0922 Hours – Operation Flawless Victory Private Chat - Alpha Team Bravo Special Ops Company War Hero Salute 26km East of the Baddistan border, the town of Ra's Al Ghul.
The Chinnok S-class Superfly Special is equipped to carry 4 wisecracking patriotic troops, ammunition, a sweet minigun that doesn’t run out of ammo and a hot, atmospheric dubstep soundtrack with ethnic undertones to help illustrate the foreign nature of the region.
Private Chat’s M16 with sniper scope has seen him through 3 campaigns in the Baddistan region. Nonetheless, he nervously fingers its butt as the voice of Major Asspain echoes through his head, offering some helpful exposition if you happened to be a joypad-wielding observer wondering why he’ll be gunning down copper-coloured, lightly armed natives in 5 minutes:
“You bunch of low-life, cock-sucking maggots are the lowest bunch of life-sucking maggot cocks I’ve ever seen in my 5 years on Broadway and 15 years in the YOU ESS AYE SPECIAL MARINES” Major Asspain hollered, spitting out a half pound of chewing tobacco into the desert sand at Camp Christmas, “Now LISSEN UP.”
“At 0900 Alpha Team Bravo Special Ops Company War Hero Salute will be helos up and heading out DEEP into the heart of ENEMY TERRITORY. We have it on GOOD AUTHORITY that notorious German nuclear scientist Dr Kruscht Icemaschin has been kidnapped by Baddistan splinter terrorist faction Alqa-Holabuse to help develop their weapons-grade nuclear bad people attack plan.
Your mission is to rendezvous with our informant Tikelykov, infiltrate their research base and extract Dr Icemaschin AND the bad people attack plans.
Come back alive, and maybe we’ll pin a medal on the chest of one of you butt-munching turd pushers. Now let’s have gay sex I mean READY UP, you bunch of ass licking schlong shufflers!”
The Chinnok begins its descent, as Private Chat snaps out of his plot-filling stupor, he eyes up his team as they ready for the drop, nodding with approval like a cheap dashboard ornament:
– crack shot with a gun, completed over 15 campaigns throughout War Story 2
, with a bad mouth and a worse taste in women, he’s one funny, cold hard son-of-a-mother.
Private First Class Session
– Dark and brooding, he’s seen terrible things in war that he won’t like to talk about until halfway through the game in a ten-minute cutscene. He’s an expert at demolitions and tearing a terrorist’s head off like a shrimp.
– Infantry leader of Alpha Team Bravo Special Ops Company War Hero Salute; veteran of the War Story
series; favoured character in the graphic novel War Story Legends
, Facebook tower defence game War Story Tower Siege
and iPhone go-karting spinoff War Story Go-Kartz
Captain Tincap’s trademark camouflage trilby, electric white sideburns and target-stamped eye patch are illuminated by the Chinnok’s sombre interior lighting. As the Chinnok approaches ground, Tincap thoughtfully tucks away his unicorn bong.
“Let’s...go to work boys.” he intones in the deep, clear enunciation of Sir Patrick Stewart (OBE for services to Awesome Voices)
The chinnok grounds and everyone hops out eagerly. Private Party throws a few frag grenades at a stray dog, forming a crater of puree. “Sorry guys,” Party shrugs “I meant to duck.”
As the helo rises, Chinnok Pilot Chinnokpilot crackles through the comms unit, “Will RV with you 1000 hours at the extraction point. Good luck, over and out.”
Private Session sprints nervously against a well-worn, rickety fence. Captain Tincap clutches his comms unit, “10-4 Chinnokpilot. Roger that. See you there. Love you.”
The team group up near a beaten up alley. The gentle sound of sitar music and the trash blowing through the discarded boxes and beaten-up cars help illustrate that you’re entering a weird hell hole with baddies inside.
Suddenly, from deep cover, a fierce, copper-coloured man somersaults into view, yelping with a mixture of savage abdominal pain, elation, and lukewarm mania, he cocks his standard-issue Kalashnikov, his scream of “WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBOURHOOD!” in thick Arabic is utterly indecipherable to the team, but the pirouette of gunfire gives the incoming team all the information they need.
“Weapons free.” barks Tincap, “Woop woop.”
“In the name of Bieber!” screams Party, pulling a 12-guage from the strap on his back; he unloads a few rounds into the wall to get a feel for it.
“Happy Easter.” murmurs Sessions, as he cracks his knuckles, and opens a tin of black paint with a pallet knife, scooping the emulsion up by the handful and massaging it into his face.
Private Chat stares down his telescopic sight and trains his reticule on the stranger. A single three-round burst and the strange man’s head pops like a cheap balloon at a 3-year-old’s birthday party after the children have had too much trifle and they get over-excited and start running around and forget at that age they lack the dexterity to keep their balance at that kind of speed on polished wood and suddenly they bundle into the carefully prepared table with all the gift bags and pop go all the cheap balloons.
“Tango down.” chirps Party.
“Good work men,” bellows Tincap as he gently tickles his chin, “let’s move out.”
TO BE CONTINUED
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