Tuesday, May 17, 2005

It's only May 17th,

but is smells like the Fourth of July.

A squad of kids have been in a firefight reminiscent of the most horrific scenes in Platoonor Apocalypse Nowfor the past hour. Screaming Rebels and Whistler Bottle Rockets arc over the block and explode above the tree-line, followed by shouting and thumping of tennis-shoed warriors falling back to re-group by the field. One unfortunate little solder is apparently named "Faggular," and he needs to "come on!" for one reason or another to take the corner before his foes. I don't see anything, just the sounds popping through the Corner Quad Bunker's sand-bagged windows.

Fargo reeks of sulfur now and could be melting under Liquid Hell Napalm, for all I know.

A hush has now fallen upon the Fargo Front, and dusk is creeping slowly toward the trees.

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