Bulgari Borgi Buggeri

Dark shadows flicked across the compounds drill square. Their long shapes distorting in the sodium yellow of the security lights. Nary a sound did their make, these six dark figments of the imagination. As they sped forward one pulled a small gun from its hip and pointed at the barracks roof. With the faintest of puffs the gun fired and an almost invisible tendril smashed into the brickwork of the third floor.
As if by magic the five dark angels took flight, one after the other, soaring up the barracks’ red-brick wall and in through a window. As the last one vanished inside a dog barked to mark the passing of the shadows. But that, dear reader was all, no one heard the cricket fart.
The corridor erupted with sporadic weapons fire. A guard, clutching his throat stumbled backwards, firing his AK47 randomly, hoping to take at least one other body with him to Satan’s grasp. Sadly the shadows ignored him, slipping past as he lay gasping his final prayers to his god, drowning in his own crimson. The shadows moved carefully and slowly, making their way down the barracks killing everything inside.
Here a marine would wake from the fire, wonder what was going on, wander outside, scream and die in his jocks. There three ‘guards’ would come running, alerted by the screams. With M16’s at the ready; they were not prepared to fight wraiths and so died as easily as the unarmed marine.
With a relentless dedication to death the shadows pressed forward. They did not stop until the reached the commander’s private rooms. Here two shadows flanked either side of the door whilst a third crouched down to the lock. With deft movements it retrieved something from its backpack, placed it against the door and then spent a good few minutes apparently just listening. The song was obviously ‘Daddy gonna come-a-knocking’ because suddenly the figure lurched backwards, there was a hiss of stream and the door swung open. The two flanking shadows swept silently inside.
There was a muffled moan and then the three figures burst out, running furiously down the corridor. There was no finesse about their movements. They were running to escape. As they hurled down the stairs the three other shadows slipped in behind them. Heavily they pounded down the passages, their feet pumping like great male Casanovas on a Friday night. The corridor though ended in blind. Dead end. Slickly one pulled out several small metal discs. Like the ninja of yore he tossed them. The tiny devices zinged through the air, touched the black and white linoleum floor and exploded.
Collectively they blew a hole in the floor. A hole through which the six shadows dropped. The front door to the barracks blew open, its bolted hatch blasted to bits by more of the tiny shiriken-like explosives. The six sprinted across the courtyard. Alarms were sounding and the barking dog was soon joined by several others.
The shadows raced one another to the large perimeter fence. In a single jump all six hit the mesh and in one, two, three sinewy thrusts they were clear of it, and rapidly vanishing into the night. At last one of them stopped and looked back. The others shouted something lost amongst the dense trees of the forest. But the shadow remaining took no notice. There was something it wanted to watch.
The barracks was coming alive now. Lights were on, trucks were pulling up outside it with several armed warriors jumping to attention. The shadow cocked its head to one side. The timing was right, or had it lost count of the seconds? Suddenly the building evaporated. The bricks, roof, doors, and windows were instantly consumed in a massive red blast of fiery vapour. Great plumes of incendiary fire shot heavenwards, seeking divine retribution. The jeeps parked outside were either instantly melted, the drivers still turning off the ignitions, or as in the case of one, hurled back, flipping over and over, tossing the men inside out like ragdolls. Eventually the jeep rolled to a stop, smoke billowing from its shattered hulk. Suddenly the side of the barracks blasted out, no doubt the armoury. The explosion was more violent, less controlled. The bricks didn’t melt, but became deadly bullets of mortar. Men, staggering to their feet suddenly dropped again, bricks and cement buried inside their corpses, internal tombstones.
The glow lit up the shadow watching it all. It was a man by the fall of the clothes. His eyes were blue. They watched in horror as the armoury continued to pump out explosion after explosion, higher and higher into the air. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. They must have been keeping extra stoc. Still it was pretty.
A sharp bark from his leader made him turn. It was time to go. The brick hit the back of his head with such force that his brains creamed themselves against the front of his skull. His eyes popped out of their sockets and his whole body went into a fit. Shaking like some demented Morris dancer it dropped to the ground, Satan already fucking its soul for eternity.

“What we are dealing with… is … obviously something.” The general said his thoughts as heavy as his medals.
“Something?” Geraldine asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“It’s complicated Major. We don’t know who did it, or why. All we do know is that someone did something to someone in Russian controlled territory and now someone wants those somethings to be stopped. It looks like it might have been one of ours doing it to whomever it was that it was done to. If you get me?”
“OK.” Geraldine hazarded after a while spent trying to find anything useful in the sentence. There was one thing. Russians.
