Pillock:
BenKenobi:
Lord Tim:
June 18th
You won’t believe it.
I was at the bank today when the robbery happened. Armed men burst in, yelling at us to get down. I recognized their leader, actually. Yellow Jacket, that cult leader back in the 80s. They all look kind of silly when you’re safe behind a TV screen. But up close? Having a shotgun full of “wasp stingers” shoved up to your face? That ****’s terrifying. I can still see those bugged-out yellow eyes glaring at me.
But right when I was sure we were through, I hear this voice fill up the whole room. Just like out of the serials they run before movies. “Surrender, evildoers, or get Smashed!”
Adam Smasher himself, standing not ten feet from me. I couldn’t believe it. Looks bigger in person. It was incredible, the goons got turn apart. Broke Yellow Jacket’s gun and tossed aside the pieces like trash. Bastard got away though.
When the police showed up and the paramedics started hauling out crooks, everyone crowded around Adam for autographs. He always sticks around a while and panders to the crowd. He was different today. Seemed kinda sweaty, and took off in a hurry. I thought that was that, and was heading home, but on the way I saw something dart between that alley right past Fifth and Wicker. You know that feeling? The “life-changing opportunity” kind? It was like that. Heaven knows why, but Adam was slow today. It nearly killed me, but I didn’t lose him.
Followed him all the way back to his home.
I probably shouldn’t write this, but I’m freaking giddy here. He’s living in the suburbs right out of town. I’d never have guessed, but he has a family! Two sons, I guess his wife, even a dog. I mean, I always knew he was a straight-laced guy, but he practically had a white picket fence on his house.
So… what do I do? I know his identity. Do I auction it? I could be rich. But… ****. That’d be wrong, huh? I’m gonna mull it over a few days. I have time.
June 19th
Met with Leonard and Antimony for lunch. Shot the **** over coffee, and caught up. I don’t get Leonard. Always complaining about how he’s dirt poor, throwing money into crackpot schemes and longshot investments. Then he goes and tips our waitress with a fifty. Said he knew her, her uncle died in the hospital last night. Poor girl. What’s she doing working at a time like this?
Still don’t know what I’m gonna do about Adam. Ugh. My brain’s too jumbled to think about this. I’ve got work tomorrow, I shouldn’t be up so late writing this crap.
June 20th
I must have a horseshoe made of four leaf clovers shoved up my ass. Adam showed up at the gas station today. He had his hair all dyed and under a hat, contacts that changed his eye color. But you can’t hide that chin, once you’ve seen it close up. I know it was him. He talked casual with me, seemed like a swell guy. Don’t know why he came to my station, though. Maybe he frequents places that get robbed a lot? Some kinda patrol?
All he bought was a pack of cheap beer. I saw his ID. Man, I even know his name now. It’s tense.
But, the weirdest thing. Came back five minutes later, got three packs of smokes. Looked real sweaty, he wouldn’t look me in the eye. Did I do something to tip him off? Maybe he’s psychic, I don’t know how these supers work.
June 21st
Spent all day at the dog park and then the hospital with Leonard. I mean it, the man’s insane. Some stray tomcat came in and got pounced by a big Newfoundland. Leonard charged right in and fought it off, got a trip to the ER for his trouble. His glasses were smashed too. He adopted the cat, though. How he’ll afford it, I have no idea.
June 22nd
It’s all over the news. Julius Jester kidnapped the mayor and his staff.
Adam Smasher never showed. By the time the American Guild got there, everyone was already dead. Julius included. I guess he’d wanted to go out in style, but did the job himself when Adam was a no-show. He always seemed off his rocker in the manifestos he put out.
I knew something was up with Adam. I biked down to his house, and watched from a distance. He was there all right, in his garage. I watched through the window. He was trying to bench press his sedan.
But he couldn’t do it. Tried as hard as he could. Couldn’t move it more than a couple inches. After about twenty minutes he gunned down a beer and went inside, drenched.
I can’t believe it. Adam Smasher’s losing his powers.
June 23rd
I went back to his house, just to check. Maybe he was doing better. He wasn’t. There was yelling inside, I couldn’t see. Sounded like his wife. He started yelling back, and they got louder. The kids were crying. Then I heard a sound I didn’t recognize.
