We'll be rewarded in the end.

I take a drag off my Marlboro red and pull the smoke deep into my lungs. It burns more than normal, maybe because of the helicopter blades thrusting cold air down into my face, maybe the carton-a-week diet I’ve been on is catching up to me. But it becomes more and more apparent that it’s the anticipation of this misson.

I shouldn’t have anything to worry about. My team has been deployed time after time without even a casualty, and it’s four against one. But something about this target makes my skin crawl. He’s quite fat from a life-long streak of gluttony, yet he moves as fast as we can. I can’t seem to etch-a-sketch away the thought of his cold dead stare no matter how hard I shake my head. His yellowy, wax-like skin was a cruel gift mother nature gave him at birth. It could go to explain his angry-at-the-world demeanor and perhaps his condition has slowly morphed into dementia.

As the chopper hovers over the perfectly square compound, I find myself wishing I had more time to steady my thought, to steady my nerves. Just one more smoke. Just ONE MORE SMOKE. I brush it off, knowing that if I’m not ready now, I’ll never be.

We touch down. My adrenaline kicks in just like they taught us to control in training. The four of us storm into the complex with careful, controlled meticulousness. Everything is calculated, perfect little steps. But this time, my gut tells me it just won’t be enough.

I signal to Blinks that I’m moving forward. He stays behind as I follow a sparse trail of food wrappers that will hopefully lead me to the conclusion of this awful chapter in my career. Always eating. He’s always eating. What leads someone to do this to themselves . . . my thoughts are cut short when I hear movement around the corner. I almost start attacking right away as I turn the corner out of sheer shot nerves. I’m glad I don’t because it’s the captain who’s also followed a wrapper trail. Was his plan to make us fire on each other?? Sick fuck.

A shrill scream comes from behind me. I was just there with Blinks. I hope to whatever god put us here that it’s not him. He’s an even better agent than I. As I get to his last position, I don’t find a body at all. Or at least, I don’t find MOST of his body. He’s dead all right. And all the psychotic bastard has left are his eyes. No time for mourning or I’m next.

The captain and I hear a dry cackle in the next hallway. Captain goes right, I go left. He sees me first and turns to run, only to see the captain behind him. He’s caught like a runner between second and third in the ninth inning. We ease closer and closer. Slowly and gracefully. “You can do this. Just don’t look the devil in the eye”, I assure myself. Closer and closer. No room for mistakes now. He panics and charges me in a desperate attempt for survival, only to feel the sting of my bayonette just an inch below his ribcage. I pull up sharply on the blade to hit all the vital organs to make sure he’s out for good.

He collapses to the floor writing in pain for a second before he freezes, then sort of colapses in on himself. It’s finally over. We’ve finally done it: Pacman is dead.

Game over.


*I know, I know, this is in serious need of chopping down.