A long time ago, in a Fetlife far away…
‘Yes, private Jenkins.’ Replies the sergeant.
‘What are we fighting for?’ Jenkins asks, genuinely puzzled.
‘What do you mean Jenkins? This is a Fet-War, that’s why we’re fighting. War Jenkins, war, are you simple or something?’ the sergeant scorns.
At that moment a shit-bomb explodes further down the trench line. Brown earth and brown shit fly everywhere – almost indistinguishable except for the smell, and if you’re unlucky, the taste as well.
‘Sarge? I know it’s a Fet-War, but why sarge, why? Do they have some diametrically opposed ideological dogma that threatens our very way of life and will change our very existence and that of all the future generations?’
‘No Jenkins, it’s because they’re cunts!’
‘You mean there’s no wildly differing philosophies threatening to destroy our homeland?’
The tit for tat of small minds fire provides the staccato rhythm to this Fet-War
‘Look, Private, I don’t know what they filled your head with in boot camp but I expect you to show me your undying loyalty because I’ve known you a while and we’re mates – now shut up and load that poopzooka. It’s about time these cunts got what’s coming to them.’
Jenkins loads the poopzooka with the explosive I-heard-what-you-did-with-your-ex shells. Popping his head quickly above the trench wall he takes aim at the first I’m-right-and-you’re-wrong bunker and pulls the trigger. A fading roar, then a few seconds later, a squelchy boom.
‘Personal insult away sarge!’
‘That’s the spirit Jenkins, pass me the the radio will you, good chap? It’s time for some air support.’ The sergeant picks up the receiver. ‘Vitriol One this is Mud Slinger Five, come in Vitriol One.’ The other side of the conversation is lost to the sounds of the ongoing Fet-War. ‘We need some air support to take the moral high ground, over.’ Another long pause in miscommunication. ‘Confirmation received Vitriol One, thank you. Over and out’.
‘What’s going to happen now sarge?’
‘I think we’ve got them Jenkins. HQ is sending over a squadron of turd bombers from the 43rd Keyboard Warriors Airborne Division, those cunts won’t know what’s hit them!’
Jenkins sits low with his back against the trench. Around him lie his fallen comrades, blood, bone and shit everywhere. The futility and stupidity of this Fet-War crystallized in his mind.
‘Sarge, can’t we, just, um, you know, leave them alone and, sort of, get on with our own lives? It doesn’t seem to me that this is going to solve anything. The only people it’s affecting are the ones participating in it, and we ALL end up covered in shit.’
The deafening noise of the 43rd Keyboard Warriors splits the air as they fly low and fast over this shit strewn battlefield. The trench shakes as their guided barbed-wit and cluster-fuck bombs strike a heavy blow to the enemies position.
The sergeant turns to face Jenkins. His face stern and his eyes focused.
‘You’re either with us or against us Jenkins. Never saw you as a cunt sympathizer.’ are the final words he hears as the sergeant fires his side arm straight at Jenkins’ head. The smell of cordite and poop fills the trench.