“So what happened in Russia?”
The general looked worried. Either that or his constipation was getting worse. He looked at her, one of the most decorated battalion commanders in the force, then he looked at his ‘Top Secret’ dossier, and then he looked at his watch. Technically his wife would be starting the potatoes around about now. If he hurried he could get home before the fat had turned white.
“Look, I don’t make these things up you know, all I know is that you need to assemble a team who can speak Russian, and who know the meaning of Stealth. I’m sure our intel boys will have more for us. But for now, just get together ten of your best and put them on a god-damned chopper.” There. That should shut the bitch up.
“Heading where?” Geraldine demanded, her tone cold. Already Eskimos were heading towards it in the hopes of better hunting grounds.
“Jesus!” The general said. He would miss the mint-sauce his wife had so lovingly bought and made herself. All these technical questions.
“To Vixzyn.” Right time to leave. Roast lamb never seemed so difficult to get before.
“One more thing General Anderson?”
He sagged, stopped mid-step. The door was so close. Cautiously he looked back. “Yes?” It wasn’t the sort of yes that made room for anything else apart from the words ‘nothing, nevermind’. But Geraldine was not decorated for her demolition of several Iraqi superstructures for nothing. She’d fit a whole army of words into the same space.
“What clearance do my boys have?”
“Umm…” Anderson ran his finger around his collar. She had him there. In their panic they hadn’t assigned one. Quickly he worked out how much money they had to solve this little incident. “Level six. And they don’t exist. You’re doing me a favour, which I’ll pay for later no doubt.” And with that he ran for the door, his fat feet flapping on the tiles like a flock of vultures heading in to a rotting elephant. Roast lamb here I come he thought merrily.

So did Emmauel. Although admittedly he was only thinking about coming, not roast beef. “I’m -” He started to scream, but Mrs Grace Anderson, wife of General Philip Anderson slapped his face hard. It pushed him over the edge. His toes curled, her lips opened, he bucked forward, she jerked backwards, the fluids upwards, and suddenly the world went down to shit.
“Mommy?” Came an uncertain little six year old voice from the now open bedroom door. Time stopped. So did Mrs Anderson’s heart. Emmauel couldn’t and had to crouch miserably for a few seconds until he was spent.
Later, reports would indicate that Mrs Anderson died of a sudden, severe nervous shock brought on by extreme stress. The fact that Mrs Anderson, the wife of a particularly dim-witted General only had flower arranging classes on Tuesdays, a yoga class on Thursdays, and a weekly training session with Emmauel Gomez, a very popular trainer in the upper-class neighbourhood and could no way have died from stress seemed to be missed on the mourners. In short when the doctor wrote cause of death as extreme stress he was laughing so hard he nearly forgot to sign off the certificate.

“Are you trying to fucking die little man?” Godfather asked as he turned slowly. He was in full combat armour, covered in dust, and had just carried two marines nearly a quarter of a mile. And his new command was giving him a head-ache. He and his team of Sentinels had just finished a patrol in the darkest part of Iraq and now, back at the sand infested hell-hole of camp Shi’hote or camp Shit-it’s-hot as it was known to the men, Godfather was being goaded into manslaughter by his own son.
“Maybe.” Salt said, rubbing his hand through his buzz-cut short hair. The grin running from ear to ear did little to hide his joy at being able to torment his father.
“Of course if you lot are too tired to come play, we’re understand. Age can be a Bi-Yatch sometimes.” Deadly piped. He was leaning against the tent pole, cleaning his nails with a bullet.
At this Greggra stood up. He’d taken some small shrapnel in the morning, and the side of his face was peppered with acne like wounds and his head felt like it was being slowly unscrewed but at the tender age of thirty four he did not consider himself old.
“Watch out there captain,” Gecko said slowly –“looks like you made grandpa mad.”
“Grandpa!” Scorch shouted as he put down his sniper rifle and tore off his breast-plate revealing his well built torso. It had been bothering him all morning, and now he found out why. He’d been shot, right near the edge of the bullet-proofing and the metal plate had been bent. He didn’t remember being shot, which worried him more than the fact that apparently he’d escaped death.
“OK, sorry, I can see we’re hitting some nerves. Lets just call it a night, you guys do look like you need nap time.” Tackie began to move forward, his knife in one hand, helmet in the other. Godfather’s arm snapped up, blocking his movement.
“They’re just trying to cause shit. Ignore them.” He growled.
