to him from now on and not me. Got it?
1: yeah man that would be great! have him call me or text me here's my digits (he gives me number and I write it down on a cocktail napkin)
FC: Okay I'll pass it along - no promises
1: thanks nigga!
I hang up the phone. I take a deep breath and smile.
So, I told you that story to tell you another story. Back when I was in high school, I was a real hellraiser. One of the guys that I went to Central High with went LE. He started as a sleepy road cop and promoted to narcotics detective. His claim to fame is busting a bigtime celebrity with drugs and basically made his career on that arrest. Since he was USELESS for undercover work after that he decided to go to the feds. He then spent about 5 years working with the state department and DSS doing all sorts of secret squirrel shit across the globe while paying DC rent for a capitol hill apartment he was never at. That got old. So he put in for a transfer. This is about 5 years ago back in 2015.
He decided to go to ATF and be major league doorkicker. He goes to transfer and they need a DEEP background check. Like someone that's known him for 10+ years from hometown. He's low on contacts from home and he facebook messages me. He asks me if I can call back the background investigator and do an interview. I say sure, no problem. I am the ONLY person that's still in the same town from high school and everyone else is dead/in jail/would not make a good person to contact.
The guy calls me, comes by my office and interviews me, asks me about my friend, I told him all the embarrassing stories from high school including the time he lost a bet, had to wear a dress and smear ranch dressing all over his face while holding a sign that said "NOT MILK! and we took polaroids. Yeah. Anyways, despite all that he gets the approval and the shiny ATF badge. He's now kicking down doors in an undisclosed location in a major gun/drug trafficking corridor of the US and up to his eyeballs in arrests.
The reason I told you this story? He went to police academy in mobile, was a road cop outside mobile and a narcotics detective outside mobile. He did is MPA and doctorate there. He still has lots of friends in southern law enforcement.
I pick up the phone and call him. No answer, VM.
FC: Hey Eddie, you still have friends at the Mobile County Sheriffs Department? I've got some low hanging fruit for them to pick.
The entire bar has heard the dialogue and the following voicemail message and cracks up laughing. I'm offered 2 beers (I show them my AA chip, thanks but no thanks) and I get a bunch of attaboys from the salesmen.
So, I call back ATF Jane. ATF Jane has some colleagues in Mobile that she can call and I CC Eddie on the chain.
Today, I didn't even have to use my AK.
I got to say it was a good day.
Brb. Lasanga.

The scarecrow
Link to the visual- https://www.reddit.com/deadbydaylight/comments/id90nkiller_concept_the_scarecrow/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=iossmf
Name- Jackson Harper Gender- Male Nationality- English American Realm- Grave of Glendale Power- The Harvest Weapon- The scythe Movement Speed- 115% Alt Movement speed- 160% Terror Radius- 16 metres Height- Tall
Power: The Harvest-
The Harvest: Press and hold the power button to transfer your vision onto an undisturbed crow near a random survivor allowing their location and actions to be tracked. Using The Harvest will remove your terror radius.
Special Ability: Hollow Bodies When standing next to a scarecrow post press the active ability button to become an undetectable and invisible being. Doing so allows The Scarecrow to freely traverse the realm. The Scarecrow loses sight of survivors and can only leave this form by pressing the active ability button next to a Hollow Body on a Scarecrow Post, re-entering his physical body and briefly losing his red stain.
Power Trivia-

• The harvest takes 60 seconds to recharge
• When The Harvest ability is fully charged the Scarecrow loses his red stain until he finds and chases a survivor.
• The Harvest takes 1 second to activate and leave, and has a maximum of 6 seconds of crow vision time.
• Survivors who attempt to to scare the spying crow during The Harvest will not stop the ability and the crow will not react. Allowing survivors to realise they’ve been spotted.
• If no survivor is in eyesight of a sitting crow The Harvest cannot be used but the charge will not cancel.
• Using the harvest will place the scarecrow on his own scarecrow post and drops his terror radius to 0.
• The harvest will not pick a crow for a survivor on the hook.
• When the scarecrow leaves his physical state his movement speed becomes 160% and allows him to pass through any walls within the realm
• 9 Scarecrow posts will always spawn on the map, 7 next to generators and 2 next to the exit gates.
• Scarecrow posts will always spawn at a set position within 5-10 metres of a generator, out of sight behind an object/wall or in the corn to remove any early visual warning for the survivors.
• Using Hollow Bodies gives no loud sound effect and can only be noticed visually.

Comparisons for understanding-

• The Harvest has phew similarities to other killer abilities as it shows a different camera perspective and is the only killer ability based off crows.
• The Harvests will reveal a survivor position like a CCTV camera, and will give you information regarding the survivor whereabouts and what they’re currently doing.
• Hollow bodies travel works like the spirits haunting with its invisibility from both ends, but does show grass movements and moving object interactions, but doesn’t show scratch marks without add-ons.
• Hollow bodies allows you to pass through walls like the Nurses teleporting. So getting from A-B is quicker. However to get to higher ground stairs must be taken.
• The best comparison for Hollow bodies is the demogorgon portals, but the posts can’t be removed not does using the power make a cross-map sound. However it is slower and the exact positioning of the posts cannot be altered. So it is similar to Freddy’s with the set teleportation location.

Addons-

• Adds 2/4/6 additional seconds of spying use to The Harvest (C/UC/R).
• Slightly/Moderately/Considerably decreases The Harvest cooldown (C/UC/R).
• Slightly/Moderately/Considerably increases movement speed during Hollow Bodies (C/UC/R).
• Reveals found survivor auras for- 4/8/12/16 (C/UC/VR) seconds after using the Harvest.
• Adds 1/2/3 scarecrow posts around the map. (UC/VR)
• Adds a scarecrow post to the basement (VR)
• Allows The Scarecrow to see scratch marks during Hollow Bodies (VR).
• You do not scare crows by walking past them (VR)
• Re-entering your physical body during Hollow Bodies will maintain the terror radius on the initial scarecrow post you teleported from for 8 seconds, and grants you the undetectable status for 8 seconds in your new position. (UR)
• Finding a survivor with The Harvest will expose them for 20 seconds. (UR)

Perks-

• Shrouded Stalker You work in alliance with the crows of the fog. You become obsessed with one survivor. Whenever the obsession is injured and outside your terror radius a crow will follow them. For every 7/6/5 seconds the obsession performs an action the crow will caw with a visual cue. -The killer can only be obsessed with one survivor at a time.
  
