Monkeybutt's Trial of Position


     Gather around, my web denziens, as I spin a tale of future war and heroism. Some may scoff at what I say, many will say it is absurd. Yet, I must warn thee, all I say is true--as it was duly simulated according to preset rules and conditions in the hardware store of Frederica, Delaware. I have heard that it has hence shut down, and that is a grievance to my heart. Stay your tears, for there is a spiel of gallantry I must impart to you.

     It was a cool afternoon. The sun was hidden behind misty cloud as I started up my sixty-ton war machine (OK, yes, all I did was heat up my dice. Use your imagination!) and gazed upon the field of battle. Is was lightly wooded and had somewhat hilly terrain. All the more cover for me, I thought. As the verbal order to commence the Trial buzzed in my helmet-comm, I sent my modified Black Hawk into a trot. The Bloodname, and the prestige surrounding it, would be mine.

     All of a sudden, my machine rocked as a powerful bolt of refined light seared through my center torso armor and grazed my fusion engine. I swore as I saw damage indicators light up on the panel in front of me. Now I was running hot as both my 'Mech's engine lost efficiency and I was fuming in anger. The pilot of the one hundred-ton Daishi who grazed me actually apologized. "Have to take what you can get," he said. As if someone clunking around in that much heavy metal had anything to worry about.




     A kindred soul in a thirty-ton Uller asked for a peace agreement--he doesn't shoot me if I don't shoot him. I accepted as I lined my reticle on his receeding 'Mech. One pull of the trigger later and a electromagnetically propelled nickel slug slammed into the back of his cockpit, causing the entire head assembly to blow apart in ionized flame. The Uller tripped over itself and crumpled into a heap of scrap metal. "Have to take what you can get," I said for solace. I veered right, desperate to get a hill between myself and the hundred-ton titan. As I took a curve for cover, I saw a seventy-five ton Mad Cat trading fire with a sixty-ton Thor. Noticing me, but still feeling that I was a minimal threat, he twisted his machine's torso so he could pop off the armaments in his left arm at me. As he did this, I poured all the firepower I had into his backside. Gauss rifle slugs, missiles, and beams of photonic death streamed from my 'Mech as he blew off my 'Mech's left arm and with it my most powerful weapon.




     However, the crippling blow to me was avenged. The deadly salvo I unleashed tore away his rear armor plating, exposing the gyros and engine that kept his 'Mech running. My lasers damaged his gyro and he wobbled, and the Gauss rifle slug that smacked him was too much for his 'Mech to bear. It waddled forward, trying to maintain balance, and then fell backwards. The mass of his 'Mech crushed his own fusion engine, causing his 'Mech to explode in a thermonuclear fireball as an ominous mushroom cloud rose gently into the air.





     The Daishi engaged the Thor and so I was left alone for a few precious seconds. After looking despondantly at the amputated arm of my Black Hawk on the grass for a moment, I ran my machine up to a rather steep hill and crouched behind it for cover. From this spot I sniped at the Daishi as it relentlessly pummeled the Thor. The Thor lost one arm, then another, and then was knocked off its feet. The Daishi put it out of its misery before it could get back up.



     The jig was up: it was a well-pummeled sixty-ton me versus a slightly scratched one-hundred ton him. I wouldn't retreat and sully my honor. If I was to go down today, I'd make sure that punk would pay dearly for it. I had one advantage over him: range. He was overloaded with powerful medium-ranged pulse lasers while I had long-ranged missiles and lasers. As he waddled in, I continuously poured carnage upon him, shaving off armor as he pressed onward. I could hardly miss such a big target, but he had trouble hitting me even as he closed within 60 meters. My Black Hawk was eleven meters tall and hiding behind a six-meter hill, firing over the top of it. It was a game of chicken--how long could I hold position in front of a charging Daishi going 54 kph?



     Oddly enough, he was the one who chickened. As I continued firing full salvos, he stopped and then retreated! I continued my onslaught and began to expose some internal mechanisms as he ran out of armor. He couldn't make up his mind, really--running away he couldn't inflict more damage, but charging forward he was getting his shiny new 'Mech dirty. As for me, aiming was the last thing on my mind. I was pummelling his arms, legs, torso, even the cockpit on occasion, and yet he was so heavily armored that there was no stopping him.
     This continued for two minutes. He'd waver between charging and retreating while I stayed put behind my natural cover and kept blasting away. His 'Mech was in sorry shape. It was limping, the arms were being held on by ammo belts, the front armor of his cockpit was shorn away and the fusion engine and gyros inside his torso were clearly visible. My sensor display notified me that a single hit to his head or center torso would finally ice the titan. In the last volley, I hit both.

     The Trial was over, only one remained standing. Steam smoked from the overworked laser barrels and the sulfurous smell of gunpowder dissipated from the missile tubes. I was victorious.

     This game was played in a little over two hours on the gaming table of Frederica Hardware. I, a middle-schooler from the seventh grade, had defeated two college kids, an Air Force airman as well as my dad, Air Force sergeant and master of all wargames. Through skill, treachery, and luck I had come through. Man, it was a rush. Everyone there had decided to let the little kid play thanks to my dad's insistance, and they gained a new respect for the little kid when he wasted them all with a medium-sized unit. Yes, it was hyped up, and yes, it was my own design, but it was within the rules and kosher.

     Yes, Virginia, I had won a Bloodname. However, what was that Bloodname to be? The guys thought about it and then the guy with the Thor thought one up. Is was quickly and unanimously ratified and I was officially christened: Monkeybutt.

     I wear it with pride even today.


Now playing: Pascal's Triangle by Daniel Cummerow (may angels and archangels forever sing praises to his name!).

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