I half expected the fallen rain, placated with its rest along the ground, docile, still, and unimaginably smooth along the ever-going flat surface, to be solid. That my foot, bare, where my shoes had gone I did not remember, could press upon the surface and I could simply walk forever into the gray distance. The only question that befuddled me as I stood on a single risen mound of lush Earth: in which direction ought I to go? Continue reading
By: Andrew Thomas Prenger
I regret to inform you that I am tendering my resignation. This is my two-weeks’ notice from the Cobra organization.
I do this with a heavy heart as I have given my all and dedicated so much time and effort to Cobra. I admit that these feelings have existed for a while, but it is only after certain events that made me realize, perhaps, it is time to sever my relationship to this organization.
First and foremost: our leader and founder, Cobra Commander, is now a God damned snake. Sorry for the strong, unprofessional language, but I feel this is an important point to reiterate. My boss is now a snake. I joined Cobra because I believed in the mission. I, too, was fed up with the corruption of the American government and I wanted to make a stand, make a difference.
Now I have found that I’ve been lied to the entire time?! That, in fact, Cobra was formed by a race of snake-like creatures who would love to see me, my family and all my friends in chains? Or dead? I say no!
Even were it not for finding out everything I believed in was a lie I still have a variety of complaints about the Cobra organization and how it was lead.
I’ve been a “blue shirt” going on five years now. I’ve come to realize that I will never rise above this position. Cobra, despite claiming to be for the people, does not actually care about those who make things run. I took pride in my work, managed to survive all these years by jumping out of my vehicle right before it exploded and I’ve actually managed to kill at least two of the G.I. Joe ground soldiers. This may not sound impressive, but with the laser rifles we’re issued I am surprised they even fire in the direction I aimed them.
This means I am qualified and competent, but I will forever be stuck in my job. That tends to breed disillusionment. I will never be promoted since Cobra seems dead set on trying everything else instead. Recently two platoons were let go because they’ve been replaced by Battle Android Troopers. We’re losing our jobs to machines like common factory workers.
Are these B.A.T.s any better than us? No! They’re built by the same guy who designed our laser rifles. What’s the point of replacing us with robots who are inferior? Are they less expensive? No, they require much more maintenance. Are they more effective than us on the battlefield? Hell, no! They’re using the same poorly made laser rifle without having the ability to compensate for the aim being off by fifteen feet.
Further up the chain of command, which I will never reach, is no good either. The majority of the people who hold (held) the Commander’s ear are less a military organization and more a carnival sideshow.
I’ve found myself being ordered around numerous times by members of a motorcycle gang named the Dreadnoks. This is very infuriating. They get run of the base because their boss, Zartan, actually has a useful skill of deception. The rest all ride his coattails, hanging out. They do not have to wear a uniform and get to wear normal (well, normal for them) clothes and they treat all the “blue shirts” like their servants.
Those are the people in charge. A bunch of miscreants. I would have a better chance to get ahead in Cobra if I quit, bought a motorcycle, affected a fake British (Australian?) accent, strapped a rocket launcher to a chainsaw then rejoined. Suddenly I’d have better pay, a bigger bunk and I wouldn’t have to wake up at five A.M. for P.T.
What follows next will definitely read as treason, but I no longer care.
Serpentor is a slap in the face to all the hardworking men and women in the service of Cobra. It shows that no matter how hard they work they’ll never get ahead because the higher-ups will simply clone a new supervisor.
Within a short time he instigated a coup-de-taut and turned our rightful leader into a snake monster, followed by the threat of the same happening to us if we didn’t fall in line. As if I didn’t already have enough safety dangers in this job.
I am trained for two vehicles that Cobra has designed. I’ve been begging for months to be moved to a H.I.S.S. tank division, but as that position is always full up with a waiting list as long as my arm I never received training. You know why? It’s the safest and most normal vehicle Cobra uses.
The vehicles I can pilot seem to have been designed as jokes. One is the Buzz Boar. This monstrosity is basically a rolling wheel with guns on the side. There is no windshield, so you have to lean out the sides to see. The handy things is that there is no armor plating so it is quite easy to lean out.
The other vehicle I am certified to operate is benignly called the Flight Pod. The name most of the grunts call them is “The Trubble Bubble.” And it is “trubble.” For the pilot. It’s nothing more than a jet with a chair strapped to it with only a glass dome for protection for the top half of your body. The glass isn’t bullet proof, or even tempered, just normal glass. As far as I can tell these “assault vehicles” only serve to provide a distractions for G.I. Joe’s superior aircraft. Then those lucky jerks in the H.I.S.S. tanks can do their job without fear of aerial assault!
I don’t appreciate being cannon fodder. I don’t like being replaced by a machine. I hate being commanded by drunk bikers and a genetic clone of the world’s greatest monsters! I am highly disturbed by the images Dr. Mindbender keeps implanting in my brain!
I am turning in the mask and leaving Cobra for good. Don’t bother looking for me. I’ve already deleted all personnel files regarding my identity. I know that after doing that I could’ve easily slipped away without anyone knowing, but I felt I must share some of my grievances. Maybe, just maybe, after G.I. Joe has cracked open your bunkers and you are on trial for war crimes you people will understand how it all went wrong.
Feel free to kill the man who delivered this to you since I know Cobra is a big fan of shooting the messenger. I would feel bad, but Trooper Pat is a bit of a prick and deserves whatever fate you have in store for him since you can’t punish me.
Have fun and I’ll see you on the news.
-Blue Shirt Trooper #27413
By: Andrew Thomas Prenger
It was a bit chilly on the beach. There was no moon, the only light provided came from the bonfire they were circled around. Given the choice most of the spectators would rather be back at the beach house. They didn’t want to disappoint Gordon. Continue reading
The snow had been falling for three days. The usually bustling streets of Seattle had been sheared to a ghost town of sorts. Those that were out were the few that owned vehicles with 4 wheel drive or chains. But even on this bleak Wednesday morning when the freeways would typically be bumper to bumper traffic, only a few cars were braving the roads, sparsely separated between one another on this Christmas day. Continue reading
Mugsy was an idiot.
He’d always been one. Ever since the day I’d met that fat kid, his pants so tight he wore them below his gut. They were the only pair he had for years, his mom just barely keeping her son fed, she just couldn’t afford to get him anything else. But she was a piece, that mom of his. A real caring lady that one. She coddled that sack of hers everyday of her life like he’d just come out of her. When she died he became my weight. I ‘d never known what a tub he was until that day. But I jump ahead, let me cut back a bit. Continue reading