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…’
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