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 Post subject: Re: Napoleon-khopesh97 story alliance thread.
PostPosted: Thu Apr 28, 2011 3:14 pm 
Smelt Sire
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Alright. I want in. :9

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 Post subject: Re: Napoleon-khopesh97 story alliance thread.
PostPosted: Thu Apr 28, 2011 4:36 pm 
Crucible King
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Oreo wrote:
Alright. I want in. :9


XD If you're serious, you... are... in! (if K97 agrees, and he likes us, so I'm sure he will) You're like the god of story writing around here.

I think this could take off... ;D

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Last edited by Napoleon on Sun Sep 04, 2011 3:41 am, edited 1 time in total.

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 Post subject: Re: Napoleon-khopesh97 story alliance thread.
PostPosted: Thu Apr 28, 2011 10:16 pm 
Crucible King
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HUGE addition. My fingers couldn't stop typing. :9

Chapter Three:

James looked felt in his pocket for his watch. The item was his most treasured possession. It had been made in a Swiss watch store in the 1890's, and thus, was of very high quality. He stared at the hands on it. "3:00. Gah, can't keep my eyes open." Earlier, he had heard a noise outside his family's house. Fearing that the noisemaker was a member of the Randall family, he had gotten up and, with his pre-War Garand across his lap, he sat on the family couch, a ratty old piece of furniture covered in ugly 1960's stripes. Knowing he'd fall asleep just sitting there, he stood up and went to stand on the porch.

Crack!

There it was again. "Who goes there!"

No reply.

James readied his rifle, "I know you're out there! Who is it?!"

"Hey, man, I'm comin' out! Don't shoot!" Out of the woods came a man wearing a rotting fedora and a trenchcoat. "Name's Will. Welch is m' last name."

James lowered his rifle, "What do you want, 'Will Welch?' "

The man sauntered closer, bowed slightly, removed his fedora, and said in an overly polite voice, "Tradesman! I sell everything you could need!"

James squinted at him skeptically, "Yeah, I bet. Proof?"

The man whistled, and several donkeys came trotting out of the dark woods. The scrawny steeds' hooves obviously were what James had heard earlier. Will took a pouch down off one the animals, "I have here a real pre-War blanket, some power tools, and even some ball point pens! I know, I know! 'Oh, Will, how do the pens still work?' Well, I'll tell ya: I found an 'fallout shelter' near Philly. Inside were tons of tools, survival gear, clothes, even food. And, I found a box of art supplies. Got some paint brushes, too, I do."

"You sure you didn't steal this stuff?" James asked, grabbing the man by the arm.

"Hey, let go of m' arm! I'm no thief! I found this stuff in an underground shelter from the da'goned 50's. Whoever owned this stuff is either dead or moved out." James let go, but was still suspicious. People could kill these days without worrying too much. Without that being true, the Robertson-Randall Feud, or Spruce County War, would have been crushed a long time ago. Will continued, "All right, take a look at this beauty, a set of silverware! Buy it for your mom! She'll love it. If you don't have a mom, give it to your girlfriend! And! And! And! This! A brand new mug and plate!"

James grabbed the mug, "How much for the mug and plate?"

"30 fuhrers."

"Done. How much for the silverware?"

"100 fuhrers."

James rubbed his 'Davis,' his mustache-free goatee, "Hmm... Yeah... that's a lot of money."

"Take it or leave it. Remember, if you won't buy the silverware, I've got plenty of other customers," Will said and shifted on his feet impatiently.

James took out his wallet, "Okay. My parents'll like 'em. Here's your money. Hey, do you have any flashlights?" Flashlights were a popular trade item. Almost no one had electricity except quislings who got strings pulled with the Nazi hierarchy.

Will pulled off another sack and opened it, "Uhhh... lessee... Lighters, matches, candles... Ah! Six flashlights! 80 fuhrers for the bunch."

"Done. Well, done if they're pump flashlights. You have to go through Hades to get batteries these days." Batteries were coveted German-made trade items.

Will nodded happily, "Yep. Pump-powered. Keep squeezin', and they keep on tickin'." He set them on the ground next to James.

