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Becoming a Better Firebat
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Date: 08/08/09 05:08
Game Type: Starcraft
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Ten hut private! This ain't no sorry ass tea party. This here's boot camp, so welcome to three months of my boot up yer ass.

The name's Tightbuns. General Tightbuns to you, boy. I've been a general for 15 years and never in that time have I laid my eyes on such a sorry excuse for damn fringe world yokel. In fact, I can't even remember the last time I've seen such a shriveled man-pouch on a recruit, but I 'spose that's why I'm here - to inflate those testicles, thereby giving you the confidence to go toe-to-toe with the galaxy's mightiest warriors!

Says here you'll be applyin' for the Firebat ranks? Shoot boy, you're just another one of dem goshdarn arsonfolk who wised up and decided to come out here and burn stuff for a livin'. If that's the case, private, then perhaps you ain't exactly the numbnut I thought you were. Hell, we've gotta plenty of critters that need a good match under their hindquarters 'round these parts. I trust that you'll make good use of that flamethrower after I'm through with you. Hehehehe ...

Step One

Article III, Section XI, Paragraphs four through seven of the Balls to the Wall Terran Handbook delves into them there SAPs, or Self Advancement Procedures. Lemme tell you somethin' boy, you'd best look over those procedures because it's a dog eat dog world out there in the Terran Dominion Alpha Squadron. The most efficient way of movin' up the ladder is to make gosh darn sure that none of yer fellow infantrymen stand in your way. Think about it under these terms: you're walkin' into an institution that doesn't take shit from the vicious Zerg-types nor them high tech Protaters, so you sure as hell ain't gonna take anythin' from yer own kind.

Way back when I was among the Firebat ranks, there was this pompous skidmark of a Marine who resided in the same barracks as I did. It wasn't that he was such a loud mouthed imbecile - he found other ways of pissin' off the rest of the squad. For example, one frigid night out in the Antiga Plains, this guy decided to sneak out of the barracks and build himself a wily ol' snowman. When me and the boys saw it the next mornin', we naturally laughed our asses off. I mean, that S.O.B. even had a goddamn carrot for a nose like in them frilly Christmas cards. However, we all looked like fools when the Medics got back from the clinic and started admirin' that stupid snowman like it was some sort of goshdamn Picasso.

By that evening, rumors were flyin' around that the Skidmark had already gotten lucky four times since the Medics had returned. Seeing as them practices were against the institution's regulations, most of us hadn't seen a naked woman since we set foot on them there forsaken grounds, let alone make love to one. Needless to say, we were all seethin' with jealousy, and so I reckoned I'd give that ... Picasso a couple gallons of napalm. One hour prior to the reveille, I melted that bitchass Marine's snowman.

Step Two

Another lesson I learned back during my time as a Corporal: a resourceful feller will get what he most desires. After I witnessed what that Skids guy could accomplish with a small bit of ingenuity, I knew that I could manage somethin' far more impressive. So, after few weeks of schemin', I came up with a plan.

Before I fell asleep every night, I'd think back to my early days on the Badlands. There were these mangy critters known as Rhynadons that roamed the desert basin, and me and my Pa would go out every weekend 'n try to herd 'em away from the local Supply Depots. Them critters were on the docile side, so eventually my Pa mustered enough courage to mount one of 'em. Boy did that Rhynadon start buckin' to-and-fro, but my Pa was able to sit tight for some ten seconds I reckon. Of course, I could hardly wait to have my shot at a rodeo, and the next weekend I did just that.

Those were some good times, Private. Herdin' them Rhynadons brightened my days on the stinkin' Badlands. At the time, I couldn't have imagined that those weekends would serve me well in the military, but boy was I wrong.

You see, the Antiga Plains also had a breed of wild critter known as the Ursadon. These things, Private, were much more dangerous than them beasts on the Badlands. In fact, the Master Sergeant in the Academy warned the platoon of the hostile disposition of the Ursadon packs. But hell, we hardly needed that admonition, as there were all sorts of bones and blood layin' frozen just outside the compound walls. It was rough, but not rough enough for an ol' wrangler like myself. Hehehe.