His wife started screaming. I had to run. Had to. What was I supposed to do? Call the cops on Adam Smasher? He’s a damn hero, right? Maybe I just misunderstood.
****, I don’t know what to do anymore. I have to tell someone. Oh god.
June 24th
Leonard got out of the hospital today. I told him everything. I had to get it off my chest, and I knew I could trust a friend like him. He gave me a look like he couldn’t believe what I was telling him. And then he got quiet, all contemplative. He thanked me for telling him, then he said something I didn’t understand. “I’ll take it from here.” You know, it’s funny. His glasses were so thick I’d never seen the color of his eyes.
They’re yellow.
You won’t believe it.
I was at the bank today when the robbery happened. Armed men burst in, yelling at us to get down. I recognized their leader, actually. Yellow Jacket, that cult leader back in the 80s. They all look kind of silly when you’re safe behind a TV screen. But up close? Having a shotgun full of “wasp stingers” shoved up to your face? That ****’s terrifying. I can still see those bugged-out yellow eyes glaring at me.
But right when I was sure we were through, I hear this voice fill up the whole room. Just like out of the serials they run before movies. “Surrender, evildoers, or get Smashed!”
Adam Smasher himself, standing not ten feet from me. I couldn’t believe it. Looks bigger in person. It was incredible, the goons got turn apart. Broke Yellow Jacket’s gun and tossed aside the pieces like trash. Bastard got away though.
When the police showed up and the paramedics started hauling out crooks, everyone crowded around Adam for autographs. He always sticks around a while and panders to the crowd. He was different today. Seemed kinda sweaty, and took off in a hurry. I thought that was that, and was heading home, but on the way I saw something dart between that alley right past Fifth and Wicker. You know that feeling? The “life-changing opportunity” kind? It was like that. Heaven knows why, but Adam was slow today. It nearly killed me, but I didn’t lose him.
Followed him all the way back to his home.
I probably shouldn’t write this, but I’m freaking giddy here. He’s living in the suburbs right out of town. I’d never have guessed, but he has a family! Two sons, I guess his wife, even a dog. I mean, I always knew he was a straight-laced guy, but he practically had a white picket fence on his house.
So… what do I do? I know his identity. Do I auction it? I could be rich. But… ****. That’d be wrong, huh? I’m gonna mull it over a few days. I have time.
June 19th
Met with Leonard and Antimony for lunch. Shot the **** over coffee, and caught up. I don’t get Leonard. Always complaining about how he’s dirt poor, throwing money into crackpot schemes and longshot investments. Then he goes and tips our waitress with a fifty. Said he knew her, her uncle died in the hospital last night. Poor girl. What’s she doing working at a time like this?
Still don’t know what I’m gonna do about Adam. Ugh. My brain’s too jumbled to think about this. I’ve got work tomorrow, I shouldn’t be up so late writing this crap.
June 20th
I must have a horseshoe made of four leaf clovers shoved up my ass. Adam showed up at the gas station today. He had his hair all dyed and under a hat, contacts that changed his eye color. But you can’t hide that chin, once you’ve seen it close up. I know it was him. He talked casual with me, seemed like a swell guy. Don’t know why he came to my station, though. Maybe he frequents places that get robbed a lot? Some kinda patrol?
All he bought was a pack of cheap beer. I saw his ID. Man, I even know his name now. It’s tense.
But, the weirdest thing. Came back five minutes later, got three packs of smokes. Looked real sweaty, he wouldn’t look me in the eye. Did I do something to tip him off? Maybe he’s psychic, I don’t know how these supers work.
June 21st
Spent all day at the dog park and then the hospital with Leonard. I mean it, the man’s insane. Some stray tomcat came in and got pounced by a big Newfoundland. Leonard charged right in and fought it off, got a trip to the ER for his trouble. His glasses were smashed too. He adopted the cat, though. How he’ll afford it, I have no idea.
June 22nd
It’s all over the news. Julius Jester kidnapped the mayor and his staff.
Adam Smasher never showed. By the time the American Guild got there, everyone was already dead. Julius included. I guess he’d wanted to go out in style, but did the job himself when Adam was a no-show. He always seemed off his rocker in the manifestos he put out.
