15

"There's too many people on the earth. It's time to clean house."

Fuck, I thought. I had only joined the squad 4 days ago, and after the rigorous training, I had wanted to sit back and drink and fuck and eat and take apart a Nintendo tape and figure out why the fucking thing worked when you blew air into it. As it turned out, my squad was up for an assignment. Turns out an apartment building 11 blocks from headquarters welcomed its last family into the last empty apartment and it was up to us to clear it.

We were the ultimate kick murder squad. We had the latest equipment from some mail order catalog the Jenkins brought in one day. Instead of combat fatigues, we were dressed casually in bulletproof bathrobes, black of course. We needed no backup. We were the backup. We were the bad motherfuckers who, once breached and made entry, were the bad motherfuckers who fucked the mothers and were bad.

But, as luck would have it, we arrived an hour or two after the start of a sale at the local clothing and food arena, and declared victory after we blew a hole through some janitor's chest and celebrated that we were victorious in our goal without the loss of ONE squad member. Beat that, fucker.

I was given shore leave, to which I took a hike up Fart Mountain in search of a BBS I could still dial into. I wasn't having much luck with that, except for some forgotten 486 in Norway still plugged into the wall serving up the latest in 16K glory.

Or at least that's what I saw.