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| >> Campfire Creative >> Fiction >> Satire >> ID #1323092 |   |
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| [Introduction]
The story thus far, according to the news bulletins… The European Nigh-supreme Worshipful Order of Nations (ENWON)—Freedonia, Hanselvania, Washishname, Hutdougistan and the People’s Elitist Plutocracy of Hackinkoff—have violated the UN truce sanctioned upon them over 50 years ago, when Hanselvania, under the regime of its oppressive new ruler, Ymir Sonofavitch, formed an alliance with Hackinkoff and declared war on Hutdougistan and Washishname. Freedonia, the major power of the five nations, is unable to intervene due to extreme turmoil within the Senate House itself (the water pipes burst and the building was evacuated). Hanselvanian troops have begun invading Hutdougistan, particularly the scenic Starkolig Peninsula, the world’s leading producer of albino cocoa beans, which are used to make white chocolate. The United States, France, Switzerland, Belgium and England, which both have financial interests in the Peninsula, have deployed troops with the sole purpose of driving out the invaders and retaking the cocoa beans, at any cost. Unfortunately, the peninsula is also home to the displaced and impoverished Lwa people, a Haitian-Hutdougistanian people born during Hutdougistan’s brief occupation of French Haiti. For these people, the Peninsula is the only place where they can live in peace and continue to live the traditional tribal way of their ancestors, and the war has placed them all in extreme danger! But wait! There's more! Hanselvania has signed an agreement with the diabolically evil international drug cartel known as La Nariz Blanca, which has worldwide influence that reaches all the way to the President of the United States! La Nariz currently supplies Hanselvania with battle-hardened mercenaries to act as military advisors, and supplies them with free weapons! In return, La Nariz has permission to use both the wartorn Peninsula, and Hanselvanian military forces, in their operations to transport and trade the world's most dangerous drug: Total-Spite, a high-energy sports-drink that comes in fifty diabolical flavors! As all hell breaks loose, the entire world is feeling the pressure! Any wrong move on ANYONE's part could displace a whole tribe, bring the entire world under the oppressive heel of the terrible Mr. Sonofavitch, or, even worse, deprive the entire world of white chocolate! What could possibly happen next? Rules: -Don't create character profiles! Just think of a character and throw 'em in the mix! -Feel free to adopt one of the characters I've created! -Throw in any war jokes or humorous battle-related situations you can think of! Don't worry if they're original! I'm not! -Aside from the obvious satire on man's instinct to make war, this campfire has no political opinion of any kind! PLEASE don't be offended! |
 JoeStrong  The Starkolig Peninsula, Beach dy Schanzo Piarit (Lwa for "Beach of the Owie Rocks")...Bullets flew through the air and explosions rocked the hills, cutting the grassy ground to ruined piles of red clay. It was an awful way to start a day of goat herding. At times like this Belga was really upset that he had been selected by the tribe to be a goat herder. When he turned 14 he could have been selected by the chief to be a hunter, or a farmer, or an oracle, foretelling the future of the tribe by reading the dung of sacred chickens, but noooooooooo. Of course he loved his goats, but anything would be preferable to having to take your herd out in this environment. Unfortunately, the Lwa people placed a blood law on goat herders, stating that you were obliged to your dying breath to defend your herd and always lead them to green grass. Hence, even though the fighting had finally reached his village and most of the villagers had already fled in terror, he was still obliged to gather his herd and bring them to grazing pasture. Of course, first he had to find his herd. Wisely, they had bolted at the first sounds of close-by fighting. Belga clutched to him Raskil, his favorite baby goat, determined not to let him go. With him as well was his older cousin Eeka, who, at 17, held the prestigious position of being a sacred reveller in the temple, responsible for dancing around in an especially revealing loincloth and spurring worshipers into a frenzy (much like a holy cheerleader). Other than that, there didn't seem to be anyone left in the immediate village. As they crawled through what was left of the yam fields on hands and knees, they became aware of machine gun fire coming from the rocky beach. A lone soldier sat, blasting away at any boat that even came close to landing. He wore a Hotdougistan symbol on his helmet and the invading boaters, who all carried the symbol of Hanselvania, were eagerly emptying handguns in his direction. "Pssst, hey mister!" said Belga, who had grown up bilingual and could speak Plantine, the official language of ENWON, as well as Lwa. "Run! There are people shooting at you!" Sneering, the grizzled soldier turned to face him. "I know. It's war." "Oh," said Eeka, who was also bilingual. "I see. It's war." "What's war?" The soldier explained, pointing to the craggy granite beach he sat atop. "I have to kill them. They must be killed because they want these rocks. These are our rocks." Belga stared. Raskil bleated. "War just for these rocks?" "But these are just... rocks." protested Eeka. "I WILL DIE TO DEFEND THE HONOR OF OUR ROCKS!" yelled the soldier, more to his invisible God than anyone else. Belga just walked away, hand in hand with Eeka and with Raskil tucked under