Adrian's Undead Diary Enter the World of AUD

February 27^th.

                Hello hello.  

                How ya doing? 

                Oh, that’s awesome.  I’m fine thanks for asking.  How are the Knicks doing?  I think they’re all dead Mr. Journal.  What’s that?  The Redwings?  Probably skating on thin ice har de fucking har. 

                Not much going on here if you didn’t get the drift.  Like I said in the last entry, we’re staying here on campus and just taking care of business.  Undead roaming up the road have been very worrisome.  We’re actually at the point where yesterday morning we’re back to stationing someone in Hall A with the Tac .22 to take them out.  It’s a steady stream of the bastards now, almost two or three an hour. 

                Abby got a marker board and put it up in the room where we’re at and we are currently keeping score.  Patty has 14 kills, Abby has 11, and I’ve got 8.  Gilbert claims to have killed three thousand, but we’re pretty sure he’s full of shit.  Only pretty sure though.  You can never really tell with that guy.  Crafty bastard. 

                Otis has been good, thankfully.  He ran and hid when the Westfield folks were here the other day, and spent a day or so in seclusion afterwards.  He’s been out and about lately, and pretty affectionate.  

                My haircut makes my head cold as hell now.  I’ve taken to wearing my little knit winter cap around everywhere.  The girls keep telling me it’s a lot better than having to look at the haircut.  I’ve told them to eat my ass multiple times lately, and despite my insistence, they have yet to actually toss my salad.  If they keep picking on my ranger haircut, I will be forced to retaliate with pseudo-violence.  I might throw one of them down and force feed them my stinker.  That’ll teach em.  Hehe. 

                It’s nice that we can joke about shit now.  Seems like the humor here has been missing for a long time.  Stress is such asshat. 

                Speaking of asshats.  Basking in the aftermath of the whole Sean is dead thing, I feel really bad about calling all those people asshats.  So far, they’ve all been really good to me.  That Chad guy seemed like a douche, but I think he was just a sycophant.  At any rate, I do feel bad lumping them all together with Sean.  I’m happy though because in the big attack that failed here by Sean, we actually killed almost his entire base of supporters.  His failed attempt to remove those three people who didn’t like him during the gas station thing backfired too.  I think he did more to kill himself than anything we did really.  We were just the nudge. 

                So yeah.  That’s pretty much everything.  And I’ve got an hour until bedtime.  I kinda thought this would take longer to write out, but as it turns out, there’s fuck all to talk about.  Soooooo… yeah. 

                How about I share a story from my past?  Adrian story time?  Okay Mr. Journal, I’m in a good mood, so I’ll share a good story.  Hm.  What story?  Oooh.  Remember way back when I mentioned that I had a friend shot in the ass?  And that the story was a winner?  Well here it is. 

                In May of 2004 Kevin and I were in Baghdad doing counter insurgency operations with our unit.  Most of our days we rolled around Baghdad in up armored humvees sweating our balls off.  Most days we’d take small arms fire that pinged off the trucks, and probably half the time (especially towards the end of our tour) we’d get hit by some form of explosion.  Most popular were IED’s, and the occasional VBIED.  Once we were hit by a DBIED.  That’s a donkey-borne improvised explosive device.  That made a MESS man.  

                We were very lucky on most of our patrols in 2003.  We only had a few casualties, and no deaths in our unit until December.  In late April I think, we started to do a lot of patrols on foot.  Handshaking was important, and that was about when the real bastard part of the insurgency was kicking off.  I remember it was about when the Blackwater bullshit went down, and the whole Fallujah mess got rolling. 

                Anyway, our unit was deployed on foot for about a 10 hour patrol, and myself, Kevin, and a buddy of ours named Patrick suddenly took accurate fire from a sniper position.  We had been going down a street that was maybe 15 feet wide, and when we went for cover, the three of us dove into a tiny ass alcove on the side of a building.  All of the guys in our unit took cover, and for about two hours our entire unit was pinned down, waiting for another fire team to maneuver on the sniper.  So about the time we were supposed to get some relief by the other fire team finding the sniper, they got pinned down about a block or two away by foot mobiles, and then we hear that we’re about to be surrounded too. 

                Now clearly that’s fucking bad.  We are canned up like sardines, and being hedged in on all sides by people who are fucking excited about hacking your head off.  We’re starting to discuss eating bullets instead of being captured.  So finally our L.T. decides we need air support, and the only thing he can get approved is a re-tasked Marine Cobra.  Buuuut, they were like 30 minutes away, and Patrick has to take a shit. 

