Bookshelf Battle

“What do you think they want?”  Larry asked as we sat in the hull like a bunch of packed sardines.

“To buy us some flowers and take us on a date,”  Dag said.  “To kill us, you jackass!  What do you think?”

“That doesn’t make any sense,”  Larry said.  “We aren’t here to hurt them.”

I peered into the scope and got a better look at our incoming attackers.

“To them we’re just another bunch of assholes fighting over their shit, kid,”  I said.  “Load ‘er up, Sam.”

Sam couldn’t have possibly been comfortable in such a confined space.  I’m surprised he never developed a hunchback.

The Texan loaded up a high caliber shell.

Our ride was immobile but the turret still worked and I while I hated to fire on a bunch of locals who weren’t thrilled with the sight of new visitors, it was them or me and I was suddenly overcome by an overwhelming desire for it to be them.

“Two clicks out, Dag.”

“Ay, ay, mon Capitan.”

Dag adjusted the turret and…wait for it…wait for it…

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!”

Through the scope, I saw a powerful blast take out the first few rows of the oncoming formation. 

OK.  Before there’s a Twitter campaign for Bookshelf Q. Battler to resign from the Bookshelf Battle Blog for allowing me to write about how I ordered a bunch of Moroccans AND their horses to be wiped out, I’d like to once again remind you 3.5 readers:

1) It was war.

2)  It was them or me.

3)  It was pretty much Dag’s fault for not fixing the engine.  Had we been where we were supposed to be, those dead Moroccans could have been dead Nazis.  When it comes to dead Nazis, I always prefer more of them.

Sam loaded ‘er up, I advised, and Dag let ‘em have it again.

Between the two shots, we’d managed to cut the incoming force by half, but it was still about fifty to four.

Clank.  Clank.  Clank.

It wasn’t Dag’s wrench this time.  They’d reached the tank and were no doubt riding around us in circles, slapping the hull with their swords as an intimidation tactic.

Suddenly, a knock on the hull.

We all looked at each other, stupefied looks on our faces.

Finally, the muffled words came from the outside.

“Send out your leader.”

More dumb looks.

“Congratulations Dag my boy,”  I said as I slapped my mechanic on the shoulder,  “I’ve just resigned and gave you a field promotion as my last official act.”

“Oh F…”

Yeah.  Bookshelf Q. Battler tells me his readers aren’t cool with the “F” word so we’ll move along.

“You can’t do that!”

Dag was right.  I couldn’t.  And I wasn’t going to.  That tank was my ship and if it was going down, I was going to go with it.

“Send out your leader,”  the voice repeated.  “And the rest of you may live.”

“It was nice knowing you, Sarge,”  Dag said as he returned a slap on my shoulder.

“Screw that,”  Sam said.  “We’re in a metal fortress.  They’ve got swords and some Winchesters.  We’re fine.  We can stay in here forever.”

Sam had a point.

But then a hissing sound made me realize he didn’t have one after all.

Larry looked more worried than usual.

“Is that…”

“Dynamite,”  I said.

“You have thirty seconds until the wick burns down, invaders…”

“Put Lorraine’s picture on a stick and shove it up the hatch,”  Sam said.  “They’ll run like hell.”

Larry punched the Texan in the arm.

“OK!”  I shouted.

“No!”  Sam yelled as he loaded up a machine gun.  “If you’re going out, Sarge, we’re going out with you.”

“Right,”  Dag said.  “You guys go out first and I’ll be right behind you I swear.”

I ignored the peanut gallery.

“I’m coming out!”

The hissing stopped.  The wick was extinguished.

“Sarge,”  Sam said.  “We can take them.”

“Don’t be stupid,”  I said.  “I’m giving myself up and whatever happens, you’re all under a direct order to shut that hatch after I leave and don’t open it until the coast is clear.”

Sam nodded.

“You’re a brave man, Sarge.”

“Yes,”  Dag added as I climbed the ladder.  “I’d stop you, sir, but you just put me under a direct order so…”

“I really hate you, Dag.”

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