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Generation Kill is love.

You know what I love about Generation Kill fandom? Oh, like, fucking everything. I mean I happen to think I have one of the most awesome, giving flists ever. So, if I have the best flist ever, then I also happen to think that Generation Kill is my best fandom ever. It's small (which I prefer), the writing quality is amazingly high (which is awesome) and because we're all really really really happy to be here, we tend to support each other tremendously. We cheerlead a lot. We will cheer for you if you write, if you draw, if you can string together a coherent phrase. We will even cheer for your ass for contributing ideas and then taking nine months to turn them out. (See Get Some for proof of this).

For further proof of GK's awesome, I submit to you the following recommendations.

#1 --

tevere's Sixteen Days in September, which is an AU story about Nate as a Peace Corps volunteer. But, I'm going to tell you now that that has nothing to do with the story. It's incidental, because this story is about the United Nations and the independence of East Timor from Indonesia. This story is about politics and warfare. IMO, there are Generation Kill characters (personas?) involved but this is not really a GK story, this story is about what happened in Rwanda and Somalia and every third-world nation where, if there's not oil involved, the UN just sort of sits around with its thumb up its ass. This is not an easy story. It is not light. You will not feel better afterwards -- but you will feel enlightened. And then you will be in desperate need of the following…

#2 -- Last week was

romanticalgirl's birthday. You might've heard me talk about it once or twice (or three times).

Well, last night

alethialia posted This Close to the Real Thing, which she wrote for L's birthday based off of her prompts for the Porn Skirmish, and let me tell you, she got all the good ones: wet dreams, sex toys, dirty talk. I would especially pay attention to the wet dreams part of the equation, since at one point I was threatening her with an injunction on Brad's behalf. It has been too long since the world was graced with an A story. You could tell her that too.

#3 -- And then, once you are done there, I want you all to go and encourage

snglesrvngfrend as much as humanly possible because her GK debut Mistakes We Knew We Were Making forced me to climb in the freezer for at least ten minutes. An AU about a Nate who never quite made it to the Marines, but who knows better than to sleep with them… right until he meets Brad. Yeah, Brad is universal like that.

And last but never ever ever least

#4 --

romanticalgirl wrote Johnny Walker Wisdom, which I am totally biased over, because she wrote it for ME! ME! ME! And it features Drunk!Nate, who perhaps is the most adorable drunk you will ever have the fortune to run across. This story is also about the effect of Drunken!Nate on Brad, which is pretty much like causing the collapse of an entire house by pulling out one brick. I just love L's writing madly.

And yes, I do admit to being biased regarding, like, one or two, or all of these stories, but, um, that doesn't mean you shouldn't read them. I'm just saying. You all know how picky I am, would I steer you wrong?

ETA: And! And! ~~Daddy's home from vacation~~ Ahem. I mean

tomricks is back for all your military based/war insanity intelligensia, doing the real job the rest of the media just won't do. [plays Eminem's 'Without Me']

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I'm going to just be over there.

RAY would understand me and support my needs (and preach about how the love of a good man & the regular plunging of his anal cavities can truly heal a wounded heart! I mean, look what the LT did to Brad! He gets all smiley sometimes and shit). Where's a good Ray-Ray when you need him?

Ray would be shocked and appalled that anybody would want to be near Trombley's ass ever. Have people looked at Trombley's flat ass? His asshole probably has teeth. In fact, Ray's so sure of this that everytime someone gets too close to Trombley's six Ray hollers, "Castration watch!"

Actually, Ray just thinks Trombley's too anal for anal. To get fucked you have to actually be able to take it up the ass, not make the person want to donkey punch you in the head.

In fact, Ray's so sure of this that everytime someone gets too close to Trombley's six Ray hollers, "Castration watch!"

I <3 you.

The Further Adventures of Ray Person:

In which, in the post-mini series fictional world, he realizes that the only way he'll possibly survive another tour in Iraq with motherfucking donkeyciding Trombley at his side is if the little bitch has been inoculated with lots and lots of cock, and begins a secret campaign

[ a campaign that, strangely enough, none of his inconsiderate dickless team members will participate in (a typical exchange with Brad consisting of, "are you out of your fucking MIND, Ray? no, I do NOT-- what are you doing with those--IS THAT A DIAGRAM?") ]

to Get Trombley Man-Laid.

(only Walt seems to sit still long enough to hear his full treatise (involving Spartans, WWII, the complete works Oscar Wilde, and tentacle hentai), though he's always nodding in sort of a strange, delayed way and there's this glaze in his eyes that sometimes seems incongruously horror-sticken)

*squeezes eyes tight*

Do not write this if you are not going to finish it. I'm just saying. I am also going to be disowned by everyone. This is your fucking fault. I am terribly curious to see who you think is crazy enough to fuck Trombley though.

