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High Times
Peace evaporates. War descends. With my back up against interior plank cladding I keep as straighter back as possible with a shooting pain in my neck. The closer I am to the wall, the further away from the firing line I am. My legs are either side of a rotten timber post, with more maggots than wood. It holds up tectonic plates of mud, sliding across one another, as the rain seeps through the layers. The column creeks under the weight of the soil, and with every groan, I fear the collapse of our nation around us. Crawling dirt reaches up my thighs, dragging me into the ground. It squelches under my weight and compacts, holding me solidly in this horrible position. The further down we dig, the more rotting vegetation we find, and the more rancid smells are released. My nose burns with the vile stench of age old death and the horrific sight of new mortality. After being in these conditions for a period of everlasting weeks, my clothes and boots have never been dry. The constant damp and moisture has affected me in painful ways. The skin of my boots has rubbed and worn and torn the skin from my feet. The sores have been there for days, and the black harsh leather just grazes the grazes. The pain is excruciating to stand but when I remain seated, I lose all feeling in my curling toes. The freezing cold temperature bite and numbness strikes as circulation seizes. I place my rifle to my side and reach down to my dirt covered boots. I claw away to remove the slimy substance before hauling my shoe from my right foot to reveal a sodden sock full of decay. Shriveled worms, constricting and expanding to tunnel through the crumbling earth, ride the ridge of my foot. I shake my leg free of sledging maggots, swiping them to the soggy ground, where they burrow to safety. Their tails wriggle as they leave the surface in search for a safe bunker against the violence. I would like to do the very same thing. I want to bury my head and block out the noise of chilling claymores, alarmingly close. I want to spare my eyes from the horrific sights they have already seen. I want to bury myself and hide from this inhumanity. Instead, we bury comrades only yards away, carting them out on a conveyor belt of casualty. Carefully gripping the hem of my sock, I pull it down slowly, knowing what is beneath. I pull the sock off, even with resistance from adhesive wounds, to reveal a patch work of dark red layers of skin. The vast majority of skin has been scraped from my bones. Wherever skin has remained intact, it had turned purple with the relentless overnight freezing temperatures and unceasing dampness. In between my swollen toes, in dark cracks full of grains and grit, yellow growths spread. Fungal viruses attack and breed and infect and destroy. Trench foot has definitely set in, and there is nothing I can do about it except grimace. The cold air rushes and is a cooling sensation to my injuries. I sway my foot in the wind to relive the pain when, from my left, a tub is passed down the line. “Here you go Partna” “Thanks CP” I say as I take the little muddy tub from my compatriot. Cyber Punk, one man that has been by my side for the past couple of weeks. We were both positioned in this tight hostile trench together and have fought side by side for weeks on end. I unscrew the top of the tiny tub to reveal the slime inside. The whale fat, which has been subject to the bloody infected fingers of hundreds of men, is used to smear over your feet. This lubrication, I have been told, helps prevent trench foot. The stupid thing doesn’t work for me. If anything, this greasy substance has only succeeded in worsening my condition and erodes away at my skin and tissue. I hate ignorant people and their myths - always desperately trying to find solutions to untreatable problems. But what choice do I have? I smear my feet with rancid fat. I fight for my life. I screw the lid back onto the tub and pull my sock back up. Slowly, carefully and excruciatingly, I place my heavy boot back onto my foot. I grimace and hang my head. CP leans over. “Man up, Styles.” He gives me a warming pat on the shoulder. “This here war is just about over, just one more battle.” I look at him, and for a moment I believe him before I realize he is lying to me and himself. But I appreciate him trying. He is the closest thing to a friend I have. I had many, many friends before I came to this horrific corner of the world, but I cannot afford to think about past life. I have no friends. I have people around me but I have no friends. I am alone. “Over!” “Over!!!!” “Ooooveeerr!!!!!” The cries works it’s way down the line like Chinese roars. To my left, a line of men pounce from their crouching positions and hurl themselves to their feet. They turn and twist and throw their guns over the top of the trench. An ascending opera of gunshots rises in volume and hammers by ear drums. I hesitate but CP screams out “OVER!” And jumps to his feet. He turns and fires over the top. A cloud of smoke suddenly pours into his face and covers him from my sight. Dirt and earth explodes and collapses. CP drops into the trench, limp. I look down and his face no longer exists. His head has been destroyed as a bullet penetrated. The gruesome sight lays before me and a chilling feeling comes over me. Darker clouds descend. My world implodes. A cruel hatred comes over me. The hesitation turns into unquestioning vengeance. I jump to my feet, gun in hand, ready to take retribution. I peer over the top of the trench, like I have done countless time. Through the aim on my gun and the wreckage of vegetation, I stare into the soul of my enemy. He steams towards me with eyes full of fear and forced hatred. His legs pound the quaking earth, and only his heart beats fasters. Comrades all around him, yet he is alone in the wilderness, with only smoke and debris and death for company. The cold, aging fingers do not relent their grip on the weaponry – their only chance to escape the fate of the men, face down, at their feet. The rifle is clenched hard in both palms, ready for split second action, reluctantly but clinically. He is willing to point that gun towards me. He is willing to pull that trigger. He is willing to kill me. I point my gun at him. I pull the trigger. I kill him. I will do whatever it takes. 