"Yes! Grand slam for me. We're almost out of batteries." No one really played baseball anymore, but some expressions never die. Suddenly, his eyes shifted over to some bushes. Whispering out of the corner of mouth, he told Welch, "Don't look now, but we have company."

Welch kept the smile on his face, though he felt like pulling out his gun, "Where?" James signaled with his eyes. "Oh."

James got ready to fire, "On 3... 1... 2... 3!" The duo fired several shots in the blink of an eye.

"Get 'em, boys! For the honorable name of Randall!" screamed a man in the woods. Several rifles and machine guns sounded and James felt several of them whiz by. "Randall! Death to the Robertson dogs!"

Will leaped to cover behind a stack of bricks while James sprinted up to his porch, "Hey, Pop! Get the relatives! Randalls have come for a visit!" Pop and James' brother Bobby were down in the living room, Pop with his shotgun, Bobby with his M1 carbine. Bobby knelt down behind the window and fired several shots at the oncoming attackers. One of them found its mark and a Randall did a spin and hit the ground.

"Randall! Randall! Randall!" the assaulting family members chanted.

Outside, Will dashed for the porch, firing several Colt bullets over his shoulder. He ran in and slammed the door. Pop was preparing to blast his head off when James stopped him. "Our side, Pop. Go give the signal before we're overrun!"

Pop scrambled up the stairs to the top floor, where James' mother and sister were. Rushing over to a bedroom window, he started ringing a bell profusely. "Help! Help! The Randalls are attacking!"

Even before he had given the signal, dozens of his extended family members had heard the shots and were scrambling like Revolutionary War minutemen to help. Already, James cousin, Harry, was leading a platoon of Robertsons down the dirt road. With his Thompson slung over his soldier, Harry was leading the "troops" into combat.

"Lefty right left!"

"Lefty right left!

"What we gonna do when we get back?!"

"Take a shower and hit the rack!"

"Oh, no!"

"Oh, no!"

"What we gonna do when we get back?"

"Polish our boots and clean our rack!

"A ooh-rah!"

"A ooh-rah!"

The US armed forces had been defunct for decades, but some traditions, like Marine Corps cadences, held on. Waving a cane like a sword, Harry directed the family of soldiers forward until they reached James' house. "All right, Randalls! We're gonna git ya this time 'round!" Harry's brother, Billy-Joe, hugged the ground and started to assemble an M1919. Before long, the rusty army weapon was blasting away. The Randalls fell back, trying to regroup for a strong attack. They had lost six men, but it was a large family.

Harry waved his "Afrika Korps" style cap in the air, "Ooh-rah! That's right! Ya'll better run!" Billy-Joe started to clean his precious relic. The gun was getting really old, as its made-in date of 1941 showed.

James carefully opened the front door, rifle aimed in front of him, "Glad to hear your smoker's voice Harry! They'll be coming back, though.

"We'll wup 'm!" shouted Billy-Joe enthusiastically. Surely, war had become as natural in the broken USA as it had been in pre-Christian Scandinavia.

Once again, James was reminded of a book he had read one time about the Hatfields and the McCoys. From what he had heard, that ended because of government intervention. "Fat chance of that happening now," he muttered. Cousin Harry, Thompson in hand, ran over to him. "Tell Pop that others are on the way. Granpa Rick is coming with 50 others! This is gonna be big," Harry said, slinging the gun over his shoulder and pounding his fist into his hand.

James checked his antique gun and nodded, "All right. What do you suggest now?"

Harry pulled out a hand-drawn map from his pocket. Thomas Jefferson-style surveying had once again become a booming business. "Well, the Randall men headed down through Simpson's Thicket. I suggest pushing forward now, before they recover their moral and strategy and make another attempt for your house. This place is of strategic importance. If they capture your house out here on the outskirts of the Village, they can use it as a planning area to bring up the Randalls from Shenandoah. I heard tell that they have a real Sherman. We do not want that here. They could massacre us."

James' eyes bulged, "A Sherman?! As in a Sherman tank?! Woah, that could be some sticky wicket for us. Yes, we must hold them off now. We should advance. Mount that M1919 in my Volks's passenger seat. I've already put steel sheets on the body to give it some padding a long time ago. I'll drive; Billy-Joe can man the passenger seat and blast away."

