Captain Raven Scorchballs

TerrorFirmer

This was posted awhile ago but it was somewhat different and rough. This is a more final version. Do not read unless you like to read silly things. Ever seen a Leslie Neilson film? That guy is my idol, and this story is based on a character like those he plays....


Adventures of Captain Raven Scorchballs

Part One – Death River

D-Day


The sun shone brightly over the long grassy riverbank, the shimmering water reflecting the clear blue sky overhead in which exotic birds flew and chirped happily.

Captain Raven Scorchballs shuddered as he examined the men in his platoon, all huddled like African immigrants in the bottom of a Spanish fishing boat.

“Christ is that a piss stain on your pants?” he roared at nearby Private Wimp, a thick vain standing out on his neck in a mixture of disbelief and anger.

“Uh no captain,” Wimp explained carefully, “It’s the coffee you spilt on me earl-”

“Shut the **** up you little ****” Sorchballs screamed in his face, covering it in a thin veil of spit and morsels of cornflakes.

Scorchballs shook his head in disgust. He leant over the side of the landing craft and breathed in a deep gulp of filthy, polluted Vietnamese air. “Ah,” he said finally, choking and coughing furiously, “I needed to clear my head.”

“ETA, 2 minutes,” Corporal Fruit screamed across the noise of the crashing waves and throbbing engine of the landing craft, “Expecting strong enemy entrenchments and strong points!”

Scorchballs primed his M4 Carbine and tensed his shoulders. He felt a lick of hair slide down his forehead and he swept it back furiously under his helmet. “Last time I buy ****ing gel at THAT store,” he muttered angrily. The man next to him was suddenly jolted backwards as an enemy tracer smashed directly into his face, instantly transforming it into a gaping mess of oozing gore and crushed bone. He dropped to his knees and fell flat onto the floor of the landing craft. Scorchballs absentmindedly shoved the body away with his foot as he examined his hairline for imperfections in the ladies hairbrush-mirror two in one combination he always carried in a special red pouch on his belt, nestled safely beside the dazzling array of screwdrivers and tools he carried on a special utility belt.

“Get down, get down!” someone screamed as a fierce hail of enemy small arms fire began to rattle and ricochet off the sides of the craft.

Oh, how they had all laughed when he insisted on bring his special customised belt on his first ever assignment. Yes, he remembered his first assignment, the fun they made of him, Scorchballs the rookie. But oh no, they weren’t laughing afterwards. Not after he captured an entire VC trench system using a spoon he accidentally brought with him from the base canteen. Or the time he disappeared into the jungle with nothing but a half eaten sandwich and a pack of matches and came back several hours later, strewn with blood and carrying a P.O.W under each arm. Of the sandwich, no trace was ever found, and the matches, well, they were recovered several days later by a jungle recon with all but three matches used.

Everyone respected Scorchballs. There were those who didn’t like him, there were those that thought him a fool. But like him or not they all respected him.

He smiled a grim smile, a smile that existed solely for heroes as he basked in the memories of his greatness, a dark crimson pool of sticky blood and brain matter puddling around his boots. He snapped to attention as a sudden creaky, dry groan signified the landing door beginning to swing downward. The craft jolted violently as it hit the river shore.

At last they were clear. Scorchballs jogged casually out of the landing craft as tracers whizzed and whined by him and explosions showered the group with dirt and water. From the tree line several hundred yards ahead, dozens of muzzles flashes erupted furiously, ripping up grass and dirt all over the place. He turned around to wave the men forward, only to see Private Fruit leap off the landing craft with his rifle pointed towards the ground. The second he landed, his rifle cracked, and a meaty chunk of foot flew messily away. He screamed and instantly dropped to his knees, detonating a land mine in the process and him and several soldiers around him erupted instantaneously in a thunderous shower of blood and dirt.

Scorchballs raised his carbine and fired indiscriminately, watching satisfactorily with eagle eyes as the number of muzzle flashes in the trees was gradually whittled down to sporadic bursts of gunfire. Within moments the vicious fire-fight was over, and Scorchballs rallied his remaining men.

Looking around at the low number of casualties, he thanked god that the commie scum’s third world origin naturally rendered them totally and typically inaccurate at even the closest of ranges*. He waved his men forward, towards the dense jungle that lay beyond the landing zone

*References: Rambo II, Rambo III, Red Scorpion.