I knew something was up with Adam. I biked down to his house, and watched from a distance. He was there all right, in his garage. I watched through the window. He was trying to bench press his sedan.
But he couldn’t do it. Tried as hard as he could. Couldn’t move it more than a couple inches. After about twenty minutes he gunned down a beer and went inside, drenched.
I can’t believe it. Adam Smasher’s losing his powers.
June 23rd
I went back to his house, just to check. Maybe he was doing better. He wasn’t. There was yelling inside, I couldn’t see. Sounded like his wife. He started yelling back, and they got louder. The kids were crying. Then I heard a sound I didn’t recognize.
His wife started screaming. I had to run. Had to. What was I supposed to do? Call the cops on Adam Smasher? He’s a damn hero, right? Maybe I just misunderstood.
****, I don’t know what to do anymore. I have to tell someone. Oh god.
June 24th
Leonard got out of the hospital today. I told him everything. I had to get it off my chest, and I knew I could trust a friend like him. He gave me a look like he couldn’t believe what I was telling him. And then he got quiet, all contemplative. He thanked me for telling him, then he said something I didn’t understand. “I’ll take it from here.” You know, it’s funny. His glasses were so thick I’d never seen the color of his eyes.
They’re yellow.
BenKenobi:
Sergeant looked at the briefcase, saluted the messenger and spent the next minute watching as the soldier mounted his horse and disappeared into the forest. He passed the barbed wire, crossed the wooden plank lying over the moat and opened the steel doors. Not noticing the machine gun barrel aiming right at him, he turned right, walked all the way down the hallway, past the ammo storeroom and finally reached the stairs. He descended the stairs and immediately heard the sound of diesel generator. Not thinking about the smell coming from it, he walked past it and at last stood before the wooden doors.
“Sergeant Bílý, sir! The orders have arrived!” said the sergeant as he knocked on the door.
“Come in, sergeant!” answered lieutenant Svoboda, the commander of the fort.
Sergeant entered the room, passed the briefcase to the officer and left. Svoboda opened the briefcase, put the sealed envelope on the table and used a knife to open the envelope. He read the text. He went through the order two more times. Then he lighted up a cigarette.
“Soldiers,” said Svoboda to his men, assembled in front of the fort some twenty minutes later. “We have thirteen hours…”
The men were holding their breaths, eagerness mixed with fear.
“…to surrender the fort.”
Soldiers started to look at each other. Confused, angry and disappointed. They started to mumble, every one of them with thousands of words to say. Yet, Svoboda did not care about them at all; the speech continued.
“It is prohibited to destroy any part of the fort’s equipment, but we will take whatever we can with us. Four trucks are arriving in three hours. I want every movable object out of the object. Machine guns, medicine supplies, ammunition, tools, fuel, spare parts. Leave furniture in the object. Also, special group will start to disassemble the anti-tank autocannon immediately. We don’t have time to drill out the carriages, but the cannon must not remain here. I want corporals and sergeants to have a word with me. Other ranks are dismissed. Carry on in your duties.”
“So…they gave us up? Is it true?” sounded from the file.
“Yes, it is. But our order is to surrender the fort. And that is exactly what we are going to do,” answered Svoboda the question.
“Sir, all this…for nothing?!” said private Blažek, who now stepped out of the group. “You have to give the order to defend the fort! You swore to defend the Republic!”
“We swear, by all that is holy to us, and in full concordance with our conscience and conviction, to obey the president and the government of the republic of Czechoslovakia, and all our commanders, appointed by the president and the government; we swear to always carry out their orders, without hesitation or resistance…” cited Svoboda part of the oath.
“Can’t you see that they went insane? They have no right to act this way, president or not!” continued Blažek.
“…We swear to always carry out their orders, without hesitation or resistance…” repeated Svoboda.
“But it is a bad order!”
“It is still an order, private!”
“Sir, just listen,” said another man, who has been silent so far. “They have to come by the road. They won’t be expecting anything; they will be here to take the fort, not to fight for it. They are going to bring engineers, not soldier; not tanks, just trucks. We can get some shots out of the thirty-seven, and we have two twin-MGs in the direction of the road. Maybe this will persuade other objects to join the fight. We have supplies to last for months. We haven’t lost yet.”
