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  1. #11
    Claptrap's Problem Solver



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    Quote Originally Posted by izzyscout21 View Post
    dun, dun, dun...?!?!?!
    Actually the titles to all the stories can be interpreted different ways. Little insider knowledge for you.

    Later tonight will be a Q & A session with the author. Questions like "What is Miller's favorite brand of deodorant" and "What shift did Dink work when he was a sheriff" will finally be answered!
    If you think that come SHTF you are gonna jock up in all your kit and be a death-dealing one man army, you're an idiot - izzyscout

  2. #12
    Stalkercat...destroyer of donkeys, rider of horse


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    i wanna know what kinda tacticool underbritches MIller wears. He shoots, moves, and communicates like he's a little less restricted............
    WARNING: This post may contain material offensive to those who lack wit, humor, common sense and/or supporting factual or anecdotal evidence. All statements and assertions contained herein may be subject to but not limited to: irony, metaphor, allusion and dripping sarcasm.

  3. #13
    Claptrap's Problem Solver



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    ALCON

    I goofed a bit on my original announcement so here's a correction.

    There are a limited number of free lifetime premium memberships left. Act now by signing up, making a post and you will receive the benefit. As a premium member you can view the entire site.

    Once those free premium memberships are gone we have a second way you can access the stories. Sign up, make a post and you will automatically be switched to "contributing member". You will get a "banner" under your user name that indicates you are a contributor. Contributors will be able to see the posts in the stories section and respond to them. Contributors will have no access to premium sections however.

    Your last option is to remain a guest, and only be able to see the teaser section of the story in the Media Center.

    Hope that clears things up. Sorry for any confusion.

    Anyway, we really would like to see those guests signing up. You can still lurk to your hearts content after making your one post and if you act quickly you get a free premium membership to boot. Hopefully you'll jump in on the other conversations too but the choice is completely up to you.
    If you think that come SHTF you are gonna jock up in all your kit and be a death-dealing one man army, you're an idiot - izzyscout

  4. #14
    Claptrap's Problem Solver



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    Ok folks.....here we go!

    Copyright 2011


    End Game




    Usually cruises through the Caribbean are marked by festivities and an over indulgence in food. They are happier times often serving as a family vacation or special get away.

    As the solider retched over the railing of the large ship, the comfort of jumping to his death briefly crossed his mind. The waves of nausea didn't happen when they first left port, but he was now facing the retribution of the sea for mocking those that did get sick and was now miserable.

    Most of the men had gotten sick as the ships steamed northwards. They simply were not accustomed to the constant rolling motion.

    “Don't worry Illya,” said a comrade as he slapped the hapless soldiers back. “Only another day and you'll be back on dry land.”

    The group of soldiers that lingered about all laughed despite having been sick themselves at one time or another.

    Wiping his face, the soldier declared, “they've said that for days now. We've been afloat for almost twelve.”

    Another man chimed in, “and you've barfed for most of them!”

    But the solider was right, the flotilla had been steaming through the oceans for far too long. As he looked out over the horizon he saw more ships gliding through the water. Cutting through the water like majestic ships of old, the ships, all painted in various shades of gray, fanned out for as far as he could see. Like the ship that had been his home for close to a fortnight, they too were packed with soldiers. Every conceivable nook and cranny of the deck seemed littered with men.

    Some played cards. Some read. Some just chatted with comrades. Most all smoked. There had been little to do but they all knew their idle time was rapidly coming to a close.

    “Yes, well,” replied the soldier, “I'm looking forward to standing on a surface that doesn't move.”

    He felt the next wave of nausea begin to rise in his stomach.


    ****

    “Damn, I'm going insane,” thought Webb as he peered through the spotting scope erected in the middle of the shabby apartment. “I am not cut out for this.”

    The apartment had seen better days and showed the wear of the never ending parade of inhabitants. It was nothing like their other apartment which was spacious and modern. Here, the furniture was shabby and the building run down. On the positive side of the ledger he apartment was clean and most importantly, paid for in cash.

