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About Traditional Art / Hobbyist Core Member Douglas Wojtowicz46/Male/United States Groups :icondailysketchchallenge: DailySketchChallenge
 
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Cyera: Pinup excersize by Krinkels-R909

Great work with the lighting, but I see you did go with the conceit of the pants conforming to her muscular detail. Not that I complain...

Activity


  • Mood: Miserable
  • Listening to: Air Cleaner Noises
  • Reading: Angry tirades and perversions of my own words.
  • Watching: time slip away
  • Playing: The Crew Wild Run
  • Eating: debt
  • Drinking: cold bitter coffee
So :iconlibrarian-of-hell: reads something of mine.

You said that I called her personality was a "symptom" of brain damage or a disease.  This is a fucking lie.  Because others have mental illnesses does not mean you personally have those mental diseases.  Crippling inability to get out of bed, painful memories of past trauma, and other things are stuff that some people want to have taken care of by medication.  Under no instance is anyone forced to engage in taking drugs.  There's a thing called "AMA" - Against Medical Advice. 

You call me a victim of rape because someone else made the first move on my first sexual experience.  The only force at work was mutual attraction. 

You call me an addict of medicines - I don't even feel a thing when I miss one or two doses.

I went full berserk on you for lying.

You want to burn Penny... you're being THAT fucking petty? 

I'm so tired of your overreactions.  Your seeing a crushing force controlling me, making me do things that I want to do. 