“Are you out of your mind, private?! Just one more word and I will have you arrested!” shouted Svoboda, now enraged by the unacceptable behavior of his subordinates.
And so the work continued. The weapons and personal belongings were hauled away by the military trucks, anything of value was removed, picture of the president as well as the steel doors, only a few moments ago ready to withstand the repeated assault by the men in grey.
Svoboda was looking at the working men, and was still keeping his calm, strict face, unchanged even by the occasional insult thrown his way, be it traitor, coward or even Nazi. He wouldn’t dare to say whether he was sympathizing with his men or not. He wasn’t there to do the thinking – he was a soldier. And soldiers obey their orders.
As the final group of Praga RVs departed into the forest, Svoboda looked down the road and saw another convoy – grey kübelwagen in the front, followed by three trucks. Unwary. Quite a target for the thirty-seven, as the private had said.
“Good day, lieutenant,” said the German officer and saluted Svoboda. “Magnificent. I got to give it to you; magnificent. This is the third object I see today and I must say these things still manage to amaze me.”
“Can we start?” interrupted him Svoboda, rather angrily.
“I meant no disrespect, quite the contrary! But I apologize; I know how you must feel.”
“How I feel? Hauptmann, soldiers don't have the luxury of having feelings. They just do what they are told.”
“Even when they are told so by crazy old men?”
“Yes, their duty is …to do their duties.”
“If you say so, lieutenant. I believe the soldier should think for himself, not being a mere tool of fools, cowards or butchers.”
“You start to think for yourself once the orders are fulfilled.”
“Even when ordered to do…dishonorable things?”
“Yes, it is not their responsibility.”
“And your conscience?”
“There are other ways of dealing with that.”
“I would say dismissed, but since you are not my subordinate…it’s been a pleasure meeting you, lieutenant,” said the German.
“So, this thing is done,” thought Svoboda for himself once he walked far enough not to be seen by the Germans. He unbuttoned his pistol holster. The body in olive overcoat fell into the grass.
“Sergeant Bílý, sir! The orders have arrived!” said the sergeant as he knocked on the door.
“Come in, sergeant!” answered lieutenant Svoboda, the commander of the fort.
Sergeant entered the room, passed the briefcase to the officer and left. Svoboda opened the briefcase, put the sealed envelope on the table and used a knife to open the envelope. He read the text. He went through the order two more times. Then he lighted up a cigarette.
“Soldiers,” said Svoboda to his men, assembled in front of the fort some twenty minutes later. “We have thirteen hours…”
The men were holding their breaths, eagerness mixed with fear.
“…to surrender the fort.”
Soldiers started to look at each other. Confused, angry and disappointed. They started to mumble, every one of them with thousands of words to say. Yet, Svoboda did not care about them at all; the speech continued.
“It is prohibited to destroy any part of the fort’s equipment, but we will take whatever we can with us. Four trucks are arriving in three hours. I want every movable object out of the object. Machine guns, medicine supplies, ammunition, tools, fuel, spare parts. Leave furniture in the object. Also, special group will start to disassemble the anti-tank autocannon immediately. We don’t have time to drill out the carriages, but the cannon must not remain here. I want corporals and sergeants to have a word with me. Other ranks are dismissed. Carry on in your duties.”
“So…they gave us up? Is it true?” sounded from the file.
“Yes, it is. But our order is to surrender the fort. And that is exactly what we are going to do,” answered Svoboda the question.
“Sir, all this…for nothing?!” said private Blažek, who now stepped out of the group. “You have to give the order to defend the fort! You swore to defend the Republic!”
“We swear, by all that is holy to us, and in full concordance with our conscience and conviction, to obey the president and the government of the republic of Czechoslovakia, and all our commanders, appointed by the president and the government; we swear to always carry out their orders, without hesitation or resistance…” cited Svoboda part of the oath.
“Can’t you see that they went insane? They have no right to act this way, president or not!” continued Blažek.
“…We swear to always carry out their orders, without hesitation or resistance…” repeated Svoboda.
“But it is a bad order!”
“It is still an order, private!”
“Sir, just listen,” said another man, who has been silent so far. “They have to come by the road. They won’t be expecting anything; they will be here to take the fort, not to fight for it. They are going to bring engineers, not soldier; not tanks, just trucks. We can get some shots out of the thirty-seven, and we have two twin-MGs in the direction of the road. Maybe this will persuade other objects to join the fight. We have supplies to last for months. We haven’t lost yet.”