One of the things that pissed me off the most about being a Firebat was the sonabitch heavy suit we had to wear. Even with all of them cuttin'-edge steroids they were pumpin' into us, those napalm canisters alone must've weighed 200 lbs. Trudgin' through the heavy snow on Antiga was hell, boy, and I just about had my fill of foot fungus and ingrown toenails. So one day out in the plains after a recon mission, I spotted one of them brutes about a quarter kilometer off the southern ridge. The young boy inside me took over, and I jus' charged emphatically at the beast. Immediately, it picked its fat head up out of the carcass it was devourin', but it failed to budge. I could see its pupils dialatin' through my visor, as it must've thought I was the biggest dumbass in the quadrant. By the time I was within a hundred paces and closin', its instincts finally kicked in and it began brandishing them big ol' onyx tusks. Still, it wasn't about to leave its dinner, and in a last attempt to spook me, it unleashed a deafening roar. By then, I was within 20 feet of the animal. Fearin' that it might become aggressive, I fired a short pulse of napalm straight at it. The flames licked the face of the beast and melted a ton of snow around it, creating a bright smokescreen that enveloped the surrounding area. With my target disoriented, I reared around the side of it and hopped on its back. The critter wasn't very happy about that and started flailin' around wildly. Fortunately, I had the sense to bring my cat-o'-nine-tails along with me. I brought the leather down hard on its shoulders and lit its ass on fire to give it a case of some grade A hemorrhoids. That sure as hell let it know who was in charge, and I rode the beast around the frosty plains like the doggone ranger I was. Who needs them newfound Helions when you got yerself a disgruntled Polar Bear?

Step Three

You know, I do realize, private, that those first couple lessons may seem a bit, well, unorthodox . I guess you may even discredit them as being "outlandish." But, I assure you, boy, them two events were instrumental to my understanding on how to succeed in this crapshoot of a sector we call "home." I am a general after all, and I know what I'm talkin' about. So don't let me catch that smirk on yer face again, boy, or you might just find yerself hogtied to the backside of a stampeding Ursadon.

Now then, let's keep movin'. A modern-day Terran infantry push requires more than just a hell of a lot of Stimpacks and standard issue Gauss Rifles. As I mentioned earlier, those bogies out there are killin' machines, and while firepower is imperative, imagination on part of all infantrymen is also of the essence. Anythin' you can do to catch your enemy off guard will be advantageous toward your objective.

For example, let's say your battalion initiates a full-scale frontal invasion on an enemy Protoss base. Seein' as how that napalm of yers can really do a number on them Plasma Shields, yer standard commander may put your sorry ass on the frontlines. Let me tell you, boy, I've seen them Zealots with their lightsabres 'n whatnot. They're like a Bruce Lee/Darth Maul hybrid that'll disembowel yer pathetic hide in one fell swoop. Only an goshdang idiot would step into a boxin' match with one of those aliens. Instead, you go 'n find yerself a nice Dropship and touch down behind the enemy mining area. Now, instead of fryin' the peons and alerting the entire base of yer presence, just set fire to the actual mineral nodes. Once you've done that, head back onto that friendly Dropship and shuttle yer ass home for some bacon and tabasco. Those Probes won't do jack, boy, and the enemy's economy will take a monsterous kick in the ballsack.

Step Four

There ain't nothin' sweeter than Southwest cuisine. Am I right, Private? Hot damn would I love to sashay my tongue over one o' dem double deluxe black bean burritos right now. But shoot, boy, them Zerg critters love Mexican food more than this here pot-bellied general I'll tell you what. That piece of intel was discovered by yours truly during a rescue mission out on that goshdang fryin' pan of a planet known as Korhal.

It was about 0800 hours when the Dropships touched down among the dunes n' Scantids. My buddy Charlie had just finished tellin' me about the major swamp ass he was dealin' with when we got news of an incoming Zerg force from the south. The colonel started gettin' quite ancy on account of he had lost an arm to them Zergs durin' a previous encounter. With the commandin' officer in the midst of a panic attack, I took it upon myself to get them brain juices pumpin' to try n' save our sorry asses.

We were clearly outnumbered accordin' to our Comsat. I know that's about the status quo when dealin' with a Zerg offensive, but a 25:1 ratio was just about certain death. Numbers like that overwhelm even the slyest tactics n' ambushes, so I figured I should quit focusing on military logistics n' dig into my standard bag of tricks instead. With that thought in mind, I spotted the only livin' thing in the vicinity other than us Terrans: a cactus. Instantly, I was reminded of my favorite grub hub in the Badlands, Ass Grease Avery's Southwest Grill, which had a blazin' cactus as the centerpiece of their extensive advertisin' campaign. It was at that time that the light bulb clicked on, and I decided to fire up that prickly bastard. In only a few short seconds, I had myself a flamin' hot desert shrub, and I knew that all I had to do now was throw together a sign n' a handy directional arrow pointing away from our base of operations.