“Hey Salt, looks like your old man’s a coward.” Moonfire chuckled. And then coughed when he’d caught his breath. Godfather had hurled himself through the air and landed squarely on top of Moonfire. Godfather was forty one, was six foot two, and weighed nearly a hundred and fifty kilos of pure muscle (and admittedly some fat). Moonfire was eighteen years old, weight seventy and apparently had the reflexes of a duck. But he roared like a lion, rolled over, and smacked Godfather in the face.
“Right, so if we put the showers over there – next to that sand dune – you see it? The one next to that err… sand dune?” Yanek said, holding a piece of paper in one hand and his sunglasses in the other.
“The one next to the tree?”
“Yes. If we put it there it should work nicely for morning showers.”
“Very good sir.” The sergeant said. A movement next to him caught his eye. A bottle of aftershave had just landed next to them. He looked up but saw nothing but the clear blue of afternoon. He looked left and saw the Sentinels tent. And apparently some ten armed beast was giving birth inside it. Already it had holes, and from the sounds of screaming, grunting, and howling either was one hell of a gay orgy, or one hell of a fight – which in the sergeants book were one and the same. He saluted, mumbled something about getting it done right away, and made a hasty retreat.
Yanek watched him run off wondering what the hell had got into the man. Odd how the man had made such a speedy dash. Usually when an officer asked a grunt to get something happening there was much … grunting before it happened. Yanek had never encountered a grunt that ran to do a job. It was almost refreshing. Humming –The sun will come out tomorrow – Yanek strode into the Sentinels tent. Only to be physically thrown out again by an over enthusiastic Gecko.
Salt rolled to the side, kicked the bed up and jumped to his feet. Greggra spun, trying to keep up, got entangled in the bed, and tripped on the light cord. No sooner was he down then Salt was on him, punching his belly. A tap on Salts shoulder though made him look up. Tackie smashed his knee into the upstart captain’s nose, knocking him back. Deadly took the momentary pause to ram Tackie into the side of the tent, punch him in the gut, slap the back of his head, and hit him in the kidneys. Scorch launched himself from across the tent and took Deadly down, kicking and punching. Their heads jarred together with a terrible crack causing them both to tear up in pain, but neither to give up struggling from dominance.
Yanek rolled over, spitting dust. Suddenly a boot landed directly in front of him.
“Hello Yanker.” Moonfire purred. “I’ve waited a long time for this.”
“Moonbeam.” Yanek said before he lashed out, striking the gloating fool in the ankles. With a yelp Moonfire collapsed to the floor. But before Yanek could gain advantage out of no-where Adi stepped forward, pulling Yanek back and then, using his unbalanced weight throwing him into the tent pole. Which promptly snapped. The roof collapsed on Godfather as he swung his water bottle into Salts face. From within the collapsed tent, several green bumps moved cautiously about.
“Aaaaaaaa Fuck! You broke my nose dad!” 
“Good.”

The chopper bounced about making Scorch sick, again. He had opted to drive from Iraq to Bulgaria, walk even, if it had meant he could have avoided flying. Sadly after the little punch-up in the tent their commander was in no mood to listen to anything either Sentinels or Cyclops had to say. She’s ordered them onto the chopper so fast the doctor had barely had time to stitch them up. Salt’s nose was covered in white band-aid, Tackie had a few stitches to his hand, and Deadly eyebrow would heal if he stopped picking it.
Greggra watched Scorches dinner slid past on the floor of the helicopter. It was the only thing to do since no one was talking to anyone. For four hours they’d been sitting in silence, fuming at one another.
Someone – Moonfire – had said just before they’d climbed aboard that it was the Cyclops who’d won. Four of the biggest marines on the base had to rip Deadly and Godfather apart after that. There was … healthy competition between the two squads. Healthy provided there was no competition, for once the competition began health was the last thing on everyone’s mind.
The carrots slid to the door and then back to the choppers tail. There was a wind storm blowing over the med and so the small chopper bounced around. But after what seemed like an eternity it finally bumped to a stop. The door was opened.
“We’re –“ began the pilot who’d popped the hatch. He couldn’t finish because Moonfire, who was trying to be first, was made really first by Yanek who threw him out. Godfather than careened out, lost his footing and slammed into the ground. Followed closely by Deadly and Salt. The battle to see who could disembark first out of the chopper was short.
“You insubordinate little bastard!” Howled Scorch as Moonfire tackled him to the ground. “And this is for my nose!” Salt said as he raised his canteen above his head.
“HALT!” Barked someone. The click of a semi-automatic assault rifle stopped them all.
“WHO IS IN CHARGE HERE?” Commandant Blogshov demanded.