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It took me about a minute to manhandle the man in the suit, securing his wrists and ankles with zip ties tugged tight enough to break the skin.  Other than some laceration from his struggles, he wouldn't cause himself some serious arterial damage, though his fingers and toes would feel cold and numb by the time I got back to him.  
Outside, my boys and girl had been busy with clean up.  DASH's forces were devastated after  five minutes of gunfire and high explosive application, guided and informed by hours of surveillance.
Not decimated.  If you use the word decimate for wiped out brutally, I know that you are a complete fucking ignoramus.  I hate the misuse of a term which translates directly from the Latin as "one in ten dead." There are far too many idiots on television new who drop this term either to sound erudite or to impart an inflated view of terrible casualties in order to make you swallow their propaganda.  
It was Cabel who laid down cover fire with his RPD to reach enemy gunmen hidden behind hard cover while the others whipped down moving targets with lashes of carbine fire.  Neither Phteven nor Landra worried about a shortage of ammunition - DASH had far too many Pakistani and Afghan issue M-4's and M -16's with spare magazines to be in anything less than a cornucopia of battlefield resupply.  Han didn't encounter the same troubles I had with the FN P90.  
This was not strange because Han had not charged off alone like a fool into a building where corridors provided zero cover.  Han found places where concrete intercepted incoming fire to allow for leisurely reloads as he crouched.  
It's pretty amazing how well you can do if you don't pretend that you're the action star or a cockeyed hero.  The others only had scrapes and bruises, any shots minimized by body armor, and crashes to the ground cushioned by durable wool.  None of them had needed to use up their gelatinized coagulants and tape dressings to stop blood flow from wounds.  It's like they actually knew what they were doing, unlike, you know, me.  Old Doc Holliday's words "Take your time in a hurry" echoed in my mind as I realized that I broke several cardinal rules of combat in my rush to grab the guy in a suit.
"Are you done napping down there, boss?" Phteven asked. "Landra warned me of enemy chatter."
"I'm done napping," I answered.
"Did you grab any intel?" Han asked.
"I've picked up 180 pounds of Australian asshole, all trussed like a turkey," I told him.
The bound goon eye-fucked me as I went through all of his pockets, rough and not giving a damn if I made him squeal by pulling his wrists and ankles too tight against their unforgiving plastic bonds.  In the frisk down, I found he had a Heckler and Koch pistol, a pocket full of a fat wad of American bills in twenties and larger, and a cigarette case containing three more thumb drives.  
"I'd certainly hope so.  My ear's still ringing from your call out," Han added to my scolding.  Funny, I'd thought that when I got to be in charge, I'd be the one doing all the admonition.  Then I remembered... I'm not much of a CEO so much as a guy who leads from the front.  And that means, I'll end up with mistakes of my own.  
"If it helps, I've got about ten new holes in my fat ass," I offered as apology.
"You deserve it," Han said, but I could already hear the forgiveness in his voice.
He also hid a couple of knives on hand.  Looking at the spots of rust on their blade finish, I could tell that he'd used them for cutting into something alive, and he didn't give a damn about keeping the blade clean.  The inside of the knife pocket had crusted, blood, most dark and old, but there were a few damp droplets.  
After this examination I pressed the flat of the blade against his cheek, point aimed at his right eye. "We're going to talk about whose blood this is."
I reached the last of the gunmen I'd taken out and patted him down for for a closer look at what he had.  He had plenty of 9mm ammunition for his SMG and pistol, and I was not too proud to stuff the "free guns" and their spare magazines into the collapsing rucksack I had all of the team carry.  This was an easy way to pack gathered intelligence in all manners, from phones to laptop computers or hard drives.  The bodyguard's radio and personal cell phone joined the pile, each of them wrapped in their secure, armored pouches to protect any data within.  
The Aussie glared at me as I patted down the corpse for more sources of information.
"Oh, you want me to ask you questions?" I asked him.  His jammed mouth let out a garbled response.
"No.  I ain't going to trust you with giving me a straight answer," I said. "Not until you're strapped down, and your testicles are clenched in my fist.  Until then, we're going to need intel."
He moaned around his gag, a short, inquisitive question. "Why?"
It had that tone and pitch.
I grabbed him by the throat. "You're hanging out with DASH, bringing them fresh video equipment to record their rapes of villagers in high definition, and you're asking me why I'm going to make your final hours of existence excruciating?"
I involuntarily laughed, and fought him back down.  Now was not the time to allow my demon out to play.  I wanted to pick his brains, and my inner beast was not conductive to leaving much that could answer my questions.  That's how you get to be a member of the Dangerous Operations Group.  You have both discipline in action, but an unflinching rage in the face of injustice.  War is a horrible, gut wrenching thing, and one does things to their enemy that will haunt the survivors for years in many cases.  But when you have righteous anger bubbling in your soul, fury inspired by the atrocities committed by motherfuckers your country asks you to kill in particular, you can sleep a ton easier.  
That was where they found me.  I was someone who slept the sleep of the just after spraying the entrails of a baby-killer across a street with a .300 Winchester Magnum shot to the belly.  I had no nightmares after bringing down a tomahawk into the face of a woman who sought the murder of my friends.  
Zero Foxtrot Given.  Discipline and self control to keep that rage in check, to learn to focus it on only those who have truly called down the wrath of God, or whatever the fuck I'm the equivalent of, that was the tricky problem, but my ethics have been of a higher caliber than many so-called elite team members.  I've worked with other high-speed, low-drag, "we-don't-exist" teams before, and a good many of them are fuckers who should not exist.  Not to say that all the teams I a-Company-ed were worthy of a steady diet of #00 Buck, but I would be plenty happy to hand out free coupons for a face fuck with a hatchet to many.
Han finally showed up as my prisoner and I were halfway to the entrance after.   I kept my Ozzie in tow.  He had learned quickly not to lag behind, given that I provided incentive with an Iron Claw on his junk that Baron Von Raschke would have been proud of.  I didn't draw blood like the old wrestler would have in some of his classic matches, but I got my message through loud and clear.  Behave and keep up.
"Lil says that we've got a group on their way up the mountain," Han said. "She, Cabe and Phteven are handling things to slow them down when they get here."
"How long do we have?"
"Long enough for us to rip out a few more hard drives, load him onto a local ATV and get us back to the bikes," Han answered.
It made sense to grab some local wheels to make the trip back from the base easier and faster, as well as to transfer our scrounged intel and weapons to the bikes.  The Kawasakis had a known fuel quantity, which we could supplement with borrowed gasoline, and had containers which could safely and securely carry our recent ill-gotten gains.  
"Good job locating some wheels for us," I said out loud over the radio.  I might not be much of an organizer, but I sure as hell knew about positive reinforcement. "Got an ETA on those relief fighters, Lan?"
"They'll be up the mountain in about two hours, according to their reports," she told me. "But I'm checking to see if they're broadcasting disinformation.  Phteven's got a scope looking down on them to run a guesstimate on their progress too."
"Cabel?" I asked.
"I'm setting trips and traps for the visiting forces," the big Viking answered. "I'll have plenty done in half the time it takes them to get here, if they're overstepping their pace by double."
"Huh?" I asked.
"If they're actually saying two hours when it'll be one, I'll have a lot of death ready for them in a half hour, chief," Cabel said.
"Just in case they make it an even shorter gap," I added.
"Nobody's hoofing it up that side of the mountain in less than forty minutes," Cabel said.
"Groovy," I answered. "Han..."
"Did you just say groovy?" Cabel asked over the radio, interrupting me.
"Yes," I admitted.
Nothing else had to be said, but I could tell that my Viking heavy weapons platform was grinning from ear to ear.  I'd pay for that little slip later.  
Oh well.  Teams who work as closely as we do play grab-ass all the time.  
I handed Han the cigarette case. "Find what's on the flash drives in this."
He nodded, taking a knee and readying our laptop.  He'd keep an eye on the trussed prisoner while I moved around, tearing hard drives from mother boards and grabbing any storage media, including notebooks.  I filled my rucksack in about fifteen minutes, and came back for Han's.  His face was ashen.  Sick.
"That bad?" I asked.
His voice was soft. "Worse.  Keep me away from him."
"Store my intel on one of the ATV's," I told him.  I grabbed him tight for a quick hug.  I whispered a promise in his ear. "He won't be long for this world."
"It's too damn late for that," Han returned.  He hefted my bag, turned, and left the building, studiously not looking at the Australian.  
I knelt at the laptop and looked at its screen.  The need to vomit nagged at my gut as I watched two young Filipino women with a toddler on a table.  The video played without volume, so as not to distract us from potential danger, but I could see the child's face distorted, cheeks wet with tears.
The two young women had an ugly, black rubber object which no child should ever know about unless they went looking for toys in their mothers' underwear drawers.  
My prisoner whimpered in horror.  The Australian had seen him crawl onto my face.  
I saw where the two female monsters put the foot long rubber abomination, then closed the laptop and took out the flash drive.  Further viewing of this was not going to do anyone any good.  I cinched the notebook computer into its back and shouldered it before turning to the prisoner.  I realized that tears now dampened my face, and my knuckles ached from clenched fists.  I turned toward him, and felt the need to restrain every homicidal urge in my body.  The monster inside of me agreed, unbidden, in a loud thought.  
Cold calm swept over me, and my hand stroked his cheek in a loving manner.  He steered me now, and my lips brushed his ear.
"It's not that I lied that you are not long for this world.  I just did not know how much I will love playing with you," he whispered.  My tongue braced across my lips.  Usually, when he comes out to play, I am gripped in a red fury, my fight-or-flight instincts dialed up to twelve.  Nothing, not even a tremor or adrenalin shook my gentle grip on him.  He rose to his feet with my help, and I wondered what level of hell my demons truly originated from, because I heard a vow to make our travel to exfil as painless and gentle as possible.  No harm was to come to the Australian.  Not yet.
We had a date.  
Han watched me as I brought the Australian to the entrance.  He'd filled up a duffel, but there was yet more weight on him, his eyes shallow and sunken, even the usual bright, clear blue of them seemingly tinted and polluted by the poisonous darkness he'd observed.
Han is singularly one of the strongest men I have ever known, despite the whims of fate which had him born without the standard menswear birthday suit.  He's a man whose faith had carried him through some of the toughest training in the world, special operations qualifications which broke six foot bodybuilders dripping with testosterone, and weathered the storms that had me gasping for air and grunting to make one more stride.  
He's also a man whose Christian faith has not buckled, even with the "traditional" shunning of the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender community.  Han's held his own in discussions against some of the most vehement atheist philosophers.  Like me, Han believes in the observed rules of science, how physics and geography prove that the Earth beneath our feet are four and a half billion years old, and that we are not a physical center of the universe, though God's own grace makes our acre of dirt in the galaxy a pretty decent hub of nobility and sentience.  With two very smart atheists on the team - Phteven and Landra - our discussions get lively, but a shit-ton of facts and knowledge gets shared, not insults thrown.  I'm still not sure if Cabel is an agnostic or a full-blown Asatru, a son of Thor.  
"You said that he wasn't long to walk the Earth," Han said softly.
"He's not going to walk.  He's going to be slung on the back of my bike," came the answer from my lips.  I was terrified, because that wasn't my voice, that wasn't me speaking.  It was something unholy and angry, and Han flinched from the look in my eyes. "What time he has left will not be joyful."
"For the love of God..."
"God's not here." The growl was fierce and immediate. "Now cuff this bitch."
I bit down hard on my lower lip and smashed my forehead against the nearest wall.  Blood bubbled and trickled down my chin, another trickle stung into my right eye.  I bit off my speech before the next words were allowed to escape, sharp, hateful words about castrating the prisoner, and giving Han the plumbing he felt he hadn't been born with.  I swallowed that poison back down, heart like a trip hammer as everything seethed and twisted just beneath the surface.  