• Twisted Oppression The progress of the hunted motivates you to punish them harder. Each time the survivors complete a generator all generators not being repaired by the survivors are blocked by the entity for 35/40/45 seconds. Any survivor working on a generator when Twisted Oppression is activated is exposed for 35/40/45 seconds.
  
• Claustrophobia Your success in hooking is rewarded by the entity. You become obsessed with one survivor. Every time you hook the obsession Claustrophobia activates. The next window vault you perform will block the window for the entirety of the trial for survivors. Claustrophobia is activated for 30/45/60 seconds after the obsession is hooked. -The killer can only be obsessed with one survivor at a time.
  

Lore-
Jackson Harper lost his parents when he was 9 in a bank robbery after they were held hostage by a group of masked outlaws. After an attempted escape they were both shot in cold blood, leaving the only child to his own devices.
For the following 10 years he had lived under the roof of his Uncle Nathan Harper, his father’s older brother, on a small homestead on the outskirts of the local town. Nathan was always tightly wound and would leave all the hard labour for his nephew as repayment for his accommodation. This would often involve extensive, strict feeding and cleaning of the animals every morning, followed by any other expected chores. Jackson had limited alternative to living with his uncle so instead endured the work and tormenting comments that were threw at him daily.
Nathan was married to his bed-bound wife Edna Harper, who rarely left her room and would go weeks without any interaction. Jackson had never actually seen his apparent ‘Aunt Edna’, and he often suspected that she never existed. Even though his uncle claimed he was devoted to Edna, Jackson had seen him return from the town multiple times with other women, assumably sex workers from the brothel, but had never dared to question his uncle’s integrity.
The homestead made limited money, mostly relying from their cattle’s produce and meat. Very rarely did they not receive a poor harvest from the crops, so money was tight and they used whatever resources they could to get by. Amidst his limited wealth Nathan had a gambling addiction, and often stagnated the ranch’s economy with his excessive drinking and betting. He would repeatedly return home drunk and cause havoc within the homestead. Jackson learnt to hide out in the fields on most evenings to avoid his uncle’s temper.
Jackson had limited social skills, nor have an expansive education but he was incredibly practical, often solving problems for his uncle and the ranch. Even if his efforts did go unnoticed. His best accomplishment at the ranch was his solution to an issue with the crows choosing to ignore the withering scarecrow posts. Instead of creating a scarier model he designed a mechanism where he would pull a rope towards him to force the scarecrows to spring up with force, scaring the crows away. Simple, yet effective. This and other creative solutions allowed Jackson to create shortcuts for his endless chores without his uncle knowing.
Harvest time hit and the ranch once again had failed to produce any income from its crops. Jackson was growing increasingly worried as their limited wealth decreased and his uncle only became angrier. One early Saturday morning, 3 men had come to the ranch’s front door, demanding a large sum from Nathan. Afraid to intervene Jackson listened safely from a distance. The men sounded stern and demanding, outlining Nathan’s failure to pay for a failed game of poker. Determined to send them off, Nathan barked at the men to leave and pointed his double-barrelled shotgun at the man in front. He stared down the barrel without hesitation and carefully stepped back, threatening calmly that this wasn’t the end.
One week later the men returned, but this time they came prepared with their own firepower. Jackson once again listened in carefully, but only this time Nathan attempted to negotiate, claiming he could get them the money in two weeks. This wasn’t enough and the tension grew. Helpless, Nathan offered to sell 5 of his cattle to extend the debt but the men didn’t listen. Instead, the tall man shot at one of the cattle point blank in the head as Nathan’s face grew with fear. He begged them to be merciful but to no avail. They smirked and turned away, announcing a one week period to pay them off. During this, the smallest of the men left and grabbed a nearby torch, smashing it onto one of the tool sheds, setting it alight as a beacon of fear. Nathan knew he was in trouble and had to get his revenge.
The following days were tough for Jackson as his uncle became tougher and more demanding of his expectations. His body was ready to give up from the work as his uncle found him stopping for a drink. Nathan bellowed at Jackson and grabbed a rope chord, and in an instance Nathan had wrapped the rope around his nephews neck and tightened it. He growled that Jackson was worthless and was the reason for the ranch’s failures. In a moment of terror Jackson cried out to Edna for help, but received no response. Nathan released the rope and burst out laughing that his wife would never help such vermin. Instead of defending himself Jackson offered to help his uncle through good will. Nathan had high doubts that he would be of any use but approved this suggestion as a way to prove his worth.
A week had passed and the men had returned, Jackson had a plan but needed his uncle to stick to it. The men crashed the door down beckoning for Nathan as they chased him through the house into the back. They stampeded through the fields to lose sight of Nathan and decided to split up. This was going exactly according to plan.
Jackson’s plan was simple, split up the men in the fields and lore them into a false sense of security. Learning from past experiences Jackson knew the best way to scare off unwelcome guests was the element of surprise and fear. He had created himself an outfit replicating the scarecrow posts and waited patiently in the centre field with his uncle’s scythe. With the three men split up he knew it was his time to strike. He hopped off his post and headed into the corn.
The corn field was thick with weeds and rats but Jackson knew how to navigate them carefully. He heard a rustling ahead and found the first raider creeping through the stalks with a pocket-knife. Jackson snuck up and pulled the man by the ankle with his scythe causing him to fall onto the knife with a haunting scream. To avoid more attention Jackson plummeted the scythe into the mans skull, cracking the skin and bone until he fell silent. Jackson continued on and discovered the smaller man holding a rifle. Jackson backed off, questioning if he should just run away to safety. In an instance the man turned around into eyeline with Jackson but was met with no response, assuming it was one of the fields scarecrows. Clearly not the smartest Jackson thought as he lunged and pushed the scythe through the man’s chest, piercing his organs through to the other side. He couldn’t scream yet he fired his rifle in the air in a moment of distress.
Moments later, Jackson felt a tug on his neck as he was dragged by a chord of rope through the field up towards the homestead. He was met by his uncle tied to a horse post, as the tall man tightened the grip around Jackson neck. He heard a click as a shotgun was pressed against the back of his head. Frozen in fear Jackson looked deeply into his uncle’s eyes, only to see him smirk and laugh at the man that this was no threat. The barrel pressed further against Jackson’s head as the man’s demands grew louder. Nathan proceeded to refuse his requests, claiming nothing could change his mind. The man loosened his grip and Jackson fell to the floor, gasping for air. The man grabbed him firmly by the shoulder and handed him the gun, aiming it at his uncle. Suddenly Nathan was sweating and stuttering his words, offering Jackson the ranch and the money in a panic. The man watched as Jackson’s finger slowly squeezed the trigger, as the gun’s blast echoed in the night’s silence. The man, stood still momentarily, smirking with surprise, before walking away into the fog of the night.
Jackson ran into the house, blurry eyed and panting. Panic overwhelmed him and he proceeded to bang heavily on his Aunt Edna’s bedroom door. Dead silence filled the house as Jackson proceeded to crash the door open. The rooms stench was overwhelming as he saw his aunt tied to her bed, rotting into a skeleton for what could have been months. He couldn’t move as he tried to comprehend this overload of shock. He had to escape this place. He didn’t know where he would go but anywhere was safer than the ranch.
Jackson stormed out the back and ran into the field as a cold breeze began to overwhelm him and everything went dark. He had escaped the ranch and his uncle, but at what cost?