Harry loaded a new canister onto his Thompson, "Sounds good! Billy-Joe, Jack, Bob, get that M1919 mounted in that Volks kubelwagen-style, ASAP! We're gonna trap 'em in Simpson's Thicket, where their mobility is poor. Get movin'!"

The three relatives went to work on the Volks like an Indy 500 pit crew. Within two minutes, a large hole had been cut in the windshield and the M1919 stuck through it. Half of Harry's force rallied behind the Volkswagen and raced to the thicket. Always a glory hound, Harry had stuck a Scottish flag bearing the Robertson coat of arms on the back of the rusty car, trying to make it into a "mobile rallying point." The other half of Harry's force stayed at James' homestead, ready to defend against any sneak attacks.

Minutes later...

The Volkswagen sped horizontally in front of the line of Randalls in the thicket. A Robertson, Harry's brother Jack, had taken it upon himself to stand up through the sun roof on the car and was firing his grease gun, taking down five Randalls. James slammed on the accelerator after a Molotov cocktail exploded behind the car. He thought everyone was all right until Jack toppled off the roof and onto the ground, jacket on fire. Getting up, Jack tried to pull the burning coat off, but as he panicked and struggled, a Randall put a bullet in his skull. Furious, the Robertsons pushed on, some engaging in hand-to-hand combat with their mortal enemies.

It soon became apparent that the Randalls were trying to escape at the other end of the thicket. Like two men on a mission, James and Billy-Joe sped at top speed to head them off. With a clear view, Billy-Joe opened fire. The Randalls fell like flies. A senior Randall waved his machine gun, "Retreat! Retreat, Randalls! That demon car is trying to trap us!" The remaining Randalls ran for their lives through the brush and forest. They had lost 30 men on this attack, and the Robertsons had lost 17.

The Volkswagen stopped. James raised his goggles onto his forehead and poked his torso out of the sun roof like a victorious tank pilot poking up through the hatch of his Stuart tank. "The Duke of Wellington after Waterloo was right."

Billy-Joe was no historian, "Huh?"

" 'The only thing half as melancholy as a battle lost is a battle won.' "

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Last edited by Napoleon on Sun Sep 04, 2011 6:32 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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 Post subject: Re: Napoleon-khopesh97 story alliance thread.
PostPosted: Fri Apr 29, 2011 3:23 pm 
Smelt Sire
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Alright. My turn. :9


It was 9:31 at night when the rusty Ford pulled up to the border of New York City and the rest of the United States. NYC was one of the most heavily Nazi-run areas in the United States, so it was no surprise when a grey-coated and helmeted guard sauntered out of the guard-shack toting a rusty MP40. He covered his head with his arm to guard the already rusty helmet from the heavy drizzle that seemed to envelope the city.

He stopped at the fogged-up driver's side window and tapped on it, motioning for it to be rolled down. After a few moments, it did, but slowly, and only stopped when it was halfway open. The soldier stepped back slightly when the driver's head poked out. He wore a wide-brimmed brown hat with a cardinal feather in it, and his muscular jaw was covered in whiskers that went all the way up the sides of his face forming bushy, reddish-brown sideburns ending underneath his hat.

"Lassen sie mich ihren pass sehen." "Let me see your passport." The guard demanded.

The driver frowned, then rolled the window down further as he dug in his back pocket. The guard's eyes widened when he looked past the driver into the cab. A woman sat in the passenger's seat intently reading a book. She had short, curly red hair, and she was wearing makeup (which was scarce). The driver seemed to be having trouble finding his passport, so the Nazi continued to look at the girl. She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, and she was wearing a denim-and-plaid-patched miniskirt, tall leather boots, and a dark red tanktop with an old leather jacket over it.
The driver had finally retrieved his passport from his tight Wrangler jeans, and handed it to the guard with clear disdain. The guard took the passport, bothered, and looked over it, but his attention was still on the girl. She was very good looking.

"Sprechen sie Deutsch." "Do you speak German."The guard said, more as a statement than a question.

A flat, unemotional "No." was all the guard got from the driver, who even refused to make eye contact.

"Ich sagte, sprechen sie--" "I said, do you speak--" the guard couldn't finish his sentence because the driver shot him a glare that would've frozen a waterfall.

