The chatter of small arms fire was the sonic backdrop on which Major General Mack "Whack" Buffalo painted loud and offensive pictures with his gravelly voice.
"You ducktwats were supposed to secure the arms drop and what the fuck happened with that? Private Monkeyhole over here fuckin' shot at the parachute and the whole bitch'n'kaboodle came crashing the damn down! Crotchetty-bang! Bananas and grenades everywhere!"
Private Jake Toboggan timidly raised his hand. "We were able to recover most of the bananas before they fell into enemy hands, sir," he said.
Major Buffalo threw a file cabinet at him.
Fighting had been intense over the last week, as Cheddar Company worked its way slowly across the border and into Minnesota. The boys had partied hard the night they finally took the capital. The party turned sour when Command informed them that they were actually supposed to be meeting up with ground forces in Moscow. Evidently there had been a huge misunderstanding, and everybody was understandably angry about it. Especially the Minnesota state government.
After some hasty apologies and travel arrangements, Cheddar Company was huddled around a stove in a treehouse surrounded by a sea of snow and the howling winds of the northern Siberian wasteland.
Jake pushed the file cabinet off his chest and took his seat. "Like it's somehow MY fault the Nazis managed to hide Moscow," he muttered. "Probably using some of their creepy honky magic to foul our chambers and wrinkle our maps and stuff."
He addressed this complaint to Randy Sourhill, his best friend and the worst sniper the Allies had. Randy looked up from a pile of gun parts in his lap. "Come on, man. My father was a honky. You know it hurts me when you say things like that."
"I didn't mean nothin' by it. It just sorta slipped out, you know? Your dad was a good man. One of the good honkies."
The boys bumped fists.
"Is that your Springfield?" Jake nodded at Randy's pile of parts.
"Sure is," Randy said, gazing lovingly at the steel and wood and springs and levers of his faithful companion. "Jennifer's a good gun. Just needs a little adjusting before she stops chewing up casings and catching fire. Hand me that beeswax, willya? Thanks."
"Son, you need to get yourself a new one of those. That thing's half masking tape now," Jake said, watching as Randy rubbed wax into the dents in the Springfield's charred stock.
"Jennifer may be a little old, but she's my girl, and I ain't gonna trade her in for a younger model. That's not the way I roll. Could you get out of my light, man? I can't see what I'm doing."
The incandescent fury radiating from the red face of Major Buffalo began to melt Randy's beeswax. "What the hell is up with this stuff?" he said, shaking it next to his ear. "I think it's broken."
"Fresh-squeezed fuck patties, son! I'mma break your FACE in about seventeen and a half seconds if you don't shut your ass-neck and pay some barfing attention, DO YOU HEAR ME?" The Major General stomped back around to the other side of the stove. "Where the fuck was I? Oh, right. All of you! I hate aaaaaallll of you!" he pounded his fists on the stove's cast-iron top, punctuating each word with a clank and the sizzle of superheated loathing. "And furthermore, we're down to our last banana and grenade, and I'm going to personally eat them both. Goddammit, we roll out at oh-six-hundred, ladies!"
...to be continued.