    Glancing over at the backpack's stacked on the couch, he mentally cataloged the contents to ensure he had brought the right supplies. They were stacked neatly, as if placed with great care, and were ready to be grabbed at a moment's notice. Nondescript, the bags would blend into any college campus or metropolitan area.

    At six foot, two inches with sandy brown hair and dark complexion, Webb as an attractive man. Being quiet and unassuming, he was the kind of man that would blend into the crowd at a party and say little. Strangers meeting him often mistook his quiet demeanor for snobbishness, when the exact opposite was reality. Despite being financially secure, he was generous to a fault and never advertised his great wealth.

    Peering down through the spotting scope, worth more than most people are paid for a month's work, he surveyed the park for the twentieth time in as many minutes.

    “Still nothing,” he muttered. “Where the hell is he?”

    The scope, atop it's tripod, was strategically located to conceal it's presence from outside the apartment. Though a gap in the curtains, however, it offered a near panoramic view of the park across the street.

    Taking a drink of the now cold coffee, he surveyed the scene. Noting movement he quickly flicked a switch on a small electronic device, and resumed his position behind the scope. The gadget, no bigger than a deck of cards, was connected to a separate box from which an antenna reached a short distance in the air. Twisting the adjustment dials of the scope he panned slightly left as if he were following the path of someone walking through the park.

    “Finally, something to do,” he mumbled as he continued his vigilance.

    Though the scope he watched as the man approached another at the small fountain in the middle of the open square. The park was relatively crowded and people meandered about as they enjoyed the warm summer's day. Some played while others enjoyed picnic lunches.

    He watched as they spoke briefly. Noting their interaction, and the small envelopes that were exchanged, he then panned across the width and depth of the park. He was looking for anybody who might be paying more attention than normal to two men in a park. Anybody who was walking by them at too slow of pace. In short, anybody attempting to monitor the meeting.

    Satisfied the men were unobserved, his attentions returned to the fountain. The man who had originally been standing at the fountain had returned to casually tossing small bits of bread to the ducks.

    The man Webb watched enter the park was nowhere to be found.

    With that task complete, Webb unplugged the two black plastic boxes and mashed several buttons on the face of the smaller unit. Listening to the playback he smiled, “I'll be dammed.”

    He then began disassembling the scope and the small box with the antenna. Within a minute they had both been stowed in one of the bags lining the couch. Glancing at his watch, he waited to hear the key scrape the lock as he placed the last item in the bag.


    ****


    “The Podium is right this way Mr. President.”

    Being guided through the backstage area of a large theater, Jackson Crutchfield cast a near imperial presence. Tall and slender, athletic, he was adorned in a finely tailored suit. Adjusting his tie as several aides fed him bits of information, his irritation was plain for all to see. His coterie fluttered around him, each one trying to attract the slightest sign of approval from their leader.

    He had gone to Washington under the guise of uniting a deeply polarized country. His campaign messages all centered around the idea of unity. Instead his policies had been rejected by the American public, his Presidency riddled with scandal and he suffered the humiliation of Impeachment and subsequent conviction. Forced from office his inner rage at the rejection boiled over into treason. Over the course of weeks and months he successfully maneuvered the country into a second civil war.

    Fighting had raged for three years. Stalemate had quickly been reached shortly after the outbreak of hostilities. President Alan marshaled his forces, all battled hardened by constant conflicts in the middle east, in the Carolinas and both Virginias. He also kept forces in Kentucky and into the south as a buffer to prevent a flanking maneuver from the west.

    Most of the northern states, from New England to Minnesota had joined in with the rebellion. Years of the loss of jobs and the damaging effects of the labor unions had rendered them adrift and bankrupt. They had nothing to lose.

    Fighting raged mostly in the east with major battles fought throughout Pennsylvania, Maryland and Delaware. Entire towns were wiped from the face of the map by the struggle.

