Whew! First Fanfic! Time to get started. Darn, I'm late for this, but I just had this idea in my mind.

Preston Marlowe stretched as he exited the cramped helicopter with his squad. They were on leave after so many days of fighting, body odor, and sweat, that the day off almost seemed to be as close as heaven, until judgement day, that is. A whole three days, dedicated to whatever they want to do, from blowing up propane tanks a mile away from the base, downloading and playing a bunch of games on Origin (Preston preferred Steam, as any sensible gamer would, but dammit, Sweetwater had to be so bent on using it), fishing in the river filled with dead bodies and blood, or simply relaxing away.

No Russians,

No tanks chasing them in a golf cart,

Just three pure days of bliss and comfort, or as comfortable as the company allows you to be.

Well, maybe not.

[0840 Hours, March 16]

Sedarterrorists, Terroristan... Probably in Russia or whatever.

U.S Army Base

Tired and exhausted after days of fighting, Preston simply crashed on the couch in the rec room, where some soldiers were yelling out loud like rabid Orangutans, playing darts, or drawing stuff on their buddies. Thinking of what he was going to do during this short vacation, he wearily fought the urge to sleep, in fear of being smothered by some crazy Russian with his own beret, but simply thought of the paranoia and slept away.

"Hey, ya reckon that we blacken his face with this here ol' pen of mine?"

"Haggard, are you serious?"

"When did you start caring for the new guy? Besides, he'll get over it!"

Five minutes later...

Preston bolted up, hitting his squadmate on the head in the process.

"Ah, goddammit, Preston! What the hell is wrong with you!?" A Texan-redneck accented voice yelled out.

"The hell is wrong with him?! What the hell is wrong with you?!" Terrence Sweetwater said, another one of Preston's smartass comrades.

Saying that, Preston's eyes grew, and immediately bolted to the washrooms, looking in the mirror. Sure enough, his face was entirely blackened with Sharpie, with the words "Haggard wuz Here" on his forehead. Preston mentally cursed to himself, and to Haggard as well. He started to wash his face, and after fifteen minutes, decided that it was of no use, seeing how the Sharpie only faded. Preston. He got out Sweetwater's own beloved computer he always kept in the giant bag of his during wartime, and searched up a way to remove this abomination of pranks on his face.

Two Hours Later...

After spraying his face with rubbing alcohol (and screaming in pain for thirty minutes after it got in his eyes) he finally got all the marker out of his face. He sighed to himself as he sat down on the bunk, which was stiff as a rock. After stealing Sweetwater's computer again, he went on Skype and decided to talk to his mother. Good ol' Miss Marlowe.

"PRESTON MARLOWE, YOU DID WHAT?!"

He certainly was going to kill his little brother after this.

"YOU FATHER WOULD BE SO DISAPPOINTED! HE WAS SPECIAL FORCES!"

"Mom, it wasn't my fault, and Dad was not spec-"

"DON'T YOU BACKTALK ME YOUNG MAN!"

"Mom, I'm twenty four, I'm pretty sure-"

"BE QUIET!"

Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned.

So, let me get this straight, you, thinking so high and mighty could-"

"Mom, I said it was an-"

"Keep your mouth shut!" Preston complied, seeing as how he could not stop her. Soldiers snickered at him as they passed his bunk.

"So, you thought you could fly a helicopter, crashed it. You are so irresponsible! What do you have to say for yourself?!"

"Mom, i'm taking responsibility. That's why I'm here."

"That why you're there? Hmph, I am so disappointed in you, being stuck in some kind of hellhole with a bunch of hellraisers and misfits. You could've made special forces!"

"Mom, I don't want to be some douchebag riding a jet-ski while avoiding Michael Bay explosions."

"You know what? I thought you could be better, be a better role model for your younger brother! But no, you just had to crash a helicopter, didn't you? What were you doing, trying to impress your buddies?!"

"...Uh, maybe?"

"...I told your father."

Shit.

"Listen Preston, I'm... just happy to see you."

Preston sighed with relief, but still scared at the thought of his father hearing.

"Mom, could I speak with my oh so loved brother?" He said in a innocent tone. "Of course! You must miss him after being stuck there for so long."

What a thrashing that little dude would get.

[0700 hours, March 17]

Sedorist... Sedarpiss... Somewhere in Europe or whatever.

U.S Army Base

After a scolding from his father and many snickers and howls from other men laughing at Preston being chewed out by his old man, the rest of the day couldn't seem to get any worst. Of course, it did.

Pres here decided to squeeze off a few rounds at the shooting range. After he got his gun, and walked to the range, he noticed peculiar red barrels instead of the usual targets, so he asked the instructor.

"Ah, we need to get rid of excess oil and shit like that, son, so why not improve your shitty accuracy while getting rid of waste?!" The instructor said, then walked off to take a piss. Marlowe sighed and walked to the poorly made range, putting on his goggles, that was open to shrapnel hitting him in the eye. Aiming down the sights, Preston held his breath, then fired.

The gun pushed him back into the ground, and was STILL FIRING as it hit the ground. Soldiers everywhere ran, as Preston got up, and they all hid behind a truck as if it were a bloodthirsty bear. "Wait a minute... isn't this cargo for the barrels?" A soldier asked. "Oh shit!"

Boom.

Luckily no one was hurt (except the car), faces covered with ash and dirt when they hit the ground. However, Preston, with all the worst luck, had a whole piece of a barrel hit him in the crotch.

No one bothered touching that M416 lying on the ground the whole day.

Later...

Luckily for him, he wasn't blamed for the incident. They shipped off the gun to be burned, company superstition, and Preston moved on. He finally got food after an hour, but...

It looked as if a baby barfed up oil and squid that reeked of tear gas and burritos.

Sitting down with his squad, which some how got delicious Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Flapjacks, Orange Juice, etc., Redford remarked the smell. "Weewoo! Boy, you should've got here by eight, because that is the nastiest shit I have ever seen!". Haggard smelled the food, and took a spoonful of his breakfast, and gulped it down. Munching, he mumbled, "Hmm... This tastes pretty good!" The new guy winced, and looked at his so called breakfast. Sweets said, "If Haggs can eat it, what's the problem?". Seeing how Haggard was a redneck, he pretty much ate anything, so he had the easy side. Preston thought, "Oh well, if they say so..." and so Preston took a bite.

Sirens blared, and they took him to the infirmary.

Crappiest. Day. Off. Ever.

After he got his stomach pumped, he missed a day of his nightmarish vacation, as medics worked round the clock to try and save his poor life. A defibrillator saved his poor ass, and was shipped of back to his squad, where they waited in the cramped helicopter. "Haha! Private Sissypants can't even eat the regular for breakfast!" said Haggard. Preston, still uneasy, stumbled onto the helicopter, and then passed out on the floor of it. Sweetwater was suddenly concerned., and so he said, "Hey, pilot! Stop wobbling, you almost spilled my coffee!" Sweets said, as his tasty beverage wobbled. "How long?" Haggs said. "Four. Give or take." Redford replied.

Then anti-air missiles started firing.

Epilogue:

Preston woke up, on the floor in the wobbly helicopter, a hotness forming on his crotch.

"Dammit, my Mocha!"

Hoped you enjoyed! I had a bunch of fun writing this. This originally was supposed to have a bunch of stuff added in chapters, but I rewrote this into one big story. Maybe later I'll make another chapter to Preston's bad luck.