Fair warning - this won't seem like a story about a toe. But it is. Just hang in there. I am also reposting for a couple reasons. One, to fix numerous spelling and grammar errors I found, and to add a few things that I didn't at the time, like a link and whatnot. I also thought I could tell it better without changing the facts.
Two, as a mod, I am thinking about allowing reposts after appropriately long times. And I first wrote this 5 years ago. WAY back in the beginning. I don't even think I was a mod yet. So - this time this is also sorta an announcement to you authors and I want to see how it goes - you can repost.

• Your original post must be at least TWO (2) (II) (Dos) (Zwei) (Deux) years old.
  
• You do not have to delete the older post and would I personally would prefer you didn't - there is often great conversation there that people enjoy reading.
  
• Limit your reposts to once a month. We don't want to drown out new content.
  
• Tag your repost title with [RE-POST] like I did here so everyone knows. Some folks may bypass, but I'm betting some old stories will get some new love. Nothing wrong with that either - I pick up old books all the time.
  
• If you link to another story of yours that is relevant like I did heret, it should count as a repost for you for that story as well, so no using it again for at least two years.
  

Ask if you have questions. My lazy ass will go ahead and add that as an official rule if it proves popular and it works well.
How I got there and the boredom
NARRATOR: A young man sets off to war.
I deployed to Desert Shield/Desert Storm after Korea. There were a couple of weeks between the two where I was with my home unit at Ft. Bliss. So my parents fly out to see me before I head off to a possible war. Dad imparts some advice that basically said, "Don't be a damn hero." Funny coming from him. You should read his Bronze Star citation he got in Vietnam. Mom is a basket case. Anyway, after some fighting with my slutty soon to be ex-wife, we load up at Biggs Army Airfield and fly out. On a civilian airline with very nice ladies who treated us like heroes.
Quick side story: The space shuttles would fly though Biggs Army Airfield when returning from missions to refuel - attached to the airplanes that carried them. No shit. We saw them a couple times VERY up close.
Fuck the French
NARRATOR: Wait. The French?
After a stint with the 75th FA Brigade, which we will get to later, my squad was directly attached to the 6th French Light Armored, which was maneuvering with HHB elements of the XVIII Airborne Corps Field Artillery and XVIII Airborne itself. As an air defense guy, (Stinger gunner driving a Vulcan) we were tasked with SHORAD (Short Range Air Defesne) in case the Iraqi's actually got a plane into the air. They never did get an aircraft into a position where it was able to attack our ground forces that I know of, at least not in our area of operation, so we spent three-plus days in the middle of tank battles and such getting shot at, looking for aircraft to kill, hoping a T-62 didn't get off a lucky shot and nail our lightly armored asses.
So, the French had wine and cheese in their rations and didn't want to trade really. Can't blame them. They smoked horribly strong and nasty tasting tobacco that made me want to puke. I will say this - they were great at getting us there. They also sent a transportation unit that loaded us up on flatbeds and drove us over two or three days (I think) north to our first positions. After that, we drove ourselves everywhere in that slow ass armor. But they did do a good job there anyway.
No the problem was that they didn't fight at night. They put out a perimeter and went to sleep, while the Americans pulled security for them. I shit you not. They went to fucking sleep while Americans fought in place. It didn't seem right. So I got no sleep for the 3-4 days we were fighting the Republican Guard. We fought 24/7 if there was fighting to be done. War is like that. I shit you not - again - They literally said "We are putting up our perimeter. Good night" and our guys would have to sit and fight through the night while they got their fucking beauty rest. Supposedly they didn't have night vision, but I don't know if that was true. Because of them, we had to stay alert all night for bogeys and occasionally maneuver a bit to reposition if there was contact on the line. We wanted to keep fighting when we could - the Iraqis were not good at it - we were. Dafuq is with the French sleeping. I fucking hated them for that. More time in the sand. What was fun was watching the artillery and MLRS fire at night. But let's go back a bit, cuz I bear another grudge against them.
NARRATOR: Damn, dude really hates the French.
ME: Not as much as I hate commies and Islamic terrorists.
Anyway, Fuck the French, Part II
While in garrison, we trained on a giant dome with a laser equipped Stinger model to practice tracking aircraft back home. It was like a giant version of the old Nintendo game "Duck Hunt." A plane would be projected, and you had to kill it before it made it off screen. Out in the desert, we spent hours doing aircraft recognition on playing cards, but we couldn't practice tracking aircraft. So somehow, someone arranged for the USAF to do flybys of our positions so we could practice tracking them with the missiles and Vulcans. Sound like a good idea to you? Yeah, lets point heat seeking missiles and 20mm Guns of Death at our own aircraft. Excellent. Again, I shit you not.
So a week or so after that is over, miraculously with no accidents, we are bored again. Until the air war started up, there wasn't shit to do but train, play poker, have scorpion fights, and whack it. Oh, and putting on and taking off chemical gear every single day while having the detectors go off Because that fat prick Saddam was shooting SCUD missiles at us. So we were REALLY bored. We see some planes flying by in the distance. So we got the missile out and pinged it with the IFF. The IFF is the "Identification Friend or Foe." We can tell if an aircraft is friendly or not. The aircraft can also tell they are being pinged and tracked.
ME: SORRY AIR FORCE DUDES!