"Peter?"
"Put him on my ATV," I whimpered. "Tie him securely.  I'll carry your duffels."
"Peter..."
I didn't want Han to see me unravel before him.
"Did I stutter, Marine!" I snapped. "Now!"
Han grabbed him roughly, then took off.  
"Don't got time for this," I growled. "We need to get out in thirty minutes."
I can't believe I went there.  I get mad, a lot, but to get so personal, so vile with someone I consider family...
I threw up, and watched the thick syrup pour from my lower lip atop partially digested rations.  I had encountered sex traffickers and snuff film makers, but the prisoner I had was a whole new level of evil that I had stumbled blindly into.  I knew that I suffered a psychic break, a fracturing of my personality that was literal, not fluffy, figurative language.  The creature that was brought into the light was not something pretty, nor did it give a fuck who it hurt when prey waited for it.
Cabel's massive bulk blocked the sun that streamed through the door.  Muscles tensed in my shoulders and hands, and I desperately sought control over my body.
"Boss, Han's worried about you," Cabel said.
"I'm fine.  I just saw some of the video the prisoner had on hand," I answered. "It took me a bit to pull myself back under control."
"We're not letting him off easy, are we?" Cabel asked.
"He is full of information, and he is full of sins against God and man."
"Boss, you don't ever get all fire and brimstone preacher," Cabel said.
"A baby," I said to Cabel. "Someone's infant was used by the prisoner.  Used and destroyed.  We're not letting him have death, no sweet release.  Even when he's dying, he'll scream loud and long until he finally slips off."
Cabel stiffened, then nodded.
"Nobody touches him.  No bullets end him.  Not until we pull everything from his skull to find who his customers are, who his protectors are, who looks the other way when he smuggles these videos past them.  I want the whole network, top to bottom.  We stumbled onto a gold mine.  It's rotten gold, shit that poisons all who touch it.  It poisoned me."
Cabel took a step forward, laid his huge hand on my shoulder, then tugged me in for a brotherly hug.  That, of I had just transformed into Jormungandr, the world serpent, and he had to choke me out.  Either way, he helped me vent my spleen in that crushing embrace.  
Out of breath, blood flowing naturally throughout my body once Cabel stopped crushing me, I felt a lot better mentally and emotionally. "How're we set up outside?"
"We're ready to run, and we've left a nice array of surprises for those contestants who did not make it to this closing round," Cabel said, affecting a game show announcer tone.
"Copies of our home game?" I asked.
"Especially if our home game is 'guess where the SLAM is hidden,'" Cabel concluded. "Landra also threw in a stack of infections for the DASH comm systems.  Their computer network will be fried for a while.  Their video transmissions will also be limited to Keeping Up with... you know who, 24/7."
I winced. "If DASH weren't fully psychotic before..."
Cabel smirked, his rusty mustache and beard's twitch and shift the only sign of facial movement, but his eyes sparkled with mischievous delight. "You can joke again."
"Distraction and near constriction to death work wonders," I answered.  Grim reality threatened to smother me again, but I fought the images I'd seen down, storing them away.
"We have enough ATV's to get us to our real rides?" I asked as we got outside.
Cabel motioned. "Right there."
The other three watched me, as if I were set to explode.  The Australian was trussed on the back of the one I would drive.  He'd passed out, or had been choked out in a headlock.  Either way, he would not be an issue.  
"Let's motor, motherfuckers.  DASH's supporters are on their way," I called out.  Phteven, Landra and Han all relaxed, and we got onto our borrowed machines. "Be careful, these things can roll over easily."
Nods answered me, and helmets were strapped on.  I'd be glad to be back to the bikes.  They had much more agility, and felt more natural to balance for me.  Plus, the mountain bikes were given the juice necessary to keep my team further ahead of hostile pursuit.  The muscle and maneuverability were further benefited by the run-quiet mufflers and exhaust systems.  We'd be harder to track by sound, as well as more difficult to keep up with.  
The ATV's were off-market brands, and the shocks were hell on my back as we bumped and flopped over rocks and broken terrain.  The Australian rode "bitch" on the ATV, so every ounce of pain that rattled my back and ass was also pummeling him.  The 4x4 didn't react with the agility and satisfaction of our purpose-built motorcycles.  
The ride took about thirty minutes, but we made far better time than our DASH opposition.  We didn't hear anything from the relay station until we were almost done with the transfer of loot and our prisoner to the bikes.  The crackle of blasts in the distance brought a smile to our faces.  The world was now a little less packed with criminals who would slaughter children, then recored that atrocity for public sale.  I know there is the saying "One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter."
The trouble is, with nearly every one of those "freedom fighters" is that they are fighting for a means to take away the freedom of others.  Murder is the greatest theft of freedom imaginable, and Sharia law, Communist dictatorship or any of dozens of other forms of government fought for all turn out to be a means of applying absolute power, and absolute power is the most corrupting influence in the universe.  I know people have called Presidents of various administrations "tyrants" but the honest truth is that such "tyranny" is a delusion in the minds of said protestors.  
I've been to real tyrranies.  I've seen people murdered and slaughtered just because their neighbor said a single word of criticism, the corpses of all involved dragged through the streets as warning to any other who would dare to breathe a word contrary to the "holy writ" of the tyrant.  
The DASH fanatics would also be gifted with their ATV's back. Phteve and Cabel rigged them with more anti-personnel explosives, IEDs for the groups who had left IEDs for American soldiers in Afghanistan, injuring and traumatizing them brutally.  We had two sets of triggers for each, "cheating" so that the disconnect of one such trigger would set off the other.  They also left a two hour countdown timer on each, just in case they grew smart.  
Why play unfair with these chumps?  You might as well ask why you step on a wasp after it's stung you.  It's knee jerk reaction, and both punishment for pain inflicted, and meant to be a warning to others.  If DASH wanted their own tyrrany of fear, then the DOGs intended to rule them with the horror that there was someone out here, hunting them down with cruelty and vindictive bile.  
We didn't have to rule their world, we just had to keep them looking over their shoulders, jolting awake in a cold sweat at night when they heard a twig snap, imagination placing silent ninja commandos just out of the corner of their eyes, nonreflective knives ready to bite into tender flesh.  
Once we'd laid enough traps to leave DASH recruits armless, we took off on the bikes.  With specially designed tires giving us grip, and electric motors and run-silent mufflers for backup internal combustion engines, five ghosts raced through the hills, weaving around trees and boulders.  The bikes had billy-goat sure feet, and the only thing that slowed us down was the extra two hundred pounds of asshole on my bike.  Even then, my machine lost only about thirty miles an hour on a straightaway.  
By mid-day, we were back at a special forces post in "friendly" Afghanistan.
By evening, the identity of Paul Duchov, the formerly nameless Australian, was discovered, just in time to etch into a tiny tombstone.  He didn't survive interrogation.  But then, we weren't asking him too many questions seeking verbal answers.  Our methods were fingerprints, blood samples, stomach contents, and in depth trace evidence under his nails and in his hair, everywhere we could pry clues to where he had been and who he had been with.
We found the DNA of others on him.  He'd raped at least one person, judging by the samples smeared into his pubic hairs and the bruising and abrasions on his penis.  He'd just been in the Phillipines going by the smells and leftover spices in his fecal matter, evidence supporting the origins of his bodyguards.  
And back home, at the Dangerous Operations Executive, we found that Duchov had been travelling under the alias of Anderson.  The forgeries had their origins in Europe, giving us more information about his journeys than anything he could have said aloud.  
I didn't let Duchov off lightly.  I watched the movie he'd made again, all while sitting alone with him in the interrogation cell.  He'd been stripped naked, and was bound wrists and ankles.  Tears greased his cheeks, and snot ran down from his nose.  
I left him ungagged.  
"Please... all you have to do is ask me questions.  You don't have to do the rest of this..."
"Poke you in the ass?  Pull dirt and dust and hair from your hide with tape?  Scour your scalp for clues?  Oh yes we did," I told him.  I pulled my belt from the loops in my jeans, and gently draped it around his neck, letting the ends dangle down his chest.  He choked in breaths as I retrieved a set of thick, heavy gloves designed for handling concertina wire. "See, torture doesn't retrieve information easily.  But you know what does work quite well?  Forensics.  We scoured your skin and hair, every single inch.  We made you vomit, and collected scrapings of your shit.  We did everything necessary to find how much of a footprint the world made upon you, and we used your fingerprints and DNA to see who you really were."
Duchov bit his lower lip.
"Of course, you did help by bringing along your resume of evil," I told him, nodding to the laptop displaying the desolation of a child. "From setting cues, from other members of your "cast" we managed to figure out where you did this.  And we're looking up your friends."
Tears welled in my eyes.
"You were interrogated in a way you could never lie.  And as such, I owe you nothing."
I snapped the belt taut around his neck.  Veins and tendons snapped to full extention, radiating out from the hard cutting edge of stiff, unyielding leather.  I dug me knee deep into his gut, loosening just enough to make him cough out the last of the air in his lungs.  The belt creaked, twisted.  It deformed and cracked against his constricted throat, and Duchov's features deepened to an unhealthy purple.  His swollen tongue pressed through his lips, and my shoulders and arms ached from the pressure I threw on him.  
"I don't have a deal for you.  You were dead fucking meat the moment I found you.  I just didn't realize how badly you had to die until I saw what you made of a child."
My knuckles wanted to explode as I squeezed and tightened that belt around his throat.
"I don't owe you a thing for any answers you gave me.  But for giving me nightmares with your diseased filthy movies, I owe you my face as the last thing you see before you are dragged screaming down to hell.  And if there is naught but oblivion beyond this mortal veil, then I owe you my utter fucking hatred consuming your world as you fade."
I held the strangling garotte of my belt tight for a good ten minutes, long after he messed the chair, and blood seeped from around the lacerations torn in his neck.  I squeezed and crushed until I poured out every ounce of hatred that smothered me.  
When it was all done, I crashed to the floor, legs gone numb, arms useless for anything but dangling limp at my sides.  His chair toppled as well, the lump of rancid meat strewn out.  
I spent an hour crying on the floor before I got to my feet.  I knocked on the door, and Cabel was there to hand me a shotgun and a box of shells.  
The laptop which had displayed such abominable images disintegrated as I loaded and emptied the shotgun into it, reducing it to a smoldering pile of unusable silicone trash.  Cabel took the laptop and dumped it in a 55 gallon drum.  He doused it in lighter fluid and ignited it, melting whatever remained.  
I exercised a demon out of my soul, at least for the moment.  Now, I needed alcohol and the company of my small little chosen family.
In the morning, we would head to Kabul, and from there, fly to the Phillipines.
DOGZFG Chapter Three: Walk of Shame
A friend suggested I post a link to my chapters for sharing.  I think this is a good plan, and this DA account could use some fresh activity.
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When the DOGs hit a target, we do not fuck around.  We aim to fuck you up.
As my initial fanatic fell with my bullet leaving an escape route for his little-used brain, Han popped the skull of another.  Cabel, Landra and Phteven triggered their launchers at the same instant.  
Where Landra and Phteven's 40mm grenades were significant, peppering men with clouds of high velocity shrapnel that slashed veins and arteries, Cabel's thermobaric warhead really went off with the typical thunderclap you expect from bigger bombs.  Limbs were literally shorn from torsos.
While our grenadiers reloaded, Han and I engaged more targets with our SVDs, sweeping for people who either showed signs of adept calm in the face of a lightning artillery attack or who sought to form an anchor of leadership in response to our lightning strike.  M203s and RPGs don't reload as fast as they do when you have a film editor on your side, and without a propane jet, they don't bloom into magnificent fireballs on the silver screen.  What they do, in reality, is erupt in a burst of smoke and pulverized concrete or dirt, and release splinters of steel that cut through ballistic nylon and into skin and muscle.  