“I am.” Both Salt and Godfather said at the same time. Godfather sucker-punched Salt in the nuts, then leaving his son to wonder if he should actually be seeing purple spots he strode forward.
“Captain Joyce Furlong AKA Godfather.” Godfather said, saluting before the Commandant. The Commandant was one of those men who had been born bright red, with veins sticking out everywhere, a natural disposition to look like a bulldog sucking on a wasp, and the patience of a black mamba.
“YOU WERE FIGHTING. WHY IS THIS?” It seemed that the commandant did not have a volume control, or if he had, the dial was broken. Screaming seemed his only setting.
“Training.” Godfather said smoothly. “You never know when the enemy might strike.”
That answer seemed to amuse the commandant. He threw back his arm and gestured from them to follow him. It was like following a red balloon with black and grey streamers. Blogshov strutted forward to a grey block of a building. This would normally have been awarded the most hideous building on planet Earth, except it was not the only one. In fact, because its door was blue, it was more decorated than the six other grey blocks. You had to hand it to the Bulgarians. What exactly you were handing them may have been a bucket of paint and a book on the wonders of the Roman arch, or heaven forbid, Gothic arch. Anything would be an improvement over the grey block.
“YOU STAY HERE.” Blogshov screamed.
“THANK – thank you.” Godfather said. The screaming, the fighting, was all getting a bit much. He needed one of his little snifters and a good nights rest.
“G’ENERAL WILL BE HERE IN SIX HOURS. YOU. REST.” Blogshov slammed the door. And locked it.
Instantly Moonfire and Tackie were at the door, fighting to see who could open the lock.
“Fuck off Moonbeam.” Tackie growled.
“Make me you chain-smoking son-of-a –“
“ENOUGH!”
Everyone looked at Godfather. He was not in a playful mood. He had had enough. Unlike some of the others, he actually liked Iraq. He found the sand dunes peaceful, the women beautiful, and the local drink most intoxicating. He did not like Blogshov, Bulgaria, or grey blocks of buildings in grey forests.
“Salt you will order you men to stand down.” Salt looked up. He was only now recovering from the punch to the nads. He was about to rejoin with some suitably catalytic comment when he saw his fathers face.
“And I will order mine down. Next Sentinel to hit a Cyclops, no matter the provocation, will be sent home in a fucking body bag. This Blogshov already thinks we’re a bunch of lunatics. We’re in the Royal army for Christ’s sake. We will finish this –“ he said, pointing his hand at Salt – “but not now.”
The room was awkwardly silent. Several well trained men suddenly got a dash of reality. Slowly the Sentinels nodded their heads. The entire Cyclops unit turned to look at Salt. He glared at his father and then said: “OK. But this isn’t over. We are the best. But like my old man says – anyone touches a fucking Sentinel and he’s a dead bitch.”
“Now shake.” Yanek said. Everybody ignored him.

The door opened and Svetlana strode in. Her black boots slammed into the grit on the cold concrete floor. Following her like two pitbulls were in fact two pitbulls. They were both white as snow, with piggy eyes and feral ears. They waddled.
“I Vixzyn.” She said in broken English.
“Godfather.” Godfather said as he took a step forward. Instantly the dogs leapt up, snarling and snapping at him. With a single gesture she waved them back.
“No touch.” She said coldly.
“Apparently so.” Godfather said, taking a step backwards. “Are you the general?” He asked. Blogshov had said six hours.
“Neyet.” She responded automatically. “No. I no general. I here to brief you before general arrives.”
“Goed.” Godfather said, imitating her accent. She raised an eyebrow. The two fuck-off dogs leapt to their feet, already drooling.
“I mean, good. Good. I meant to say good. I said good didn’t I?”
“Come.” She snapped as he strode to a large table at the back of the room. Both dogs and Godfather obediently padded after her. The Sentinels behind him shook with stifled laughter. Moonfire however took the opportunity to quietly slip out the unguarded door and into the darkness of the Bulgarian camp. He was damned if anyone was going to lock himself or his team up again.
“So – what are we dealing with?” Godfather asked, looking at a map of Europe.
“We dealing with nothing. You responsible. Your problem. You fix, or I kill you.” Vixzyn said matter of factly.

The powerboat screamed over the waves, its hull crashing into the water with abandon. A tall blonde woman was driving it, her long hair flailing about her like the tentacles of a deranged octopus. She looked back and laughed heartily. Behind her was her husband. He was in jeans and wearing an Armani polar-neck. He took a drag on his cigar and watched his bodyguard – Jean – break the arm of a man. The guy screamed in pain, and then in rage.
