(Just a few mini-stories that I wrote while quite heavily under the influence. I was pretty wasted. Enjoy or try to at least. Be nice. The first one is called Hell, Montana. I sometimes imagine my stories as movies, with actual actors. Like this story, for example. I imagined Robbie as portrayed by Christian Slater. I imagined Sergeant Price as being sort of an old, grizzled Denzel Washington. I imagined the enemy soldier as portrayed by Christian Bale. Anyways on to the story...) Hell, Montana A bullet smashed into a charred and wrecked tank that had plowed into a ditch in its death throes. The American soldier hiding behind the wreckage didn't bat an eyelid at the startling sound. His face was grimy and a dirty bandage on his left shoulder was soaked through. This particular American soldier was on the front lines of the war to end all wars. Despite that fact, he couldn't call it a world war. This war wasn't fought on French or Russian soil. Burning planes didn't fall from the skies over Germany and Hawaii. Maybe Hawaii, Robbie thought grimly. He stared at the pile of rubble across the street that had once been a McDonald's. The war had been brought to America, and they were losing. "Move up, Potter!" Sergeant Price yelled to Robbie from his position inside the destroyed restaurant. "Move up or I'll shoot you myself." Robbie took a few deep breaths before running out and around the burnt tank. An enemy soldier down the street fired a burst at him. Robbie threw himself to the ground behind another wrecked car. "You missed!" Robbie screamed. "Pop your head up and let me take another crack at it," an answering voice jeered. Sergeant Price popped around the rubble and fired twice in the direction that the voice came from. A man howled in pain. "Serves you right, you limey bastard!" Robbie yelled. "Forward!" Price yelled again. "Press forward. Potter, make sure that bastard is dead." A ghost of a smile flickered on Robbie's lips. The guys all called Price 'Sergeant Slaughter' and it fit. Unfortunately Price had ended up in Montana where all hope had been lost after Canada joined the massacre. Oppurtunistic fucks, Robbie thought bitterly. He took a few more deep breaths before sprinting back out into the open. He could feel the guns aiming at him. He always could and he always would. Bullets zipped past. Robbie let out a cry of relief as he dived into relative safety behind a concrete column. More bullets smacked into the other side of the column. Robbie grinned. He was glad they weren't smacking into his chest. "Hey Yank!" a voice called loudly from Robbie's left. He turned in that direction, raising his rifle as he did. A gunshot barked amongst thousands of others and Robbie toppled onto his side, screaming. He clutched his leg and watched the blood pulse out between his fingers. He couldn't stop screaming. "Robbie's down!" Sergeant Price bellowed. Robbie managed to turn his eyes away from his leg. He stared at the man laying inside the thin cover of a doorway about ten feet to his left. Blood soaked the Brit's uniform and his pistol was aimed at Robbie's face. His teeth were bared in a savage grin. "He's not dead, Sarge," Robbie whispered. The enemy soldier poked his head quickly out to see how close the other Americans were. Robbie grabbed his rifle from the rubble-strewn pavement. He walked a burst of bullets across the bastard's lower back, ending his war. Sergeant Price materialized through the smoke and knelt behind the column beside Robbie. He fired a few bullets towards the enemy trenches ahead. The battle-scarred old veteran ducked back into safety as the fire was returned. "I'm hit bad, Sarge!" Robbie yelled over the roar of warfare. "I can't walk." Sergeant Price regarded Robbie coldly for a moment. "Move forward and sell your life dearly," he shouted finally, "or die when the hospital gets overrun. I don't give a shit which." Price yelled for his remaining men to press onwards. He ran out from behind the column. A bullet thwacked into his chest. Price silently toppled like a sack of potatoes. "Fuck!" Robbie yelled. He climbed to his feet and screamed as pain raced through his leg like an inferno. He hobbled out into hell and grabbed a handful of Price's uniform. He dragged the sergeant back behind the column. Robbie turned the man over. He was dead. "Fuck," Robbie sobbed painfully and lit a cigarette. He sat there with his dead sergeant sprawled in his lap and he cried. He wasn't crying for Price. He had respected the man but he had feared him more than anything. Robbie was crying because the war was over for him. He wasn't going home, though. He was going to a prison camp if the enemy didn't decide to simply execute him. "Fuck," Robbie sobbed again and took a big drag off the cigarette. He heard the fading voices of his comrades. They were retreating. They were leaving him behind. Robbie didn't have the strength to call for them. He doubted that it would matter if he could call out. Robbie pulled his hand away from his leg and stared at it. His palm was awash with bright red blood. Robbie began to write on the concrete column with shaking fingers. He was writing with his own blood. "Welcome to Hell, Montana," he wrote. (I will post some more later. I just keep churning them out, man.)