The gore is not always external, mostly churned up under the punctured skin, and usually only when you're about five yards from a 40mm shell, ten for a thermobaric detonation from an RPG.  This was the kind of stuff that made for evening of the odds.  Even so, Cabel and the others continued their intensive hammering, a wave of artillery that had wrought panic and confusion as well as lifeless bodies.  By the time was done with my second SVD magazine, the RPG had, including the opening volley, spoken four thunderbolt words in its uniquely authoritative voice.  Phteven and Landra had, between them, emptied a dozen HEAT rounds into the compound.  There was still a lot of space where targets were merely wounded, and so far only twenty visible DASH gunmen had been ravaged by shrapnel.
Wounded DASHers screamed out in ragged, wet wails, thanks to tattered lungs or faces.  Killing the truly evil always brought me extreme satisfaction, but the process itself is ugly and grisly, the same sort of mess that makes watching sausage packing a turn-off to fine wursts and other delicacies.  Blood and gore and the stink of spilled organs, combined with the cacophany of suffering wails could still bring an edge of disgust to my heart.
That disgust was replaced with the image of a 12 year-old Pashtun villager who was made into a sexy toy for an uncountable number of DASH troopers, all of whom giggled and cackled with glee, even after her arms hung from her shoulders like limp noodles, and her purple and swollen face no longer flinched from the pain inflicted upon her.  My stomach churned inside of me, bile working its way to the back of my throat, and I was back to giving zero fucks about how badly the fanatics suffered.  Their cries and sobs became a balm to the searing heat that twisted in my minds eye as the poor girl's corpse was turned into a toilet for these sniveling scum.  
I also stopped going for head shots.  Destroying their brains ended their suffering, while a shattered pelvis or an obliterated abdomen meant they were too hurt to continue fighting.  If they still could lift a gun, I aimed for collar bones and shoulders, high on the body, making their trigger fingers useless.  
It was about this time that I noticed Han shooting cleanup for me.  My victims only got a small taste of suffering and torture before his precision marksmanship sliced through their brainstems and ended their existence in this world.  
As soon as the mad minute ended with the high explosives, Cabel transitioned to his Pakistani issued FN P90 - a nice little submachine gun holding fifty rounds of bullets only about 2/3's of the length and velocity of a standard M-4 rifle.  For him, it was enough to wade down into the melee.  Landra merely needed to change her grip on her own Pak rifle to engage in close quarter mayhem.
I maintained my elevated position over the compound, dropping big Russian thirties into faces and chests now that my ire had lessened.  Anyone whose gaze wandered toward the gate which my team approached took one hot pill ending their threat.  
Of the nearly fifty outside in the courtyard that my squad observed, about half of them were already down, leaking from fatal wounds and no longer doing so much as twitching.  Another dozen sported non-mortal, but fight stopping wounds, and the remainder sprayed their AK-47's and M-4 carbines high and wide, muzzle flashes making themselves fine targets.
That was the weakness of a lot of jyhadists.  They believed that Allah would guide their bullets on target, if not their own macho force of will.  Having a full magazine of 30 rounds reinforced the illusion that blazing away from the hip was somehow effective.
This egotistical pride wouldn't let them clamp the weapons to their shoulder and stabilize against recoil, minimizing spread while firing on full-auto.  To them, iron sights or optics were crutches.
Meanwhile, Han and I, firing one bullet per trigger pull, hit what we aimed at about two shots out of three as our targets scrambled for cover.  
Pheve closed in from his side entrance, equally under Han's overwatch.  Though his and Landra's rifles were both capable of full-auto, they pulled the trigger once for each bullet dispatched.  Even with this, neither left their target with less than two high velocity pills burning inside their organs.  At ranges under 100 yards, the 5.56mm NATO round could cut through many forms of body armor like a butcher knife through cardboard.  On entering the fluid mass of the human torso, those .22's would somersault, ass over teakettle, tearing apart flesh in their wake like a blunt-bladed circular saw.  The wound tracks were nothing less than horrific.  
The P90 which Cabel, Han and I chose for a lightweight backup to our heavier main guns behaved similarly, but with a third smaller charge and mass.  Even so, the bullets moved at 2000 feet per second, and in the little FN, spat out at 800 rounds per minute.  For fifty round magazines, that was enough of a match in close quarters with demonstrably less recoil than the M-4 on full-auto.  
Off in the distance, I heard Phteven take on a particularly troublesome target with his grenade launcher.  How did I know it was troublesome?  Because if you, as an experienced soldier, can't solve it with a controlled pair from a carbine, and you opt for High Explosive Anti-Personnel, you know it's a pain in your nethers.  The packet of ka-boom went into one Quonset window and the rusted old structure seemed to take a deep breath before all of its windows shattered.  Dazed and bloody men staggered out of its main doors, where Han and I split the new choice of targets.  These DASHers were in the middle of getting dressed, some in their underpants and holding an AK, others with their shirts half buttoned and dangling off of shrapnel bloodied chests.  
They were slow, easy targets, but if we'd given them the chance, they'd recover their wits and shoot any enemies in sight.  Each buck against my shoulder was another coffin lid slammed in repayment for a little girl lost.  There'd never be enough of these maniacs to be worth one young life ruined, let alone the trail horror they smeared across the Hindu Kush in blood, tears and semen.  But every one I killed here was another life that would be untouched by their vile predation.  Boys and girls would grow up in a world where rape and torture was not their "contribution" to the jyhad.  
They lumbered like zombies until the marksmanship of two Marine riflemen took the walking out of the walking dead.
Cabel paused long enough to smash a group huddled at the base of the DASH dish.  While the RPG-7 warhead didn't do much to the steel structure keeping it erect, the underside of the curved surface provided the shrapnel plenty of ways to bounce.  Fanatical gunman wailed from high velocity metal, at least until Landra popped anyone still standing with controlled pairs from her M-4.  Anyone else who menaced my fireteam was split open by the impact of one of my big Russian thirties.  I bought Cabel and Landra moments to reload their guns both large and small.
Cabel then turned his attention to a Quonset.  The shell sizzled through the front door, and rusted metal swelled as if it had inhaled, then shrunk under the violent forces of a thermobaric detonation.  Eroded holes in the metal shell ruptured and spewed blazing hot gasses.  DASH troops near those sudden vents of volcanic heat barely had a chance to howl before the vast temperatures seared their lungs into useless, shriveled sacks.
If your crimes bring the DOGs upon your misbegotten head, we'll bring the flames of Hell before we punch your tickets.  If there's nothing on the other side, well, at least we gave you a taste of what you truly deserved.  If there is a place where your damned soul resides, give Old Scratch my regards.
Cabel was right, at the rate this battle went, we'd need battlefield pickups to keep in the fight.  My SVD was nearly depleted of ammunition, which was just as well.  I hadn't developed an attachment yet to the big rifle, and it was twice the length of my little FN submachine gun, and a foot longer than an AK or an M-4 with their abbreviated 14-16 inch barrels.  The big Russian warhorse was not suited for close work.
I liked the FN, not because it was two feet long, buttstock to muzzle, or held fifty rounds, but because it was a bullpup that ejected straight downwards.  As a southpaw, it's hard to get a really compact fighting rifle that doesn't have a castrated barrel, like the M-4.  My favorite, the old AUG from Steyr could give me a full twenty inch barrel in only two and a half feet of gun.  But I had to decide which shoulder you would fire it from and set up the ejection port for that shoulder only, otherwise I'd get some hot brass upside my cheek.  
I put the FN to work.  Landra and Cabel gave me covering fire, but I still used my height advantage to good effect, triggering bursts in order to encourage DASH heads to stay down.  I finally slipped through the ragged gates.  Together with my fireteam, we dug deeper into the ex-Soviet Base.
We laid out a storm of fire amidst all of the enemy chaos.  Be it from grenades-shattered ear drums or shrapnel wounds, or just their stubborn insistence on shooting from the hip, they fired just to make noise while we aimed down sights and peppered every face that showed itself in the vicinity of a firearm.  No DASH member would walk out of this hell hole unless they played dead for a few days, then crawled out of the Hindu Kush on their belly.  It might sound racist, but not a single male Arabic face would remain untouched.  DASH was racist in their policy of who they allowed in, so there were no Persians/Iranians in the group, and it was rare to see Pashtun locals who abandoned their tribesmen to associate with these maniacs.  
DASH also showed no mercy to any of their victims, male or female, young or old, Muslim or Infidel.  They raped, murdered, tortured and left vast swaths of nations in terror due to their fanaticism.  
Thus, any adult male with a gun who was not immediate family - read that as one of the DOGs - was sentenced to death.
Yes, the Constitution and Bill of Rights guarantee freedom from guilt by association, but here in the mountains of the blurry border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, even in this remote location, the members of DASH knew who they allied with, and were incontrovertibly complacent in their crimes against humanity.  
That death sentence was delivered swiftly, and I personally didn't golf a foxtrot if some of my targets were left alive and groaning, which also violated the right to be free from cruel and unusual punishment.  
Somewhere in the chaos and mayhem, Cabel had located his favorite Soviet-style light machine gun, the drum fed RPD.  Now, my mountain of Viking redneck was a full on volcano.  Instead of lava flows and pyroclastic clouds, he erupted with controlled, short bursts of 7.62mm x 39mm COMBLOC fed from a 100 round belt contained in a snail-shell shaped drum.  He'd also located a sack of such drums, and he wore it around his neck like an amulet, but even with hundreds of rounds on hand, Cabel remained conservative with the firepower he had on hand.  Two-, three- or four-round bursts slashed into his targets, not the long, sloppy sprays from the hip you see so often in movies.  No, Cabel folded himself down over he sights of the gun, stabilized the stock to his shoulder and held on with both hands.  He would not waste a single round if he could help it.
Landra punched out another 40mm shell and the thunderclap of its detonation floored a group of DASH gunners that had attempted to flank us.  Two of the killers died instantly, and others fell, slashed bloody, faces tattered by shrapnel as sharp as razor blades.  Some died quickly, and others screams in pain.  Landra left them to their howls as more aggressive opposition surged into view.
I knew she wouldn't get back to them, but I saw one with enough arm strength left to reach for a handgun.  My P90 had already run dry by this time, so I went to another loaded gun.  My Pakistani-origin Beretta 92 seemed to hop into my hand on the fast draw.  Remember back when I said I am all about that Beretta life?  This is why.  The Beretta is fairly light, not heavy on the hip, but it feels good and weighty in the hand.  9mm rounds barely register as recoil for me, and this ensured a tight, controlled pair on the one who reached for his gun.  The crisp single action was so smooth, it was really no more effort to tap out four more shots to pop two other wounded guys.  
Whoops, I guess I do possess a few fucks about shredded masses of fanatical hamburger.
Or, maybe I just hated to hear the squeals of agony they bleated.
Gunfire rattled toward me, and once again, I was glad for the cultural egotism that lead to sloppy shooting habits.  I was safe from hot bullets in my guts, but rounds plucked my pant leg.  I didn't have time to reload my P90, so just kept doing work with the Beretta.  Controlled pairs popped into each of the three shooters who'd rushed me.  They stopped firing, but because they didn't fall fast enough, I ripped off another half dozen rounds.  With a 17 round magazine and one in the pipe, I'd accounted for eighteen shots, all on target, but now the Beretta sat in my hand empty.
The P90, with its oddly mounted magazine, takes a little over three seconds to eject and load a new one in optimal conditions.  Standing in the middle of a blazing firefight, that wasn't time I could afford.  My training and familiarity with the Beretta, however, let me instinctively rip out a spare mag for it from my holster pouch.  I stabbed the magazine release with my index finger to remove the empty box, gravity slipping it past the rising reload aimed right at the empty hole it once filled.