With only 234 hours until Report, Ray comes to the inevitable conclusion (he’d totally cry ‘Eureka’ and shit, but [a] it’s 4am, [b] his cousin’s passed out beside him, like the fucking pussy he is, on the not-to-be-vomit-christened couch, and [c] his mouth’s full of Captain Crunch – you know how it is) that he’ll need some key reinforcements well versed in actual wang gargling.

The fact that his sole connection to The Secret Gay Mafia (see: Secret Jewish Mafia; less yalmulkas, more buttsex) is this kind of scruffy dude with ball twistingly tight pants who bought him a drink once at Classic Cue (cheap whiskey, tall shot) does not deter a personable and charming motherfucker such as himself, and he engages in six beers of reconnaissance, during which he acquires 5 key facts:

1. Scruffy Dude’s cell number
2. Visible proof of sluttiness and sizable package
3. General affirmation that said dude would totally blow a psycho closet case who could snap his neck with bare hands.
4. Scruffy’s got some serious dick-blisters for Eminem. (See: above)
5. A vast, mostly incomprehensible and heavily accented overview of cricket
(the things he will do for deep-seated disgust and just a tinge of apathy for a fellow Marine)
(don’t ask)

to be continued.)

He may have also (look: six beers, yes, but then a number of uncounted yet liquidy-delicious shots afterward, so may have will be operative words for pretty much every fucking thing from halfway through the shit about bowls and batsmen and wickers-something and general confusion about a lack of horses) explained that in addition to the obvious repressed gayitude and death-dealing, Trombley may or may not:
(a) be married
(b) have fathered 0 to 5 kids
(c) like cats
(d) tolerate the eating of squirrels (note: possible additional tolerance of sister fucking – though that one’s a knee-jerk Ray Person conjecture based on questionable whiskey tango parentage and crazy eyes, as opposed to the occasional outbursts of muttered ramblings)
(d) have a cousin or brother or uncle in the Russian Mafia (see: Secret Gay Mafia; less glitter, more tattoos & KGB influence)

Overhead at a nominally crowded and pretzel strewn bar, approximately 2:46pm, Pacific Standard Time:
(“hey, so he’s this total wack-job with no fear of death, who names his fucking gun and totally lies about everything, all the time, like path-o-fucking-logically, like I eat pussy – and mister, I eat a whole a fuckton of pussy, I eat pussy like you could live on that shit, like those grass bowling English motherfuckers drink tea for goddamned breakfast – but he’s real tan and shit, and he could run 20 miles, like no fucking problem, so some serious stamina there, and you like the shaved head look, right?”)

(tbc)

You should know that I just sent this to L,A and Q with the underlying subtext of, "Uh, I may have instigated a bad bad thing... but wow is it fucking hillarious."

I can't believe all this Whopper Jr. love. Y'all need help.

damn, now I actually have to come back and finish this!

I can't believe all this Whopper Jr. love. Y'all need help.
Oh, you know you want Trombley to find true, true love. All this repression will get your nowhere - Trombley UNDERSTANDS!

Luckily, it figures that anyone who’d try to fuck him in a bar after 10 minutes of slurred conversation will actually show up to meet a slightly better looking but infinitely more homicidal acquaintance.

He’s pretty sure he told Trombley this dude’s his step-cousin, twice removed, through a broken shell of a marriage. He’s called him Anwar, Sameer, hey you, and, very likely, Mohinder, but the guy’s name is actually something like Deven (definitely a D, and at least one E somewhere) and his slim hips, worn-soft girl jeans, and guitar-pick calluses are straight out of every Rolling Stone issue that college girls are reading for the articles before reaching down to click the mouse. It’s kind of hot to think about, and how sick as fuck it would be to jerk it to the image of his ex-girlfriend petting the pussy for this homo’s punk rock smirk is just icing on the cake for a celebrated, degenerate pervert such as himself.

Ray quietly recommends a hasty application of mouth to cock to avert any vicious beatings about the head, and announces an immediate and inescapable need for Pineapple Lime Icee (with just a dollop of Dr Pepper, some coconut shavings, and half a cherry Twizzler).

7-Eleven waits for no man.

Arguably, 7-Eleven waits for every man - that’s kind of their deal - but what would useless fucks such as Ray finds here know about the love of good slushie?

[tbc]

Edited 2009-09-03 00:53 (UTC)

So after the unfortunate and, frankly, scandalous substitution of strawberry licorice (having raised strident objections of varied, creativity profanity), Ray walks through his own front door into one of the most shocking displays he has ever witnessed in the comportment of an honest to god, stone cold marine killer.