Now, I've been accused in the past of having delusions of grandeur, but that is the most ridiculous thing that I have ever heard. I don't hold myself on a pedestal. As a matter of fact, I beg people to prove me wrong. I beg everyone to bring their best, and prove that man to man, face to face, they're better than me in the ring. I don't cheap shot people. When I strike, I always make eye contact. I don't pussy toe step around everyone and strike from behind like an untrained schoolgirl. I'm not going to pin you as a fall guy Shadow Demon. I actually hold myself to a higher standard. Tell me what I've lied about. I would really like to know. Catch me in one lie, I dare you. You can't do it. I'm clean, and even though you don't believe that's possible, it's true. I'm an honest, hard working wrestler, and that fact kills you. I don't know why it's so hard for you to believe, but that's alright. Sometimes, overexposure to face paint will cause memory loss. I've done my homework on you. I've scouted you since last week, I know you like to cut it close. I know you like to put out half ass attempts and hope they pull you through your match. I knew that you were one of the most spontaneous wrestlers in this company, and that I would need an extensive knowledge of your profile if I was going to win. I've seen the tape, I've seen you in person, and I know your arsenal inside and out. I'm about to show you why I'm a wrestler, and you're a professional athlete. I'm not even worried about expending myself in this match. You're not ready Shadow Demon. Learn it now, and know it well, because come Sunday, you're going to get the final exam. Prepare to fail. … … … Oh that’s not the end. Not by a long shot you see, I got all the nice bullshit out of the way, you see this is the point where I hold nothing back and rip you a new ass hole. I’m far from being a 100% that much is clear. But lucky for me, I’m facing you Shadow Demon. Here’s to you Shadow Demon. Good luck to that career of yours pal. You called out a legend. Now you’re fucking ruined. I want you to understand the condition you’re in; the person you called out to the center of the circle. This was disaster in the making, and you ended up waking a sleeping giant. You just fucked the rest of the roster. Where do you think most of the players in this game got their start? When do you think they became good? They followed the presence of the greatest star before them. They watched someone who had the reigns at their beckon. They watched the one guy who ruled the world with his art form. They then broke down his appearance, his work, and his swagger, and developed their own style from that basis. Who’s basis do you think they modeled themselves after? Me, you fucking faggot. I’m owed a lot more credit than you give me. I’m the guy that made you better, whether you agree or not. I’m one of the founding fathers of this bitch, and I shouldn’t have to prove myself again. But then again, you started an evolution for me. Nothing about me can be stale any longer. It’s time to step back in and spit fire that was unimaginable. I can do that, can you? Nah bitch, because you’re just following my lead; Borrowing my heat and trying to start a fire. Shocker. Don’t worry, I’m not upset, I’ve gotten used to it. So where do we stand now? Well, bud, you're looking for a chance to make a name for yourself. I'm just starting a phase. This is the final run before my demise. I either make it or I don't. Trust me, I'll make it. I expect you to shiver before we duel, allowing my bullet to pierce your heart and let this end quickly, it would only be fair for you. I’d enjoy watching you die slow. But then again, I can’t expect every fantasy to come true, can I? Don’t think you’re alone; I wouldn’t want you to hate yourself for it. There’s plenty others going to the same place. You’ll see Havoc, Death Angel, and any others of my choosing where you’re going. Tell me what death looks like. Seriously though, you asked for it. Now receive the consequences. God I hope you’re with me. *Pours a 40.* Here’s to those that won’t survive. I’m awake. Now it’s your funeral, Asylum faggots. FIN |