OK, so I bet you all think it’s pretty funny calling me ‘Meta-faggical’, don’t you? Well, let me tell you that just over 72 hours ago I threw my medals into the Hudson River - and no, I don’t mean my bodybuilding ones. I mean 3 Purple Hearts, a plethora of campaign medals, Silver Star, Joint Service Commendation, and a Medal of Honour. Why? Well, that’s a long story, but let me tell you that it doesn’t only involve Trump. To tell it in its entirety will involve putting my life in danger once more by blowing the whistle on a certain little snake who goes by the name of Vladimir Putin. It will be a long and emotional journey, but I can’t sit in silence any longer. I start by reciting when it all began:
I awoke with a jolt, grateful for the darkness that still enveloped me. An involuntary kick of the leg could be seen as a sign of nervousness by the men who were relying on me for leadership. As my eyes adjusted, I could tell that the pacifying drone of the MC-130J had coaxed the other D-boys around me into sleep. ‘Good thing’, I thought. ‘This will probably be the last bit of rest we get for the next three days now’. Just as my eyes began shut again, the red warning light came on, illuminating us all in its foreboding glow. All around me, brothers-in-arms sprung back into life and began a final check of each other’s equipment as the ramp lowered and the bitter night’s air poured in. I looked up to meet eyes with O’Neil - We’d been through hell together and there wasn’t a man on earth I’d rather have by my side when the shit hit the fan. He was known in the squadron as ‘the dealer’, because, to his enemies, he was a ruthless dealer of death (just like me). ‘Let’s do this, bro’, he said to me as we bumped knuckles. ‘Just don’t be getting yourself captured again like in you did in Iran’, I replied in jest. ‘I won’t be dragging your ass back out again this time!’ We shuffled up to the edge of the ramp and I said a quiet prayer to myself as the light turned green. Go time.
We floated silently down to earth, and I breathed a sigh of relief as my boots made contact with the hard rock floor. I motioned to my men to quickly take up a defensive position to listen out for any possible movement, then took a knee beside them for the next fifteen minutes. I glanced at my watch (limited-edition Rolex Oyster), ‘Ok, Tora Bora, let’s see what you have in store for us’, I thought, as I indicated the direction of travel for my men to move off towards. O’Neil was point-man; I needed his sharp intellect up front. I remained at the back with my M2 browning in my arms, ready to unleash hell upon anyone stupid enough to challenge us. Beside me walked my loyal interpreter, Awalmir, a courageous young Afghan who was as faithful as he was foolish. Last operation I saved his life when he triggered a tripwire that sent a grenade rolling down the floor towards us. Quick as a flash I pulled him out of the way. ‘Tell my wife I love her!’ I shouted out as I threw my body down on top of it and squeezed my eyes shut in anticipation of the blast. Silence. ‘Is this it?’ I wondered. ‘Is this what death feels like?’. A hand reached out to gently touch my sculpted arm. It was O’Neil. ‘It’s a dud. Get up real slowly, man’. He helped me to my feet then burst into tears. ‘That was the bravest thing I ever fucking seen’, he said, overcome with emotion. Awalmir embraced me and began crying too. ‘Jeez, guys; put some tampons in and let’s get moving’ I said as I brushed myself off. ‘We’ve still got a job to do’.
Awalmir had followed me around like a lost puppy ever since, but, to be honest, I enjoyed his company. As we walked on slowly up the hill, he turned to me and said ‘ When I come USA, you teach me how to become muscles man too? I want to be strong like bull and do fucking with all the bitches’, he said, as he reached out to squeeze my 20” bicep that was just starting to strain slightly under the weight of the M2. ‘You got it, Awalmir, I have no doubt that America will welcome you as the hero you are, and when you arrive I’ll personally turn you into a walking slab of granite - just like me’. We carried on chatting quietly for the next few hours as we made our way up the unforgiving terrain. I had just finished telling him about the fundamentals of bodybuilding (no deadlifts, 6-7 meals a day, creatine, etc.) when O’Neil indicated for us to stop. We had arrived at the cave entrance. I’d already been over the orders with them before, so a recapitulation was unnecessary at this point; I merely took up my position behind O’Neil, then gave him the squeeze on the shoulder to enter.
It was quiet. Too quiet. We moved in perfect harmony with one-another, our 4-tube NVGs turning darkness from foe to friend. I could hear nothing but the sound of our own breath and the gentle drip of raindrops leaking in from the ceiling cracks and landing on the cave floor. A doorway emerged out of the dull green tint of my goggles; I was sure O’Neil had seen it too, when, as I went to tap him, a muzzle-flash erupted out of the darkness, spewing forth a homicidal swarm of lead wasps in our direction. ‘CONTACT FRONT!’ I screamed out against the tumultuous roar of fully-automatic fire. It was too late; O’Neil had taken an entire magazine to the face, and was now sprawled out prostrate on the frozen earth, minus his head. Awalmir was hit too, and cried out in pain as my team desperately tried to stem the bleeding. The beast in me took over. I unleashed an entire belt of .50 cal into the doorway where the warlord stood. He must have been a solid 300lbs (permabulker) before I evaporated him into red mist. I threw the M2 aside and sprinted through the doorway to be greeted with the sight of a gangly Taliban insurgent lunging at me with a dagger; his face a sinewy mask of hatred and rage. I bobbed and weaved as he lashed out wildly with the blade. This was personal now; I would finish this with my bare hands. I transitioned to his left with a series of no-hands cartwheels, then immediately followed up with a sideways chop to his larynx. He dropped the blade and clutched his throat, gasping for air, but as I swept his legs out from underneath him, I knew that he had breathed his last. I stood in front of him, incandescent with rage but composed enough to deliver the fatal blow. I took up a boxing stance and lowered my fist to my waist, then twisted my hips round explosively as I rotated my arm upwards in a corkscrew motion to drive my fist right up into the front of his nose. The force was devastating. His nose immediately disappeared as brain met bone, and as his now-lifeless body collapsed to the floor I said: ‘That’s for O’Neil’.
I exited the doorway and walked over to Awalmir. I knelt down beside him and squeezed his hand as I asked: ‘How you doing, buddy?’ He was on the verge of losing consciousness now; the color drained from his face. ‘Did... you... get them?’ he gasped, struggling with laboured breath. ‘I sure did, brother; and you’re gonna be just fine’. There was no chance of rescue - not out here, but I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge it. I pulled him up off the ground and into my arms, as my team gathered around us, unable to do anything other than wait. ‘Promise me you won’t forget what we fight for’, he said as he gripped my hand. ‘Faced with liberty or death, I fought for the former but now embrace the latter; for in death I find the freedom that my people are denied in life’. He glanced up to the heavens and gave one last exhale before closing his eyes. My thoughts followed the trajectory of his soul.
To be continued....