“Are you out of your mind, private?! Just one more word and I will have you arrested!” shouted Svoboda, now enraged by the unacceptable behavior of his subordinates.
And so the work continued. The weapons and personal belongings were hauled away by the military trucks, anything of value was removed, picture of the president as well as the steel doors, only a few moments ago ready to withstand the repeated assault by the men in grey.
Svoboda was looking at the working men, and was still keeping his calm, strict face, unchanged even by the occasional insult thrown his way, be it traitor, coward or even Nazi. He wouldn’t dare to say whether he was sympathizing with his men or not. He wasn’t there to do the thinking – he was a soldier. And soldiers obey their orders.
As the final group of Praga RVs departed into the forest, Svoboda looked down the road and saw another convoy – grey kübelwagen in the front, followed by three trucks. Unwary. Quite a target for the thirty-seven, as the private had said.
“Good day, lieutenant,” said the German officer and saluted Svoboda. “Magnificent. I got to give it to you; magnificent. This is the third object I see today and I must say these things still manage to amaze me.”
“Can we start?” interrupted him Svoboda, rather angrily.
“I meant no disrespect, quite the contrary! But I apologize; I know how you must feel.”
“How I feel? Hauptmann, soldiers don't have the luxury of having feelings. They just do what they are told.”
“Even when they are told so by crazy old men?”
“Yes, their duty is …to do their duties.”
“If you say so, lieutenant. I believe the soldier should think for himself, not being a mere tool of fools, cowards or butchers.”
“You start to think for yourself once the orders are fulfilled.”
“Even when ordered to do…dishonorable things?”
“Yes, it is not their responsibility.”
“And your conscience?”
“There are other ways of dealing with that.”
“I would say dismissed, but since you are not my subordinate…it’s been a pleasure meeting you, lieutenant,” said the German.
“So, this thing is done,” thought Svoboda for himself once he walked far enough not to be seen by the Germans. He unbuttoned his pistol holster. The body in olive overcoat fell into the grass.
Lord Tim:
And there he was, Edgar Hall. Opposed to him in the crater was Alan, their regiment’s senior, who was fading away in the deep cloud of thick mist. To his right was one of the new boys, Tom, or Thomas, he wasn’t sure. He was drowning in his own boiling lungs while trying to utter screams of pain. Both Edgar as Alan knew what to do, but neither of them had the guts to put him out of his misery.
Even though he felt safe near his senior, Edgar wanted to be home now more than anything. It was funny feeling. Technically seen he wasn’t that far away. Just follow a few miles of trenches, cross a few miles of North Sea-water and then another few miles of land and there you are, the idyllic front yards of the manors behind St Pancras. An area in direct contrast with the other districts of London.
Oh how he loved growing up there. He remembered playing outside with his friend Lew, watching some of the neighbours who had a car, challenging the local bobby by playing ball on the street. And every Saturday his mother would bake cake or pie for them. Edgar wished he would only remember the smell of pancakes in the kitchen. They grew older, seventeen, eighteen, but it wouldn’t make a difference. This was what they had set out for. To protect this, their way of life, their family, the flowers on the window pane. They protected nothing. Lew fell at the 1st battle of Ypres, poor sod. They protected nothing. All they did was defend this hill, defend this trench, take that fort, and so on. They crawled in the dirt, keeping their head low enough to pass under the gunfire, but high enough to not drown themselves in the mud.
He used to love that. He remembered his uncle Frank’s cottage somewhere near York. He once spent a Summer there. He remembered his mother being furious, because he had destroyed half the cloths he had brought with him. Why would one take of his cloths when taking a swim in the Foss? Or when chasing chickens in the barn? He chuckled at the thought, and then returned to the cold, hard reality that he was sitting in a crater. Alan still sat before him, still like a statue, staring at Tom, who had almost completely stopped moving, apart from a few spasms in his fingers.