Bam!  
Seventeen more shots for the Beretta, and a trip of the slide release brings the gun out of battery, and feeds the top round in the magazine into the breech.  All of this is done in a shade under a second.  
Just in time, I saw a frantic figure escorted by a group of smaller men.  This guy was not dressed for battle, and his guards weren't wrapped in Afghan wool and battle harnesses, but black BDU's and heavy vests.  A bunch of folks, neither DOG nor DASH, drew my attention as they rushed to the shelter of the main concrete blockhouse.  They sought the protection of thick walls and steel doors.
"HAVIT!" I bellowed, temporarily forgetting that I was in hands free radio contact with my team.  Havit was shorthand for "High Value Target" and is a hell of a lot faster to say than HVT.  It let them know that I broke formation to pursue.  
The oddball's guards had ushered him into the blockhouse, and one remained behind to pull the heavy armored hatch shut.  My Beretta and I ended his use as anything other than a doorstop.  His torso landed to keep the door ajar, his face on the ground in a growing puddle of crimson and spongy mass.  
Another heard his teammate fall and turned to engage me.  His eyes were on me, but he was still in the process of bringing the muzzle of his weapon to bear as the rest of his body followed his gaze.  I put two pills through his face too, and he crashed down to his back.  I crawled over the two corpses and into the old communication base.  One more gunman was visible at the end of a corridor, and he opened fire.  Even though I moved quickly through the fatal funnel of the doorway, his bullets struck the steel hatch, shattered, and bounced off of my head and neck.
Needless to say, the moment I felt impacts, I dropped to my belly and played dead.  Blood flowed from where bullet fragments struck.
My ear hurt like hell, and I found out it was because of a petal of copper jacket stuck through the cartilage.  I found more splinters of lead and twisted jacket all along my neck and shoulder.  They were blunt, but they struck with sufficient force to cut through Afghan wool and into my skin.  The petal came out of my left ear, not without an inspired stream of tears down my cheeks, but the shallow lacerations on my back seeped thin blood.  I also had full range of motion with my left arm, so I'd live.  I also had a half dozen new souvenirs of my visit to the 'Stan.
I also had enough time to reload my hungry, empty SMG, and topped off my Beretta.
Finally on my feet once more, I took a look at the corpses of the bodyguards in their wannabe SWAT uniforms.  My Beretta didn't leave much of their faces to identify right now, but I had my digital camera with me.  The blood could be cleaned off in photoshop for better facial recognition.  I also plucked a couple of plastic storage bags from a pocket.  My tomahawk gave me the right index fingers and thumbs of both gunmen in hopes that they would show up on an AFIS search.  Each bag kept the fingers segregated from the other man's.  It would also work to store some DNA just in case.  
Criss-crossed with nicks and cuts from gunfire and shrapnel, and with bruises up and down my legs and ass from skidding down a slope, I was less than 100% for a solo hard pursuit.  However, I could still put one foot in front of the other, and my aim didn't look to be off or my grip trembly.  The sore thumb sticking out in the middle of nowhere spurred me on.  Men in black and a guy in a business suit jangled my Spidey senses to no end, so I rolled out in hot pursuit, balls out to pick up on him.  
A pocket full of digital photos and human fingers might give me some handle on who the oddball was, but the man himself would be a much more illuminating target, especially since the guys in black were hired professionals.  The guy who'd taken shots at me and bounced shrapnel into my neck was a clue to that.  The fragmented bullets were a big clue.  Most of these terrorists out here get cheap mil-spec FMJ ammunition, the kind of shit available off the back of Russian and Chinese army trucks disappearing from inventory.  The gunman who'd popped off at me used hollowpoints, which shatter on contact with steel, but when you smack a guy in an unarmored part of his body, they tear bigger, nastier wounds inside flesh and bone.  Pros like that level of "stopping power" edge, because bullets that don't deform leave small, neat holes as elastic flesh puckers back, even in the wake of a .45 caliber slug.  
But that was for pistols and submachine guns.  Meaning these bodyguards aren't packing heavier, which is bloody stupid for a visit to a mountain region.
The suit himself stunk of money, and not legit cash either.  His wealth came straight from the sewers, either from dope or human trafficking pipelines, or worse.  It didn't escape my notice that the camera we found with the DASH patrol was a brand-new high definition professional grade model.
New video equipment for a rape and intimidation patrol and these strangers here meant that someone other than DASH profited from live gang-bangs and murders.  Sure, the thugs who do it get the monstrous pleasure of destroying a young girl against her will, but the deep web price of $8000 per video and the number of perverts who take advantage of it added up to suit-boy and his rent-a-SWAT team as representatives of the distributors.  
He felt that was to me, and just the sight of him turned his sick vibes into spiders crawling up and down my arms.  
I'm no psychic, but I've been a DOG for a decade and both a Marine scout and a Chicago cop before that.  Years of investigations and operations helped me string the facts together.  You simply do not climb into the Hindu Kush without a desperate need for big money.  There were few products here worth a bullet in the brain and bones picked over by vultures.  Goats and their wool made for comfortable clothing, but this bum wasn't Tommy Hill-fucker.  Poppy fields stretched all across Afghanistan and the opiates within could be picked up in the larger cities with Pashtun in-betweeners.  
Picking up your very own army of terrorists in Afghanistan itself was idiotic.  All you had to do was to visit a city with major slums and a population of broke, hopeless young men.  That's how the Crips and Bloods could assemble armies in the hundreds of thousands from LA to New York.  
No, these guys showed up in the asshole of the planet with brand new camera equipment, and not a single one of the DASH troopers paid attention to their retreat.  People do not come here with guns without a nefarious purpose.  I mean, fuck, the DOGs and I were here in a wholly illegal incursion into a sovreign nation with intent to murder "citizens," not just Afghan, but Pakistani supporters.
Hanging out with DASH terrorists was the shit icing on an enormous stinking turd cake.  I had plenty of questions, and to get my answers, I had to smash my path through the remnants of his rental army.  
The gunman who'd fired at me, peppering my hide with bullet fragments was back ahead of me.  He fired again.  He cut loose with what sounded like a pistol-caliber submachine gun by the sound of it.  His burst was short and focused, and sizzled through air I'd occupied only fractions of a second earlier.  I dove barely ahead of his attack, and from the way he recovered from the recoil of his first salvo, I knew he was a professional.  This time, however, I went to my belly with my P90 extended in front of me, firing before he could.  In my haste, I mashed the trigger, and five-seven vomited out of the barrel at 900 rounds per minute, give or take a few, and the gunfire went on for far longer than a professional's return fire should have.  I was in a hurry, because this guy was fast.  The spray was sloppy and unfocused, but luckily for me, enough of them crashed into his knees and shins to drop him to the floor.  He crashed and lost control of his gun, his face smacking the floor we now shared.  
I pulled the trigger again and watched the lower third of his face disappear, this burst tighter and much more controlled.  He ate my bullets, but they must not have agreed with him, as his arms flailed and clawed at the tiles.  Blood puked through shattered lips, clogging any attempt to scream.  I'd likely missed his brains and spine, but my swarm of five-seven had cut through into his lungs.  Any attempt to speak would be useless as air sacs are deflated by hydrostatic pressure, and brachial arteries flooded the inside of his rib cage.
That kind of death was not pretty at all.
Hell, most of the death I've dished out is ugly and nasty, not the clean, clinical bullshit you see on TV.  At least I had a chance to stop his spastic gropes, my last burst turning the top of his skull into a pop-open hatch.
I stayed low, crawling on my knees to see if there was anything of salvage to identify the goon I'd just killed, but all the bullets I'd punched into his face didn't leave anything identifiable.  Even dental records were shot as his lower jaw had exploded, many of his teeth cracked out of place.
I heard a stream of uninteligible hatred spew from the lips of another pseudo-SWAT moments before I reflexively threw myself up against a wall, still prone.  Bullets smashed the tiles where I'd laid, and I hit the wall with a grunt.  Some piece of kit banged right into my lower spine and kidney hard, and reflex once more took over.  The P90 splashed the last of its load in the direction of my enemy, and I suddenly wondered if my assessment of my shooting skills was still valid.
This was the second time in about four minutes that I was stuck with an empty gun in my paws, which was about as good a paperweight as any, but not much more than that.  As it was hooked onto a sling, it wasn't even good to throw at someone as distraction.  
One advantage I had was that the twenty or so I'd ripped off sent the last gunman into retreat.  I swung the P90 around my back on its sling and dropped back down to my Beretta.  This will teach me to go with something easier and faster to reload, like an Uzi or a Brugger and Thomet or an M-16 platform.  
In the end, it doesn't really matter how someone trying to kill me dies, but it's a damned inconvenience.  A couple of more bullets got real close to my center mass, my thigh searing hot as a bullet goes through and through the outside, and my ribs jangled as my harness' Kevlar vest component turns a thoracic wound into a nasty fucking bruise.  I have no breath in my lungs from that hit or hits, but the Beretta 92 is an extension of my left arm.  
My foe takes three rapid fire to his chest, and his black SWAT armor saves him for a moment.  I let my aim rise, and my fourth shot slashes across the corner of his jaw, just under his ear.  The guy snarls and twists away from me.
He puts another burst out, and I take two more in my chest, this time a trauma plate neutralizing the impacts even better and much less painfully.  I pushed my gun's muzzle down and hammered him in the groin and thighs, firing the handgun so fast, my finger got tired and a small pile of brass formed before rolling flat.  Deprived of his legs, he still managed to catch himself on one forearm, all the while, he fired his weapon with his free hand.  Granted, his aim was shit, which only hurt me more as my right arm stung from another "near miss" that split skin.  
I got tired of this bullshit with him and ripped my tomahawk from its sheath.  Kevlar is great at dispersing the force of a bullet impact, but against a chopping edge moving at around seventy miles an hour, it was just cloth.  The head wedged into his shoulder where it met the neck, and only contact with spinal bone stopped its advance.  I ripped the hawk free, and ended up in a shower of bright arterial blood.  He was fucked good and royal, but I brought the tomahawk down once more, crushing his collar bone as I put all of my weight into it.  He was done, and I looked down at a face which, while splashed all crimson, didn't have any bullet holes in the middle.
I pulled my digital camera once more, recorded that dead mug, and looked at what he had.  I hadn't used all the ammo for my FN yet, but it was time for a battlefield pickup.  I was just too damned clumsy.  He had something that looked like an MP-5, except all of its controls were laid out like a miniature M-16.  Some local variant on the model?  Didn't really matter, as the safeties and magazine ejects worked like the M-16 I cut my teeth on as a Marine way back when.   Old school, and in use in more damned countries than I cared to count.  It worked, and it loaded faster than my FN.  And honestly, I sort of liked its feel.  It was familiar to me.  I tore off my P90 and the pouches for its magazines, replacing them with the German chatterbox using snap hooks to mount them on my harness.  The whole process took a half of a minute, and in that time, no one came looking for the latest of the SWAT gunmen I killed.  Either the last guy was smart and hung with the principal, or he was scared and looking for the back door.  
I unhooked a mini-mirror from a pocket and checked around the corner.  It was clear, and I pushed forward once more.  I noticed there were no doors down the corridor where the last killer had burst.  There was a stairway down, and I edged to the top of the steps, and saw the man in the suit, all alone.  He hammered on a closed steel door so badly his knuckles were split and bloody.  His hair was a sweaty mess, and when he heard me clear my throat.  
Blue eyes stared up to me from a face slathered in a patina of terror.  
"Oh God..."
"God?" I asked. "No.  He doesn't dirty his hands with shit like you."
I fumbled a flash card from a pocket.  It was empty, but I wanted to know his reaction as I threw it at his feet.
"No.  When it comes to people who want movies like yours, He sends me."
The suit went pale, then threw up on the floor.
Bingo.