"I heard what you said!" he interrupted, raising his voice. He was obviously impatient. "I don't speak it. I'm an American citizen. I don't need to speak German. Now, you can ask me all yer idiot questions in English, 'cuz I know you speak it. I don't speak German, and I never will. Now git on with yer business, pothead. An' I didn't call y'that because of yer helmet. I can smell yer breath. Now, unless you want me to give your Kommandant a liddle ring, you speak English when you talk to me, y'hear?"

The guard was baffled. This guy knew a lot, especially things that the guard didn't want anybody else to know. He looked down at the passport and checked the driver's face with the picture.

"Born in Dallas, Texas in May of 1985?"

"Yep."

"Name Gunter Patterson."

"No, stupid, it's Gunner."

"Gunter?"

"GUNNER, you idiot! G-U-N-N-E-R!"

It took the German a while to process it, but then, with a quick "My apologies mein herr," he went on.

"Height 6' 2'', veight 193 pounds, eyes brown, hair red-brown, right-handed?"

"Uh-huh."

"Vis your permission, mein herr, I vill now check ze truck."

"Go right 'head."

"Vielen dank--I mean, sank you."

The driver nodded, and the Nazi gave the bed of the truck a quick look-over (which was difficult, because there was a blue tarp covering the whole thing), then touched the rim of his helmet and waved the truck on. He didn't bother with the girl. He didn't want any trouble, with what he had to hide. Just let this man pass. There wouldn't be any trouble.

He wouldn't realise it until a long while later, but with that assumption, he was very, very wrong.

--Half an hour later--

Gunner drove the truck into an alley, then turned it off, opened the door and jumped out. He was fairly tall, but it was almost cancelled out by the size of his shoulders and chest. His arms seemed to bulge under his high-cut, fur-collared flight jacket, and his barrel chest almost didn't fit inside, even though the jacket itself was only halfway zipped. His tan button-down shirt was mostly open, revealing rippling pectoral muscles, and a crucifix on a necklace around his thick neck. His shirt was tucked into Wrangler jeans that were obviously far too tight for him, held up by a thick, sturdy leather belt with a brass buckle, and that belled out at the bottom to reveal large, worn leather boots. All in all, he looked like a pretty tough character. There was also a long, black .45 magnum in a leather holster strapped around his waist.

He walked round the back of the truck, checking the bungie cords that tied the huge load down onto the bed of the truck. After a while, he looked under the big blue tarp that covered it all up. There was a huge, rusted oil drum full of gasoline, a few coils of sturdy brown rope, a few gallons of water, some backpacks, two tarpaulins, a rolled-up tent, a shovel, two big leather suitcases, climbing materials and a spare mud tire. But that wasn't all. He bent down and looked underneath the bed. There, safe and secure, tied to the bottom with assorted bungie cords, were four .10 gauge shotguns with extended magazines. Fully loaded, each with carrying straps loaded with spare shells, and each perfectly cleaned and oiled. Gunner let out a sigh of satisfaction. Those beauties were a good sight.

After checking the load again, he went around to the passenger side door and opened it. The girl looked up from her book at him and smiled. Then, she gave him both of her hands and he helped her down. After he had done that, he bent her over backward in a ballroom-esque movement and kissed her. After they were finished (which took a while) she laughed and stood back up, then took his hat off, revealing longish, red-brown hair.

"Love you." Gunner said. She chuckled again.

"I know. I love you too." she replied. After a long silence, Gunner spoke again.

"Well then, Sunshine, let's see if we can get us some grub, 'kay? We'll make it a date."

"Sounds good to me." she smiled. Gunner smiled back, then helped her back up into the truck carefully and got in himself.

--Twenty minutes later--

"Alrighty then.... I'm gonna need the following, and you'd better write it down. But first and foremost, get me a few packs of cigarettes, kay?" Gunner said. The "grocer" nodded dutifully and left, returning a few minutes later with three packs of Marlboros.

"Thanks." Gunner grunted, then took one out and lit it up with a brass lighter, taking a few long pulls. "Awful habit. If anybody had nicotine patches or chewin' gum anywhere I'd git some. Alright. So, here's what I need. That crate of beans, a few bags of those potato chips, those oatmeal packets, that crate of white bread, a few bags of beef jerky..." The list seemed to go on and on and on, as Gunner flipped through pages and pages of scribbled notes on a clipboard, forcing the grocer to write far faster than he was used to. Finally, Gunner's list came to a close, and he slapped the pages back onto the clipboard and grinned.