We thought it was funny as hell to see a plane or helicopter serenely flying along, then suddenly start doing a bunch of evasive maneuvers. The other squads started doing it. So daily we would place bets on how severely a pilot would bank, climb and dive to avoid getting shot down. Yes, an entire battery of air defense was fucking with Army and Air Force pilots. Maybe that is why A 5/62 got deactivated shortly after Desert Storm. Lol. Anyway, at some point we had a battery formation, and we all get yelled at, but since they didn't know for sure who had been doing it, they couldn't punish anyone. We were told the USAF had been given orders to avoid our AO after that though. We did still see some aircraft, so I don't know if that was true. Back to the damn boredom.
When we got there and a ground war looked imminent, they told us that anyone who got three surface to air kills would get an ace award. As the Air Force proceeded to blow up most of the Iraqi air force while it was still on the ground, and most of what was left fled to Iran, they reduced it to one kill. To the best of my knowledge, there was not a single ground to air kill during the entire war. I know for a fact that not a single element of 11th ADA Brigade shot down anything, and our guys were seeded all over the XVIII Airborne's area. I did have two close calls though. Clarification: Some of the Patriot missile batteries were part of 11th ADA. Those assholes got awards for shooting down SCUD's. We got no chance at ADA glory. Fucking REMF's.
NARRATOR: Holy shit, here comes the French grudge part. Finally. When do we hear about the toe?
A couple of days before hostilities, we were stationed about four kilometers from the border with Iraq. We got an alert that we had an unidentified aircraft in our area. After another couple of minutes it was confirmed as NOT American or friendly, and it was headed right to us. I jumped out of the driver's seat, grabbed the Stinger out of the case, and got it ready. SGT M pulls the other case out. Our gunner fires up his gun. We both want the award, but my missile was sure as hell going to get it before his 20mm did. We hear the rotors. As it comes into view, I quickly identify it as a Gazelle. I ping it with the IFF and it comes back as "unknown." I let them know. Gunner let out a whoop I think, getting excited.
The thing is, the French, who we are working with, have Gazelles. But so does Iraq. France had sold quite a few to them over the years. So if it comes back as friendly, then I know it is French. If it comes back as hostile, then it is Iraqi. As an unknown, you have to be careful and they are almost always presumed hostile. Since it was in our net, no one had radio contact, and they were flying right the hell at us, I was going to kill that fucking thing because they could be armed, or gathering intelligence. And it is my fucking job to protect the armor and artillery to my rear by only one kilometer. DIE ASSHOLE!
I powered the missile up, elevated the sight, and was just getting ready to pull the trigger when SGT M smacked me in the back of the head. Given the noise from the Vulcan and such, that was our signal to abort. (I know, smacking a guy with a loaded weapon doesn't seem right - it's just what we did in our squad. It was more a hard tap to make sure I heard him over the noise. The missile is screeching, the track is running, the rotors, etc.)
Just as I lower the missile, the pilot of the Gazelle sees me standing there with a SAM pointed in his general direction and veers off. That's when I see what SGT M saw - a French flag painted on the boom. I almost killed two allied guys. So I power off the missile. Make a radio call to report the encounter so no one else shoots him down. Close call number one. Of course, that is a matter of perspective. Why you ask? Because the French are fucking assholes. So here is the other grudge.
NARRATOR: Finally asshole, get to the grudge.
I was living in Germany when all that shit with Libya went down in 1986.
NARRATOR: WHAT THE FUCK! Are you a time traveling us?
Dad was in the Army, we were in Germany, and I was 16. I remember us "accidentally" bombing the French embassy in Tripoli because they wouldn't let us fly over France to get there when we responded to the LIbyan bombing of a disco that killed American soldiers, so our guys had to fly around France, and it added hours to their mission. I also remember us having packed suitcases by the door in case we had to evacuate, and highly armed infantry at our high school and on the buses in case of Libyan terrorist attacks. So we held a grudge against the French for that, rightly or not, and mostly in support of our boys who had to fly the extra hours. So in retrospect, as my mother said when I got home and told her the story, "They were French. You should have killed them."
During the first or second day of the air campaign, an Iraqi Mig got into our area. It was headed right towards my squad's area. SGT M told me to get the Stinger out but I was already moving. I had it out, on my shoulder, and was ready to cycle it up when we saw an explosion on the horizon. Some USAF F-15 stole my kill. I wasn't happy. That Mig was going to be in range in seconds and it would have been mine before the other squad got it. Close call number two. I could have been a double ace, if you count the French Gazelle. Now I'm resenting the Air Force because they stole my other kill.
Anyway, before being attached to 75th FA, we still hadn't been issued small arms ammo. It seemed silly. On our track, we had two Stingers, 4,200 rounds of 20mm for the Vulcan, two AT-4's, some hand grenades, and I had a vest full of different M203 rounds. Yet they would not give the junior NCO's 9mm ammo, and no one had a single round for the rifles. We were concerned, because by this time Iraqi's were starting to defect and walk into our AO at night. We were concerned about a sneak attack by an infiltrator or something. The only explanation we got was, "We don't want you guys shooting camels and shit."
ME: I work for my dad's CO before we finally get to the fucking toe.
NARRATOR: He is lying. For sure. We are NEVER getting to the toe.
The O-6 in charge of the 75th FA held a formation. (This was before the 75th FA was re-tasked and we subsequently got re-tasked from here to support the French and XVIII Airborne.) He said something very close to (and I mean very close to this, I just don't remember exactly), "You see this fucking chicken on my collar? I'm never gonna make General. I've pissed off too many people. So you guys are getting everything you need. Fuck the general orders. I'm also giving you extra water and rations, because I don't want my ass bombed. I'm glad you are here. You see this .45? Fuck the 9mm. You are officially ordered to issue small arms ammo to your soldiers." That night we got a fair bit of rifle ammo and some ammo for the pistol and were ordered to have the weapons ready. I'm not sure what the .45 had to do with our not having small arms ammo, but whatever. Quite the character. He brought his personal weapon to the war, which wasn't allowed. No one cared.
