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08-04-2010, 04:01 AM | #1 |
The truth is liberating.
Join Date: May 2010
Location: San Diego, CA
Posts: 2,422
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Whoo-HOOO!!! A quiet road leads to a cabin in amidst many pinewood trees. Smoke bellows from the chimney stack and several piles of wood lie neatly near the walkway leading to the front door. It is dusk and candles seem to be lit for either warmth or illumination. Inside, there is a rather slender man that is standing at a wood burning stove. There‟s a scent of fresh venison being cooked. A bowl of organic vegetables, grown in the garden just outside, sit in a strainer bowl near the sink. A tamed timber wolf lies comfortably near the unguarded fireplace. The pinewood that fuels the fireplace crackles and snaps as the wolf‟s ears twitch to the sound. The canine is otherwise unaffected and drifts back to its slumber. First thread!!! I don't normally post up my writings online simply due to the fact that I often worry about people taking my ideas and running with them. But I love it here on the Tank and thought I'd contribute. ************************************************ This is an excerpt from a full-length novel that I'm writing. I hope that it becomes a series much in the likes of what they have for Star Wars and Star Trek. Keep in mind that this is only a writing sample. It's pieces of the whole to present to you, the fans, for feedback and enjoyment. It has not been edited nor is this even a fraction of the 225 page, 12 Chapter story that is progress. *********************************************** The premise: G.I. Joe has been in a semi-deactivated state since the late '90s. Many of the auxiliary team members have been placed on the retired list, gone on with their lives, but subject to reserve recall. A handful of core members remained active and functioning in the G.I. Joe team but more as observers and consultants to side DoD and Federal projects. *********************************************** The story: Log Cabin Northern Canada Yukon Country 2313(CST) -Tuesday, September 11, 2001 The man is clothed only in denim pants that are tucked into his wool lined boots. Despite the chill, he is without a shirt exposing several scars that could have only been the result of being whipped or from a long-bladed sword. His back muscles are chiseled, a result of a life of much physical activity. A red cryptic tattoo rests on his left lower arm. It resembles something tribal or an Asian crest. The ink has been faded for years. The mysterious man pulls the meat from the fire and throws a sizable piece to his canine companion. Without a twitch or miss of judgment, the wolf pounces up and catches the food in mid-air exposing its sharp, white teeth. The wolf then returns to its place in front of the fire and eats. The man then puts some of the tender meat on a steel plate, along with some of the garden vegetables from the bowl and some potatoes that were boiling in a pot on the stove. He sits down in a large wooden rocking chair, across from his companion, and eats his meal in silence. When the meal is complete, he takes his dish to a pot of boiling water and begins to clean his mess from the meal. This only takes a few minutes. He then moves back into the area near the fireplace. From the mantle of the fireplace he grabs an unused taper candle that is connected by the wick and some plant that resembles sage. Above the mantle, mounted on a rack, are a matching set of three Japanese Katana Swords and an Uzi Semi-Automatic Machine Gun. Below the gun are the words etched in a piece of wood: NEVER MORE. The man lowers some sagebrush into the fire, lighting it with sparks emanating from the dry plant. He uses the flame to split the candle wicks and in one swift motion, lighting them and grabbing them with his free hand. The sage smolders and burns without flame. He places the sage and candles on a low-level table against a wall to the left. Placed neatly on the table are several photos of family and friends. In the center of the photos, and next to a photo of a slender, red-haired woman, lies a photo of an elderly Asian man with his arms outstretched around two young boys who appear to be brothers. The three men are smiling, the elder behind donning a long white beard and flowing white hair that is braided. He glances at the center photo then to the photo of the woman, at first with feelings of happiness then with brief despair. He then lowers himself on the floor; legs crossed and eyes closed to begin a daily ritual of deep meditation. It‟s a crisp night in the Canadian Yukon. A man in an older model pick-up truck comes hammering down the dirt road leading to the lone cabin owned and occupied by a mysterious man and his domesticated Timber wolf. Smoke bellows from the fireplace and it is dark inside. The owner inside, once asleep in a hammock that hangs near the fire, is now poised between the door and the window. He‟s peeking outside the window to see who approaches. His canine companion is by his side at the ready to defend their home. It‟s a seldom occasion that they get visitors and never this late in the night. When the man and his companion do get visitors, it‟s often non-intentional and the works of kids from the nearby village trying to poach rabbits from the land. Nonetheless, the truck barreling down the road comes to a stop in a cloud of dust. An