"That all?" the grocer asked with a weak smile.

"Yep. Oh, and throw in a box of makeup, will ya?"

The grocer seemed surprised. "That's gonna cost you an arm an' a leg, man."

"Well, I'm ready an' willin' to pay."

The grocer simply grunted, then shuffled off, snapping his fingers at a towheaded kid sitting on a few sacks of flour in the corner.

"Billy, load it up."

'Billy' got up and started loading the supplies. After a while, they were all loaded, and the grocer flipped through the list of supplies, adding the prices up.

"And that'll be 1,700 fuhrers."

Gunner didn't even flinch at the outrageous price. He squeezed his large hand into the tiny back pocket of his already tight jeans and managed to retrieve a bulging leather wallet. After flipping through it, he handed the massive sum of money to the grocer, and spoke.

"Thanks a bunch man, this is great. Best price I've ever gotten." he tipped his hat, then walked over to Billy, who had resumed his position on the flower sacks. "Uh, for your trouble, Billy." Gunner said, then slipped him a few bills.

"Oh man, thanks mein herr--"

"Don't mention it. And don't speak German at me, kid. Makes me feel like I'm bein' cussed at."

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 Post subject: Re: Napoleon-khopesh97 story alliance thread.
PostPosted: Fri Apr 29, 2011 3:29 pm 
Hammer Ace
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Great job Napo! Wow, the Randalls are really bloody. ;)

And great job Oreo! You are most welcome to join our alliance! Welcome!

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 Post subject: Re: Napoleon-khopesh97-Oreo alliance thread.
PostPosted: Fri Apr 29, 2011 3:52 pm 
Hammer Ace
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Guess it's my turn...

Hem, hem. Here we go...



Chapter 4

Mother Russia...


A large muscled man stepped over the German he'd just killed with his AK47. Other bodies lay about like dead leaves on a carpet of grass in autumn. The man was Ivan Stalin. Yes, a direct descendant from the great Joseph Stalin himself. Ivan stroked his 'Stalin' mustache. He looked at the last remaining German leader that lay in front of him. Bound and gagged as he was, the German looked bravely and nonchalantly at Ivan.

One of the last of these unholy spawn of the Devil in my beloved country. Stalin thought. He leaned in close to the German.

"Well, German" Ivan spat, "How does you pretty fort look now eh? Not so good with your soldier's dead bodies draped everywhere."

The man looked at Stalin and said nothing, for he was gagged. Ivan rolled his eyes and took the rag out of the German's mouth, "Well?! What do you have to say about your fort?!"

The man turned his head away from Ivan and spoke rather rudely, "Since you have such bad breath, I will not answer."

Stalin roared with laughter, "Hahahaha! Most people would have felt a bullet in their brain by now German. Your lucky I admire your bravery!"

He chuckled menacingly, "I suppose I can't kill you now without looking like I didn't want to, can I?"

The German rolled his eyes, "Do what you will Russian, I don't fear you or your Jewish allies!"

Stalin kicked the German on his back and shouted in his face, "I Do, NOT, Work with those weak scum! And never will!"

He nodded to a guard, "Put him with the others!"


After the German was dragged off, Stalin went into the captured man's quarters and helped himself to some wine.

Savoring the taste he thought, Victory was sweet!

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 Post subject: Re: Napoleon-khopesh97-Oreo alliance thread.
PostPosted: Fri Apr 29, 2011 7:28 pm 
Crucible King
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That was awesome, Guys! :D Gunner's a neat character, Oreo.

Here's my next long-winded chapter. :9


Chapter Five

James held his clenched fist in the air and pumped it up and down, "We licked 'em, boys! We got 'em on the run!" He climbed on top of his Volks and did the v-for-victory sign like a celebrating Nascar driver, "Woo! We have victory!"

The other family members cheered and hurrayed over the dead bodies of the Randalls. They had taken out a huge number of the Randall family with relatively few loses themselves. Now, the Randalls would almost certainly have to bring up the Shenandoah Randalls. That would take quite a few days. In the meantime, the Robertsons could try to divide and conquer, destroying the Randalls one day at a time before their reinforcements could arrive. That was exactly what Granpa Rick, family leader, wished.