As it turns out, he was my dad's CO. Dad apparently pissed off a general one day, so his final posting was to a reserve unit in Joliet, IL. What a shithole, and it was shit assignment. He was the only active duty guy there. His job was to basically run this reserve FA unit day-to-day. Dad spent a lot of time at the local Moose lodge. Fuck it. They fucked him over on his last posting, and then they wouldn't send him to war with his son because the unit was understrength and under-equipped, and they wouldn’t let him transfer to a unit that was going. He really wasn't happy. I went. Uncle Bob went. Uncle Steve went. My brother's best friend Shane went. Everyone went but dad. So as the CO was walking around talking to guys, we got to shooting the shit and he found out who I was.
In case you are wondering, this general, a one-star, saw my dad in his Class A's with his ribbons and shit from Vietnam at some ceremony.He wanted the opinion of an "old school" kind of guy and asked him if he thought the all volunteer Army was better than the draft. Dad told him what he thought, that the draft was better. The General got mad, because he didn't want that answer, and told dad to change his opinion. I guess words were exchanged, my dad barked at the general, the general barked back, and dad got fucked when we left Germany because of it. He also never made E-8, which is some bullshit. He was one of the very best at what he did and the Army ever made.
Dad’s CO: “Where you from, son?"
"Joliet, IL sir. Grew up in all over, but enlisted there."
"No shit! I have a unit there."
"Yes sir! My dad runs that unit." Then he made the connection. He said he was mad he didn't have dad here as well - he knew his resume so to speak. I told him most of the guys in Dad's unit were pretty worthless, and he agreed. So we chatted a sec and he moved on. I also thanked him for the ammo. Lol.
Anyway, after the madness was over, we spent over three days driving our asses back to KKMC. In a M163 Vulcan. That did 30-35 MPH tops. SHOOT. ME. Why the French couldn't drive us back I'll never know. Talk about monotony. We basically drove back along the same MSR we invaded on, back through the same fucking oil fields that were on fire, back through the same small villages, etc. It took days, and we were not allowed to stop but for fuel really. We had a couple days were we stood guard over an area and almost got in a firefight when some Iraqis that were retreating came too close to us. We had a chance to shave with a generator and an electric razor the battery had on the supply track. I am VERY white. My scalp after those four plus days and the ride back was VERY black. As black as you can imagine. It took over an hour to get all the oil and shit out of my head. We found out much later (after I got out) that we had been exposed to all kinds of chemical weapons from the bombing of a chemical arms depot near us. Hooray for Gulf War Syndrome! (That's where I got the Fibromyalgia we think - a lot of us have it.)
Also, that was the day we got shelled by our own guys. Hostilities were supposed to be over, but there was still some little shit happening. But I'm not sure I wanna tell that story today.
NARRATOR: FINALLY we get to the fucking Toe! Who does this guy think he is?
We finally get in. I'm fucking beat - no sleep in over three days really - just an hour here and there when my fucking sorry ass gunner woke up long enough to cover for me. This was on top of only a couple of hours sleep during the 100 hour ground phase that I really hadn't fully recovered from yet. We got in around 0100 hours, and I wake up at 0600. Just long enough to hear the following. "The sooner we get our vehicles cleaned, the sooner we go home." So I grab my cover, secure my weapon, and head downstairs with the platoon. SSG stops me. "SPC BikerJedi, you don't have to go. Get some sleep man, you look like shit. You drove all night." I say "Naw, SSG, I wanna help and get the fuck out. I wanna go home to Texas." So off I go to the line.
So we are down cleaning the HMMWV's for the Stinger platoon, and the Vulcans for the other three platoons. So I walk up to this HMMWV. I see that at some point between the time I was on a Stinger team, and the time I got assigned to drive a Vulcan, the HMMWV's have been equipped with a brush guard. Said brush guard was held in with four pins. If you release two pins, it drops down and gives you access to the engine. Release all four, and it falls off.
At this point I'm so tired I'm practically hallucinating, swaying on my feet trying to stay awake. I remember standing there in the balmy heat of 0800 Saudi Arabia, which was roughly 500°F, thinking, "Damn, I'm fucking tired. This feels like being drunk. What the fuck is this? I can't open this shit. Lesseee....pins. Take the pins out." Bam - that fucking thing falls on my right foot and crushes it. They are heavy. It seems that someone had already walked down the line and pulled the top two pins out so we could open the hood to clean the engine. I didn't see that because of sleep deprivation. My entire right toe is obliterated. The bones higher up are fractured. I went into shock immediately and felt no pain. I was wearing standard issue jungle boots. As a matter of fact, I still have the pair I wore to Iraq. No toe protection.
So I bounce over to the sidewalk, and call my buddy Andy over. We were room mates a year later. I had been sent to some medical training, but as I said, I was bone tired and not thinking right. "Andy, I think I fucked up my foot bro." "Take off yer boot." When we pulled my boot off, my toe was roughly the size of the moon. It was black and purple, and the rest of my foot was rapidly turning blue. "HOLY FUCK!" Andy yells. He actually puked when he saw it. It was smashed to shit. After he recovered, he says "Yeah man, you are fucked up." I get up and start walking to the HMMWV we are using for transport, and you can actually hear, and I could feel, the bones crunching together. So he loads me in and we drive to the battalion aid station.
