When a marine meets a Viking in Shreveport
Gunnery Sergeant Brad 'Iceman' Colbert woke up on a hard concrete floor in some kind of dark basement with a splitting headache and confusion. His first thought was 'Okay? Where the hell is the Iqiry desert, where the fuck is my team and where the fuck is my Humber?!'
He considered using the comms to try to locate his unite but decided that if the comms barely work in the Iraqi open desert, they differently were not going to work through the layers of metal and concrete that made up the roof of the basement he was being held in. Wait, he was being held in some kind of basement with some kind ominous looking metal thing hanging from the ceiling, and he not chained or tied up to it but in the corner of the room.
'Right, this makes no fucking sense.' thought Cob. The more he that about the situation and how he could have gotten it, the more the situation made no bloody sense. Or maybe it was just his headache. Maybe the whole situation made perfect sense.
No, wait a minute.
If he had somehow been taken by Iraqis, then why did he still have his weapon, his helmet and still in his goddamn MOPP suit. And why the fuck wasn't he chained to those metal polls hanging from the roof? The mere fact he wasn't chained up was an affront to his warrior spirit.
Then he heard pounding music coming from upstairs. It did not help his headache.
However Sergeant Brad Colbert decided to take advantage of the fact whom captured him hadn't chained him up, and get out of the basement as quickly as he could. He follows the sound of music, thinking that maybe he could catch the haijs unaware. The door wasn't bolded or even locked. As pleased as he was that he could leave the basement, he was pissed that he wasn't locked in.
'Okay, just how easy is it going to be to break out of this fucking pissweak fort?!' thought Cob, as being captured was still the only thing that made sense to him.
His confusion intensified as he walked down a white hallway that had posters on the walls, with English writing on them. He opened the next door he came across which lead into a simply furnished office.
An office that didn't have a remotely military feel to it. There was a computer at a desk and old books in a bookcase behind the desk, folded T-shirts saying Fangtasia and some them had an address on them for some place in Shreveport on the a bookcase adjacent to the door he came through with stocks of alcoholic drinks, boxes of Tru Blood (whatever the fuck that was), beer barrels in a corner a few black and white photos on the walls. The desk had balances sheets reports, stock invoices, candle, odd little ceramic things, and a calculator on it. There was a sword on the wall that looked sort of Middle Eastern and it seemed to conform to Brad that he had been taken by Iraqis. Apart from the fact that everything was written in English. There was a couch in another corner on the room and a window in the wall behind the desk. He flick the window blinds, outside looked like the car park of some industrial area. Only it didn't look like a backwater in Iraq. Then brad thought for a second. Wasn't Shreveport in Louisiana? Did that mean he was in Louisiana? Why the fuck was he in Louisiana of all please? How the fuck did he get to Louisiana? Wait, wasn't there an Air Force base, was he? Hang on. If he was an infirmary why the fuck was he still wearing his MOPP suit? And what kind of air force base and infirmary is that close to sheds too small to house planes and a car park?
Brad checked out the draws for any maps, the only one maps being for areas called Reynard Parish and Caddo Parish. A place painfully in the middle of nowhere Louisiana. Surely, if he was on an air force base there would be maps of more areas then Louisiana and maps of the Iraqis desert, this pissed Brad off even more. This goddamn air force base didn't even have any fucking maps of the county that the US military had invaded.
Frustrated and figuring that the door marked Exit would lead to some fucking car park next to an airfield, he walked through the other door. And that was when he decided that he was one step any from committing murder in a fit of rage. Brad had walked into some kind of Goth club. He is seriously not impressed by what he saw, gay-ass fairy lights over the bar, gothic vampire wannabes mooning their way out the door and dopey red curtains hanging off the walls. As he surveyed the room, his eyes fell on a man who...well, he looked like a Viking gone Goth, he was dressed head to toe in black clothes, had long blonde hair and a beard sitting on some kind of throne with his legs spread apart as if to say to the world, 'Look at how big my dick and balls are.' Brad tried not to think about anything else Corporal Person would have to say right now.
Brad said, under his breathe, just one word, "Pussy"
Eric heard that. He was not pleased, to say the least, when he realised that the comment was directed towards him. Eric wasn't exactly impressed that some so-and-so human dress as a USA marine in a ridiculous MOPP suit had dared to call him a pussy.
The phase "instantly pissed off" couldn't really quite cover the quantity and the quality of the rage that Eric filled up with. Most nights Eric was very in control of himself and his emotion. Normally, if something was too pathetic for his attentions or if its very presence pissed him, the worst he would do was kick it to make it go away. Tonight was not going to be one of those nights.
Eric had the sense to bottle his rage up until the last customers walked out the door before he attacked the ridiculous…thing that dare to call him a pussy.
Brad may have had his rifle and his fast reaction time, but even he was too slow for a thousand year old vampire. Well, at least to slow to shoot Eric in the head, which might have saved his life. He got a couple of rounds into Eric's torso. And now Eric reallywas pissed. One of his favourite shirts now had bullet holes in it.
Eric had not been made sheriff for nothing. Pam was aware that there was going to be a bloody mess in the club very quickly. She left to find Ginger and get her ready to clean the floor while she and Eric got rid of the body...Well, body parts, no doubt. Once she found Ginger outside, she waited for Eric called for them. Pam also wondered how this…this thinghad gotten in the club. She didn't let it in and she was on the door all night.
Brad was one of the few humans who, without taking any silver on him, gave Eric a decent fight. Eric was actually quite impressed with way he still fought after he ripped his arm out of the socket.
After he killed him, Eric thought that maybe this human would have been a good vampire. But he would never turn any human that had insulted him.
Anyway, the breather was no longer breathing. And Eric didn't have time to dwell on the past. He had to get this mess cleaned up and get the body disposed off. Eric went into his office to get some bin bags for the various body parts. When he returned with Pam and Ginger, the body parts were gone. And so was the all the blood.
No one could clean up that mess that quickly. Eric was confused. He could still the soldier's blood in his mouth and there was still blood on his cloths, so where was the bloody mess on the floor of his club?
Brad woke up in his grave in Iraq by his Humvee, still with a bad head arch, only now he also had a very sore neck, and his torso and arms and legs hurt as well.
'Well that was a weird ass fucked up dream.' Brad thought as he got and went about his business. It was just a dream, right?
(Come on! As if I could actually kill the iceman. He may not be quite as cool as Eric Northman, but only just. I hide behind the shield of this being a crackfic for all its worth. Please don't judge me too harshly. )