"Estética"
by Max Salnikov, 2005.
Lying on the ground, his head against a fighter plane's wheel, a bullet stuck in his right shoulder, another in where his spleen's supposed to be, Dexter knows only one thing for certain - he's never lost a fight. And he's not about to break the habit. He tosses his empty standard issue semi-automatic aside, pulls out a bent cigarette out of his pocket, puts it in the corner of his mouth. He then reaches for something else. A small metallic object. A Zippo lighter.
*spark*
*spark*
Only six hours ago it was a beautiful morning, just as beautiful as any other morning you meet knowing it might be your last. Six hours ago, the sunrise over the isolated air base filled the morning hours with gleeful energy, for a few moments reducing the entire world to a set of bright yellow rays of light, dancing cheerfully across the field.
Dexter connected his fist with the private's face. There was a satisfying sound, like a fish hit against a wooden plank. The effect the punch had on the private was something along the lines of the fish being hit by a steamroller moving at the speed of light.
"Anyone else?", Dex said with a smirk, "No? Look, what did I teach you this whole night? Fightning and dancing are two different things. Karate-kempo-tai-quan-chi doesn't cut it in a real fight. You've got a set of keys, a heavy lighter in your hand? Throw it at your enemy's face, then kick him in the nuts. It's not about fighting. It's about winning and it's about walking away, knowing your opponent won't do the same because he's got both legs broken and an arm torn off. Alright, anyways, it's been a hard night's training. You all did pretty good. Class dismissed."
He threw a smoke in his mouth, lit it up, and went to the medical complex. It has been a hard night's training. By now Adel, his Adel, would be waiting for him, white skin and loving eyes, her clean hair always smelling of a midsummer day. They'd find a free bed, or a couch, or maybe a clean floor, and he'd rip off her clothes, bite into her lips, have every centimeter of her body to himself.
And that's when the bombs hit. No warning, just the entire medical facility disintegrating into fire, smoke and extremely LOUD sound. The air base was repainted in colors of blood and scorched flesh. Gunshots, enemy infantry cutting through the unprepared defenses as if they were butter. Screams of dying men. And now, six hours later, Dexter's lying on the ground, two bullets in his body, and more enemy infantry around him than he'd care to count. Some of them smiling. The fight's over. So he smiles too.
He's lying in a pool of fuel that leaked out from the plane's bullet-torn gas tank. There's a Zippo lighter in his hand, a cigarette in his mouth. The fight's not over. Because Dexter's never lost a fight. And old habits die hard.
*spark*
*spark*
*spark*
by Max Salnikov, 2005.
Lying on the ground, his head against a fighter plane's wheel, a bullet stuck in his right shoulder, another in where his spleen's supposed to be, Dexter knows only one thing for certain - he's never lost a fight. And he's not about to break the habit. He tosses his empty standard issue semi-automatic aside, pulls out a bent cigarette out of his pocket, puts it in the corner of his mouth. He then reaches for something else. A small metallic object. A Zippo lighter.
*spark*
*spark*
Only six hours ago it was a beautiful morning, just as beautiful as any other morning you meet knowing it might be your last. Six hours ago, the sunrise over the isolated air base filled the morning hours with gleeful energy, for a few moments reducing the entire world to a set of bright yellow rays of light, dancing cheerfully across the field.
Dexter connected his fist with the private's face. There was a satisfying sound, like a fish hit against a wooden plank. The effect the punch had on the private was something along the lines of the fish being hit by a steamroller moving at the speed of light.
"Anyone else?", Dex said with a smirk, "No? Look, what did I teach you this whole night? Fightning and dancing are two different things. Karate-kempo-tai-quan-chi doesn't cut it in a real fight. You've got a set of keys, a heavy lighter in your hand? Throw it at your enemy's face, then kick him in the nuts. It's not about fighting. It's about winning and it's about walking away, knowing your opponent won't do the same because he's got both legs broken and an arm torn off. Alright, anyways, it's been a hard night's training. You all did pretty good. Class dismissed."
He threw a smoke in his mouth, lit it up, and went to the medical complex. It has been a hard night's training. By now Adel, his Adel, would be waiting for him, white skin and loving eyes, her clean hair always smelling of a midsummer day. They'd find a free bed, or a couch, or maybe a clean floor, and he'd rip off her clothes, bite into her lips, have every centimeter of her body to himself.
And that's when the bombs hit. No warning, just the entire medical facility disintegrating into fire, smoke and extremely LOUD sound. The air base was repainted in colors of blood and scorched flesh. Gunshots, enemy infantry cutting through the unprepared defenses as if they were butter. Screams of dying men. And now, six hours later, Dexter's lying on the ground, two bullets in his body, and more enemy infantry around him than he'd care to count. Some of them smiling. The fight's over. So he smiles too.
He's lying in a pool of fuel that leaked out from the plane's bullet-torn gas tank. There's a Zippo lighter in his hand, a cigarette in his mouth. The fight's not over. Because Dexter's never lost a fight. And old habits die hard.
*spark*
*spark*
*spark*
幻術