The next day...

Everyone was camped out at James' house that morning. In what looked like a campground from the Civil War, they were huddled around the campfires, singing songs, playing cards, and making plans. Some buried the bodies from last night's battles. Uncle Hank, the family's minister, delivered a sermon and a group of men shoveled dirt back into the holes. A few stick crosses marked the graves. Nobody but nobody actually had tombstones in Pennsylvania these days, except perhaps pro-Nazi "cooperatives" in the government. James held his cap over his chest while they sang some old funeral hymn. He slapped his cap back on and went to the living room in his house. Granpa Rick, Pop, and Cousin Harry were sitting at a table discussing plans.

"I say we try an immediate attack on the old gas station. We've been bickering over that place forever. It was one of the main sources of the feud's start. If we capture that, mebbe we could get some of the old cars in our junkyard runnin'. If we had even a couple more cars, we can chase them through the gates of Hell. Imagine getting great granpa's old T-Bird running! And, it'll help Cousin James, too. Now, he always has to buy ridiculously priced Kraut oil in NY to get his car running. Plus, even if he had the money to buy gas for multiple cars, most of ours are junk. We need more parts. The Randall gas station has a garage. Then, we need to attack their still to further demoralize them. After that it will be Whiskey for My Men and Beer for my Horses," he finished, referencing a popular underground song by some country artist. The Germans, even in areas they barely kept control over, tried to eliminate American music. If you were one of the fortunate few who owned a radio, the only FM channels you could get played music by Wagner, Bach, and other great Prussian musicians. If the occupation forces felt like "rocking out," which was rare and depending on the DJ, they might play Iron Fuhrer or some other German rock group. Hitler and Himmler would have turned over in their graves, but the Germans had allowed more freedom in their own music and entertainment ever since they had both died in the 60's.

Granpa Rick scratched his bushy white beard, "Ah kin see the logic in that, I kin. Awlright, I think it sounds good. James? Son? Anything?"

Pop, 'Son' to Granpa Rick, nodded, "We definitely need to seize the old gas station. Overrun that, and we can fuel up our cars, and use them to raid the Randall still. We basically know where the booze-maker is, even though they tried to keep it hidden. I heard it's in a basement on Lincoln Street."

Harry nodded, "I heard that, too."

James raised his hand, "Harry told me the Randalls from Shenandoah have a tank. That true?"

Granpa leaned back in his rocking chair and twiddled his thumbs. "Yeah, it's true. They killed my sister's boys with that thing." The Robertson-Randall Feud was not limited to Spruce County, but went on even in distant Shenandoah. "We do need a plan on how to deawl with that. I know it's an old gas-guzzling Stuart, so it's far passed its prime. If we could hit it with all we got, we might take it down. But... I have a better idea." He almost whispered it. It sounded to James like a line from an old Hitchcock film he had watched in a theater in New York.

Harry raised one of his red eyebrows, "Better idea? What is it?"

Granpa Rick leaned forward onto his knees, with a very attentive face, "My dad used to tell me he had fowned some dead marines near 'r house during a drop by the Fallschirmjäger, durin' the War. Seein' an opportunity, he took the poor souls' gear an' hid the stuff somewhere. He done told me there were some assawlt rifles, a lotta ammo, some grenades, an'... an ol' bazooka. We could blast that Stuart into next week with that stuff."

James, Pop, and Cousin Harry looked shocked. Pop snapped back to normal first and asked, "Why didn't you tell us about that before?!"

Granpa grinned, " 'Cause he told me abowt it decades 'go an' he never revealed the location of his stash, at least I don't think so. Lucky I remembered it at awl."

Harry threw his Afriker Corps cap on the floor in frustration, "Man! If we could get our hands on that stuff, we could eradicate the Shenandoah Randalls! Did yer Dad give any hints on where the stuff might be hidden?"

"Lemme think." Granpa reclined back in his rocker again. He shut his eyes and did not say a word for the next five minutes. Harry wondered if he was dead. Finally, he opened his eyes and smiled. "The oak. He mentioned an oak. 'I found the dead soldiers under an oak an' hid the stuff on the spot.' There's only one oak tree in the Village. It's next to the Randall gas station. We must capture that place."

