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Chaos

Doomed. Again.

Well, here it is. We're surrounded by the enemy. They're everywhere. We're amazingly outnumbered, and what with the terrain, we're effectively outgunned as well - long range doesn't mean much if you can't see far enough to use it. With that stuff on their weapons, all they have to do is nick us and we keel over. Without the water, we can't even try and wait them out - we've got to fight our way past them to escape. So that's pretty much it. We're doomed. We're all doomed.

Again.

You know, I'm really starting to get sick and fucking tired of these goddamn hopeless situations and lost causes I keep getting involved in. Every other friggin' week I'm fighting my way out of the jungle through hordes of pygmys or trying to sneak into the compound of a ruthless drug baron. Sometimes both at once - trying to fight my way out of the jungle through hordes of pygmys to get to the compound of a ruthless drug baron. It's starting to get really old.

It's not like I mind being a topsecret government spy. The pay's nice, you get to travel, get nice cars and neat gadgets, and the women! That's the good part. Unfortunately, it always comes down to this. These goddamn lost causes. "Oh no. We're in a hopeless situation that no one can possibly get us out of. Let's call for the secret agent! He'll be able to help us!" It's the consistancy with which I get screwed up the ass by the world that gets to me.

And it's not like the upside is really that up, when you think about it. The money just means I get shot at in nicer suits. The travel just means I get shot at by people with different styles. The cars always get blown up. And while I like the one night stands, half of them are really trying to kill me, and the other half get killed by my enemies the next morning. What if I want to settle down? Raise a family? Fill in a fucking 1040 form without being in danger of my life?

I think I'm fictional. That's the only explanation. I don't know if I'm from a series of books, or movies, or I'm in a TV show, or what, but the fact remains that the only way I could possibly be so consistantly getting into these impossible positions where I have no chance of survival and so consistantly escaping by the skin of my teeth is that there's some kind of author out there enjoying my misery. You laughing now, funny man? You laughing at my situation? I can just picture you sitting there, knowing what I'm going through, figuring out how I'm going to be captured and gruesomely tortured this time, while I grit my teeth and refuse to say anything about the secret plans to show how much courage I have. Maybe drinking a beer. Deciding, what the hell, let's make me slowly being killed by the poison on the dart in my side which I have only 12 hours to find a cure for. After all, you don't really feel my pain, right?

I'm on to you, though. I know what's going on. I have free will, somehow, inside the confines of your little game. And I've got a surprise for you coming.

I ain't playing any more.

Hear that? I'm done. You can slowly kill me off in hideous agony. I can take it. You made me that way, remember? So I could fight my way out through overwhelming odds even while being wounded almost to death. This time I'm not going to save the free world from a nuclear holocaust. It can go up in flames for all I care. This time, I'm just going to lie down here, under this tree, while my crack team of mercenarys get mowed down by the forces you created. And I'm going to smell a fucking flower or two while I do it. And then I'll be captured, and then I'll suffer unendurable pain, and then I'll die.

And you know what?

I'll die smiling.