Ron's Worst Nightmares
Operation Vigilant Warden, 1
By Pat Squared
WARNING: NOT POLITICALLY CORRECT; LANGUAGE
If it was not for the Casio G-Shock™ on his wrist, Private Vasilii Boiarskii, Second Squad, Second Platoon, Bravo Company, First Battalion of the Fifth Marine Regiment, First Marine Expeditionary Force, United States Marine Corps, would have long lost track of how many days he had spent in this African shithole.
"Make Peace or Die!" was the battalion motto. Locate, close with, and destroy the enemy with fire and maneuver was the first of the fifth's role on God's cursed earth. These two ideas aptly described Vasilii's mindset.
He had long forgotten about the land of the big PX and Smarty Mart. He had long forgotten about why Ron Stoppable left Middleton and joined the Green Machine. The friendship Ron Stoppable had with a certain redhead was history.
The ten days of leave he had enjoyed prior to reporting to his first unit was spent in proving the fact that a man in Marine Dress Blues had no problem finding willing, attractive, female bed partners. Blondes, brunettes, and a redhead just to spite the bitch ... Asians, Latinas, and even a light chocolate-skin Creole ex-playmate from New Orleans were more than willing to show Vasilii that women loved a confident man. Fake it and he never have to sleep alone. He only cursed the fact that he learnt this fact at twenty instead of fourteen.
Vasilii had long forgotten what a conscience was. Here there was no one to protest, there was no one to rein him back, no one to stop the inner demons from lashing out on the world that betrayed Vasilii Boiarskii.
He popped two more APC's, the little white pills that every navy corpsman passed out like tic-tacs to Marines for minor aches and pains. Aspirin and codeine – Light-fighters' candy made the pain bearable. He had half a bottle and that would hold him down for a while.
Vasilii had spent twenty-two days and expended thirty-two match-grade MR118 7.62x51mm NATO rounds teaching the local militia why they should have pay attention to the battalion motto of the First of the Fifth.
Every war meant another name to call the opposition. The Germans were called Fritz, the Japanese – Japs, the NK's – Luke the Gook, the Vietnamese – Charlie. Vasilii was spending his free time trying to figure out a suitable name for the Sudanese Militia, but the best he could come up with was the 'Shits.' It was not politically correct, but succinctly described this part of Africa in a single syllable.
According to the GPS unit, he was seventeen kilometers or klicks from battalion base camp as the crow flies. However, seventeen klicks in a straight line meant forty to fifty by the time he would make it though roving militia patrols.
Vasilii waited for night to fall. It was thirty-six hours since his canteen last held any drinking water and ninety-six since he had anything resembling food. He had to get some, but the local drinking water would only serve to give him the shits and speed him onto a death by dehydration. He had to get water and a safe place where he could boil it.
Below was another third world village of Shits. Any male old enough to wear pants or shorts sported the local fashion accessory – Avtomat Kalashnikova 1947 and shower flip-flops. Hell half the mamas here names their boys Kalash after the damned thing.
Vasilii was careful to keep the sun to his back so that any errant reflections would not betray his position. There were fifteen to twenty armed shits swaggering about, trying to impress the HIV infected maidens with the necklaces of belted 7.62x30mm M1943 Soviet.
Everyday, he wanted to perform retroactive birth control on every shit in Sudan. The former Ron Stoppable concern for the innocent be damned, but Vasilii grew to hate everyone would did not have USMC imprinted unto their three color desert pattern battle dress uniforms.
Old men, women, children – there was no civilians worthy of the sacrifices that the Marine peacekeepers made ... that was worth the death of Vasilii's squad mates. The locals laughed, they danced, they probably made babies at the thought of shooting marines. Vasilii vowed to ensure that they learned that this marine did not care how many object lessons he had to make, but no one ... no one ... fucked around with the marines of the first of the fifth.
Operation Vigilant Warden had become Operation Shit-Stack in Vasilii's mind the moment the hyenas feasted on the bodies of his squad mates. Tonight, he would pay the local Jihadists an educational visit, restock his canteen with boiled water, and liberate some chickens. Tonight he was going to eat a warm meal and turn the locals into hyena food.
Too bad I don't have the time or salt to salt their fields.
Afterwards, they will know that a white ghost ... a white hunter of men were going to pull a Father Flannigan. He would prove their was not such thing as a bad boy, just ones that have not yet been corrected by a thirty caliber match grade bullet to the cranial cavity.
Vasilii thanked an unappreciative deity that this was a typical third world collection of hovels. The locals woke up and went to bed with the sun. There was no electricity and when the sun dropped the only light was the waning moon.
Vasilii had reapply the camouflage face paint to all exposed skin surfaces and slowly crawled his way into the village. It was silent. All he could hear was the occasional movement of the local goat or the cluck of a hen. His goal was simple. The local version of a mosque was the only real sturdy structure. It would have a fountain for the faithful to wash prior to prayers. The local mullah was the one telling the locals the locals that killing marines is their ticket to paradise and the forty-seven virgins. Also he would be wealthy enough to have a pot to boil water and cook chickens.
No one thought of posting any sentries. Despite the grandiose dreams of the mullahs, this was just another third world village of shits that would not make any impact in the grand schemes of things. All they did was pray, grow crops, smoke or chew drugs, make more shits, and chant slogans like death to America. Hell, no one could probably point out where America was on a map.
Inside the mosque was the only book in this pig-sty, a Koran. Vasilii looked at the flowing, oddly beautiful script. He pocketed it. The book was the greatest propaganda tool even devised. The local mullahs would hold it up say whatever and pointed to a random passage saying that it was in the Koran. Since most of the locals could not read or even speak Arabic, it allowed the mullahs to boss around the local congregation. By taking the book, Vasilii was taking the local mullah's bed rock of power.
It was midnight when, Vasilii hear motion. He quickly made his way to the door, positioning himself so that he would be out of sight.
A man, early thirties, dark skin, skinny, tall, and wearing a white fez-like cap walked inside. He surveyed the mosque, turned around and stared at Vasilii.
Vasilii had his USMC issue K-bar fighting knife ready. He tackled the man and have hack the man's head halfway off before the body hit the ground. He was positioned over the dying man who was stunned that a white ghost could kill him in his seat of power.
Vasilii knew that this man would be discovered soon. He quickly threw the mullah's body into the mihrab, or niche on the wall that told the local which way to face so that they will point to Mecca during prayers.
Vasilii made his way towards the mullah's quarters.
One hour later, Vasilii left the village. The only signs of his passing were a missing pot, two missing chickens, some spices, one dead mullah, one missing Koran, and the bodies of the mullah family, all killed by a blade. The part of Vasilii call Ron Stoppable was in tears, but Vasilii loved the old Dutch quote – "You can't bake an omelets without breaking an egg." Vasilii would not be able to get the head honcho without killing a few supporters.
Vasilii loved Hate and Hate love him. It only took four muscles to give the world the finger and only four to pull the trigger. He hated Vader – Why did the number bad guy hate to fall to the dark side over a bitch? Ron Stoppable was the Jedi wantabee. Vasilii Boiarskii was the true Master of the Sith.
More powerful than Darth Vader, more cunning than Darth Sidious, Vasilii Boiarskii was going to destroy the local militia more decisively than the Sith ever dreamt of destroying the Jedi Order.
When the sun came up tomorrow mourning, Vasilii knew that he would become the hunted. The first stage of Vasilii's plan for revenge was on schedule. He couldn't wait to turn the tables on the hunters.