Okay, so partly because it’s National Novel Writing Month and partly because I found out this existed I thought I’d take a shot at NaNoWriMo myself and present the proof that Andy McNab and Peter Grimsdale were the wrong people for the job. Here’s my far superior version of the official Battlefield 3 novel.
Incidentally, if you’re reading this Grand Central Pub, you can just contact me on the usual e-mail with all the job offers. I’ll pick them up from there:
‘Fag’ growled Penisdick69 as he found himself on the receiving end of a stream of bullets from his unseen enemy. It was obvious to him that some n00b was camping, and he wasn’t going to have any of it. However as it stood at the moment he wasn’t in much of a position to do anything about it, he had already taken quite a beating from the fagwhore behind the rifle. All colour had faded from his screen, except the all too ominous crimson sneaking in from the edges. Penisdick69 reassured himself of the old adage about he who runs away living to fight another day, and he had every intention of fighting. But right now it would have to wait for that other day.
Even if he had to respawn ten times…A hundred times…Hell a thousand times, he knew that it would be worth it to knock the smile off the face of the n00b that was somehow getting in these lucky shots that were depleting his health.
Right now, though, his pride was definitely the least significant of his injuries. He was near death and needed medical attention. However having used the last of his medikits to deal with the RPG blast he was on the receiving end of, Penisdick69 had no choice to deal with his potentially deadly injuries the only way he knew how…By walking it off. Because that was how a fucking man dealt with his injuries. And Penisdick69 was nothing if not a fucking man. He had the level three prestige to prove it.
Right now, though, he would gladly have given his exclusive pre-order camouflage and the presitage awarded solid gold M9 with increased rate of fire to get his hand on the man at the other end of the sniper scope. It was obviously a man. Girls didn’t play video games.
‘I could hack their I.P. address’, considered Penisdick69, ‘and then I could totally go around and kick his ass. I bet he wouldn’t be such a big man in the real world’. This seemed like a sound plan until Penisdick69 realised he neither knew how to hack nor throw a punch. He had studied the theories of fighting plenty during the intense 600 hours he had dedicated to reaching the maximum level in Street Fighter IV the previous summer, but somehow his body was unable to process the information stored within the recesses of his brain. He couldn’t manage as much as a single ‘Hadouken’.
Still… The sniperfag never knew that, so there was nothing to stop Penisdick69 from screaming his empty threat, in hopes that his bravado would make the sniper rage quit. Deep within the torrent of abuse that sprang forth from Penisdick69 there may have also been something about sleeping with his dog and killing his mother. Or possibly it was the other way around. Penisdick69 couldn’t remember. It was all a blur. The red mist had descended.
Ironically, the literal red mist had vanished from his screen. Penisdick69 was at full health again, and planned on focusing his rage at the mysterious enemy. The unseen nemesis that had been the bane of his life for the past seven minutes. Sure there were easier pickings, like the rookie who had spent the entire conflict running to the same hiding spot, only to fire three incredibly poor shots in a tragic display of self defence, and ultimately get killed only to repeat the cycle the moment he respawned.
But this wasn’t any normal battle, anymore. This was no longer about scores, or experience points. Those things seemed trivial in comparison to Penisdick69’s honour. And not just any kill would satisfy that honour. Right now it hinged on Penisdick69 killing the camping n00bcunt.
Penisdick69 broke from cover, the anticipation instinctively forcing him to take an extra large gulp of air. He just prayed that it wasn’t his last. ‘Let’s see you snipe this!’ he thought, as a smug silent curse towards his enemy.
Penisdick69 then began to run around in circles, randomly jumping. Some were leaps that would have landed him a position in any team of his choosing in the NBA if he were playing a basketball game, rather than a first-person-shooter. Others were only tiny. Barely noticeable even. But they were enough. They meant that a potentially deadly headshot would be absorbed harmlessly by his chest, where there were apparently no vital organs.
The sniper let off four shots, but Penisdick69 was not only still alive, but also still viewing the world in colour. He continued his random series of turns and jumps. There was no rhyme to them. No reason. No choreography. And most importantly, no pattern. and there, in that lack of a plan, was the plan. After all if Penisdick69 didn't know what he was going to do next how could the mysterious sniper possibly hope to?
Five shots. Penisdick69 continued his deadly ballet. Knowing that one false step, just a single missed beat, would prove fatal.
Six shots. For the first time in since his account was created eighteen months ago Penisdick69 realised just what it was to be alive.
Seven shots. If he kept this up Penisdick69 supposed there was a chance the sniper may run out of ammo. But only is there wasn’t ammo respawning in whatever mystery vantage point the fagbitch was camping in like a pussy. Luckily for Penisdick69 that wasn’t his plan.
Eight shots. ‘Almost got it’ Penisdick69 wasn’t sure if it was the peril of being in such a dangerous situation or the excitement of almost being able to turn the tables, but his heart was pounding like a jackhammer.
Nine shots. Penisdick69 drew on all his XP to focus. The bullets were getting nearer with every shot. This was going to be closer than he had planned.
Ten shots. There! Finally, Penisdick69 was able to follow the bright yellow bullet trails like landing lights leading him to the spot where his N00bfag of a nemesis had been hiding this whole time.
Eleven shots. This was getting too close. The bullets began to hit Penisdick69. His original plan was for a closer confrontation. He wanted to look into the eyes of the sniper as he took the big gay's life. A fitting payment for making the last eight minutes of his own life a living hell.
Twelve shots. It was no good. Penisdick69 wouldn’t be able to repeatedly crouch over the snipers corpse and make it look like he was tea bagging it. The benderfag had been spared that particular humiliation. But he would not be spared Penidick69’s wrath.
Thirteen shots. The screen began to fade, and turn the familiar mix of black white and red that meant the end was coming. And an end was coming, but Penisdick69 convinced himself it would be the snipers, not his own, and began spraying the camping spot with his M9. The shots sprayed the air wildly. Filled with the same passion and ferocity as Penisdick69's anger.
Fourteen shots. Then silence. No sound from either combatant. Their battle was over, The victor was decided.
The killcam began to move in on the battered warrior, and Penisdick69 couldn’t believe his eyes...’Sniperincess<3’. His brain was unable to process this information. He must have been reading the gamertag wrong. His heart began racing once again. But this time he knew exactly why. He had no trouble identifying this particular emotion. This one was definitely dread.
He opened the profile, and confirmed his worst fears. Sniperincess<3 killing him was upsetting, but he could live with it. He could even forgive himself the guilt of being the deciding kill. The game had ended, and he wouldn’t be able to claim his revenge, but even anger didn’t seem to matter anymore. He suddenly felt like such a fool that his pride had become a drug. So important it drove him to ruin. But the shame was not to blame for his heart racing. He could shoulder all these emotions. But not the dread.
All it took to break Penisdick69’s spirit in the end, to deprive him of the honour he held so dear and send his soul into a crushing detox as he went through withdrawal from his dear, pride...That sweet, delicious, adictive self-esteem was a single shot and a single, simple letter. Sat in the gender field. Stripping him of his precious dignity: ‘F’. Sniperincess<3 was a girl.
‘But,’ muttered the broken shell of Penisdick69 ‘girls don’t play video games…’