elderly man in faded denim overalls and a short, grey beard emerge out of the truck, slamming the truck door with a loud, creaking thud. The old man did this in part to wake the resident of the cabin, not knowing that he was well awake and ready to greet him the moment he heard the vehicle engine nearly a mile down the road. He‟s holding a telegram envelope and approaches the door. Before the elderly man could raise his hand to knock on the door, it opened suddenly. The mysterious man stands tall in the doorway. The man in the door is a tall man, with short, cropped blonde hair and pale blue eyes. The same slashing scars that run across his back are also on his chest, neck, and across his face. He looks down at the envelope with a scowl on his face. The elderly man delivering the envelope has a lapse of memory and suddenly realizes that he‟s there to give the envelope to its owner. The old man‟s voice crackles under the crisp air, his Canadian accent emphasized, “Sir, I got this in the General Store about an hour ago. It‟s addressed to somebody named: Snake-Eyes. No sooner than I get the envelope, a nice young lady with an accent calls me on the telephone making sure the message gets delivered right away. I don‟t know who this Mr. Snake-Eyes is and I know most folks in town, so I figured that this was for you. I hurried as fast as I can to get here. Even changed out of my pajamas.” The man at the door says nothing. He only shrugs and takes a glance at the envelope in the old man‟s outstretched hand. “Well, take it Sonny. It‟s gotta be important. And with all the hurrah going on down south, this could be some sort of „secret-mission‟ order,” the old man says jokingly, not knowing how true his words are. The man at the door, glances at the elderly man parts his lips to speak but doesn‟t. His facial expression tells it all. The old man catches on and explains, “There‟s been some kind of attack on the United States. It‟s all over the news.” The old man peeks behind the tall man to realize that he has neither a radio nor a television set. “It happened in New York City earlier today. I‟m surprised you didn‟t hear about it.” Snake-Eyes glares at the old man delivering the message and snatches from his hand. Giving the old man a stare, he then backs away from the door and slams it shut. Snake-Eyes doesn‟t open the envelope right away. Instead, stokes the fire with his free hand, sits in his chair and looks at the envelope. In stencil writing, his Code Name: Snake-Eyes is written on the front. He raises his head for a moment to focus on one of the pictures on the table next to his left. The picture is of him with Scarlett on a sandy beach. They‟re in civilian clothes, holding hands, and smiling. A smile emerges from his mouth all the while, his eyes drift towards his mantelpiece. The words etched in wood grabbing his attention: NEVER MORE. He returns to the envelope and contemplates it. With almost a sixth sense, he knows its contents. He knows that it contains words of instruction to return to the world he had hoped to leave behind years ago. Despairingly, he grabs a small blade from the inside of his boot and rips the envelope open. Taking a moment, he places the blade on the small end table on his right. He holds the envelope up, draws a deep breath and takes the paper out. Unfolding the message, a marker of the Snake-Eyes‟ old team, G.I. Joe is on the top part. The blocked lettering and red, white, and blue stripes were familiar. Yet they also haunt him a previous life in which he truly didn‟t want to return. It was a life that took his parents, his best friend, and his twin sister. It was a life he no longer could live, but she couldn‟t live without. Reluctantly, he reads the message: Quote:
Snake-Eyes:
I know you have lived that of several lifetimes. Many of which, you would rather let go than accept. The Joe‟s have been recalled and reactivated at the call of the United States. We could really use your skills and training in battling what is a terrible tragedy on the country. I have talked to Hawk and he assures me that you will be compensated at the level you once did. He also assures me that any "misunderstandings” between you and the command will be dropped and any disciplinary actions will be dismissed. Sergeant First Class Stalker is staying at the hotel in the town near where you live. Meet him there in the lobby promptly at 0700 tomorrow and he will take you to “The Pit”. Please do this. The Joe‟s need you. I need you. Thank you: Shana as he pants and looks his master in the eye. It‟s as if the canine knows the dilemma his master is faced with and is by his side to the end. “Such loyalty,” thinks the master. He then rises out of the chair and to a dusty trunk on the opposite side of the one-room cabin. It‟s military green with faded stencil markings on the top and sides. He removes the wood crate boxes on top of the trunk and blows off the layer of dust revealing the words of the stencil markings and the G.I. Joe emblem. Snake-Eyes takes a deep breath and opens the trunk revealing the black commando outfit complete with mask, goggles, and Kevlar combat vest. He places these items along with several personal knives and blades in a large duffle bag and walks over to the mantelpiece. He reads the words on the block of wood carved by his own hand only days after he left the team last. He pondered the words written as their meaning drove into his head. He swore that