The Veil War

“Well, how do we do the gate, then?”

“Leave that to me. What we need you to do is distract the scaly fascist menace so that we can.”

That left me feeling pissed, and like I just took a step up onto a stair that wasn’t there. Fuck! There I was all ready to sacrifice my command to the greater glory and save the world and now I get a “Thanks, kid, the big boys have got this one. Run along and play.”

Damn me, I do not get stood up at my own prom.

“Right. Who is we? Or are you secretly the king of France?”

“Me and Chad. It’s enough. Actually, he’s enough. I’m just an apprentice Chad.”

“What, like the fucking Sith?”

“Yeah, kinda. Except better-looking and we drink a shit load more.”

OK, that’s fair. “Alright. My lieutenant is probably already charging up the hill, head out the window with his tongue flapping in the wind. I’ll see about creating some FFCC.”

The apprentice Chad cocked an eyebrow. “Fun, Fantasy, Confusion and Chaos.”

“Right on, then.” He smiled and faded from view like a Cheshire cat.

Damn, I need a transfer.

***

I picked up the receiver. “Chow-Chow Actual, this is Poodle. What’s your 20, big mama?”

There was a long pause. “Poodle, Hounddog Actual.” He sounded like he was wired really, really tight. “Waist deep in blood, motherfucker!”

Shit, the LT has gone hardcore. “And coming up the north road on foot.”

“Yapdog Actual, substantial enemy forces deploying on north road ahead of your position. Cute little Nazi tanks in company strength or more, velociraptor Soldaten with small arms; unknown numbers of apatosaurs with heavy weapons. Request air and artillery support, can direct fire.”

“Poodle, CAS inbound…”

***

“You fucked up.”

Damn it, that sneaky shit is annoying. Tactical Beardman looked pissed, but it was hard to tell under all the hair and sunglasses.

“How?”

“You bottled them up. There are now more tangos down by the gate than there were fifteen minutes ago.”

“A lot more dead ones. Those were some good explosions.”

“Distraction, Subcommandante, distraction. You’re the pied piper. Play a tune, and lead the dinosaur Nazis away from the gate.”

***

Hounddog rounded the corner. Tall and slender, he led the first squad up the road. His cement-mixer vomit cammo now had the abattoir variant applied. The rest were more or less liberally coated with blood.

“The British are coming!” I shouted.

Hounddog’s eyes about crossed. He was on the edge. Damn it, I shouldn’t need inter-dimensional dinosaur Nazis to wind up my lieutenant this much. I’m slipping.

“Fucking Mumbles, do you have any idea what happens when three hellfire missiles hit a huge fucking dinosaur?”

“Is there a priest or a midget in this joke?”

He ignored me. “It explodes. And all the insides become the outsides. Now my uniform is soaked in fucking Brontosaurus blood…”

“Apatosaurus,” I corrected.

“Fucking dinosaur Nazi blood, because I waded through a literal river of blood to get up to here. I puked up the best meal I’ve eaten in weeks. Division is going to be up my ass for the Humvees that got washed off the road in that river of blood, and they’re probably going to dock my pay for every single missile that fucking Goatlicker fired. He’s probably not getting me my beer. Thomas has a fucking spear through his arm, for Chrissakes! Somehow, Mumbles, you fucking caused for this, and I will see you hang.”

“Stop your bitching,” I said.

Hounddog leaned into his pointing finger. “It’s not bitching ‘cause I ain’t no one’s bitch. It ain’t griping ‘cause no one here’s my boss. And it ain’t complaining, ‘cause I don’t expect anyone will do anything about it. It’s a rant.”

I stared at him.

“What!” he demanded.

“I’m waiting for Yoda or Socrates to burst out of your chest or something.”

“Fuck you, Mumbles.”

***

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