Posted 12 September 2011 - 05:38 PM Edited by Lethal Nizzle, 12 September 2011 - 05:41 PM.
You know what I was like in high school. I wasn't the loner who would grow up to become a serial rapist or murderer; I was the vice-captain for the football team, could get into a girl's panties by simply looking at them.. I was pretty much the "bees knees" wasn't I? If you look at an image of a seventeen year-old me you wouldn't even fathom what went on in that kid's little head of his. You would think he was a stereotypical jock who loved football and girls, and you wouldn't be far from the truth. I loved both of those things, but I liked nothing more than killing.
At first I started small. I took my father's .177 numerous times and shot a few neighbourhood vermin; cats, dogs, pet rabbits. Anything I could do to satisfy my thirst for blood. While I kept my head down in the classroom and on the football field, I was killing people's pets for kicks. I'm not the type of f*cking psychopath who masturbates over stuff like that though, that's only for the people who can't get pussy. My euphoria is merely internal.
When I graduated I was set for college. I had Dean's promising me hand-jobs if I took up a place at their college, I was that good man. What was my GPA? High as f*ck, almost as high as I am now as I'm writing this. But let me promise you, all of these thoughts are from a sober mind, and they are one-hundred percent truthful. So yeah, I didn't go to college, as killing room-mates and pretty females didn't appeal to me. I wanted to shoot people and not be reprimanded for it, although a telling off wouldn't stop me. Remember what Private Doll said in The Thin Red Line? "I killed a man, nobody can touch me for it." That was my dream, and I achieved it, as you will understand in due course.
I signed up two day after graduation. 2nd Ranger Battalion, stationed in Fort Lewis, Wash. I'm not going to go into specifics of basic training as it was a f*cking drag man, but soon enough I was shipped out to the sh*t-hole that is Afghanistan. Despite the horrendous conditions I knew that I could operate now - under command of course, but when the rules of engagement change in our favour I'm filling rag-heads with hot lead! Every skirmish we won we were represented as true American heroes to the folks back home, and that's the military as a whole. The Jarheads were getting some, the regular Army were getting some, even the Brits were bagging Afghans. But then everything changed a few months into my second tour of Afghanistan.
I shot Walter Schwarz.
See how I spaced that sentence? For dramatic effect, to allow your head to fully wrap around that fact. I killed the Senator's son in cold blood. It wasn't intentional, but I took the utmost pleasure in doing it. My squad were on over-watch over a small compound in a town who's name escapes me at this moment of time. We were overlooking our sister squad's progress as they prepared to breach the compound. Bear in mind that we were barely one-hundred metres apart from each other; we were face f*cking down in the dirt covering their asses as they prepared to enter. Schwarz was the squad leader's rent-boy; a sergeant in rank, but he had the combat effectiveness of a wooden spoon, and the war face which would cause Gunnery Sergeant Hartman to explode - another reference, remind me to order a collection soon. Actually don't.
Suddenly, as the squad was preparing to storm the place, somehow the alarm was raised - my guess is a scout, although it was never revealed. sh*t hit the fan, bullets were flying. Our squad remained pressed to the dirt as Schwarz and co. scattered. Suddenly the rag-heads began to pour out of the f*cking woodwork, or mudwork, and got to work on us. Schwarz and his squad were falling back when we began to open fire on the guys behind them. But when our squad leader realised how close we were to shooting our own guys, he called for cease fire.
Now I don't know about you, but hearing those two words over a chorus of bullets is quite a hard task. Especially when you're in the hands of a SAW. As my squadmates ceased I continued to open up, hitting two insurgents and the little prick Schwarz. I watched as blood cascaded from newly-made orifices as he fell, and I knew straight away that I had killed him. The first human I killed, and not the last.
Although this was different; this man had popularity. He was a senator's son, fighting the good fight for America in the war on terror. But after a few rounds of ammunition he was just another statistic, another body-bag. After killing him I was pinned down to the ground by my peers, while others began to eradicate the enemy and to retrieve Schwarz and other wounded. I remained face-down until the skirmish had ended, and after hearing that Schwarz had died, I couldn't do anything but smile.
I knew that that was the end of my military career, and I didn't care. You wouldn't know the ecstasy of killing a man in cold blood, and the further goodness of knowing that it was a man who was fighting on the same side as you, a man that I had fought alongside, although unwillingly. I was whisked away from the front-lines as the story broke about Schwarz's death. I was hidden beneath military cover-up after cover-up, and eventually I resigned, although I had a feeling I wouldn't be welcome again.
Now, as I finish this, I bet you're wondering why I'm even sending this to you. I haven't seen you since high school, and to be honest I don't give a sh*t what you're doing at the moment, or what you're planning to do. I just needed my story to be read. I feel no remorse about my killings both on and off the battlefield. Along with no remorse, I see no point in living anymore. I've had my fun, and as you'll see in the list below I worked up quite the rapport. My victims meant nothing to me whatsoever, they simply had to be killed to satisfy the burning desire within me to kill. I've lost that desire now, and I don't see the point in living if ending other's lives has lost its fun. I'm a f*cking psychopath man, if you haven't gathered from the above writing.
Now I'm going to leave. Below I've enclosed my victims (animal and human).
Rangers lead the way.
Posted 13 September 2011 - 12:45 AM
Posted 13 September 2011 - 07:03 AM
Posted 15 September 2011 - 12:33 AM
As I was reading the start, I couldn't help but feel it to be a little cliched - in ways. But I'll contradict that in a second. Basically, the whole 'here's my life story' thing just seemed a little boring. I'd have much rather been given a situation to start with rather than the character's background; his reputation in school, what he did as a kid, the prospects of going to college and the like.
But... it worked. And I think it worked because of the protagonist's self-references. There's only a few of them, where he talks about the fact that he's writing it as we speak; but they really, really work for it, I thought. Because when you get to the end and you see that it's a letter (or email, as you say) to an old friend - it all makes sense. And those thoughts about the start being a little worn out vanished for me - because they simply clicked into place. I looked over it once more thinking "well, if they grew up together, won't the guy he's sending it to know all this stuff?" But reading it, you put in what needs to be said - almost like it's a confession - and the details he would already know... well, you leave them out. And on second reading, I thought that was a pretty cool detail.
So all this makes me like it, quite a bit, in fact. The ending, the whole suicide bit, is again a little tired, a little predictable... but I guess it's the only way for him writing the letter to make any sense in the first place.
Posted 25 September 2011 - 10:25 PM
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