day to hang his swords and weapon forever. It was these things that killed his family. It was these things that broke his heart. It was these things that proved to be a nuisance more than an attribute. On that cold winter morning, he slashed away for hours at the limb of the mighty fir tree with the sword he promised to never pick up again. He chiseled away with a dagger at the tree limb until it was a piece that was the right size and began etching the words displayed. He spent many hours staring at those words and the pieces they represent. Tonight, as he holds the enveloped request in his hand, those words stare back at him. He grabs the plank of wood and tosses it into the fireplace. The flames rise high and might, as if a show of power as the finish on the wood ignites. Snake-Eyes watches it burn and the words fade into a charred heap. They burn from the center outward, almost mocking him or to show him that despite his mental and physical strength, he is powerless. He reaches to the mantelpiece and pulls down the swords that were hand-crafted for him and he inspects them. They have been long out of maintenance, laid in the sheathing that houses them. The blades have been resting on the mounted rack since that day cutting the wood. The Uzi also rests below those blades untouched since that day. Live by the sword, die by the sword. But to live by the bullet also means you may die by the same means. He places the swords on the ground next to the message and reaches for the gun. He examines it thoroughly as if to inspect it. “Such an ugly piece of machinery,” he thinks. “A necessary evil in today’s world,” he continues on his thoughts, “but ugly nonetheless. So brutal as well. Not nearly as clean as a sharp blade. And they called the Samurai savages, hmmm.” Snake-Eyes then situates the gun and his swords on the floor in front of the lowered meditation table. He then places the message, still in the envelope, in front of the picture of him and Scarlett. Examining the layout, he then lowers himself into a meditation that will take him until the morning. The last mortal words to pass through his mind, “NEVER MORE.”
__________________
Code Name: One-Stop *IT1(SW/AW/FMF)* My B/S/T list. My Feedback Some of my written musings: Some G.I. Joe lore written by Dallas Martin Last edited by Sailor_Joe; 08-04-2010 at 03:05 PM.. |
08-04-2010, 04:04 AM | #2 |
The truth is liberating.
Join Date: May 2010
Location: San Diego, CA
Posts: 2,422
|
White House West Wing November 26, 2001 - 0900 hours on the inspections. While the inspectors failed to find WMD, the areas they searched also seemed to be “too clean”. The ambassador from France has the floor as they speak to the President of the strongest power in the free world. She‟s an elegant woman who is tall with long-dark hair that reaches down her back. She wears steel-rimmed glasses that accentuate her green-eyes. She has the figure of a well-trained athlete, despite being in her mid-40s. Her thick accent isn‟t French, but more from what could be one of the Eastern Bloc countries. The ambassador is now addressing the President directly, “Mister President, our UN Forces have failed to find any weapons of mass destruction but our intelligence reports tell us that the Iraqi leader has been harboring terrorists in hidden stockades.” The secretary of state remarks, “Madame Ambassador, might I inquire where you acquired this sort of intel?” “Unfortunately, you cannot. Let‟s just say that while our methods of gaining such invaluable knowledge is not within the reaches of the American government, that our intentions are for the best of all,” the Ambassador replies. The president steps in, “Please continue, Madame Ambassador. Our relationship with your government is certainly not to be questioned. If you have information that you say is from a reliable source, then we will treat it as so.” “Thank you, Mister President,” the Ambassador continues. “The terrorist sects don‟t stay in one area for long and are constantly on the move. This is what makes it difficult to find them. They are assisted by civilians and the local people who fear for their lives should they not comply.” The Commandant of the Marine Corps takes in a deep breath, “This explains why we can‟t seem to find those WMD or terrorists.” “That is correct, General. These terrorists are also disguised as local citizens. Thus making it even more difficult to spot them should our troops come across them,” she adds. “Those dirty bastards!” exclaims the Vice-President. The Ambassador continues, “It is the recommendation of my country and that of the United Nations that, under the leadership of the United States of America, that a joint-task force enter the nation of Iraq and remove the current leadership out of power. Only a strong showing of multi-national force will eradicate the terrorist sects from the country and make the United States and the free world safe once-again. You will get full support from your allies in this endeavor.” The President stops to think about what the Ambassador is proposing. He then comes to a decision, “It makes perfect sense and something has to be done. We can‟t sit on our laurels forever. Action must take place. Since the nature of this meeting is completely off record, I must confide with my staff and make a motion through Congress to mobilize troops. I‟ll rally support from the people and make a public address. It‟s time to show those terrorists