loco gringos 9.1

LOCO GRINGOS

Chapter 9.1

“Seriously?  What kind of brain humped douche doesn’t cover the back door on a place you are assaulting?”
“Can we discuss small unit tactics another time?  You can’t miss the guy ahead, right?  He fucking looks like John Belushi in Animal House, hunched over and waving his M4 back and forth after he takes a step or three forward. I’ll get the shitbag to his left, thinks he’s a sniper at seventy five yards.  Which might be the functional limit for accurate fire with that platform.  I’m sure they have vests, they look like Mall Ninja’s.  I’d go for ass or hip, not head.  As they go down you can aim better for a kill shot.  Ready?”
Randy was not only ready, he was more than willing.  His adrenalin dump from clearing the warehouse from Killer Kombat Kats had subsided with little ill effects, were brought back by the ambush and now he wanted a bit of payback for all this fussing and worrying he was subjected to in the last five minutes- and seriously, what moron assaults head on with no back cover?  They needed to be dispatched from this planet just for being dumber than a box of rocks.  Well, so did Bush, but it was understood that dogs were born that way and not much else was ever expected of them but analysis free protection, sleeping, crapping and ball/ass licking.

They both shot a second apart and Randy’s shot did him justice, perhaps even enough to make up for yesterday’s fiasco, as the targets crotch exploded away in a fine mist at the back door shot.  Okay, granted, he had been aiming at the cheek, and they were less than a hundred fifty yards so he figured the rifle was shooting pretty true.  Not bad, not at all for a shot under combat stress.  His target was doing a bit of the funky chicken on the ground, so most likely out of the picture danger to himself-wise, so he glanced over at John’s target.  Nothing to see, but then the body could be behind the loading ramp cement wall.

“Any idea?  You get him?”
“I saw splatter, but no idea if he’s playing possum.  Yours?”
“Mine shouldn’t be a threat.  I saw his crotch explode when I shot him in the ass.  Man, if he ain’t dead he sure as crap wants to be.  My dick ever gets vaporized, you sure as shit better put me out of my misery.”
“That’s an awesome shot!  I’m sure mine will probably suck in comparison.  Damnit!  You ready to go see how he looks?  I’ll go right, you go left?”
“Dodger Roger.”

Randy was pretty happy.  That was a shot you told around campfires, told to your grandkids as you waved your three digit hand around your one eyed skull which was all carved with puckered wounds.  He felt light in his steps and a jig in his walk, and got a clear picture of John’s victim first.  “He’s not down!  Still a threat.  Long arm out of reach but I’m sure he has a pistol.  Looks like a leg wound.  I’m covering.”
“Fuck me.  A leg wound?  That doesn’t even barely count!  You suck!”
END

 

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