    Small advances were usually followed by corresponding losses of territory as the divided country collided over it's inner turmoil. Though quirks of fate the military forces of each side, cobbled together by whatever units happened to fall under the combatants command, were roughly equal in strength. The advantages of one side nullified the strength of the opposing force and provided a counterbalance that prevented large gains.

    President Alan was forced to rely on domestic supplies manufactured in the south or western parts of the former United States. The western states stayed mostly neutral and unscathed in the conflict with the exception of California and Oregon. Under the tremendous weight of social spending and failed polices that bred a culture of entitlement, the societal fabric of each state imploded. As the inhabitants consumed each other in swirling chaos the surrounding states stood back and watched it unfold.

    It had been tough to produce the food, ammunition and other supplies needed to fight a war but somehow they had managed. Domestic drilling in the Texas, the Gulf of Mexico and Alaska supplied the main lifeblood of modern warfare; oil. They had moved heaven and earth to ramp up production in such short time and access to the nations strategic petroleum reserve helped also. Day and night the rigs were pushed to maximum capacity while the refineries churned out the precious commodity.

    For his part, Crutchfield's manufacturing capabilities were augmented by a number of outside interests, none of whom held America's best interests at heart. Supplies were funneled in through the St Laurence river or the ports of New England. Foreign goods entered through Canada who had already formally recognized Crutchfield's fledgling country. The system wasn't efficient but the supplies rolled in day and night.

    An air corridor with parts of Europe had been maintained for a portion of the beginning stages of the war until President Alan's airforce shot down a number of cargo aircraft. This touched off an international incident ultimately resulting in a plea for assistance to the UN. Crutchfield himself spoke to the General Assembly to lobby for support and soon Peacekeeping forces had been stationed in the north to provide a counterbalance to President Alan's forces.

    Their mission was to support what they called “the fledgling resistance movement” against a totalitarian regime. Geopolitical karma unfolded as the foreign troops rolled into what used to be America to keep the peace and practice nation building.

    In another cruel twist of reality, Actors and other liberal elites flocked to Crutchfield's new society at the beginning of hostilities. They believed they would be at the forefront of a new utopia. At first they had been feted as the superstars of a new order. Quickly, however, they were awakened to the realities of life as Crutchfield confiscated their vast wealth to fund his war machine. Within a short time many were reduced to meager existences that resembled nothing of their past lives. Some resorted to suicide rather than face conscription into his military.

    As the speaker at the podium announced, “President Jackson Crutchfield” the leader of the rebellion strode across the stage. Crutchfield was preparing to address the crowd assembled in the theater, along citizens of his country who had access to the one Government run news channel. The other television stations had been closed down.

    “Countrymen,” he said in a somber but somewhat regal tone. “We have faced many struggles in our fight for civil rights and justice. The past few years have presented many challenges. But a new dawn is on the horizon. A new wind will fill our sails.”

    As the words echoed off the theater walls, security men roamed the wings of the theater, on guard for any attack on Crutchfield or signs of descent. Some people bravely attempted to protest against Crutchfield's schemes in the early stages of the war. No further rebellions took place after soldiers fired on the crowd and the protest organizers swiftly executed. The natural effect was that the crowded theater lavished Crutchfield with applause while under the watchful eyes of the security services.

    After nearly thirty minutes of speaking, Crutchfield concluded his speech and left to thunderous applause.

    “Right this way Mr. President,” directed one of his aides.

    Turning to another of the faceless army of assistants, Crutchfield instructed, “Send for the war council. Have them in my office at 11:00pm”.

    The gaggle consisting of Crutchfield and his horde of assistants, all flanked by his personal security detail made their way through a labyrinth of hallways on the way to the waiting motorcade.
    If you think that come SHTF you are gonna jock up in all your kit and be a death-dealing one man army, you're an idiot - izzyscout

  5. #15
    Claptrap's Problem Solver



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    And don't forget folks....future entries in this thread will only be snippets of the story. Teases if you will.