that they stepped on the wrong toes when they came across the United States‟ line. This meeting is adjourned.” As the group disbands, the United States government officials retreat to the Oval Office where they begin the plan to vindicate their country. The Ambassador is the first to leave the room where she is lead to the entry of the White House where her chauffeured stretch limousine. The driver is wearing a red uniform and drives her to her hotel. She enters the hotel and passes the front desk where she inquires about any messages, in which there are none. She rides the glass elevator to the top floor with her uniformed driver who is carrying her briefcase. When they approach the room, he hands her the case and remains outside the door as she enters it. She then sets up her laptop where she connects to an encrypted satellite connection. On the screen the red Cobra insignia appears. She makes the connection and a Tele-Viper appears on the screen. He acknowledges her transmittal. She asks for the Cobra Commander and the Tele-Viper asks if she can hold. The screen then returns to the Cobra insignia for a moment while she pours herself a drink from the wet bar in the hotel room. As she finished pouring the brown liquid from the crystal decanter, the hooded face of the Commander appears on the screen, “I assume you have good news to report, Baroness?” “I do indeed. It seems we‟ve managed to convince the United States that the dolt in Iraq was a major player on the attacks on their country,” she reports. “They‟re going to launch a full-scale, international offensive strike on the country,” she continues. “This is indeed good news, Baroness,” Cobra Commander says, pleased. “With the US occupied with the situation in Iraq, we can continue on with our other plans. Tomax and Xamot are currently forging a plan that will send the world economy into utter chaos. Between the military movements in Iraq and Wall Street facing the brink of an economic meltdown we will go unchallenged.” The confidence in the Commander‟s voice was not something that the Baroness has heard in a great long while. It pleased her to see him in such good spirits for when the Cobra Commander is pleased, the whole organization runs like clockwork. But when he‟s flustered or upset, he tends to make brash decisions. She finishes her report, “This is an excellent plan, to be certain, Commander. I must go to the consulate in France and give them my report on the meeting with the United States leaders.” “Will you by stopping by MARS Industries, Baroness?” the hooded commander inquires. Slightly annoyed by his inquisition of her personal life, she reluctantly replies, “Yes, I will be visiting Castle Destro after my meeting in France.” Still in good spirits, the Commander closes out his message, “Well if you can find time in your busy schedules, then. Please stop by the mountain lair. The twins will be here and we will have such a party!” The Baroness acknowledges the invite, “I‟ll be sure to let Destro know. Cobra!!!” The screen on her laptop goes to black as the transmission terminates. She takes a sip of the Cognac in the crystal glass and turns to the mirror. She places the glass on the bureau, flips her long-dark hair to one side, and then pulls her glasses from her face. She then proceeds to undo the top two buttons on her blouse. The hotel room phone rings and she answers it. It‟s her aide in the crimson uniform. He notifies her that her flight to France will be ready in two hours. The Baroness acknowledges and hangs up the phone.
__________________
Code Name: One-Stop *IT1(SW/AW/FMF)* My B/S/T list. My Feedback Some of my written musings: Some G.I. Joe lore written by Dallas Martin Last edited by Sailor_Joe; 08-04-2010 at 04:11 AM.. |
08-04-2010, 04:04 AM | #3 |
The truth is liberating.
Join Date: May 2010
Location: San Diego, CA
Posts: 2,422
|
Rue d’Orleans Hotel Paris, France – Two Days Later Inside a dingy hotel room, a man lays face-down with arms spread on the bed. The smell of cheap cigarettes fill the room and a half bottle of bourbon rest on the nightstand. The cap is off the bottle as if the person who was drinking the liquid did so straight from the bottle. That person, the man now sleeping during the mid-afternoon is wearing a white t-shirt and green Dockers. Before falling into this drunken stupor, he managed to take off his black leather boots and Hawaiian style button-up shirt. Both of which lay haphazardly on the ground and draped over the single chair, respectively. On the table, by the window, rest a shoulder holster with a military issue Baretta 9mm with a full clip and one in the chamber. The safety is off and the serial numbers are scratched off with a dremel tool. Next to the holster, an identification case that you wear around your neck exposes an ID. The face picture on the ID is that of the man in the bed. There are two lines below the picture. One line has a single name. The second line reads a serial number. From behind the bottle on the end table, a cell phone buzzes twice then a familiar tune comes from the speaker. The tune is a special tone that signifies a specific caller. The sleeping man snores and then grumbles a bit. He ignores the phone. A few moments later, the phone vibrates and makes noise again. This time, the man grabs the phone and presses the button to ignore the call. He knocks over the bottle and brown liquid pours onto the worn shag carpet of the hotel