“We had a deal 17. You broke the deal.”
“How the fuck was I supposed to know the place would blow up like that?” 17 screamed back, his face bloodied, his arm hanging limp.
“I don’t the fuck know. But it’s not my fucking problem.” Sebastian screamed back. But he checked himself - massaged the side of his head – and corrected himself: It was his fucking problem.
“You see now I’ve just been told some crack team from the SAS has been shipped out to Bulgaria.”
“So?” 17 snapped, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“So?” Sebastian laughed, then took a drag on his cigar. “So – fuckwit. If the SAS are sending teams to Bulgaria it is only one cheap shit-for-a-joke car ride to Uzbekistan. Jesus I wish you’d try to keep up. What was I thinking hiring you?” He got up, and shakily headed over to his wife.
“Holly?”
“Yes Sebastian dear?”
“How long until we get to the boat?”
“I don’t know. We’ll get there when we get there. Jesus, I’m your wife, not your bloody driver.”
Sebastian smiled sadly. He turned and looked at 17 then he pulled Holly up by her hair and threw her into the ocean.
“I don’t need a fucking wife you cunt, I need a driver.” He shouted after all.
She managed to scream once before dipping under a wave. Sebastian opened a bucket next to him, and scooped out a cup of bloodied entrails and tossed them overboard.
“You know 17 - what I love about holidaying in South Africa?”
“What?” 17 said, as he risked a glance out the back of the boat wincing at his arm. Holly was thrashing about in the water screaming for help.
“The great-white sharks.” Sebastian snapped. And then flicked his head. Jean lifted 17 up into the air.
“Wait! For God’s sake! Wait! I beg you –“ 17 began, his voice cracking up with fear – “you beg me? That’s a joke. Maybe if you hadn’t left one of your men behind in Uzbekistan I might consider it. Oh alright… Jean?”
“Thank you Alexander. You won’t regret it.” 17 began. Sebastian spun on his heels, irritation written across his face.
“You used my real name.” He pulled out a silenced revolver and shot Jean in the chest three times. Both Jean and 17 toppled over the back of the boat. “I hate it when people do that.” Alexander said chucking more chum into the water. “It’s so inconsiderate, Jean was good. But you fucking told him my name. You arsehole! Oh now look!” He sighed. “It’s got wet.” His cigar had fallen into the water sloshing about the bottom of the boat. “You know what your problem was? No consideration for other fucking people!” He shouted at 17 who bobbed in the water some distance away. Already the fins were breaking the waters surface. Dinner was served.

Moonfire slipped past the single guard who was supposed to watch grey block number two – the one with the Borg team in it. The man was build like a tank, but sadly had the hearing of a deaf raccoon. If deaf raccoons could miss hearing Moonfire slip past that was. Moons eyebrow still hurt, and it began to throb as he made his way towards grey block number one. He wanted to know what they were dealing with. Suddenly he froze. Two guards walked past, joking in Bulgarian about how the English have a word for hand, but not the upper eyelid. He waited patiently in the shadow of the doorway. The guards didn’t stop to notice him, but headed in earnest for grey block three. Obviously it was the men’s dormitories or perhaps the canteen. Moon made a mental note. It might come in useful later.
Carefully he took a step away from the building. He crossed the parade ground, hiding in the fence-post’s shadows until he reached grey block one. It was without doubt HQ. It was taller, more imposing, and had a definite touch of importance. The fact that it also had a sign post saying KF was in Moon’s mind enough evidence to make a determined argument for it being the HQ. He briefly contemplated trying to get in through the front door, but when a guard gave his position away by lighting a fag, he chose to go around the side.
His first mistake was not recognizing the implication of the dog bowl he kicked by accident outside one of the windows. His second was looking into the window. A large, but firm buttock winked back at him. For a moment he didn’t register what it was until the woman turned around and revealed a different piece of genital anatomy to his own; the complimentary anatomy to be precise. Sweat began to bead on his forehead. Several other women were in the room, laughing and chatting amongst one another. Mostly naked, some sported the occasional military grey bra, or panty, but for the most part Moon had just found Bulgarian gold. Then it got better. Or worse depending on ones outlook on life.

“So at approximately midnight six men broke –“
“Apparoximately six.” Vixzyn corrected.
“Approximately six,” Godfather continued, “broke through the outer perimeter, managed to gain access to the primary compound, took out some guards –“
“Five.” He was corrected again.
“Five guards, and then assassinated the Bulgarian Commissionaire to Uzbekistan.”
“And then blew up the whole building killing forty five soldiers, injuring 60 more.”