Harry snapped his fingers, "Yes! We're seizing that gas station immediately! James, get the men together. I hope your Volks is fueled up, 'cause we're gonna need it to crash the Randalls' party. We seize that place, and you'll have fuel for a very long time. There's all kinda gas under that place. It's not stored in the pump's, ya know."

James put his cap on and grabbed his Garand, "Aye, Cousin Harry! ASAP!" He dashed out the front door, ran down the dilapidated steps to the yard, and fired off two rounds. "We strike the Randall gas station! NOW!"

The 'soldiers' immediately decamped and were standing in a neat line in 15 minutes. Granpa, Pop, and Harry paced in front of them, issuing orders like 1800's marshals. Harry was to take twenty men and form the main "line of battle," as he put it. Clearly, he had spent many hours of his "military homeschooling" reading dusty Civil War history books. He liked to think that made him a tactical expert, but it could not hide the fact that he was a post-Apocalyptic hilljack. Pop and eight "skirmishers" were to circle around and attack the Randalls from behind. Overwhelmed, James, Will, who had decided to continue helping, and Billy-Joe were to ride in in the "armored mobile rallying point;" the armored Volkswagen. They would drive in and crush the Randalls utterly. The M1919 would wipe out any remainders. With that done, the Volkswagen would be taken to the Robertson junkyard, where they would tow several cars to the gas station to refit them into "machines of war."

One hour later...

Harry looked at the Randall gas station through his old binoculars. The Randalls had fortified the building and the area around the pump long ago, soon after "county wars" broke out as the survivors of the war rioted for necessities like food and gasoline. Once they got it, they didn't let go. The Randalls' only car in the Village was an old pick-up truck. It had taken quite a few hits in the past, and, at the moment, it had a bad engine and would not even start. Still, they knew better than to let the Robertsons have fuel to use in their cars. "I love the smell of dead Randalls in the morning... It smells like... victory," said Harry to himself. Up to that point, they had been hidden and a long ways a way from the station. Now, he waved his "marshal's baton," his cane he always carried like a sword, in the air. "Men, fall in!" The Robertson extended family formed a squad in the center of the old, pre-War, paved road.

"Oh, I don't know what I've been told!"

"But at the end of the day they'll be some dead Randalls on this road!"

"A Ooh-rah!"

I saw an old lady walkin' down the street.
She had a chute on her back, and jump boots on her feet.
I said, "Hey, Old Lady, where you goin' to?"
She said, "I'm goin' to the Army Airborne School."
I said, "Hey, Old Lady, I think you're too old;
You'd better leave that stuff to the brave and the bold."
She said, "Listen, Sonny, I'm talking to you;
I'm an instructor at the Airborne School."

I saw the same old lady walkin' down the street.
She had a pack on her back, jungle boots on her feet.
I said, "Hey, Old Lady, where you goin' to?"
She said, "I'm goin' to Marine Corps Recon School."
I said, "Hey, Old Lady, I think you're too old;
You'd better leave that stuff to the brave and the bold."
She said, "Listen, Sonny, I'm talking to you;
I'm an instructor at the Recon School."

I saw the old lady walkin' down the street.
She had a tank on her back, and fins on her feet.
I said, "Hey, Old Lady, where you goin' to?"
She said, "I'm goin to the Navy Diving School."
I said, "Hey, Old Lady, I think you're too old;
You'd better leave that stuff to the brave and the bold."
She said, "Listen, Sonny, I'm talking to you;
I'm an instructor at the Diving School."

I turned to leave, and she spun me around;
She kicked me in the head, and threw me to the ground.
I looked up through my tears, and with a voice full of fear,
I begged, "Please, Old Lady, don't kill me right here."
She said, "Listen, Sonny, don't you mess with me;
I'm Airborne, Recon, and UDT!"

"Ooh-rah!"

So sang the marching Robertsons. Harry had always tried to turn the family militia into a fighting force similar to the old US Marine Corps. He loved training them to use running cadences. According to him, it also "scares the hades outa the Randalls and lifts our morale."