#
DOGZFG Chapter Two: Now It's A Party
A friend suggested I post a link to my chapters for sharing.  I think this is a good plan, and this DA account could use some fresh activity.
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There were five of us making our way through the connifer forest adhering to the mountainside on the blurred edge of territory settled between Afghanistan and Pakistan, which was nothing new for me.  I'm Peter Leskow, an agent of the Dangerous Operations Executive, and small, stealthy, and outnumbered was where I'd been most at home for the past decade and some change.  The only difference this time is that it's DOG-Rock's first "solo mission" and my stomach is a Gordian Knot of tension and worry.  How I let my blood brother Roland Walker convince me that I was field commander material, and deserved my own team is still a mystery to me.  
I vaguely recall it had something to do with "time for you to graduate from sidekick school, Peter" and "you've paid your dues, time to get out from under my shadow."
I'm sorry, Rolls, but "your shadow?" I thought we were the perfect team, like bacon and eggs, Batman and Robin, or tequila and floorboards.
Don't get me wrong about the "rawness" of my quartet.  We've done field ops as reinforcements, quick reaction force, or just part of a flanking maneuver on hard hit operations.  We've trained side by side until we are sewn together by the invisible threads known as trust and unit integrity.  Now, however, we're working without a net.  Maybe I can ask Alexander the Great for lessons on keeping my little army salient, or barring that, slicing my twisted gut open and threading together a net out of that.  
We were close enough to Pakistani territory to spit on their land, and we were on the hunt for an internet hub and television studio utilized by a very nasty pack of bastards called, for the sake of brevity, DASH.  DASH used this compound, one dating back to the 1980's and the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, as a very remote nerve center and video production studio.  Recruitment videos are filmed here to distribute on the internet or to send in to Al Gorzira television and is the central mainframe for a very secure virtual bulletin board vital for keeping DASH forces in communication from the Phillipines to Egypt and even all the was to East Texas, where they claim an army of 170 terrorists and dozens of training camps.  I wouldn't mind a trip to the Lone Star State, I have a lot of friends and contacts there, despite the throngs of superstitious numbfucks who give the old Yellow Rose a bad reputation in lands where knuckles are not used for walking, and one of my team, Phillip Troy Stephenson - Phteven for short - spent his youth between Texas and Arizona.  
Phteven was a big brawny man, his skin the color of creamed coffee thanks to a white dad and a black mom.  If my crew hadn't sported an Atlanta, Georgia born Viking, he'd have been the biggest of us at 6'1" 240 lbs.  Instead, he was US Army.  We met when he was in the US Military Police Corps, investigating lost inventory.  High explosive inventory.  Back then, I knew he had potential, and kept my eye on him.  He'd transferred from a Ranger unit after some beef with some scumbag "brothers in arms" and later helped the original DOGs bring down a street gang infiltration of the US Army.
Now, Phteven is my second in command, and frankly, I like having his stentorian voice to quiet things down.  When he calls out for folks to make a hole and make it wide, the Red Sea parts before our group.  
As we sat in the saddles of our bikes, Kawasaki KLR's with saddlebags for weaponry, infrared headlights, and run-quiet mufflers, we checked over the map.  Phteven wasn't a Marine, but at least he knew how to navigate pretty well and wasn't too bad with a rifle either, which was to say, he was pretty fucking excellent despite old branch rivalries.  The Kawasakis were quite stealthy, and had gotten us halfway up to a ridge in the Hindu Kush, but the rest of the way had to be on foot.  
Using prior knowledge, I made damn sure we not only had steel horses moving us through the mountains, but we were bringing the thunder.  Anyone not packing an SVD sniper rifle or an RPG-7 rocket grenade launcher had an M-4 carbine with a 40mm M203 grenade launcher under its barrel.  The rocket launcher and our "noob tubes" - so named by the first person shooter gamers who got butthurt losing their pixelated avatars to the blast radius of a high explosive anti-personnel shell - gave us the firepower to punch DASH as hard as they could punch back against us with their own RPG-7's.  An M203 might seem like cheating in an X-Box lobby, but out where you don't respawn next round, I'll take that cheat twenty days a week and fuck you for whining.  Portable artillery made the rifles a little heavier, but it was a feather in comparison to humping a friend's corpse back home.
Phteven was one of our 203 gunners, and his Ranger and MP experience and marksmanship training with that very platform was going to serve us very well.  He had mountain training with his Ranger assignment, and as such, he was the guy steering us through this range, keeping us to cover and relatively quick terrain.
I remember back to a SEAL operation in this area.  It was a direct action mission, this one to take out a Taleban commander, and it ended up in disaster.  In making the morally right decision, rather than the militarily expedient decision, they found themselves betrayed by a group of goatherds who informed the maniac they were sent to kill of their presence.  Hundreds of AK-47 armed thugs flowed over them.  On the way in, they'd been fucked by the terrain as well, finding areas of no cover on their approach, and very little high ground to defend from.  
Even with all of those disadvantages, the four members of that team traded 150 or so Taleban soldiers for three frogmen dead.  A rescue attempt cost another eight SEALs and 8 SOAR aviators their lives with a rocket launcher shot into the open bay of a Chinook helicopter.
My first solo as an op leader had that lesson weighing on my shoulders as I studied the most relevant mission to this area.  I prayed to God that I would never have to deal with the choice between killing potential noncombatants and watching brothers in arms gunned down brutally around me.  The lone survivor brought home valuable insight for the work we had to do, and I've adhered to that knowledge of terrain, the level of silence needed, and the local enemies.  DASH wasn't al Quaeda or the Taleban, in fact, they've beheaded Taleban leaders up here, but they were drawn from the same fanatical stock.  
My only trouble was that military planning usually fell to pieces once we made enemy contact.  The DOGs' one advantage of the SEALs was a lack of fear of exposure for doing our job, and less constraint in our rules of engagement.  The disadvantage is that we've picked a group of good humans with more than sufficient conscience to make us hesitate in case a 12 year-old boy spots us and runs to his maniacal older brothers.  I couldn't put a bullet in his head if he ran away, but I have killed child soldiers when a gun was pointed at me or a grenade was in their hand.  
It's a sad fact of life that when things are bad enough for the Dangerous Operations Executive to assign a team to the battle, it means that the enemy has shit on the rulebook and too many innocent lives are at stake.  Fighting fair doesn't come close to our tactical playbook, because we're always going to be outnumbered and outgunned.  And I haven't lived across two decades of DOG missions without being a worse bastard than the enemy.
Mind you, I wasn't the coldest and hardest of the original five.  The East Texas DASH headquarters was getting a very special visit from DOG-Ice, captained by the epynomous Lisa Kerry.  I might have been a cornerstone, a patient rock, but Lisa was so hard, she earned the name Marshall Ice.  She'd been one fifth of what we now call DOG-Prime, and her ironclad discipline and fanatical determination could almost make me feel sorry for the pack of heavily armed, violent Muslim fundamentalists that DOG-Ice intended to destroy.  Her cold rage fueled her enough to keep pace with Navy SEALs and Delta Force veterans in high-speed, low drag direct actions (read - killing motherfuckers with extreme prejudice) in our hunts across six continents.
I have my own woman on DOG-Rock, not that she belongs to any man.  Landra Rodiel is an Eastern European gal, a sturdy lass of Hungarian birth, a disdain for polite society and authority and a tongue that soaks up linguistic fluency like Italian bread sops up au jus in a Chicago-style Italian beef sandwich.  Landra is 5'11", 160 pounds, and has the kind of endurance and lack of quit you'd expect from oxen and Slavic genetics.  If she weren't a confirmed lesbian, I'd crush on her for the way she can ring steel plates at 200 yards with her 8 inch barreled Colt Python.  
"Chatter on the radio," Landra said. "The base is worried about those boys we took down in the village."
Her lips bowed into a Mona Lisa smile of satisfaction for a DASH patrol we'd ended.  
I nodded in acknowledgement of both her alert and her sense of winning.  Killing an entire patrol might have blown our stealth and element of surprise, but it gave our target something to talk about, all the better to home in close on their location.  The "boys" in question were a set of jackals who made the rounds of mountain villages to tell them that al Quaeda and the Taleban were closed for business, and DASH was their new customer for support (read parasite on honest people's lives).
We saw that the message came in the form of grabbing four Pashtun daughters, stripping them naked, then setting up a video camera.  The group of a dozen drew lots to see who got first shot at helpless victims, who stood security (and got sloppy seconds or thirds) and who recorded new material to sell on the deep web's murder porn market.
I'll admit that gunning down a dozen DASH enforcers wasn't strictly for intel from looting their bodies for comms and maps.  It was to make certain the only time a member of the rape squad touched a girl's bare flesh was when his corpse fell across their prone legs.  
Hansel "Han" Sherman and I had our SVD's for overwatch while the others crept closer to the assemblage.  My hand-made suppressors for the Russian rifles handled the mighty 7.62mm Russian rounds well, and still had more than sufficient force to turn a human or DASHer head into a canoe at 400 yards.  
Han is a buddy of mine from Indiana, tall, blond and blue-eyed.  He's scary smart with an eidetic memory that makes me feel like I belong in a cave smearing the walls with bison drawn in poop.  Han, like Landra, was a student of history, sprinkling in enough theology to be an ordained minister and sufficient kung fu to take the place of any of the Five Deadly Venoms.  Like me, Han can't grow a beard, he's six feet even, and 180 pounds.  Where Roland and I became brothers at age 8 when his military dad moved to Austin Avenue in Chicago, Han's become my officially adopted little brither since he was a 19 year-old USMC rifleman in Iraq.  
Also like me, Han turned his spot-on marksmanship into a Sniper/Scout assignment who shot so much from various weapons platforms that it takes a conscious effort on his part to miss a target.  He was just what I needed for DOG-Rock, because a field commander leads from the front, not from a sniper-nest overwatch.  Han is my Hawkeye, giving me the same feeling of protection that I used to give my platoon or my DOG-Prime brethren.
Phteven and Han charted our trail up the mountainside while the rest of us buried and camouflaged our bikes.  We traveled almost as light as the Pashtun mountain men do, leaving behind everything else well stashed.  The locals only would carry rifles and ammunition, and we carried a skosh more kit, including long range optics.  Also, we have more guns than they do.  I've got my SVD, a Fabrique Nationale P90 (from a Pakistani arsenal), a Peshwar-built Beretta M-9 clone, a backup Pak-issue Glock 26 in the same caliber as my Beretta, a tomahawk, and a pair of knives.  Phteven and Landra have M-4/M203 combos, and don't need the little P90 PDW's, but they each have two pistols, Kurkri-style machetes, and belts for all their ammo and grenades.  Han and our last member, the notorious C.O.T - Cabel Orion Twain - have either an SVD or an RPG-7 launcher and P90's.  
Cabel would have eschewed the tiny little .22 burp gun for a Russian light machine gun, and it wouldn't have weighed down his 6'5", 300 pound frame any worse than the flyweight polymer machine pistol.  Cabel, my Viking, was shaven bald, but sported a ginger beard braided to remain managable so far from a trimmer, and his sparkling blue eyes were alight with glee as he unpacked a laptop from its bag on the bikes.  He had the video card we scavenged from the DASH patrol, and plugged into the card reader, he pointed to the menu screen.
"We've got gold," Cabel said. "Metadata on their camera.  They were stupid enough to have the GPS working on it.  The techs back at their base would have scrubbed that information while editing together footage for sale, but these jokers handed the base to us on a silver platter."
"Disguised as a little blue plastic square," Landra spoke up.
"Well, flash cards do have gold and silver components," Han said.  Landra nodded, appeased that her sense of the literal was validated.
Landra then translated the DASH boys as they fooled around in their bunk, hyped for their mountain tour.  It was the same kind of video shot by any military unit dressing up for patrol.  Landra snorted as she translated jokes of these goons taking good-natured shots at each other's dick size or impugning their manliness.  Smoke filled their barrack, likely hash or opium to take the edge off of their nerves.
They left their base, but not before the cameraman got a good shot of the compound, complete with its camouflage painted dish.  The GPS on that clip jibed with the path that Phteven and Han put together, but Cabel's dollop of creamy cheese goodness meant we'd have a shorter trek ahead.  We were four miles off if we took the low, twisty goatpaths, but only a mile if we topped the ridge.  This stretch of mountain side would give us plenty of connifer concealment until the trees stopped 100 yards from the peak on this side.