    To view the story in it's entirety please follow the instructions in post 13 of this thread and then go to the stories forum.

    If you a lurking guest please come along for the ride on End Game. It's easy to gain access and doesn't cost you a cent.
    If you think that come SHTF you are gonna jock up in all your kit and be a death-dealing one man army, you're an idiot - izzyscout

  6. #16
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    Here's a snipet of the latest entry to End Game....

    The other apartment was much different than the smaller one they left behind. It was modern, clean and spacious. There was plenty of room for guests in the living area, and the kitchen table served as a convenient conference room. Well decorated and stocked with nice furniture, it was the kind of place that naturally put people to ease.

    Finishing a simple dinner of soup and vegetables, the two men continued to discuss the events at the park.

    Webb said, “that was slick using the recorder to capture the pass-code the informant gave you. You two barely spoke to each other,” as he chased a dribble of soup across his chin.

    “I memorized the number just in case, but using the recorder cuts down on time and it's one less thing he has to hand off. And if I'm stopped for some reason all I have on me is a key. That is much harder to trace than a key and a pass-code written on paper.”

    “And a key is easily explained while a paper with odd numbers might raise suspicion,” suggested Webb.

    The man nodded and explained, “I don't like public hand-offs like that. Too visible. Too many things can go wrong, especially with an untrained participant. But in this case we had no choice. The key to a successful meet is to make it quick, easy for both parties and natural. You give the subject too many things to remember he'll get nervous and appear stiff and unnatural. Good chance of him screwing up too.”

    Webb, taking in the information replied, “makes sense. Simple and low profile trumps complex.”

    Nodding in agreement, the man continued, “Two guys commenting on the duck pond doesn't draw much attention. If he had mucked about for twenty minutes it would start to look odd.”

    Webb replied, “So now what?”

    The man finished chewing and swallowed a bite of his asparagus as he responded. “Now's the hard part. Now we have to plant the bug.”

    Then men continued to discuss their plans in low tones. They were reasonably sure they had not been compromised to the security services so they had not resorted to using code or turning up radios to defeat listening devices.

    After nearly an hour, the man said, “I'm hitting the rack. Get some rest, we've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

    “Roger that Miller,” replied Webb as he fiddled with one of his many gadgets.
    If you aren't a member of the site yet, and have been reading the story as a guest, please refer to the instructions in post #13 of this thread for instructions on how to gain access to the entry.
    If you think that come SHTF you are gonna jock up in all your kit and be a death-dealing one man army, you're an idiot - izzyscout

  7. #17
    Claptrap's Problem Solver



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    Here's an excerpt from the newest entry of End Game.

    “Gentleman, for the past thirty-six months we have fought a war to establish a land where social justice and harmony can be achieved. We've sent men into harm's way to carve out a country where goods and services are delivered to the people in the amount they need and as the are determined to need it. We've struck out at the old ways, the ways of corporate greed and white oppression. We've struck out to show that a collective society of equality can be created.”

    As he took a brief pause to gauge the room, the men of the war council nodded their head in agreement. The irony that the entire war council were older white men, all financially well-off, appeared lost on the room.

    “We've faced certain setbacks, we've faced obstacles. Many of your plans and schemes have failed resulting in the squandering of men and materiel. You've engineered great losses in the western theater and achieved little in the eastern. So far we've held our own, but only with the assistance of the United Nations troops who've joined in with their brothers in America.”

    His voice remained soft and quiet, almost as if he were casually detailing some historical event. But to the Generals and Admirals in the room the message was a cutting as if he'd been in a full blown rage.

    “But we can not rely on the peace keeping forces for the long-term. We must make our own destiny. Our situation is such that we need a master stroke, a game changer. We need a bold move that will cast the die in our favor.”
    If you've been reading my stories about Miller as a guest we hope you'll follow the directions noted in post #13 of this thread and join the party. That will allow you to read the entire entry in the Stories forum.

