Four shifts at BF

[Kuniworth]

Ok Im posting this, JerseyJohn found out the truth about BF and posted it over at SC Buntaland. I'm posting it here, don't shot me I'm just a messenger of the truth.

Four Shifts at ...

The shift changes at B. F. Matthew begins heading for the reinforced steel door even before Martin has finished putting on his combat boots and riot gear.

"What's the big rush, Matt?"

-- "You'll see. I don't know what it is, maybe it's the full moon or something, but all the CM animals out tonight tearing the damn place up, as usual. Also, that self-important pompous ass with the 20,000 posts is trying to lord it over the others again. I was about to snap when you came in."

Martin nods. Poor Matt is too sensitive for this kind of work. "Okay, buddy, get the hell out of here and relax. Unwind a bit, take out the BeeBee gun and shoot a few squirels or maybe some ditzy broad in the rump from a concealed position."

-- "Yeah, that's exactly what I had in mind."

The heavy steal door, WWII surplus salvaged from the British BB Rodney, closes closes with a heavy thud as he leaves, but unfortunately not before a beam of moonlight comes down on the normally mellow Martin.

And it's then that he transforms to ...

** MOON! **

"Okay, so we've some weird stuff happening tonight, have we? -- Well, They'll see who's boss. They think they're dealing with the MadMatt, well, I'm not a damn liberal pushover like my esteemed colleague. Heads will roll!"

He thinks about it, repeats the phrase under his breath, "Heads will Roll!" and it brings a smile to his face. "OFF WITH HIS HEAD!" he shouts, the words echoing off the walls of the converted Air Force SAC HQ that is BattleFront. "OFF WITH HIS HEAD!" he shouts again and loves the sound of it. The words make him feel good all over and he chortles like a child.

Yes, what a fine vision, Mighty Moon seated on a thrown in some Conan The Barbarian type fantasy world, prisoners by the score dragged in front of him, pleading their cases while he rests his hand on his chin, pretending to listen, till some random word infuriates him and he rears up, screaming, "OFF WITH HIS HEAD!" to thunderous applause. Yes, yes, he trembles with excitement thinking about it. They only chop off a few heads, the rest are dispatched with greater creativity, impaled on stakes, drawn and quartered, broken on the wheel -- whatever those fun loving peons manage to come up with to put a little variety into their humdrum existence.

He watches them in their deranged frolic and they chant his name, "MOON! -- MOON! -- MOON!" *Whack, Whack, Whack* and some poor bastard is beaten to a pulp on a truly inane accusation. The good townfolk, gleeful and celebrating, begin chanting his name again as the next victim is dragged forward, "MOON! -- MOON! -- MOON!" He smiles warmly. They love him.

Quick trips through the CM forums. Yeah, the usual schmucks, Soddball and the rest slithering about in their normal delerium. "I wonder what the hell Matthew was talking about, the place is downright calm tonight."

GF next, nothing but the run of the mill pretentiousness and posturing from the gibbons he's known for so long and has found so adorable, if a bit repetitive and borish. One or two obituaries and he shakes his head, "These clowns must figure nobody reads a newspaper or listens to a radio or watches TV."

Then it begins happening. The patch of skin that was touched by the light of the full moon begins to blister. It starts to itch, the pain becomes unbearable. His mouth becomes distorted, fangs showing, fur coming up from his flesh.

"Oh crap, it must be a full moon tonight!"

It's terrible and he's glad he works alone or he'd need to explain another killing to the trusty local police. Not that it matters as the usual investigation is for them to shake their heads and say, 'Oh my, this is terrible. Anyway, Martin, this person died from the fangs of a wild canine or something, so you may as well go home and, once again, thanks for reporting the killing.' And so he nods, wiping the victim's blood from his mouth and fingernails.

But it's especially bad tonight all the same.

He scrolls through the forums, werewolf or not he's got work that needs to get done.

"What's this in the SC2 area?"

He gets the urge to write something for no particular reason, "If it weren't for you making work tonight I'd be off at a party." It doesn't make any sense and he knows that even while he's writing it but what the hell, they're a bunch of morons who'll believe almost anything. Meanwhile his eyes narrow on one particular name. In any language it translates to mean T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

Ah, it's that commie troublemaker, that Swedish malcontent, Kuniworth! He begins reading his latest trouble making assault.

"Hubert, I don't agree with your general ratings. Montgomery is too high, just like he was in SC-1 and Zuchov was even better than the rating you gave him. Still, it's your game so I guess you're entitled to rate them as you see fit. Besides, as you said, we can always change all of that in the game editor."