I put the question to my mountaineers, Phteven and Han. "Direct, long or fifty-fifty."
Cabel's bushy red eyebrows danced over his clear blue eyes as he ran the metadata against the same map that they used. "They have a shortcut, a dip in the ridge that has good cover."
We all looked at the pulled up footage, but I checked with our guides.  Phteven had a rare broad grin - rare in that it was unaccompanied by a Black and Tan cigarette danging from his lips.  Han nodded, liking Cabel's find.
"Don't forget Murphy," Landra reminded us.  Faces and noses twitched at the patron saint of "everything that can go wrong, will go wrong."
"Split.  Han and Phteven go the original route.  That will let you flank the base.  The rest of us hump in the way the DASHer's hiked out," I said.  Executive decision.  
Cabel adjusted the goat-wool cap on his head which protected his shaven pate and pale Viking skin from he sun's rays.  Without headgear, the huge Viking would have looked like a tube of lipstick, and the peeling would have been horrendous.  We were all dressed in local fashions, and the wool outer layer we had over our skin-tight undergear not only kept us from roasting in direct sunlight, but kept us warm at nights which rivaled Chicago in February.  They were good enough disguise that four whites and a black man had treaded into Afghan tribe territory.
We're Dangerous Operations, not Stupid Operations.  Sure, we wouldn't have backup and nobody would be on hand to give us an exfil, but military cammies and American firearms would tag us as outsiders right away.  Besides, these clothes were not just soft and comfy in the face of the bipolar weather here, they were designed for the abuse of this terrain, and didn't snag on bushes or sharp rocks.  The rest of our gear, electronics or firearms or motorcycles, were equally local.  
The Peshawar black market arsenal provided us with stuff we preferred if not items which "fell off of trucks" supplying Pakistani military units.  Cabel and Phteven were huge fans of Glock 19's - and really, who wouldn't be?  A 19 is as universal a good fit and standard of quality as you can find - so made do with the slightly larger '17's right out of army stockpiles.  Han took a Glock too, but lucked into a 9mm Mauser C96 made by the Afghan gunsmiths.  And really, what is a Han without his Mauser?  I'd gotten my Beretta 92, and Landra picked up her locally produced versions of favorite SIG Sauer P226 pistol and a nice six-inch Smith and Wesson .357.  
What can I say?  I'm all about that Beretta life.
The Peshawar guns had no serial numbers, and the rest would all track back to Pak military ownership.  We drop things - or die - the US skirts blame like the guy who farted in an elevator and got off one floor below you.  Pakistan gets stuck with the stink.
To me, if DASH feels betrayed by the Inter-Services Intelligence of Pakistan or their military, the very same fuckers who babysat and supported Bin Laden and al Quaeda, they can go to town getting revenge.  DASH never loved AQ, maybe because they weren't abusive enough, and gutted them in both popularity and in the literal sense.  
I'd feel bad for noncombatants caught in the crossfire, though, which is why our job is to make DASH terrified of a group of ghosts who landed in their rec room with a boatload of murder.  The goal is to leave nothing for DASH to trace or track back for revenge, merely nightmares and cold sweat.
Cabel and Landra were with me, and since we were going in the front door, I was glad to have them.  Between his RPG and her M203 with a quiver of rocket grenades and bandoleers of 40mm shells, we were ready to tear asunder heavy resistance.  Yes, Landra was hell on wheels with an M-4/M203, but God, I love having my own human mountain who doesn't mind humping with a huge sack of high explosive artillery.  Cabel loves being the cornerstone of my team because he gets to turn bastards into confetti with heavy weapons.
That, folks, is the definition of a win-win situation.
Don't feel bad for Landra being left out of my favor, she is a stone cold killer too.  We all are, but she came to my attention as a disillusioned former soldier and victim of an extreme right wing Hungarian group.  They lured her in with what seemed to be common sense solutions to the brain drain of doctors and otherf brilliant people making an exodus from their country, but soon found herself disgusted at their racism and homophobia, especially when she came out to them.  She was in the middle of a concentrated search and destroy mission for them when I met her.   The DOGs were going after a ring of racists who'd formed a collective alliance from continent to continent, sort of a neo-Nazi version of NATO.  
I smuggled her out of the country to avoid prosecution, and asked her if she wanted to have an unlimited hunting license for more bastards.  She accepted, and the guerilla violence taught to her by the bigot brigades served as a solid foundation.  I benefitted by having death's black angel walking beside me without a leash.  She benefits by finding a way to make the world a better place by ending motherfuckers.
Our current course was not quite two miles to the old base, keeping to tree canopies and crevaces to lower our profile and exposure to enemy gunfire.  Part one of the plan, my plan, of keeping my people safe, continued to go well.  
Part two - unleashing a wave of murder on terrorists and rape/snuff filmmakers - looked like it would go swimmingly as well.
Trust me, we were definitely going to engage in murder.  Not fair battle, but cold blooded extermination.  Each of us had watched the work DASH sold to deep web perverts for $8,000 per view.  Watching girls who had barely grown into their breasts violated and then destroyed by a sneering pack of maniacs gave all five of us a sum total of zero fucks to give when we reached them.  
We'd give zero fucks at their pain.  
Zero fucks at their fear.
Zero fucks if they died slowly and in agony.
Amen.
Back on the mountain, I soon learned that at a little over forty, the burden of a Dragunov SVD, an FN P90 for close work, three pistols, four knives, ammunition, comms gear and surveillance optics were not kind to my ancient feeling knees.  My creaking joints began to engage in all sorts of statements of fact, such as how my parents were never married (truth, I'm an adopted bastard), I'm too fat (also true, sadly), and that I should enjoy fellatio with decomposing goats (my knees are goddamned liars!)
Getting old sucks, and while my aim hasn't been reduced to shit yet, climbing is nowhere as easy as it used to be.  Winston Mitchell, the founder of the dogs, was seven years older than I am now, and he did things in his late 40's while my legs creak like the hinges on a rusty dumpster.  How he remained so spray is a mystery to me, but it could be explained that Winner's spryness was just pride and iron will smothering any groans and complaints from his own bodyparts.  I don't think I've mastered that yet, so not only am I the shortest of my band of brothers, I'm also the one most likely to wheeze like an epileptic bagpipe player.
Luckily, we ended the hump 200 yards above a village which had been repurposed in the 1980's by Soviets as a communication relay for their Afghan invasion.  It had been taken over in subsequent decades by the Taleban, al Quaeda, and now DASH.  Concrete structures were a patchwork of repairs utilizing adobe mud, giving the illusion of both abandonment and good repair.  This could have been as much a ghost town as a working facility.  Rusted metal Quonset huts proved serviceable, but you could see where holes were insulated with black cloth to make them appear unused.  
The satellite dish was there, painted to match the mountainside when seen from above.  All five of our sets of eyes and binoculars all picked up on fresh power lines and other signs of recent habitation.  While we had video evidence that was less than eight hours old, they did their best to keep themselves out of sight.  A ten foot security wall sported shiny new coils of concertina wire, the kind of stuff that has razorblade-sharp extensions which could cut through bone.  Walkways were shaded by camouflage netting, but any determination other than something was moving beneath it would take intensive observation.  
That was all right.  We had two hours of daylight remaining for five highly observant individuals to map the base, its weak spots and the best angles of attack within.
I owned the responsibility of leadership, mostly as it was handed down from my best friend in the world, Roland Walker.  It was due to experience, and the fact that I had survived and thrived on Dangerous operations, not nepotism.  However, I had chosen a group of smart, capable warriors.  Five brains working on one target was what had made DOG Prime rock so hard.  We were always outnumbered then, and we had the same rough road ahead.  We'd estimated the odds against us were at least 15 to one, but that was merely counting people outside of the structures.  
According to Landra, who still monitored their comms, we still had the element of surprise, which would make our action against them work, especially if we struck with swiftness and cruelty.
"Home base still thinks that their boys are stoned and enjoying naps after their rape party in the village.  However, if someone doesn't call back by 2100, they're going to mobilize a reaction force, just in case the village elders did something brave like slash their throats," Landra said.  
"Of course, because you have to get revenge on the people who killed your scuzzy rapists," Han murmured. "These people barely count as human."
"Human is overrated," Landra said in reply.  
Han managed a smile. "I know what you mean.  You know what I mean."
Landra returned the grin.  Sure, there was some friction of beliefs, but I made sure that I had grown-ups in my group, folks who could disagree without hatred.  Aristotle was right in saying that "intellect was the ability to entertain an idea without adopting it." (find true statement)
Just to be certain, I split the team, which coincidentally allowed us to hit them from two angles for maximum mayhem.  Han would work sniper for Phteven's approach, while I covered Landra and Cabel.  The high explosive launch systems would hammer the enemy off balance, while our sniper rifles took down those who were too alert or not damaged enough that they couldn't fight back.  
Violence of action and shock were our best weapons with which to seize advantage, while precision marksmanship made damn certain nobody tried to turn the tide back against us.
Even though I split the team with logic, I now knew how Rolls or Winner felt when we divided our forces before.  I suspected the toll it took on them emotionally, but this was my team now.  Letting them out of my sight hurt.
Ignore that pain and focus, I told myself.  The strength of this raid was built upon coordination and aggression, not worry.  Any dithering would only hurt Han and Phteven.
In the last of the dying light, the two of them climbed quietly.  They were my supreme mountain climbers, and as the shadows grew longer, they faded like phantoms into the terrain.  Han, former Sniper/Scout in the Corps, didn't need a ghillie to be stealthy.  Phteven's Ranger mountain training made him into a mountain goat who wouldn't disturb a pebble on the rugged slope overlooking the old Russian base.  
This was another lesson I got from the SEALs who sacrificed so much in the Hindu Kush.  We spent extra time, made extra precautions to move as quietly as a Pashtun goatherd.  We dressed like them and smelled like them, and followed their examples, for up here, they were literal ghosts who could sneak up on a paranoid frogman.
Heads rotated on swivels and every sense was peeled for the slightest sign of enemy contact.  I could not afford for my DOGs to make a mistake.  I would not lost my people.
DOGs aren't supposed to die.  We're supposed to help the other poor bastard die for their country.  We were up against seventy to a hundred DASH fighters, and that was who we had counted in the open.  Those were a lot of rifles that could bring death against us, but we remained low profile, crawling and whisper soft on the slopes.  
"In position," Han's voice rasped in my earbud.  
Landra, Cabel and I were at our positions at the front gate.  The recon team meant to search for the missing enforcer patrol gathered out in the open.  Like us, they were dressed in the soft, yet warm and durable goat wool clothing of the Pashtun, with similar fighting vests and harnesses over the top of their robelike garments.  The DASH gunmen had plenty of American-style M-4's, assault carbines which had either fallen across the boarder as gifts from Pakistani ISI or stolen/sold by US trained Afghan warlords.  Others had AK's and one in five of the fifteen man group had an RPG-7.  
Another twenty milled around to see their friends off, and four more served as gate security, even as Cabel and Landra crawled closer to them.  
"We under-estimated enemy numbers," Phteven called from his position, at a right angle to our entrance.  To anyone more than a few inches from him, the words he spoke would be an unintelligible murmur.  Thanks to the microphone taped to his jaw, picking up vibrations, the rest of us could hear him as if we were sitting around a library table.  Have I told you how much I like LASH-style hands free communications?
I couldn't see Cabel from where he hid, ready to open the attack, but I could see his blue eyes twinkle with delight. "We may resort to battlefield pickups to finish the job."
"If I spok an RPK, I'll let you know," Han said.
"Monica," Cabel replied.  This was shorthand for a slightly racist term of enderment in the African American community.  It was also a term of endearment that Phteven infected the rest of us palefaces with.  
I brought my people to focus with the first half of the Latin motto of the DOGs.
"Pravus cavete."
"Canes martis percusserit."
A simple term.
Let evil beware.  The dogs of war strike.
I pulled the trigger and watched the nose of a DASH soldier implode through his face.