The SPC and the SSG who see me go "FUCK!" and immediately ship me off to the nearest MASH. Yes, they US Army still used MASH hospitals then. No, Hawkeye and Hot Lips did not come and operate on me. Which is a shame, because I could have used a laugh. And if you haven't watched MASH 4077 you owe it to yourself.
About two seconds after getting there, I'm surrounded by about ten doctors, all of whom are O-4's and up. They are discussing my foot like it is a medical case that shows up in books and shit. This isn't good. I get X-Rays done. Strangely enough, I still don't hurt much. Also, I think they were excited to have actual work to do since we had so few casualties. As in - not glad we were hurt, just glad we weren't blown up and dying and shit. Broken foot? No problem!
After a bit of waiting, this O-5 doc comes up and says "Well, you need surgery." I'm amazed. Like, all it is, is a broken foot. WTF? "Nope. Look here. You see this dust? That used to be the bones that formed your big toe. You need metal implants. This might end your career." Fuck. FUCK ME!
A month prior, my high-speed ass managed to impress the right people. It seems my year in Korea had convinced me to quit being a shitbird and to soldier on properly. I was told they would help me get station of choice when I re-upped. I told them I would rather re-class into 11B and go to Airborne school. My eventual goal was to try RIP and see if I had what it took be a Ranger, but if I didn't, I would have been content to be Airborne Infantry. They agreed. They even said I might get station of choice as well after all this was over - we were going to be fucking heroes for liberating Kuwait he said. My dream was fading fast. I wanted all that shit. BAD. I was bleeding OD Green at this point in my career.
Right at that exact moment, my toe screamed "AAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!" They gave me some Motrin, 800mg. For those who don't know, Motrin is the only thing stocked in Army pharmacies around the world. They don't carry a single other drug other than Penicillin, which I am deathly allergic to. My sister and I have a joke about the Army and Motrin. When I got out and had all that pain at the surgery site, the Army, and later the VA, gave me 800mg of Motrin x3 daily. For years. So we joke that it is prescribed for everything.
Got a concussion? Motrin. Break a leg? Motrin. Cancer? Lots of liquid Motrin. PTSD? Motrin. Rectal bleeding? Shove some fucking Motrin up there. Decapitated? Bring in your head and we'll stitch it back on with Motrin infused thread. Your weapon malfunction? Give it Motrin. IED blew up your buddy? Tell him to take some damn Motrin. National debt too high? Make money out of Motrin.
FUCK MOTRIN. That shit ate a hole in my stomach lining and gave me an ulcer. Seriously, fuck it. Fuck it and fuck the asshat who invented it. Fuck the asshat who decided it was the new Army go-to wonder drug. Fuck.
So after waiting 30 minutes for "the Motrin to kick in" they finally decided I really needed something stronger. I'm not sure what they gave me, but I went to sleep that afternoon and didn't wake up until morning. Yes, I know I am contradicting myself. I don't believe the Army had anything else in stock in the pharmacy. I think they got the really good drugs from the Air Force or something.
I woke up with a couple of things in mind. Due to my extreme alcohol & narcotic tolerance, I had woken up part way through the surgery. I saw a purple dragon. It was quite amazing actually. I woke up, felt them messing around with my foot, and rolled my head to the side. A very large purple dragon was coming out of the wall. I freaked out and started trying to climb off of the operating table. The surgeon is screaming. I do remember that part vividly. They hold me down, and gas me. I pass back out.
Now between the gas and the shit they gave me prior to surgery, they overdid it. (This is what I was told by the charge nurse later as best I can remember. I was in a haze, I was in a lot of pain at the time, and it was over 25 years ago at the time of this writing that it happened, so take this bit for what it is.) At 20 years old, I went into cardiac arrest or had some kind of cardiac incident and almost died. I never did get the full story, or maybe I don't remember - apparently the anesthesiologist responsible was pretty upset/embarrassed/whatever.
NARRATOR: The beginning of the end. Lol. Not really. Sucker. The aftermath.
So when I woke up, I was thinking "WTF - why do my chest and sides hurt?" I'm guessing CPR, but I don't know. Everything about that little episode was removed from my medical file sometime between leaving Saudi and landing back at Ft. Bliss, TX or it never made it into my records. I'm not sure which. All I know is it isn't there now other than my self-reporting. So I can't prove it happened. And the other thing I was thinking was "Holy shit - look at my foot." So I had a cast part way up my leg. The toes were left exposed. There were four pins in my big toe, sticking out to the side in an "L" shape. And it was fucking horrible looking. I could barely see the stitches because it was so swollen and bruised. I'm in a lot of pain post-surgery. But guess what they gave me for it? Mother fucking Motrin. So my unit leaves Saudi, and I get to hang around for two to three weeks at the MASH unit waiting for a medevac flight home. I spent my 21st birthday there. With no fucking beer.
Back home in America, the Red Cross calls home. My mom saw the caller ID and about had a heart attack. She thought for sure I was dead. In her panic, she didn't stop to think that someone would have driven out to see her. After she picked up the phone and said hello, the first thing they told her was, "It's OK, he is alive. Just hurt." She lost it and started crying hysterically. So anyway, Mom and Dad and the rest are told that I'm basically OK and should be home soon.
