Blood Soaked Skies: Retribution for Lost Pennance (standard:humor, 2623 words)
Author: Rusty Nails	Added: Feb 13 2003	Views/Reads: 3443/2376	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Our hero is in the midst of a battle. It is him verses the damn Russian bastards. Watch, as he shows no mercy. Watch, as he slaughters hundreds of innocent Russians...with no remorse. Watch as his magnificant victory brings honor to his people, while

Rusty Nails:  The Real American Hero 

Rivulets of blood cascaded down the amber waves of grain.  Silhouetted
on the purple mountain's majesty stood the lone figure that the world 
has learned to love to hate.  By the dawns early light the pyre of 
smoke billowing forth from the ashes of a Russian scouting camp could 
faintly be made out as a fog of black against the dark of dawn.  One 
could still smell the aroma of burning hair and bone, despite the gusty 
fall breeze. 

Rusty Nails' hand was covered with coagulated blood.  The flicker of his
tarnished Zippo lighter as his callused hand methodically placed 
another menthol unfiltered between his lips momentarily illuminated his 
scruffy face and tattered military fatigues.  He had started smoking at 
six years old when he had killed a man for trying to steal his stuffed 
bear Twinkles.  He has smoked five packs a day ever since then.  It was 
more of a habit now than anything; his smokes were as much a part of 
him as he was of them.  It was a strange dichotomy, but one that worked 
despite its oddities. "Damn Ruskies."  Deep inhale-long exhale. "Sworn 
I got em all last night."  Inhale, pause, exhale through nose.  "Oh 
well, guess I still have some work to do." 

With that, he extinguished his half smoked cigarette on his bare
forearm, and reached down and patted his dog Paws on the head. "It's 
time to take out the trash Paws.  Let's go." 

His feet pumped like pistons as he raced down the sheer mountainside. 
Trees and bushes were a blur of charred black as he continued his 
maniacal decent.  Two shots from his rifle, two dead Ruskies...he 
didn't break stride.  Instinctively his forearm shot out and smashed 
the skull of a Russian foot soldier, instantly covering his ripped arm 
with skull shards and brain, his legs never stopped pumping. 

At last, and after what seemed like seconds, Nails stood at the
precipice of a large cliff.  He left in his wake the shattered lives 
and broken torsos of the victims he had mowed through.  He sat on the 
edge of the cliff and reached into his backpack for his military issue 
parachute.  Once found, he grabbed another unfiltered from his pocket 
and lit up.  His figure could be seen against the dawn crouching over 
his pack, his face again illuminated momentarily by the flicker of his 
Zippo.  He inhaled the cancer stick in one slow drag.  Keeping the butt 
alive just long enough to light his next cigarette with its still 
burning embers.  "One for me," he said as he placed his newly lit 
cigarette between his smirking lips, "and one for Ma."  With that, he 
threw his still smoldering butt into a near by pile of dry leaves.  
"Only I can prevent forest fires...bitch."  He turned his back to the 
cliff edge, saluted the raging forest fire and jumped backwards off the 
precipice. 

The air rushed by his ears, deafened him to the screams of horror and
the cries for help from the Russians burning alive above him.  A few 
more seconds passed and he pulled the zip cord, his parachute silently 
deploying.  His fall was now at a controlled pace. He took this time to 
discard his current butt and start a new smoke.  As he placed his next 
victim between his lips, his hand skillfully reached into his camo 
pants pocket for his Zippo.  Without warning, two bombs exploded within 
pissing distance of Nails' current position.  "Bastards." Nails began 
to return his Zippo to his pocket but another bomb burst in mid air.  
As shock wave after shock wave struck him, his hand jerked away from 
his pocket, releasing his Zippo from his grasp. "Son of a...what time 
is it?"  He checked his watch, "Time to die."  He released his harness 
detaching him from the parachute.  As he fell, velocity reaching 
terminal, he began to fire.  His duel submachine guns cutting through 
foliage and flesh as if it were one.  He hit the ground at a full 
sprint. Having spent his current two current clips, he mechanically 
reloaded, breaking the stream of bullets for only a second.  His 
onslaught gave proof through the night, that despite the Chi-coms best 
efforts, Rusty Nails was still there.  Another pair of molten clips 
fell to the ground, instantly igniting the dry grass. In the distance 
Rusty could see the dark outlines of the main Russian encampment.  He 
could make out the shapes of the Ruskie foot soldiers scurrying around 
outside their tents preparing for breakfast, the flickering of 
kindling, the splashing of water as the soldiers washed and even the 
robust laughter coming from the tents.   "Hope you're hungry," Rust 
sneered, "Cause breakfast is going to be killer..." Despite the thick 


Click here to read the rest of this story (171 more lines)