                Kevin and I are like dude, just shit yourself.  Straighten out a fucking leg, and shake it into the damn street out the bottom of your pant leg.  Patrick’s all prissy and shit, and he starts getting loony about having to take a dump.   He’s already sweating from the heat, and I am pretty sure his sweat started to sweat from having to take a dump.  At this point our whole unit stuck in the street is yelling at him to either hold it, or to shit himself.  DO NOT GO IN THE STREET! 

                Finally Patrick snaps, and wiggles his fucking trousers down, and quite literally proceeds to hang his ass out into the street to launch his load.  Well if you can picture it from the sniper’s point of view, this snow white ass cheek hangs itself out into plain view, and starts to drop a deuce.  What would you do? 

                Now for the record, anyone who shoots a friend of mine is automatically an asshole.  I mean, that’s pretty cut and dried right?  But I gotta hand it to the Hajji with the rifle, because he shot Patrick right square in one butt cheek, through it, right past his ass crack, and straight on through the other butt cheek.  Now we saw the bullet whizz by because it was a fucking tracer round.  The burning of the tracer instantly cauterized his wounds, and just like you’d imagine, Patrick goes straight backwards, and manages to fall right into the pile of turds he’d fired off into the street a few seconds prior.  Now he’s shot in the naked ass, and he’s fallen into his own shit smears on a Baghdad slum street. 

                Our entire unit, to a fucking man, just sat there making the fucking O face.  No one could believe that had just happened.  I mean it was horrible, and hilarious all at the same time.  

                Patrick’s feet are now pointed at Kevin and I, and almost simultaneously we grab his feet, and drag him back into the tiny ass alcove we were in.  The whole time Patrick is screaming bloody murder, “MY FUCKING ASS!  HOLY SHIT, MY FUCKING ASS!  THEY SHOT ME IN THE FUCKING ASSHOLE!  OH MY GOD MY ASSHOLE!” 

                Hilarious. 

                I grab Patrick’s arm and got him turned sideways so his head was in the alcove, and wouldn’t you know, Patrick wasn’t done shitting.  Luckily for me Pat’s business end was facing toward Kevin, and for the next five minutes, Patrick proceeded to empty his bowels out of his three assholes (two of them brand spanking new, by the way) all over Kevin’s boots.  Straight up fountaining bloody poop all over Kevin’s feet.  God it was terrible.  And the whole time Patrick is screaming that his ass is on fire, and holy shit my ass… 

                The L.T. manages to speed up the Cobra, and about five minutes later we spot the sniper’s position, and the Cobra fires off some chain gun rounds and puts the fucking sniper down.  While we’re cheering on the Marine Aviation support we were getting, our L.T. calls for armored evac, and about 45 minutes later some Bradley AFVs and an Abrams show up, and get us the fuck out of there. 

                Patrick got taken to the hospital at Balad, and when we finally got to see him there a few days later, one of our guys donated a Purple Heart so he could have two.  One for each ass cheek. 

                Oddly enough, he didn’t think that was funny at all. Having to be on his stomach all day for the foreseeable future as well as having to eat a largely liquid or soft diet, kind of put a damper on his spirits.

                 Really funny part too is that when he was about to be removed for transport out, Balad got hit by mortars, and he had to run all stiff assed to take cover.  I mean hell, how much worse could it get, right?  Apparently that reopened his wounds, and set him back at least a week on the healing.  Poor asshole.  Lol.

         I heard from him a year or two later, and I’m happy to report that he wound up healing nicely.  I hope wherever he is , he is keeping his rebuilt ass in one piece.

                 I love that story.

                 Tomorrow is another do nothing day for us.  I think we’re going to chill out here and assemble a potential “trade package” to bring to Westfield.  We need to get more water containers to transport back and forth, and I know elsewhere on campus there are empty jugs.  Milk, orange juice, etc. 

                 Not sure what else to bring other than what they suggested.  I’m sure they’ve got a lot of what we have as well, so it makes sense to not bring shit they’ve got extra of.  I’d like to get some hunting time in.  Maybe I can do that tomorrow with the bow.  I don’t have a tree stand, but if I get out there early enough, maybe I can snag a deer.  Unlikely, but here’s to hoping.

                 I’ll slap another entry in when I get some time and energy Mr. Journal.  I hope you enjoyed this short journey into Adrian’s past.

                -Adrian

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