I'm in the ward with a few other guys and one gal. Quite the group. The one NCO, an E-5, actually got hurt and was getting a Purple Heart. Anyway, he had a theory that I smashed my foot with a sledgehammer so I could go home. Never mind the fact that I didn't hurt my foot until AFTER the war was over. So he started calling me "Sledge." Asshole. But it was all in good fun to keep each other's spirits up. You become a little gang. We medevaced together. The gal in the bed next to me was being discharged at 100% for fucking ulcers. Ulcers! I have an ulcer. It isn't something you get 100% for, but whatever. The other kid, a PFC, had some sort of accident and broke a leg. so we laid around talking and giving each other shit. At some point the CO and First SGT come see me. We were also visited by Americans who were working the Saudi oil fields. They brought us cookies and shit to say thanks. Some very nice folks who really appreciated us - they were genuinely worried Saddam was going to over-run the Saudi army and take the compounds as hostages. One day on a smoke break, I got to meet some SF guys from New Zealand. They were funny as hell. They were also amazed at how fucked up my foot looked. You know it is bad when special forces guys are amazed at how gruesome your wound is.
NARRATOR: He gets to go to Germany!
I got to go to Germany! This was great because I lived there as previously mentioned. I wrote about some things that happened while I lived there HERE and HERE.
So the day comes to get me out. I was driven to an airfield, where they put me on a Huey. The others followed. I had always wanted to fly on a helicopter. But I was strapped down to a cot and couldn't see shit. I was not happy. Then I get put on a C-141 Starlifter with a shitload of other wounded guys and gals and a few bigwigs hitching a ride. I was given some sort of sedation and able to sleep. When we land, I find out we are in Germany, and are going to the hospital in Wiesbaden, Germany. I'm excited. I still remember a bit of my German, and I'm looking forward to some beer and food. But no. Fuck you, BikerJedi.
It seems a week prior some Armored Cav guys came through on the way home and more or less destroyed the town in a drunken riot. So we are restricted to the hospital. Now I'm REALLY upset and now bear a grudge against that unit. Still do. So I find a phone, call the family to let them know I'm in Europe and I'm on the way home. The one highlight was the Swiss. I guess they wanted to remain neutral, as they always have, and so they only way they would support the effort against Iraq was to ship TONS of chocolate to the hospitals for us. So I ate about 20 pounds worth in the three days I was there. Hospital food was great. After six months of MRE's and T-Rats, it was amazing. But not as good as some real German food dammit. You fucking tankers in 2nd Cav who fucked that up - fuck you all.
Leaving Germany, we land in Washington, DC. As Walter-Reed is filled to capacity, they had us that weren't hurt as badly in a school gym. Somehow I ended up talking to a group of Marines who are also dying of their unfed alcoholism. So we sneak out. We walked over a mile, me on crutches, to the nearest convenience store to buy beer. We buy some beer and smokes. (SO glad I quit that habit. You should too.) Now, I can't walk on crutches and drink, so we would walk a bit, stop and chug a beer, then walk some more. By time we got back to the gym, I'm blackout drunk. Six months of no alcohol really lowered my tolerance.
Anyway, it took EIGHT more flights from DC to different Army and Air Force bases to get back to Ft. Bliss, TX. I was the last stop. Over 24 hours flying around in C-141's and C-130's. When I get home, I take 30 days medical leave. I get back to Illinois. I lay around drinking for a month, having a pity party. Buy a truck with my money I had saved. My little brother, who is now 18, drives me home to Texas and stays with me for a couple of days to help me find an apartment and shit.
The day the cast is due to come off, he comes to the hospital with me. The doc comes in, examines my foot, orders an X-Ray, then says, "Ok, it can come off. Wait here." At this point, my brother starts to giggle. "What's so funny?" He says, "They are going to yank those pins out with pliers." I'm like, naw, they won't do that. That shit would hurt. Sure enough, a minute later another SPC/E4 walks in with pliers. Not even a doc. I'm freaking out. He says "Don't sweat it, you won't even feel it man. It's all good." He grabs pin number one and rips it out. I feel the pin being pulled through the bone and out of my toe. HOLY FUCK! He pulls the other three. At this point I take a swing at him, but I fall over because, you know, big ass cast. He leaves until I calm down, then comes in and takes the cast off. My brother has to promise to be ready to grab me if I decide to act up again. They clean up the toe, give me a temporary medical profile, some more fucking Motrin, and I go home. I managed to find an apartment on short notice and my brother helped me get moved in, then went back to Illinois on my dime of course. Good kid. I miss him. You can read about him here. He was EOD after I got out. He is gone now and I miss him terribly - his birthday was a few days ago.
So now that I'm on profile, I can't work on the line. PT is restricted. No running, jumping, push-ups, lifting more than 20lbs. I can still do sit-ups without hurting the toe. Since I couldn't run, the LT tells me to go buy a 10-speed. When they run PT, I ride. After they get in, I go ride the circuit again. The LT says I need to ride double what they run because it is easier. Whatever - I do it. Because they had fused what was left of the bones, my toe doesn't bend at all at either joint. So when I walk, it tries to bend, but can't, and it hurts. I kind of wish they had just cut it off.
They pull me from the line until my foot heals. I needed a job. I go over to see my dad's old first SGT, who was now a brigade CSM for the Basic Training brigade that was at Ft. Bliss, and asked him for a job as an armorer or something in one of the basic training units. Alas, he was retiring in three days and couldn't help me. So the LT and another SPC and I were sitting in the office one day. I had been doing training schedules and shit to stay busy. Since I was no longer a MANPADS crewman, we had to think of a new job title.
So anyway, of them says, "I know! You can be Operations and Security Specialist!" Ok, sounds good to me.
NARRATOR: Oh shit, here comes another sidestory.
I used that job title and job description on my resume for YEARS. It was made up, but it was a real job I did daily. So fuck it. It got me hired once and job offers other times.
NARRATOR: Holy shit - a SHORT sidestory? Ack. My heart.
ME: Shut up - I'm almost done. Now we can talk about my bullshit, made up job that I had because of the toe.