At 1400 hours, I caught sight of them Mutalisks on the horizon. The rest of my pansy squadron was sayin' their prayers huddled within the Barracks, so it was only me an the aliens out there in the dunes. The dust cloud underneath the approachin' flyers kept getting larger n' larger, and it wasn't before long that I got my first look at a pair of fearsome Ultralisks. Shortly after that, smaller Zerg types became visible within the cloud. Standin' beside my cactus, I began to second guess my scheme. The fellers back in the base must've been hootin' n' hollerin' at me and my plant, and them Zergs began to look awfully big.

1437 hours: the Zerg reach the base. Their hideous squawkin' n' shriekin' rippled over them sands, and I could hear my colonel yappin' at me over the headset to get my hindquarters into a bunker stat. An Overlord floated ominously over the rest of the horrid creatures. It was headed right for me, n' for a few moments there, I thought that fat squid was gonna abduct me like in the movies. But, to my surprise, this thing began to drop altitude and eventually froze some five or six feet above the sand. Astonishingly, it seemed to be tryin' to wrap its brain around the flamin' cactus and the sign I set up. Now, instinctively, I proceeded to flap my arms like an emu with epilepsy while shoutin' all these things about how tacos taste so much better than foul Terrans such as myself. Of course, I completely neglected the fact that they were Zerg n' there wasn't a snowball's chance in Hell that they could comprehend the English language. Yet apparently, that wise ol' Overlord caught on n' made a whole symphony of phlegmy snortin' Zerg-talk. The rest of them critters began lookin' around at one another, about faced, n' high tailed it out of there! Needless to say, everyone came out throwin' them helmets in the sky n' callin' me the hero I was. None of 'em could believe that tacos could be the galaxy's number one Zerg repellent.

Step Five

Now then, Private, this'll be the last of my wise teachin's so get that dick outta yer ear n' listen up!

While I'm quite the proponent of brute force tactics n' massive retaliation n' whatnot, sometimes, ya just gotta use a little brain power to get the upper hand. This may come as a surprise to you, boy, but not every hokey pokey Terran is as cunnin' an' shrewd as yer ol' general. The Protaters, well, them wrinkly scrotums are friggin' psychic, so you might have a problem er two catchin' 'em with their pants down. But, many of our own kind, as well as the Zerg clusters, can be easy prey for a nice, underhanded scheme.

My Firebat days were tough, but one day in particular really sticks out in my mind as one of the toughest. My platoon had been deployed to the Badlands on orders from the Confederacy. Boy, them Badlands were as dusty n' miserable as I remembered 'em. To make matters worse, Ass Grease Avery's had since gone outta business, so I couldn't even bag myself a doggone Tabasco Delight.

Anywho, a rebellious band of Terrans known as the United Antigan Coallition was causin' a ruckus among the surroundin' colonies. Apparently, they were fed up with eatin' dusty lasagna or somethin' n' decided to initiate a revolution. With the support of the powerful Sons of Korhal forces, the Antigans presented a serious threat to the Confederacy's grip on the sector. Now, our arrogant commander did not view the situation the same way I did. He thought we'd steamroll the "pathetic" Antigan resistance regardless of the Sons of Korhal aegis. He insisted on reducin' Confederate funding by sendin' in a couple infantry squadrons without Siege Tank, Goliath, or Wraith support. When I heard of my commander's plans, it shattered my faith toward the Confederacy n' what it stood for. I wasn't about to get involved in that meat grinder of a battle he called a plan. So once again, I found myself in the barracks thinkin' of a more reasonable way of endin' the revolution.

And ... uh ... after many hours, I came to the conclusion that I'd just have to chuck my napalm canisters into a vespene geyser n' git the hell outta there via Dropship before the entire planet exploded. N' that's exactly what I did. Hehehe ...


Well boy, it looks like you've done it. Your sorry ass has become a better Firebat. You know, I wasn't quite sure if you had it in you, but as long as you take my advice to the battlefield, you'll live to see another day. I'll see you in the pub, Corporal!


Thanks for putting up with this crazy turd of a story. Many hours analyzing the dialogue from Squidbillies and King of the Hill allowed this Khaki-wearin' New Yorker to create the subpar southern dialect you just struggled to read through. If you enjoyed this, erm, "report," be sure to check out "Becoming a Better Zergling" for all of your Zergling needs n' tips.

Until next time, this has been a Threefold production!

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