There should be a law against it,

(admittedly, there actually is a law against it, but chapter and verse can suck his tender, virginal asshole and is very much not the fucking point, as Ray has made a happy crusade of breaking all such government retardese with a spring in his step and pot planets peppering his backyard)

this slow push of tongue, slim fingers lazily curled around the back of Trombley’s neck, thumb lightly stroking at his pulse kind of kissing (on a goddamn couch that cousin Jimmy had completely defiled, again, not 2 days ago). It’s twisted and fucking wrong, Trombley reaching down to give his own dick a squeeze, and even if the other guy’s hand immediately follows it that’s some shameful shit right there. Some pansy ass over the clothes dick rubbing on Ray’s motherfucking couch, Trombley getting the kind of action Ray got in 10th grade, eyes scrunched closed now and panting into Deven’s neck like it’s Megan Fox tonguing his balls, and then Trombley makes a choked off groan, breath hitching as his hips roll. And if it were anyone else that might be not entirely unappealing, and that is just the fucking end of it it.

Clearly the only appropriate response is to shriek, “I knew you didn’t speak Spanish!”, mutter something about shameful lack of knob polishing and married a mexican my ass, then grab a bottle of Jameson to go with his slushie and flee the room with the sole goal of becoming blindingly drunk.

The fuzzy, benevolent grace of copious gulps of alcohol uncovers the only available balm to Ray’s now tarnished reputation. It is clearly Walt’s fault this has gone so horribly awry, for abandoning him in his time of need, in the midst of such a righteous campaign. And for hiding all the cherry Twizzlers, the complete bastard.

Text sent 11:13 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
giong to prform obscene acts on yr bodd

Text sent sent 11:13 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
body

Text sent sent 11:14 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
see icemn has visuals in inbox

Text received 11:20 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
wtf person ?

Text received 12:05 am, Pacific Standard Time:
??

Text received 3:32 am, Pacific Standard Time:
ok

--
So apparently Trombley’s mom’s a total rainbow waving PFLAG junkie who always wanted him to meet a nice boy (she’s promised Ray unlimited baked goods; it’s totally sweet), and Trombley just thought the guys in dress uniform looked ‘seriously fuckable’ killing that dragon, and he actually is completely wacked, so protesting too much and slaughtering the occasional hajii livestock made the weirdo kind of sense.

The dude’s name is actually Deven (because Ray is a fucking detail-oriented professional, thank you very much), and his band sucks in this totally authentic way where no one would kick your ass for wearing his t-shirt, and turns out he only jerked it to Eminem, like, once, and was mostly interested in someone who’d befriend a man of such extensive vocabulary and storytelling prowess.

They go on double dates, and kick Trombley under the table when he’s full of shit, and Walt says the moral of the story is shut up, don’t call them dates, and sometimes you can totally judge a book by its cover if the cover is obviously true.

The moral of the story, according to Ray, is something like:
(a) cookies
(b) gay blind dates are weak sauce
(c) sodomy saves lives!
(I mean, Trombley kills like no babies these days and Poke caught the sneaky bitch emptying the bullets from Captain America’s gun when he thought no one was looking. Think of the children, yo.)

But then, Ray’s a sly motherfucker. His boyfriend says so.

the end.

Edited 2009-09-03 02:11 (UTC)

This is awesome! And I never thought I'd say that about a Trombley fic EVAH.

Thanks! I think this is actually the first bits of GK fic I've written, so I appreciate the unholy encouragement. ;)

It is clearly Walt’s fault this has gone so horribly awry, for abandoning him in his time of need, in the midst of such a righteous campaign. And for hiding all the cherry Twizzlers, the complete bastard.

AHAHAHAHA! Yes, it's all Walt's fault that he has lost his goddamn mind.

They go on double dates, and kick Trombley under the table when he’s full of shit, and Walt says the moral of the story is shut up, don’t call them dates, and sometimes you can totally judge a book by its cover if the cover is obviously true.

Oh, God, that is so WRONG and yet so completely hilarious.

(c) sodomy saves lives!

::dies:: You win.

yay! I win!

oh, yes, it's all part of my super sekret plan to encourage more post-series fic in blatant disregard of the 'real persons' canon. I firmly believe Brad would make an excellent scuba diving instructor. But, alas, Nate tragically is bumped down in rank and now answers to LT Captain America! ;)

The moral of the story is always cookies. And you win the universe. That was hysterical. And it did end in Ray/Walt with twizzler stealing and adorableness. And did I mention how much you win?

hee! I'm glad you enjoyed the Ray/Walt. :)

God, I love it when my evol plans come together. I am eternally scarred, but still, it is so nice to have you writing in my fandoms again. ;-)

This all ends in Ray and Walt having sex, right?

AHAHAHAHA! Ilu.

yes? (http://hackthis.livejournal.com/539071.html?thread=15995583#t15995583).

I feel so dirty now.

halfway through the shit about bowls and batsmen and wickers-something and general confusion about a lack of horses

Okay, I died. STICKY WICKETS!

I eat pussy like you could live on that shit, like those grass bowling English motherfuckers drink tea for goddamned breakfast

You need to write more Ray. Srsly.

I finished it (http://hackthis.livejournal.com/539071.html?thread=15995583#t15995583) and now blame you completely. BE ASHAMED.

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Generation Kill is love.

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