his other arm. "And these people think we're primitive." "Hey!" yelled the soldier to the incoming Hanselvanian boats. "That's OUR seaweed!" Meanwhile, in New York... "So, anyway, that concludes my lecture on particle exchange in Californium ions in summer weather," droned Professor Krapkot, "and no, Garrison, the film Annie Hall is not appropriate study material for physics class, nor is any other Woody Allen film." "Hey!" said Garrison, angered. "I wasn't going to ask a question about Woody Allen this time!" "Oh well, maybe it wasn't your fault, then. I've just adopted the practice of tuning your opinions out entirely. Put your hand down please." "Yeah, Garrison," said Gunnar van Pelt, "And don't worry. If you have a problem, just go home and tell it to your shrink! I mean, if Woody has one, then you probably do too!" Gunnar's remark, inspid as it was, brought laughter from every "richie" in the class, slowly working its way around the room until it seemed the whole class was laughing at Garrison (Mr. Krapkot could barely hide his own smirk). Rich, influential, sharp-tongued and well-built, Gunnar was the son of Hunter van Pelt, CEO of OblivioCorp, an incredibly powerful US-based company with stock in Hanselvania under the Sonofavitch regime, and one of the chief producers of Total-Spite--at least, before it was declared illegal. Garrison sighed. Every high school had its cliques, but Jay Ward High School had nothing but cliques. Every single person in the school (and even a few of the teachers) fit into one of several convenient categories: -the richies, rich, popular, generally attractive people whose riches and popularity disguised the fact that they suffered from bulimia, sadism, depression, narcissism and (more often than not) psychosis. -the preggies, a group of girls (and, inexplicably, one guy) who were all at various stages of pregnancy. -the slutties, sexually active students who had lost a good deal of their numbers to the preggies. -the nerdies, who composed the entire chess team and physics club, and were always discussing either the excellence of Star trek, how they were abducted by aliens or their plans for new technology that would revolutionize the planet -the magickies, who always wore black leather, wrote in extremely neat, archaic calligraphy and were the prime suspects in the case of who built a shrine to Baphomet entirely out of candles, thus starting the fire which destroyed half the school library -the greenies, the socially conscious, good hearted, vegetarians who were always promoting some worthy cause or other. The richies were obsessed with destroying them, and had already ruined the lives of several by putting them in the hospital, the asylum or--for up to 24 hours-- the smallest locker in school. But there was no clique for Garrison Ivan Tyler Zeigezundt, no place where he could feel accepted. Nobody else in the school was an uncommonly tall, thin, bespectacled Jewish boy with a curly Jewfro who was also a die hard fan of Woody Allen. The greenies were nice to him, and he had a few friends who, at best, belonged to two or more separate cliques, but that was it. Garrison stole a glance across the room to the corner occupied solely by greenies. There she was: the beautiful Cameron Singlestone. She wasn't rich, and there were a bevy of richie cheerleaders sworn to spell out her doom, but she was beautiful, she was intelligent, and more than that, she cared. If only he could do something to impress her and prove to everybody that he mattered. If only... "And now," began Mr. Krapkot, "In accordance with the national 'Adopt-A-Third-World-Child' program, brought to you by ObliviaCorp, here's a progress report on Jay Ward High's adopted child, Belga of the Lwa, in the scenic Starkolig Peninsula..." Steve Ellen "At the moment," continued Professor Kraplot, "Belga is clutching a baby goat and talking with his cousin Eeka to a soldier. We know this, remember, because of the GPS transponder-equipped videophone fastened to the collar of Raskil, Belga's favorite baby goat." The nerdies smiled knowingly. Especially Wibur Cortex who had helped design the miniaturized device. "I will try to contact Belga now," said Professor Kraplot. "As you know, so far we have been unsuccessful." He tapped a few keys on his i-phone. "Belga! Hello, Belga! Can you hear me?" On the Starkolig Peninsula, Belga held his baby goat, Raskil, away from him. "Eeka? Did you hear that? Again this little goat speaks to me! You heard it, didn't you?" Eeka's eyes were wide. "It is witchcraft, Belga! This goat must be sacrificed. He is a tool of the devil. We must stuff cocoa leaves in our ears so that we do not hear him." In New York the class studied the fuzzy video monitor that linked them to Raskil. "Why are they stuffing leaves in their ears , Professor?" "I don't know. It may have something to do with their Nature-worshipping religion." (The greenies in the classroom smiled knowingly.) "Professor, is it possible cocoa can be absorbed through the ear canal and induce a state of enlightened mentality?" Professor glared at the class. "Who asked such a stupid question?" Cameron Singlestone blushed. "I did, sir." "Well in the future wait until you have something intelligent to ask." "Yes, sir," Cameron said and hung her head. Was everybody looking at her? Garrison edged closer to Cameron and whispered. "Hey, I didn't think your question was stupid. Old Kraplot is a bastard!" Cameron smiled. "Thanks. He didn't have to be so mean." © Copyright 2007 JoeStrong, Steve Ellen, (known as GROUP). All rights reserved. GROUP has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
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