Greggra whistled through his teeth. The dogs charged him. He screamed and ran towards Yanek.
“Hist To!” Vixzyn whispered.
The dogs stopped instantly, whined at her, got no response, and so returned to their posts on either side of her. Greggra was holding Yanek against himself, between himself and the dogs.
“Greggra – although I have dreamt about this kind of intimacy for some time, I do not appreciate being used as a human shield.” Yanek said slowly removing Greggra’s fingers from his arm.
“What? Oh. Sorry. Hate dogs.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Yanek said, putting his hand on Greggra’s shoulder.
“No.” Greggra hissed. Then looked unsure. “Maybe?”
“It’s ok, a lot of people are afraid of dogs. You can let it out.”
Tears began to build up in Greggra’s eyes. His eyebrows knotted together as his manly pride for resolution crumbled against his inner horrors of the dog fear. Gingerly he reached out with a hand, touched Yanek’s shoulder, and burst into tears.
“It’s alright.” Yanek said, patting his buddy on the back.
“You best British army has to offer?” Vixzyn said as she watched two grown SAS marines hugging one another, one of them crying like a baby.
“The very best. Yes. That’s a typical survival tactic: throws our enemies off - in case someone is listening to the conversation.” Godfather said instantly. But his tone and the redness of his cheeks lied his true thoughts on the subject as clearly as if he’d said he was a woman in labour.
“We are being listened to.” Vixzyn said as she watched Yanek take Greggra to the bathroom.
“All institutions in Bulgaria are monitored.” She added as she turned back to the map.
“They are? Why?” Godfather asked. So far Bulgaria seemed a paranoid little Russian wannabe state that no one in their right fucking minds would want to invade, with about as many useful military secrets as Guam.
“Enemies of the state are always present.” She rejoined casually.
“OK, let’s refocus. So I don’t understand how a breach of security in Uzbekistan, a dead commissionaire, and the SAS marines have anything in common.”
Vixzyn turned and looked at him. She was two feet shorter, and her black hair “It was British Marine who did this.” She said flatly.

Moonbeam inched his way forward. The girls in the room had just left via a side door, and he could hear them frolicking in a Jacuzzi. The back of the block was walled off so he couldn’t see anything. Except a fire escape on the wall of the adjacent block. He’d climbed up that, all thoughts of helping his team slipping away as other organs began to demand more blood. The ladder had taken him up to the second floor, and a rusting old balcony. From there he’d jumped across to the original building. Now he was on the only piece of decoration the buildings sported. A narrow ledge that circumferenced each block on the second floor. It was just wide enough for him to lay flat on it and inch forward. It also had the advantage, that unless someone was in the opposite building and on the third or higher floor, no one could see him. That was his third mistake.

“So now you understand government sending you here yes?” Vixzyn asked coldly.
“Yes.” Godfather was shocked. “But clearly it wasn’t a British initiative. I mean that was just sloppy. And totally unprovoked. We have no interests in Uzbekistan, or, and I really do mean this – Bulgaria.” He was very worried. This was a shit-slide and his team was busy climbing the stairs to the top.
Vixzyn turned away from the big man and looked at the poster of the president elect of her country. It was faded, and out of date. He was now president, dictator would be more appropriate, and elections were a forgotten holiday.
“I know.”
Godfather was even more confused.
“Then what was all that talk of – if you do not fix, I kill you – all about?”
Vixzyn allowed a single tear to roll down her white cheek. Then she wiped it away, smudging her black eye shadow. Now, looking like a rabid wombat she looked back at Godfather.
“He was my father. And your commander – Bitch – is good friend. I need her help. She send you.”
Godfathers balls retracted up into his frame. An unsanctioned mission. One of B’s little side missions that would be written off as R&R. And in Uzbekistan of all the miserable places.
“Think of plan to find these plakka’s. You leave in ten hours.”
“Uh…” Godfather started.
“I will be in KT building if you want talk.” She added, before slapping her hand against her thigh bringing the two killer dogs to heel.

Moonfire smiled. The women were below him, playing in the water. They were squirting one another with soap, giggling and jiggling in the kind of porno film Moonfire ordered from China. He was in heaven. And then he was in the air. The concrete lip gave in, and slipped him off the buildings edge. He swung his arms about once and landed heavily on the cold grass. The girls all froze. So did Moonfire. He didn’t know what to do. To get up and run would be futile – he was inside the courtyard, and didn’t know which way the exit was. To remain would be to risk his whole team.
“You hurt big boy?” One of the more buxom woman asked, stepping out of the jaccuzi. Her wet body searing itself into his memory for the rest of his life.