    Hope to see you there.
    If you think that come SHTF you are gonna jock up in all your kit and be a death-dealing one man army, you're an idiot - izzyscout

  8. #18
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    The beach Illya landed on was typical for the area. It was only several hundred yards deep and relatively flat. Devoid of any dunes or rock there was little cover available unless one was lucky enough to land near one of the jetties that protruded out into the water. At the top of the beach was a state highway. Two lanes, with a small median, it was the main corridor directly along the coast.

    Illya and his men ran to the top of the beach, and crossed the highway as quickly as possible. So far there was no sign of any American troops. There was an occasional automobile but those were already being stopped, and the passengers dispatched, to avoid complications.
    This is a short excerpt from the latest installment of End Game. The full entry is available in the story thread for our premium members, or contributors. For more information on how to access the Stories forum, if you are a guest, please refer to post #13 of this thread.
    If you think that come SHTF you are gonna jock up in all your kit and be a death-dealing one man army, you're an idiot - izzyscout

  9. #19
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    As the truck neared to within one hundred yards of the bridge Illya stood and waved his arms beckoning the truck forward. Passing quickly in front of his men, to ensure they would not fire, he walked down the asphalt and towards the truck.

    After the whoosh of the air-brake being set, the drivers door opened and a tall, lanky man with a cowboy hat suddenly jumped from the cab. Oblivious to the danger he was in walked towards Illya.

    “Hey pardner, what's this? You'ins with the Army?” he asked in confusion.

    Smiling, Illya uttered out in his limited English vocabulary, “You need to leave. Right now.”

    Stopping and straightening somewhat, the trucker replied, “Say that again boy. You some kinda foreigner?” His eyes narrowed somewhat when he realized Illya was armed.

    “Please,” said Illya. “Please just leave right now.” His heavy accent garbled the words but the intention was clear.

    The trucker, clearly having none of this, fired back, “You boys'n can play dress em'up but you ain't telling me to skedaddle.”

    Illya took another step towards the trucker, shifted his rifle around, and pointed it at the obstinate truck driver. “Please. You must go. Now. Go.” He motioned with his rifle to for the man to leave.

    The trucker was about to reply again when a shot rang out from behind and to the side of Illya. Ducking instinctively, he fell to the ground to avoid being shot in the back by the young troops behind him.

    After it was clear there would be no other shots Illya stood and walked over to the dead truck driver. Sighing at the senseless loss of life he motioned a few of his men forward.
    Well....you know the drill by now. Here's a brief taste of the latest installment of End Game. I hope you'll follow the instructions in post 13 of this thread and join us over in the story forum to read the entire entry.
    If you think that come SHTF you are gonna jock up in all your kit and be a death-dealing one man army, you're an idiot - izzyscout

  10. #20
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    The guard supervisor didn't know what to do. He had been in the middle of a tirade at his junior guards because they were not able to come to agreement on the vacation schedule. As he worked himself into a full rage his anger was quickly drowned out by the blaring fire alarms.

    The guards stood motionless around the desk in the main lobby as the supervisor processed the flood of information.

    “Sir, active fire on level five. Looks like it's zones seven and eight, in the elevator area” called out the man interpreting the fire alarm system. “Sprinklers have activated,” he added.

    Another guard, nearly over top of the report about the fires, called out, “there's some sort of malfunction of the ground level door in stairwell two. The door is jammed shut.”

    As people began to stream into the lobby from stairwell one, and even one of the functioning elevator, the supervisor finally sprang into action.
    For you guests out there who haven't signed up on the site and made contributor status (by making one measly post) here's a brief excerpt from my latest entry.

    If you would like to read the story in its entirety please refer to the instructions of post #13 of this thread.

    Hope to see you there.
    If you think that come SHTF you are gonna jock up in all your kit and be a death-dealing one man army, you're an idiot - izzyscout

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