Foxfur wrote: (Speaking to group with hand shielding mouth deflecting words sideways)
Does she realize what the fuck she's doing? Speaking like that tickles the wrinkled one. Rad hardened foot thick leaded glass stands no chance against the diamond tipped engorgement that inevitably follows such talk of rank and award. Aw fuck, she knows EXACTLY what's goin down.
Ahem, uh uh uh, arg, patooie! (Hand removed)
Hmmm... I am rather impressed by the sight of your M-72... Guess you could say rather gets me all "heat"ed up... as it inserts into the launch tube... fingers guiding it ever so gently, until the trigger is squeezed, shooting its eventual release to an exstatic and thunderous report... only to begin the sequence again... over and over... until the objective is taken completely...
Your research is quite thorough. Awards may be hammered into chest with extreme force and be gratefully recieved.
My blood is my honor. Spilling it, no problem. Pain is weakness leaving the body.
Pain is the indicator that you are, indeed, still alive, and should be greeted with anticipation, nay, with RELISH!
When we were in the field, me and Sergeant Sweetpea shacked up in my weapons truck. Being an armorer allowed me to have the most secure vehicle in the field. Other troops called the transport "The Honeymoon Suite".
When engaged in congress, as hot as she was I found my eyes and mind wandering to the 118 M16A1's (six with totally fuckable 40mm M203 grenade launchers), 12 M60's, 8 M2 .50BMG's, and 10 M1911A1's.
Nothing like completion surrounded by parkerized steel voyeurs. Exhibition before belt fed, crew served, air cooled weapons is liberating.
Wow... It is unusual to find a man this romantic. And the surroundings would only serve to enhance the amorous decorum of said honeymoon suite... the enticing smells of lube, and bore cleaner, and yes, expended propellant and hot, glistening steel... py heart goeth pitter patter. The Sergeant is indeed a VERY lucky woman!!
Screaming out "7.62x51! 5.56x45! 40mm HEDP!" never bothered her. Even more of a turn on!
As well it should be... a match indeed forged in the fires of heaven, consumated on the barrel lathe of eternity...
So madly in love that I built up the best goddamned fighting position possible for her. Love allows no less. Duty requires sacrifices gladly made.
Such deeply abiding affection that I issued her half of the smoke grenades and 7 rocket propelled star shells and unlimited sub-caliber reloads for hew LAW.
As well I can imagine! And again, the HEAT rises...
I wanted to give her everything an armorer could possibly give.
Loving her unconditionally, no matter how filthy the inside of her reciever was or how clogged her BFA was from multiple bursts of passionate amounts of blank rounds.
Massive amounts of ball powder expended from a rigid 1 in 7 heavy barrel.
Her locking lugs surrounded my bolt with hard-chromed rotary engagement preventing extraction until she decided it was time to punch my primer.
And as the sear, so tightly held in place by the merest fraction that it would seem only microns kept the firing pin from triggering it's much anticipated detonation of the charge held within...
She holds the clacker that blows my heart sending love frag downrange. "Front Towards Lust Object".
Multiple chained units fired simultaneously.
I now stand before you wearing only a pistol belt and a smile.
My magazine pouch throbs.
And bulges, your primary weapon held at rigid and rock-solid attention, waiting for the command to lock, aye, lock and indeed, to load... that said cartridges would be brought into their explosive and, of course, inevitable expenditure of the rounds sent to complete their mission, to home in on the target which awaits, with fear, trepidation, and yet, anticipation...
Goddamn! See what you've done?
Gun One Shot Out!
Gotta go punch my bore now...
And where the FUCK is my asbestos glove? How the FUCK am I supposed to swap my dull red stellite lined barrel for my spare?
And yet, his spirit remains undaunted... like the expert he is, with the tools and machines and devices at hand, he shakes his head, clears his mind, to undertake the next mission as it avails itself to him... never complaining, never shirking his foresworn duty... he charges ahead, perhaps into the unknown, knowing that, in the end, he will emerge, victorious...
I think BBS and I are about even now.
If she's not soaking in a tub of Hoppe's then she has assumed room temperature and will be forwarded to a depot level repair facility or simply DRMO'd.
Demil / Dewat possibly indicated.
(Take that, fucker!)
Ahhh, but like the M-249, while those uninitiated in its nuances may decide that it is an unwieldy, unbalanced, and perhaps unforgiving, once handled, and warmed up with the passage of several rounds in succession, she becomes like the princess, the jewel thought unobtainable, allowing the secrets of her sweet spot to the one who would embrace her, not to stifle or choke or constrain her but to allow her to run freely, so that the objective is no longer looked upon as a labor that must be completed and/or dreaded, but an anticipated and joyous mating of that whose nature decrees should be joined as one...
May your day run as swiftly as a bottle of LSA in Iraq, and your passion remain as deep as the crater of an expended Excalibur round...