#
DOGZFG Chapter One: Getting There Is Half the Fun
A friend suggested I post a link to my chapters for sharing.  I think this is a good plan, and this DA account could use some fresh activity.
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Luminess doll divine by Skaramine
Luminess doll divine
Was playing around on Doll Divine.  I got to thinking, I've had Lumion around in one form or another for YEARS and YEARS.

It's time he had a kid.  Even if she ain't from him in this universe.

Introducing Luminess.  All the strength and light projection of her dad, but lots more cuteness.  Her dragon nature filters through with her green hair accents. 
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  • Mood: Miserable
  • Listening to: Air Cleaner Noises
  • Reading: Angry tirades and perversions of my own words.
  • Watching: time slip away
  • Playing: The Crew Wild Run
  • Eating: debt
  • Drinking: cold bitter coffee
So :iconlibrarian-of-hell: reads something of mine.

You said that I called her personality was a "symptom" of brain damage or a disease.  This is a fucking lie.  Because others have mental illnesses does not mean you personally have those mental diseases.  Crippling inability to get out of bed, painful memories of past trauma, and other things are stuff that some people want to have taken care of by medication.  Under no instance is anyone forced to engage in taking drugs.  There's a thing called "AMA" - Against Medical Advice. 

You call me a victim of rape because someone else made the first move on my first sexual experience.  The only force at work was mutual attraction. 

You call me an addict of medicines - I don't even feel a thing when I miss one or two doses.

I went full berserk on you for lying.

You want to burn Penny... you're being THAT fucking petty? 

I'm so tired of your overreactions.  Your seeing a crushing force controlling me, making me do things that I want to do. 

deviantID

Skaramine
Douglas Wojtowicz
Artist | Hobbyist | Traditional Art
United States
I'm a professional author who toys around with various mediums as I enjoy designing characters for comic books.

Current Residence: Chicagoland
Favourite genre of music: Any
Favourite style of art: comic book
Operating System: Windows XP
Interests

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:iconfeathered-pics:
Feathered-pics Featured By Owner Jan 31, 2016
Thanks for the favorite and the watch!
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:iconskaramine:
Skaramine Featured By Owner 6 days ago  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
A pleasure.  You are lovely.
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vsqs Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Hi! Thanks for the fav!
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Skaramine Featured By Owner Jan 20, 2016  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Your work is beautiful.
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vsqs Featured By Owner Jan 21, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you! :)
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Ange1ica Featured By Owner Jan 17, 2016  Professional Photographer
Thank you for adding my images to your Favourites.

Angelica
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Skaramine Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2016  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Truly my pleasure.
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Yorphine Featured By Owner Jan 14, 2016
:happybounce: Thanks for the watch! :happybounce:
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Skaramine Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2016  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
My pleasure!  Your artwork is brilliant, and your photography is striking.
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Daemonideus Featured By Owner Jan 13, 2016  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thanks for the :+fav:!! :)
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