So over the next few months, my job morphs a bit. I'm now doing paperwork for the platoon - I'm a clerk. Also, I have to keep the LT out of trouble. He used to be an E-6, but went through Green to Gold and got a commission. So he is not only doing his job, he also keeps trying to do the platoon sergeant's job, because was an NCO for so long. I'm having to tell him every day, "Sir, you can't do that. That is SGT so and so's job." But they also let me help with planning FTX's (Field Training Exercises) and such so that I'm still part of the unit. I'm writing training schedules and scheduling duty. When they go on FTX, my job is to make sure they are well supplied, then I stay back and man the fort. They never are well supplied. The LT frequently comes and says something like "SPC BikerJedi, we need a stove and two GP Large tents. Go get them." Or something like that. The unit is ALWAYS short something.
Now mind you, he never said how to get them. He didn't care. His exact words were, "I don't give a damn, and I don't want to know." So what I would do is go down to the battery motor pool, draw a truck, corral a couple of the new Privates who were scum to the rest of us because they were fresh boots with no combat patch, and drive over to brigade HQ warehouse. I would walk in like I belonged there with a clipboard, and say "Get that, that and that." No one ever asked me any questions, stopped to talk to me, wanted paperwork, or anything. I literally just walked in and stole whatever I needed for my guys.
After a few months of this, the Brigade CO, a full bird, calls a brigade formation. He was purple with rage. He ranted and raved over the microphone for almost an hour. He actually said that if he finds out who the hell is stealing from him that he is going to "fucking shoot your sorry stealing ass" on the spot. Myself, the LT and one or two guys in the know can't stop giggling.
The other job I had was to be the "squad leader" for the fifth squad in the platoon. Two kinds of people were in that squad. Those that were ETS'ing or PCS'ing, and those that were being chaptered out for DUI, drugs, being fat, etc. So I had to help the former group with whatever they needed, and babysit the other group and keep them out of trouble. How exciting. I'd love to say I have some great stories about that aspect of it, but I don't.
After ten months it becomes evident that I'm not going to be able to run again. Ever. Because of the toe. Maybe short distances, but certainly not two miles. (To this day, I only run when going to break up a fight at the school I work at. And it hurts. Both my feet are currently fractured. Again. Because I can't walk right. Because of the toe. The VA got me orthopedics to fix my gait and is going to operate on them, and then I'm filing another claim.) At this point the Army is drawing down and deactivating units, so losing me is no big deal. Had this happened during OEF or OIF, maybe they would have amputated the toe or something to keep me in. I get sent to the medical board. I am sitting in front of three full bird doctors. I am crying and begging. I tell them I'll fly a desk for the next 16 years, or to amputate the toe, anything, just don't put me out. This was my dream to be in the Army. Nope. Sorry kid. Honorable discharge under medical conditions.
NARRATOR: Wanna see a dumb kid blow $13,000+?
A few weeks later I'm on my last day. I've cleared everything except payroll. So I head over, and they present me with a check for $9,998. HOLY SHIT. WTF is this? They tell me "Medical separation pay." That's it. No other explanation given. At this point I'm DEEP in depression. My divorce was finalized while I was recovering, I've lost my dream of being a career soldier, and I have zero prospects in the civilian world. All I know how to do is kill planes. I can't even get a job teaching ADA to foreign governments because I never made E-5. I'm also starting to experience some PTSD and I don't know what's wrong with me, only that I'm drinking too much. So I don't ask any questions. I buy a gun, get a tattoo, and party my ass off. A few days of partying too hard and then I drive home to Colorado. Dad has retired, and they returned to our real home.
The $10K is gone inside of about a year, if that. At some point they send me another check for $3,000 for something, I don't remember what. It goes too. At some point I call the VA and ask why I'm not getting a disability check, as I'd been discharged with 10%. They tell me that the separation pay I got was an advance on 8 years of payments to help me "adjust" to civilian life. In other words, I was forced to take out an 8 year loan without knowing it. (I think it was eight years, might have been more or less.) Ruh-oh. So yeah, I didn't get my first check for quite some time.
THE END FINALLY
I hit some rough spots, and I fucked up majorly in a lot of ways. I eventually get my shit together. I get into Voc Rehab through the VA and got to school. Get a degree. Re-marry and have a kid. Work in IT for about ten years until the bubble burst in 2000. I was on a huge project for Lucent when they announced a quarterly loss of half a gazillion dollars. Along with every other IT company. So I was laid off and couldn't find work. I end up teaching at a tech school. I eventually make the transition to teaching high school, then middle school, which I'm still doing about ten years later. Have another kid.
My toe has been re-broken three times over the years. The last time I was complaining for almost a year that it hurt real bad, but everyone thought I was being a baby. It turns out it was broken quite badly and I had to have another surgery. The VA did it for me. Again I woke up during the surgery. This time they didn't try to kill me though. It still hurts, and I still can't run, but hey, I'm in one piece. I'm not going to complain about that.
I don't remember a lot anymore. Some of it repressed, some from literal brain damage like concussions and drinking and such, and then the PTSD and Fibromyalgia. I spend a lot of time trying to recall events that are just - gone. Like most of my childhood. I do know that even though I did my job and all that jazz, I also spent the some of it terrified. I never froze up - you can't or you die - but that shit can be traumatic and does physically affect the brain. There have been some great studies on it. It is why I also write as much as I can when I can. I want to commit it so it isn't lost - before I forget. I get excited when I remember something. Heh.
Thanks for reading.