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🐠💚🍧📀👃🏓🚙💙🌋 ║♥ #014 You're the Cat's PJs
🐟⛳👳🚗💛🚘🐊💎👹 ║✩ "AKA Cool Cat..."
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Top Bloke

"Tango Down!" He screamed as he fired his Recon CS-6 Rifle at the russian in front of him. The man crumbled to the ground, as if the strings holding him upright had been severed by an unnatural, all-consuming force. He knew that the mans children would cry over their father's passing but that was not his problem.

He and his squad moved to their exfiltration point. The weight of his kill pressing deep upon his mind. He had never killed someone before, and though he never thought it would be easy he was nowhere near prepared enough to be free of the crushing guilt that now flowed over him. As they approached the LZ he called over comms "Nading the LZ!" even though there was already plenty of smoke planted. After a brief period of forceful self-evaluation administered by his squad lead he ordered the men to defend against any possible hostiles that may enter their sights.

Within seconds, a group of enemy death-dealers found their way into those very sights. Before this group of reapers could spot him, he prepared his firing position, collected windage, measured the exact distance between him and the targets with quadratics before finally calling the targets for the fifth time. "Back-blast clear!" he screamed as he fired his rifle, dust kicking up all around the target. He expended each of his remaining 50 magazines before requesting fire support, to which his squad lead called him a "silly ♥♥♥♥" and did his job for him.

Eventually the helicopter reached the squads location. As the final man loaded up, the soldier saw a figure approach the helicopter in a ghillie suit with a guided rocket launcher and a heavy machine gun. As the remainder of his squad lammented the enemies' equipment choices, Ross grabbed a sniper rifle and aimed at the man just outside of the helicopter.

He began to prepare to fire, throwing sand into the wind to find windage, rubbing the rifle in a certain way and then asking to fly the helicopter before finally calling the target again. But alas, in the ten minutes he took to prepare the enemy combatant readied his rifle and fired at him. Blood flowed all over his carefully selected CSAT-US Army amalgam of gear. As his autistic screeching subsided he began to sing the chorus of 1-800 through his tears and bangings of his table.

Eventually, the last of his life blood drained from his veins. He was silent now, which according to everyone on the helo was a significant improvement.

Good night sweet prince

my name jeff