I'm here to defend Mr. Black. I
ALONE[/i] am in the position to do this since I was his closest confidant and spotter from sniper school until his time as a sniper in South America. Here's a picture to prove it. Look at the circled area.
Yeah, if you look real, real hard you still won't see us. That's how good we were. Completely one with the land. Scary stuff...
BOOOO Scared you didn't I? In fact, this picture was taken by
whom we were sent to
. Turns out he didn't see us either. We took the camera and film from him when we finally found his dead
.
We blended so well that even the animals accepted us. In particular, a young monkey with large pleading eyes began to follow us. Probably thought we were his parents. Well, Mr. Black took to the little critter like a duck to water. Mr. Black would pet the young mokey, gently running his hand through his fur over and over. More times than not Mr. Black let him ride around on his head and would pick and eat the fleas from the furry little bugger during our rest stops. Hell, he even let the monkey sleep with him.
Eventually, he became a bit possessive of the little monkey. It seemed everytime I even looked at the little furball Mr. Black would narrow his eyes into barely perceptable slits and whisper in a barely audible tone,
"Don't touch my monkey." Late at night I often heard him whispering to the little monkey in his bedroll,
"Monkey love, that's the best love." in a panted voice over and over. Finally, it seemed that Mr. Black would inhale real deep and shudder. Followed by a long exhale, then fall asleep. Man, he must have really loved for that monkey. I just didn't realize how much at the time.
As we approached our target at
, things quickly went south. In fact, things happend so fast that it's still blurred even now when I think of it. It seemed the first thing I heard was an explosion followed by Mr. Black's roaring voice rending the stunned silence,
"Monkey killers, monkey killers...YOU KILLED MY MONKEY....MY MONKEY."That's when all hell broke loose. Mr. Black started firing. I've never seen someone shoot the M82A1A so fast with such precision. It seemd that a ruthless, unswerving killer instict that had been boiling just under the surface finally erupted. As I watched from further up the hill though my spotter binoculars, Mr. Black single handedly shot and
an entire platoon of
. The last guy he
was running down a mountain path. I thought that Mr. Black didn't have a chance of hitting him since I ranged the guy over 2,000 yards, but I was wrong. I guess monkey love was stronger. All said and done I counted twelve dead
, the last one at 2,210.2135987302+1 yards. Damn he must have
really loved that monkey.
I have to admit that even I, his trusted spotter, was a bit unnerved as I saw him seemingly appear though the smoke toward me walking back up the mountain with the poor little dead monkey in his arms. He seemed in a daze, not even realizing as he bumped into me. As we exfiled, him carressing what was left of the monkey's head, I began to worry about his sanity. After 2 days and over 600 miles, him still carrying the mokey's corpse with flies buzzing around it and maggets begining to appear from eruptions in his furry hide, I knew that Mr. Black was a damaged man. It wasn't until later that I feared for my safety.
That night I awoke from a fitfull sleep to find Mr. Black's combat knife under my neck. In one hand he held the knife with its edge pressed firmly just below my adam's apple, in the other he carried his dead monkey. I can admit now, only after much therapy, that I was indeed afraid. The dazed look had finally left Mr. Black's eyes leaving a diamond sharp focus that seemed to bury into my soul. I dared not even breathe...
He held the knife there for what seemed several minutes but were probably only seconds. Sweat began to form not only under my neck but also around my genitals. Finally he gentlly began to whispered to me in the dead of night but his voice began to rise until he was shouting at the top of his lungs, "
potpie... Potpie...POTPIE...POTPIE, POTPIE, POTPIE." The vein in his forhead was throbbing madly before he collapsed. Losing his monkey was too much for him apparently. I contructed a litter and carried him to the extraction point.
Sadly it all proved too much for Mr. Black. He began to slip in and out of our reality. He claimed to be other people, notable someone called RC51 among others, and even stated things that never happened. It was a sad day to see a once great man, sitting behind a computer a slave to his mad delusions, claiming at times to be performing experiments on people and other times claiming to be funny and playing jokes on people. Sadly enough, he even resorts to claiming to have stated nothing concrete, despite everything to the contrary, in order to deflect any scrutiny of him.
Bowed by time and circumstance, this poor pathetic soul is now know
P3WN3D[/b] How sad.
The King is dead...Long live Airhead.