There's a sharp pain in his skull and he starts to feel a little irritable.

He reads it again. Unbelievable, all that stuff about his mother having worn combat boots -- how the hell did Kuniworth find out about that? And that stuff about FDR and Eleanor Roosevelt having sex and stuff. Who the hell does he think he is, that damn Swede.

"OFF WITH HIS HEAD!" he screams and begins howling at the celestial body he is unable to see through the reinvorced concrete walls and roof of the old bunker.

The heavy steel door with the HMS Rodney tag creaks open slowly. The night has passed. Dan the KwazyDog reports for duty. Martin is out cold, the place littered with torn papers and looking as though a battle had been fought in it. He knew it would look that way, happens that way whenever Martin works and it's a full moon. He approaches the main desk and shakes him awake.

"Hey Marty, it's morning, time to go home."

The werewolf turned back to human form jumps up and looks around the room, a bit embarrassed as he finds his the remnants of his clothing and begins to get dressed.

"Don't worry about the mess, Marty, I'll clean it up. Looks like a boring day and it will give me something to stay occupied with."

-- "Thanks Dan, I owe you."

"Oh, I kicked Kuniworth out again."

-- A quizical look, "What'd he do this time?"

"Soddball's a ****ing idiot, that's what!"

-- "Oh."

The steel door labelled H. M. S. Rodney creaks open eight hours later.

"Hey, Hubert, we're getting swamped with E-mails about Kuniworth's banning."

-- "What'd he do this time?"

"It's a little hard to explain. He had a fight with Soddball or something; I couldn't find any locked threads, though. Anyway, Martin banned Kuni last night."

-- "Oh."

"It was a full moon."

-- "Good thing he was working and he can't open the door with those paws of his."

"What about Kuniworth?"

-- "I think we should wait and let Matt give him a few warnings, that sort of thing."

"Yeah, good idea. Matt's good at handling thest things."

Eight hours pass, the shift changes at BF.

MadMatt, the Great Arbitor, arrives at work.

- # -

[ March 31, 2006, 11:30 AM: Message edited by: Kuniworth ]

[rleete]

Kunni was banned?

[JerseyJohn]

I don't get it, Kuni, am I supposed to have written that thing?

Glad you like it enough to move it here, wish I'd gone through it again to weed out the typos (should have spelled Zhukov , uh, whatever, correctly --! ) but all things considered I guess the mistakes are okay.

Naturally none of that was intended to represent anyone living or dead, here or elsewhere.

And those are the words I'd like to be remembered by as I'm about to be placed on 142 years probation.

--

[Liam]

Kuni is just complaining because he can't beat me with a 350 bid See if SC2 is different my European Cousin!

[SeaMonkey]

JJ, I always likened Moon to your Godzilla character....feeding on those snippets of locked threads....just jumping into his mouth off the keyboard of Kuni's Lucky brands.

[JerseyJohn]

Great analogy, SM.

I haven't put that one in too many places because it's seven or eight posts long and, naturally, has nothing to do with wargames -- it's really a spoof on John Gardner's Grendl, where we see humans through the eyes of the monster and he can't understand why they're always picking on him. :confused:

Agree with what you said, I think Moon himself would enjoy the story but I can't post it here, of course. Will post it at SC Bunta in the Psycho Path area. It's hidden from guest view but easily visible to logged in members.

Thanks for reminding me about that story, SM

-- BTW, took your advice about exercising and can't find a flat brick wall around here to throw a ball against. No squash courts, no handball courts and the only places that would be good for it have pointy erratic surfaces specially designed to keep people from tossing a ball against them. I feel bad for the local kids, and for me too, there's nothing quite like throwing a ball against a smooth cement or stone wall on a halfway decent day -- and it's great exercise too.

[SeaMonkey]

Alright, good for you JJ.

See if you can find some old trampolines, the kind people exercise on.

Perhaps they would provide a somewhat unpredictable return. Maybe a tennis ball against the garage door?

[JerseyJohn]

That's an idea, SM.

Mainly I've just been walking around on a daily basis. Had a couple of teenagers come up to me the other day asking if I had a job for them. I laughed and said I didn't even have a job for myself. One of them said, "You know, the suitcase?" and when the other saw I was blank on it he said, "Sorry, mister!" and they rode off on their mountain bikes.

Good old NJ, never a dull moment.