room. The man grumbles but ignores the spilled alcohol. A third time, the phone vibrates and the tune comes from the speaker. He reluctantly grabs the phone and resists the urge to throw the phone across the room. Instead, he flips it open and takes the call. Still face down on the bed, he turns his head to speak into the phone, “Chuckles, here. What do you want?” The voice on the phone was stern. The man calling didn‟t have to be in that cheap hotel room in the red light district of Paris to know that his informant was drunk and sleeping that afternoon. He just knew it and was upset by it, “This is Hawk and you know damn well what I want!” Chuckles manages to prop himself up, sitting on the side of the bed. Holding the phone to his ear with his left hand, he scowls at the sight of the spilled bourbon bottle. He then reaches with his other hand for a soft pack of cheap cigarettes and tries to shake one lose. It too is empty and Chuckles scowls again. “Are you listening to me, dammit!!” the General exclaims. With a slight laugh, Chuckles jokes, “Can you run that by me again one more time? My head‟s a bit fuzzy right now.” Thoroughly upset, Hawk screams through the pre-paid cell phone, “It‟s going to be more than your head that‟s fuzzy. There was very hush-hush meeting that went down with the President and the Chiefs-of-Staff.” “What‟s new about that?” Chuckles asks, now annoyed because he was woke up for such an insignificant call. Hawk continues, “It‟s something serious and the ambassador from France was a key player. The French delegate was invited to the party and I wasn‟t. And now our team is moving out of Iraq, where we had a rather disastrous meet up with Cobra forces. It doesn't make sense.” Trying to wrap his head around this situation, Chuckles still doesn't understand his role, “So what do you want from me?” “Get close to the ambassador. Do what you have to do and get the intel I need. Anything will help,” Hawk briefs his informant. “You‟ll have 48 hours to get me anything. I've assigned Agent Jinx to assist you on this. She should be knocking on your door in a few hours.” “Great, you‟re pairing me up with Jinx again. Why can‟t you ever pair me up with Red or even LJ?” Chuckles rhetorically asks with a sigh. “Anything else you‟d like to drop on me?” “Yah, answer your damn phone on the first call. We can‟t afford to be having our little chats traced,” Hawk demands. “That and clean yourself up. I think it would be a bit difficult to infiltrate an international ambassador smelling like cheap booze and even cheaper cigarettes.” “You never know with me, Hawk,” Chuckles laughs. “Actually, I do. Just do the job. 48 hours. Hawk, out,” the general responds. Chuckles closes the phone and now throws it across the room. He grabs the turned bottle and swallows what‟s left of the bourbon inside. Selling insurance was never this political.
__________________
Code Name: One-Stop *IT1(SW/AW/FMF)* My B/S/T list. My Feedback Some of my written musings: Some G.I. Joe lore written by Dallas Martin Last edited by Sailor_Joe; 08-04-2010 at 04:12 AM.. |
08-16-2010, 04:13 PM | #4 |
REAL Resolute animator
Join Date: May 2009
Location: LA, California
Posts: 257
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Where and/or when can we get the full book? Great story!
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VS GENERATION 28: The first time you see this, copy it into your signature on any forum and add 1 to the generation. Social experiment |
08-17-2010, 08:41 PM | #5 |
The truth is liberating.
Join Date: May 2010
Location: San Diego, CA
Posts: 2,422
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Thanks... I'm actually finishing up the last chapters right now. I'm hoping it will get picked up by a major publisher (can't say right now).
__________________
Code Name: One-Stop *IT1(SW/AW/FMF)* My B/S/T list. My Feedback Some of my written musings: Some G.I. Joe lore written by Dallas Martin |
08-17-2010, 09:08 PM | #6 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Apr 2009
Location: Australia
Posts: 2,294
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Nice! I like your take on the characterizations so far. Look forward to more (and the novel)
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08-17-2010, 09:08 PM | #7 |
ChaplainAsst
Join Date: Jun 2008
Location: Coastal Georgia
Posts: 4,910
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I'll buy it. You are definitely have a talent for writing and have a great story to tell. Thanks for sharing!
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My feedback: http://www.hisstank.com/forum/buy-se...plainasst.html |
08-17-2010, 09:37 PM | #8 |
Physical Trainer
Join Date: Aug 2007
Location: Maurice's B-B-Q Buffet
Posts: 908
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Too much exposition. Giant balls for posting your work.
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08-17-2010, 09:37 PM | #9 |
IG 4 LIFE
Join Date: Mar 2010
Location: The last place you would think
Posts: 17,671
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Really vivid in your descriptions .REally feeling it. Nice work
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08-17-2010, 09:38 PM | #10 |
Physical Trainer
Join Date: Aug 2007
Location: Maurice's B-B-Q Buffet
Posts: 908
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Do you have an Editor?
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