bluecord191145

“Diamond in the Rough”

As the sweat drops started to gather on his stress-cracked and aged forehead, along with the blood pooling from a bullet wound in his left shoulder he sustained only a few moments before, so did the enemy soldiers on the other side of the crumbling stone wall Frank was hiding behind, he lightly pulled back on the slide of his Springfield M1911-A1 .45, to check if it had a round in the chamber, even though he knew there was. He knew this for a fact, considering the previous round was put into the head of some idiot guard who decided that he could sneak up on him in the dark a few hours ago. He then pressed the magazine release, with his left hand over the well of his pistol, quietly dropping the magazine into it. “Four rounds. Three in the mag, one in the chamber,” he counted to himself, keeping a mental note of how many bullets he had left. He knew it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. They just kept coming. More and more, like the swarm of bees from a freshly maddened hive, poked by a 5 year old with a stick and nothing to do on his daddy's farm in the summer, except for getting stung. Frank slowly pushed the magazine back into his weapon, waiting for that familiar metallic click of it locking into place.

Suddenly, one of the terrorist soldiers raised his left hand, flat like a pancake, signaling the others to a halt. He slowly turned to look at them, and pointed at the small wall Frank was hiding behind. The other soldiers acknowledged, then slowly moved up on line with each other, like a firing squad in one of those old “Spaghetti Westerns”. Frank knew this, and gritted his teeth for being caught by amateurs. He slowly dragged his hand across his assault vest, feeling for something in the pouches, hoping to find more ammo, a grenade, even a flare. He would shit a “Barely Legal Vixens” magazine if it were possible, since it would be something, anything, to either shoot his way out of this debacle, or distract the soldiers so he can get a better vantage point to kill them. But his heart sank below the rusty steel bars of the century old prison he found himself in, when he confirmed what he knew 5 minutes ago. He only had those 4 bullets, after encountering three times as many soldiers than he was expecting, causing him to expend his ammo and resources far sooner than planned. “To put it short Frank, you're screwed,” as he cursed himself, knowing he was better than this. He's gotten himself out of situations like this a thousand times over before, he can do it again.

Frank looked around his little hiding place, searching for something he can use. All he could find were bits of cement, expended brass, a piece of re-bar poking through a hole in the floor, exposing the room below, a broken piece of. . . wait, what's that below him he thought. It was an old generator. Probably for when the power went out on this island prison. Considering it was over one hundred years old, the wiring was probably continuously corroded through by the sea. And what was that sitting next to it. . ?? A stack of old gas cans. . !! Hopefully still holding what the faded label on the side of them said they should be.

As he slowly turned to aim through the hole to shoot the one easiest from his point of view, Frank grinned a wry grin and prayed to every god he could think of for the next few seconds. Even to what his high school buddy Mike called, the “Parking God”, considering whenever they went to the movies, they always got a good spot. Just as he squeezed the trigger, one of the enemy solders quickly turned the corner in front of him, hoping to catch his prey with his pants down. And just as the 16 year old terrorist looked into the eyes of a man who has killed many before him, the firing pin struck the base of the chambered round in Franks pistol, igniting the powder, sending the .45 caliber Federal Hollow Point round through the hole at 1850 feet per second, striking first the fuel can, slamming into the side of the generator and causing the sparks which followed. This ignited the fuel fumes and sent a ball of fire the size of a small car up and out of the floor below. Frank thanked the gods for their good graces. But the fire wasn't what the Ex-C.A.G. and Black-Ops agent that fired the weapon causing it was hoping on. It was the shock wave of 50 gallons of exploding fuel, that would shake the building just enough, to set the terrorists that were closing in on him off balance. It worked.

With his moment of salvation at hand, Frank jumped the poor 16 year old, sinking his 5 inch Black Teflon coated, “sharp enough to shave with” blade between the poor, unsuspecting kids ribs, puncturing his right lung, thus disabling his ability to scream. After having pounced his prey, Frank quickly turned his attention to his other oppressors, which were closing in fast. He grabbed the collar of the dying soldier, and rolled back with him on top, which was just in time for the newly acquired barricade to catch the bullets coming back at him. Frank reached down, grabbed the dead kids AK-47 and checked the chamber for ammunition. Loaded. Excellent. He flicked the selector switch to full auto, rolled onto one knee on the opposite end of the wall, and emptied the 30 round magazine of 7.62mm x 39mm ball ammunition into the unsuspecting terrorists. Brass ejected, rounds hit their targets, and the all too familiar sight of spraying blood appeared, with the screams of dying soldiers that could be heard across the entire island, with more sounds of armed terrorists stomping up the stairs to avenge their dead comrades.

Current Mood: angry

Recently, I have been very confused as to how to go about some aspects of my personal life. I have felt some emotions that I hate feeling, but I have been feeling them everyday. Sometimes it's good to want what others have, it promotes our society to further itself.

But when you want something that one particular person has, or seems to have all the time, a life that you wish you had, what you would give almost anything to get. Great looks, stable home, steady income, professionally aggressive personality, good car, constantly dating beautiful women all the time, and all kinds of other great things that seems will never be yours, yet they seem to know it and they throw it in your face very chance they get.

Or they make you the "wingman" every time the two of you go out, even if the night is for you, to get you drunk and laugh it up as you talk funny, walk funny, puke funny, in front of the women you were supposed to be the "ideal boyfriend" for, or the women you met were supposed to be possible "conquests" for you that night by your friend, but you're turned into something to entertain everyone instead, by your buddy getting you drunk off your ass in 10 minutes.

I never felt like this all the time before, but I'm in a different situation this time, and I am starting to REALLY not like it.

I don't know what to do.

I guess all I can do is ride it out and keep my mouth shut, because if I say something, I'm afraid of hurting someone I really care about.