Hi, guys! This is more of an experiment, but I have a basic idea. Warning: EXTREME usage of language.

Great! Yeah, real great. Just what I fuckin' needed. In case you couldn't tell, that was fuckin' sarcasm. You know some sorry fuck like me is having a shitty day when yer goin' about your own business, going on a high up fancy assed mission while the lazy bastard that sent ya sits on his ass like he's the high-tom-tity of the whole motherfucking world-when he ain't. Really, that scumbag is more like a pimple on the ass of the world that the world just can't seem to reach around to pop...so he's always there, with my sorry hide not bein' able to do nothin' about it. But...I got off track.

As I was sayin', you know some guy like yours truly is having a bad day when you and yer team get their cover blown in the middle of hostile fuckin' territory. Tangos! Tangos everywhere you fuckin' look-shootin' at ya and shit when you have cement explodin' all 'round ya and you can't even get a shot off 'cause you're running for your life. And then there came the mortar fire. Noisy shit right there that mortar fire. You could hear it, screamin' through the air, and hope that it didn't hit you or anywhere near you 'cause then shit explodes. And shrapnel is not fun. Got hit a few times in the ol' arm and leg, but can't complain much. Least I ain't dead like that sorry bastard that got hit in the neck. Like, I felt sorry for the bastard and all...okay, I lied, I really didn't. I was just glad it wasn't me. But daaaaamn, man! All that blood that squirted out of 'im! I didn't think a man could bleed that much. Course, I bled a lot before I died, too...so, I shouldn't talk.

Ya know what I don't get? How people always talk 'bout there bein' a heaven and shit. I mean, yeah, I used to believe, but I don't now. Course, I stopped believing way before I kicked the bucket, cause really, I'm not the best guy to be around, I admit. And I will also admit that I fuckin' love my job. Shooting some candyass dead, gutting 'im with my combat knife, shootin' anyone who crosses the fuckin' line that no one's supposed to cross. Man, I love fighting. Don't matter what I do: firefights, knife fights, fist fights...I just love to fight. Get that adrenaline pumpin' and shit. I suppose I'm not good at doin' anything else. I sure as hell know I ain't smart enough to find the cure for cancer or anything-even though I remember I was lookin' at colleges when I was younger...thinkin' 'bout maybe goin' into bible study. But then I got fuckin' drafted-and let me tell you, I was a fuckin' pussy. I was so fuckin' pussywhipped I was afraid to pull that little trigger on a little 3mm to make it go bang. And my Platoon Sergeant was NOT happy.

In time, I was whipped into shape, kicked ass, rose up the ranks, and somewhere along the line developed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. As I admitted, I am not the best guy in the world. In fact, I know more people who would gladly call me an asshole, a neonazi, a babykiller, a soulless bastard, a psychopath, and a bunch of other shit I don't really care about. And it's all fuckin' true, so I wouldn't waste my breath tryin' to defend myself...cause I really have nothing to defend. I piss so many people off just by saying a single sentence even when I don't mean too. No filter of any kind, I'm told. That's what led to gettin' into fights a lot, but I don't mind. I find it fun to piss people off. But I should have known I would always die in a fight. Just my fuckin' luck, eh?

Either way, remember about the mortar fire? Well, me and my squad see, we took cover in a building-and it was fallin' to shit. But another squad was making their way in-tangos-and we tried to hold them off, but I was so trigger happy I used up my last mag like it was nothing. And that led to the knife fight. I would have won-if that fucking shitty building hadn't got hit with fucking stupid ass morar fire. The building shook, and I tripped backwards on a piece of debris, and major candyass there fell on top of me during the fight-and drove his fuckin knife into my heart.

I wasn't sure what happened at first, but I felt pain, like I couldn't breathe, and that fuckshit of a kid was just lookin' at me, wide eyed and shit. Like he had no idea what would fuckin' happen if you stabbed someone, and he got as pale as a piece of shit paper. In truth, I think I was his first kill. I was like that with the first man I killed. Funny how the more a man kills, the less moral he becomes. At first, I only killed men. Then I figured if I killed men, I sure as hell could kill women. So I did, and then it came to kids. I was the standard grunt that was the bitch to a more fancy looking suit that knew how to con people into anything. Just point me to the objective, and I kill anyone who gets in the way to complete the mission. As I got older, I didn't even bat a fuckin' eye. Never gave it a second thought. Hell, I LAUGHED as I unloaded a whole magazine on some bastard in front of his wife and kid. Then gave them each lead between the eyes with a pistol-partly out of orders, partly because I knew I could get away with it. I guess anyone other than me would have done it the other way around. More moral. But the truth is, I don't give a flying fuck-nor do I regret any of my damn actions, and I'm pretty sure than makes me worse than anyone labeled "public enemy number one."

So, I died-and I guess that was a favor for the world. At least not for my superior-fancy suited bastard. But I saw no glimpses of some paradise with angles thinking they're the best damned things in the world, or some old fat fuck sitting on his lazy ass in some fancy throne or those pearly gates. All I fuckin' saw was black shit-like nothing at all. Like I didn't SEE it, but I FELT it, which caused me to SEE it even though I was dead. And then a shity swirl of lights-which I guess were souls. And then a loud bam. Don't know what the bam was, but...I started hearing voices. Then I woke the fuck up to bunch of fuckin' ugly iguanas with wings starin' at me.

All I could do was stare at them as they started fanning over me like I was the best thing since sliced fuckin' bread, with dumb assed looks on their faces. I couldn't talk, even though I tried to-and I couldn't even move-like my coordination went to shit. I didn't even know where the fuck I was-if I was alive, dead, somewhere in between, just high as all hell, or in a really shitty dream. I couldn't understand them much either-like they were talkin' too fast, and then I noticed the color of their scales, and the bright, gay colors hurt my damned eyes. There were three of them, I think. Two or three, but I only really remember one, since it was up in my damned face.

One was a skinny, little thing, like one of those coke whores on cocaine who go into prostitution for money to buy the coke. It had a woman's tone of voice, so it was actually a she. She was white, and had a dark grey...or light black stomach. Not sure why, but her eyes fuckin' annoyed me, because she was crying and nugding my head over and over and over. I wanted to tell her to fuck off and that I didn't like being touched by something so hideous, but I couldn't. I still couldn't understand what the hell she was sobbing about. Dumb bitch.

I heard two other voices talking, and could only make out bits and pieces of their conversation-which wasn't much, really. I couldn't see them too well since Cream Puff was still my face, crying and trying to hug me or something or whatever she was trying to do. She kept crying, sometimes softly, sometimes in those obnoxious gasps when you couldn't really breathe but tried to anyway just for the sake of crying some more when you couldn't.

She kept on crying, muttering something over and over, and it took a while before I made out the name "Helix", which the bimbo was saying constantly. I didn't know who the hell this Helix was, and I couldn't ask yet-or even move, like I was a fucking stupid mushroom. Alive, but unable to move or talk. She said "Helix" again, and again, and it took me awhile to even realize that Cream Puff was actually calling me this Helix. She thought I was this Helix? I sure as hell ain't nothing like these stupid iguanas with bat wings, so how the hell could she call me Helix? My name isn't even fucking Helix! Maybe Cream Puff will have some answers whenever I get the ability to talk again. I told ya, ya die one second and then the other second you wake up and have some iguana crying in your face and calling you Helix. Well joke's on her, cause I'm calling her Cream Puff...days like this suck.

Not sure what you guys think, but if you want another chapter let me know. So far I own every character here. Thank you for reading!