“Um…” He gurgled.
“He hurt. We help him?” said the first water nymph.
“Yes! We help him!” Suddenly chorused the rest of the sirens and all of them leapt up from the pool and bounced, literally, over to the fallen hero.
“Can you move?” One asked, her nipples drifting tantalizingly close to Moonbeams face. In truth he would have tried to fly. But his equipment was flying at full mast, and to walk would have been… awkward.
“I don’t… think so.” He hazarded. Hoping they might go and change and then he could run off (well as fast as a man can run when suffering from extreme engorgement.).
“Right – girls!” The leader said, clapping her hands together. “We sort to your needs.” She said cupping his face in her hand. Moonfire nearly shot his bolt. Was this in fact heaven? Suddenly he was lifted up. Six women, all naked, had hoisted him up and were carrying him inside. Most of his mind was shouting that he was going to be skinned by Salt, then beaten to a pulp by Godfather, and finally chewed up and shat out by Bitch. Sadly that part was totally silenced by the dribbling, oozing, fifteen year old part of his brain that was in lesbian sex heaven.
They put him on one of their beds. Then all took an appreciative step back and began to girlishly chitter amongst themselves. Moonfire was now clearly exposed, the tent he was making seemed to be promising to hold seven people comfortably.
“He excited.” Said one.
“Very.” Said another.
“Big excited.” Said a third.
“We fix?” Asked a blonde one with hope in her eyes. Moonfire looked at the leader to with hope in his eyes.
“Yes. We fix problem.” For one heart racing moment Moonfire was in heaven. They were going to fix problem. But then, a small part of his brain questioned – Fix what problem?
“Julia!” Barked the first naked woman. Julia. Not a bad name. If Julia was going to fix his problem he could handle that. Julia stepped into the room. She was indeed naked. All of her. And the parts that hung over the other parts. Moonfire had never imagined that big breasts could ever scare him. Breasts that practically dragged on the ground however were suddenly very, very scary.
“Wait a minute.” He began, back-peddling up the bed. But the women all seemed to turn from innocent virgins to blood-sucking vampire lesbians from hell. They grabbed his arms, shoulders, legs and head.
“You want look at naked women. Julia naked woman.”
“That’s not the label I’d use! Rhinoceros comes to mind actually.” Moon hissed as Julia climbed onto the bed. The wrought-iron frame sagged. Julia smiled. She’d had teeth once. Perhaps sixty or seventy years ago.
“Just kill me.” Moon begged.
“We fix problem.”
Moonfire screamed like the woman Julia was not.

“Where is the little fucker!” Bellowed Godfather as he stomped up and down the barracks. Didn’t he know how much trouble he was going to get into, and subsequently cause? It was impossible to calculate the political implications of his impetuous excursion. Why? What did he possibly hope to gain by doing it?
“I’ll kill him.” Godfather roared.
“I think you should calm down sir.” Yanek ventured. “Remember your condition.” He added quietly whilst frantically pointing to the camera and the microphone listening to their every word.
“What? Oh… oh yes. That.” Godfather conceded, lowering his volume. “I’m sure he’s just lost. Or something.”
“Yup. And I’m mother Theresa.” Tackie added sourly. He didn’t like it either. When Godfather ranted it meant some serious shit was going down. And this was not the time for some eighteen year old to wondering off on some foolish adventure.
“Salt!” Godfather snapped.
“Yea?” His progeny said, rolling over on his bunk.
“This is your fault.”
“What? How?”
“You encouraged him.” Greggra said sharply.
“What? How?” Salt squealed back.
“By allowing free spirited thinking in your team. You should have seen him plotting it and stopped him.” Scorch added.
“What? How?”
“Would you stop saying What and How. You bloody well know what, and how.”
“Listen if I wanted leadership advice I’d have asked Bitch. You are all old school geriatrics. You don’t know how the world works anymore. You all think it’s just a lot of fun and games. Playing soldier soldier. Well let me tell you it’s not.”
All the Sentinels were silent. They stood watching Salt, listening to his impassioned speech. They were all quite taken. Except Tackie, who’d heard it all before. He sat digging at his teeth with a splinter. Salt couldn’t continue. The gallery of silent judges, the ‘old boys’ stood, scarred, battered, beaten, bloodied and bruised for decades before Salt was even sperm, knew what he was saying. And they all recognized that once they’d been young. Eager. And now they were taking lessons in modern warfare from a teenager.
“I think I’m gonna cry Yanek said.” Instantly Greggra was near him, ready to support his buddy.