And then he remembered his mother’s trembling hands when he said her goodbye. And Rose’s. If only he would’ve known why Rose never returned his letters. Every week he would write them, and more if he could, but none came back. He liked to believe her letters couldn’t reach him, due to the war. He liked to believe that when he would come back, they’d have a whole lot to talk about. But inside he thought, no, he knew, she had long replaced him for someone else, and they would have nothing to talk about. What would he say? Would he talk about this? Would she have the guts to talk about her luxury problems?
Suddenly, he was startled by a metal object plunging in the puddle near his feet.
“Grenade!”, Alan yelled. Edgar still tried to jump away, but the effort was too late. Seconds later, he was laying on his back, unable to move. All he could do was slightly turn his face sideways. He wished he hadn’t done so, he saw his own foot laying to his left. And then he saw it, a piece of shrapnel pierced through the glass of his gasmask. The cut itself didn’t hurt that much, compared to the rest of his body, but he realized the gas was slowly slipping through. It entered his lungs as he inhaled carefully. Before him, Alan was picking himself up. He took hold of his Enfield and went to sit back where he had been sitting before, staring at Edgar now, instead of Tom.
“Kill me.” Edgar said. Or at least he thought he said it, but all he could hear was himself moaning and he saw no response from Alan. Edgar felt the blood drops running over his cheek as he slowly saw Alan’s gas mask fade away before him.
Even though he felt safe near his senior, Edgar wanted to be home now more than anything. It was funny feeling. Technically seen he wasn’t that far away. Just follow a few miles of trenches, cross a few miles of North Sea-water and then another few miles of land and there you are, the idyllic front yards of the manors behind St Pancras. An area in direct contrast with the other districts of London.
Oh how he loved growing up there. He remembered playing outside with his friend Lew, watching some of the neighbours who had a car, challenging the local bobby by playing ball on the street. And every Saturday his mother would bake cake or pie for them. Edgar wished he would only remember the smell of pancakes in the kitchen. They grew older, seventeen, eighteen, but it wouldn’t make a difference. This was what they had set out for. To protect this, their way of life, their family, the flowers on the window pane. They protected nothing. Lew fell at the 1st battle of Ypres, poor sod. They protected nothing. All they did was defend this hill, defend this trench, take that fort, and so on. They crawled in the dirt, keeping their head low enough to pass under the gunfire, but high enough to not drown themselves in the mud.
He used to love that. He remembered his uncle Frank’s cottage somewhere near York. He once spent a Summer there. He remembered his mother being furious, because he had destroyed half the cloths he had brought with him. Why would one take of his cloths when taking a swim in the Foss? Or when chasing chickens in the barn? He chuckled at the thought, and then returned to the cold, hard reality that he was sitting in a crater. Alan still sat before him, still like a statue, staring at Tom, who had almost completely stopped moving, apart from a few spasms in his fingers.
And then he remembered his mother’s trembling hands when he said her goodbye. And Rose’s. If only he would’ve known why Rose never returned his letters. Every week he would write them, and more if he could, but none came back. He liked to believe her letters couldn’t reach him, due to the war. He liked to believe that when he would come back, they’d have a whole lot to talk about. But inside he thought, no, he knew, she had long replaced him for someone else, and they would have nothing to talk about. What would he say? Would he talk about this? Would she have the guts to talk about her luxury problems?
Suddenly, he was startled by a metal object plunging in the puddle near his feet.
“Grenade!”, Alan yelled. Edgar still tried to jump away, but the effort was too late. Seconds later, he was laying on his back, unable to move. All he could do was slightly turn his face sideways. He wished he hadn’t done so, he saw his own foot laying to his left. And then he saw it, a piece of shrapnel pierced through the glass of his gasmask. The cut itself didn’t hurt that much, compared to the rest of his body, but he realized the gas was slowly slipping through. It entered his lungs as he inhaled carefully. Before him, Alan was picking himself up. He took hold of his Enfield and went to sit back where he had been sitting before, staring at Edgar now, instead of Tom.
“Kill me.” Edgar said. Or at least he thought he said it, but all he could hear was himself moaning and he saw no response from Alan. Edgar felt the blood drops running over his cheek as he slowly saw Alan’s gas mask fade away before him.
) I do, however, noticed that you made quite a few mistakes. They weren't actual spelling mistakes, so a spell check in word wouldn't have helped you, but there are a few articles (the, a, an) missing and some sentenced mixed up. Did you drink while writing it? 