Seconds later, they dispersed and took cover. The fight had begun.

Harry crouched behind a dilapidated brick fence, raising every few seconds to squeeze off a few rounds. Several Randalls had already been killed. About 22 Randalls were inside the gas station building itself, while about 10 were stationed outside behind a makeshift barricade of junk and sandbags. Harry fired eight shots with his Thompson into the building. Most went off-target, one wounded a Randall in the arm, and another lodged itself in the head of a middle-aged Randall and knocked part of the man's brains onto the floor.

It was Billy Randal, the one Pop had told James had gotten wounded days before in a shoot-out with Harry.

"The job is finished, Billy. Hasta la vista, chump." He crouched back behind the fence and reloaded his weapon.

The Robertson's had lost three men, but they kept shooting. The exchange of fire seemed to go on forever. Two Randalls threw a Molotov cocktail into an abandoned house several Robertsons had occupied. The building burst into flames and screams of horror from the burning men terrified everyone. Furious, Harry raised up and bagged another Randall, this one a careless one who had stood up for a few seconds reloading.

Then, more shots came from behind the filling station. Pop and his eight skirmishers had arrived.

Harry waved his cane, "Onward! Onward, House of Robertson! Charge!"

The Robertsons stood up, and with only ancient army helmets, kneepads, and the occasional vest made from scrap metal or hockey armor as protection, charged the gas station Gettysburg style, rifles and machine guns pointed forward, blasting away. Six never made it to the barricade.

Harry climbed over the barricade and whacked an enemy in the jaw with his cane, cracking his skull. Kneeing an oncoming attacker, Harry then fired several shots into him. As the other Robertsons clambered over the fortifications, another noise was heard from the direction of down the road.

The Volkswagen.

Seconds later, the Randalls were being mowed down by the M1919 mounted in James' car. Harry and the others pressed on, hitting the Randalls with their gun butts and their fists. The Volkswagen delivered the final crushing blow as it sprayed a mean wall of fire into the station windows. Shouting and screaming, the Randalls started pouring out of the building through a back door. Pop and his men had a field day. Crammed together and exiting from a single door, the retreaters were like fish in a barrel. One after another, they went down. Two minutes later, only seven got away successfully.

Harry pulled a small can of paint out of his pack and painted, in large letters, "ROBERTSON" on the front of the building, and below it: "KEEP OUT!"

James clapped his hands together.

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 Post subject: Re: Napoleon-khopesh97-Oreo alliance thread.
PostPosted: Fri Apr 29, 2011 8:34 pm 
Mould Mason
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Location: Amish Paradise
Interesting story! BTW, where in PA are the Randalls and Robertsons? The reason I'm asking is because I've got an idea for a side story of my own in this setting (if you guys don't mind)....

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 Post subject: Re: Napoleon-khopesh97-Oreo alliance thread.
PostPosted: Fri Apr 29, 2011 8:55 pm 
Crucible King
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Location: In your basement, under the floor boards... O.O
Hikaro Takayama wrote:
Interesting story! BTW, where in PA are the Randalls and Robertsons? The reason I'm asking is because I've got an idea for a side story of my own in this setting (if you guys don't mind)....


Thanks; speaking for all three of us.

I've said Spruce County, PA, but that's just made up. :9 I did that just because it would be easier to make up families and locations, hence the town name being just "The Village." Shenandoah, PA is real, though.

Fine with me! :D Sounds interesting!

Maybe we should allow for character creation, guys? I know it would work well at least for the "Robertson & Randall" part, what with so many relatives and all. :) What are you two planning for in the story with your characters?

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 Post subject: Re: Napoleon-khopesh97-Oreo alliance thread.
PostPosted: Fri Apr 29, 2011 9:35 pm 
Mould Mason
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Location: Amish Paradise
Well, I was thinking along the lines of a resistance group in South-Central PA based around two certain former army bases in the area and their quasi- government entity, "Der Freischteet Pennsilfaani". ...Most of the residents are Pennsylvania German and not particularly happy with their "cousins" from the old country bossing them around (most of their ancestors left Germany to escape persecution in the first place)... Of course the only reason they've managed to avoid the attentions of the occupiers thus far is by maintaining a fairly low profile, although things may be changing in that regard, soon.

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