“It’s all just shit –“ Tackie started. But the wall next to him exploded with such force that all the Borg were sent flying into the opposite wall. Bits of brick and debris rained down on them, ruined beds, and frayed mattresses ghosted through the air before hitting with ground.
Instantly the warning klaxon started blaring. None of the Borg could stand though. Their ears were ringing and their nerves concussed into next Tuesday. Several more explosions rocked the already ravaged barracks they were in, dislodging plaster and mortar into an incessant rain.
“We under attack!” Adi shouted.
“You mean Bulgarian barracks don’t normally explode at midnight?” Scorch shouted back.
“Nobody move until we know what’s going on.” Godfather ordered as the rat-a-tat of an M5 sounded across the ruined room. Several other explosions happened, more gunfire and then silence. Finally after a few minutes Godfather ordered the men up. Dusting concrete from themselves the Borg marines rose. And quickly took up defensive positions in the building.
The wall had been blown clean away, and bits of the other walls were shocked clear leaving gaping holes everywhere. The other grey blocks hadn’t faired any better and almost all of them lay in ruins. Waving his hands in a complicated gesture Salt summoned Godfather over to him and pointed out: A demented individual who seemed to have a bazooka strapped to his arm. The man was firing at random into one of the grey blocks. He was wearing a USA army uniform, like the ones worn in Iraq. Standing next to him was clearly an officer type who seemed focused on each blast.
The other buildings were being systematically searched by six heavy set and well armed marines, all sporting the stars and stripe badge. Suddenly Yanek tapped Salts shoulder and pulled him over to the remains of the door. Salt’s heart dropped as he saw Moonfire being dragged, naked across the quad.
“Poor bastards been tortured.” Hissed Deadly. Moonfire was red all over, had several large welts around his mid-section, and looked to have had his hands tied behind his back. “Fuckers stripped him naked too.” Yanek whispered with a little too much excitement in his voice.
“Indeed.” Adi muttered.
Godfather muscled his way into the group and watched as Moonfire was dropped unceremoniously in front of the officer next to the bazooka boy. The officer seemed only slightly interested in Moony. He waved his hand at a large humvie that stood in the middle of the square. The guards dragged Moon to the humvie and tossed him inside. Instantly Salt bucked against the door, fuming with rage. But Godfather held him back, shaking his head.
“We can’t let them take him!” Salt spat with rage.
“We can’t help him if we’re dead. What you going to do? Throw bricks at them?” Godfather said testily.
“Well we can’t just do nothing!” Salt countered, frustrated at his fathers lack of aggression.
“We are doing something. It’s called gathering info. Instead of just running headlong into the battle we need to know who we’re dealing with.” Just then Vixzyn was brought out of the KT building. She was clothed and didn’t look beaten like Moon. She walked a little ahead of her guards, too proud to be touched. When she arrived at the officer, she seemed to pause for a moment before slapping him across the face. He hit her in the gut, doubling her over and then kneed her in the face, dropping her to the ground. Then he kicked her twice swearing at her in Bulgarian. Once he’d spent his rage he ordered the guards to load her into the Humvie.
“See. They’re not USA Marines either. Unless they’re teaching Bulgarian in their schools these days.”
“Have you read how the write ‘English’? I doubt they’ve moved onto a second language since they haven’t mastered the first.” Yanek quipped. The others nodded in agreement. After a few more rockets hitting the buildings, the men all piled into the humvie and took off.
“Fuck.” Salt swore as he kicked a bed.
“Well now what do we do?” Adi asked looking from Salt to Godfather. Godfather rubbed his chin. He needed a bath, a good warm supper, and possibly a shag. But he suspected ruefully he would get none here.
“We look for survivors. Then we see if they left any vehicles for us – which I doubt. Then we find out how to contact our boys back home to see what they can do for us.”
Slowly the men began to file out, split into groups, to go and help clean up. Before Godfather could leave though Yanek stopped him.
“Vixzyn said this was one of B’s favour jobs. If that’s the case, she’s probably listed us all as on extended R&R. I doubt Her Majesties forces will be dispatched to Bulgaria to find some lost tourists GF.”
Godfather sighed. Yanek was right. Bitch would tell them they’d volunteered (her way of saying that they’d go or face latrine duty for a month) and they were on their own. She’d also venture that they were the best, most experience troops she had and would find a way. He sighed again.
“It sucks to be the best.” He said before walking towards the door. He didn't mention that he was scared shitless about not finding Moonfire until some demented internet jokey found a u-tube video featuring the decapitition of him. He would find Moonfire. He had to.