Part Two – Band of Brothers

D-Day + 1

The men stared in a mixture of admiration and disbelief as Scorchballs lit a cigar and regarded the destroyed tank disdainfully, tucking the hacksaw back into its pouch and closing the flap. For a moment there was complete silence and he leant back, letting the smoke drift up into the thick vegetation that hung over his head.

“This is kind of like the Jet Fighter thing where you just had that straw and-” someone started.

“Shut the hell up!” Scorchballs screamed instantly, resembling a red eagle as rage overcame him. He looked around at his squad and took particular interest in one young recruit, who stood trembling.

“So, this was your first action today, was it?” Scorchballs asked him with surprising tenderness.

The youth nodded and Scorchballs gave him a knowing glance in return. “You did well kid,” he said, “you must feel like a real man now, eh?”

“Well, I suppose-” the young man replied, before he was cut down in Scorchballs insane gaze of death. “How Dare you!” Scorchballs screamed, “You little ****! How dare you shoot your mouth off like that!”

“But-” the youth protested, but that was as far as he got.

“You think you’re better then the rest of us now do you?” Scorchballs continued to roar, his normally pale, freckly face apocalyptic with unprecedented rage

“No I just-”

“Get out of my sight!” Scorchballs screamed, his rage reaching a climax as a furious tornado of spit flew in all directions. “Lest I- Lest I- Lest I take a hand to your buttocks!”

He slumped to the ground, exhausted, as the young soldier fled to another group. He put his head in his hands. “Why,” he muttered in defeat, “Why.”

One of the other soldiers, a seasoned veteran, knelt down and put his hand on Scorchballs shoulder. “Its always the same with these new guys,” he said knowingly, “They think they know more then anyone, they think they don’t need our help, you try keep them alive and all you get is a stab you in the back.”

“Well, don’t worry sir,” another soldier spoke up, “We’ve got your back. You can rely on us.”

For a moment it looked as if a solitary tear was about to slide out of Scorchballs eye, and the men looked away in confusion, as the powerful emotion of the moment overcame them all. “My penis sure is itchy,” Scorchballs said finally, breaking the awkward moment.

They all laughed, and everything was right again. Amends were made, bonds were renewed, and the special family that is the Fightin’ Fruits continued once more to complete their quest to rid Vietnam of the plague that was…well…the Vietnamese.


Part Three – Jungle of Death



“Fire in the Hole!” Scorchballs shouted hoarsely as he flung the incendiary grenade throw the window of the Vietcong hut, diving to the ground. There was a blinding flash and flames exploded out through every window in the house. There was a muffled scream of agony from inside the inferno and Scorchballs riddled the flaming shell with bullets. The screaming stopped and he smirked with satisfaction, as he took in the devastation.

“Tiger two, Tiger two, this is Fruit bravo two, over,” Scorchballs said into the radioman’s receiver, “Charlie Outpost Delta is secure, I repeat, local NVC Strongpoint has been eliminated.”

He spun around angrily as a pestering tapping on his shoulder interrupted him His mouth hung open, drool forming on his lip, and he was about to let loose when he noticed what the rest of the platoon were pointing at. What they were pointing at, one can only imagine was insanely obvious before - a Vietcong fortress that loomed barely a hundred yards in front of them, stretching like a giant arm into past the dense foliage of the jungle and into the blue sky.

“Oh. Oh, ok,” he said cheerfully, “So uh…what did we blow up?”

“Looks like a Fischer Price range playhouse sir.” Someone volunteered.

They shouldered their weapons and continued on, past the burning hulk of the playhouse towards the real objective.

“Dammit,” Scorchballs muttered, “Some total idiot must have marked the recon map completely wrong!”

TerrorFirmer

“We messed up bad back there, Captain,” a soldier named Bacon said hesitantly.

“Perhaps,” Scorchballs countered wisely, “But then again, maybe that’s what they wanted you to think.”

“Sir?” Bacon asked, puzzled, as they walked slowly on.

“Oh yes,” Scorchballs continued, “These Vietnamese scumbags are a deceptive bunch. Innocent kids by day, but by night, it’s a different story let me tell you.” He paused, as if dredging up a painful memory from the past. “Out doing drugs, selling drugs, out pimping, drive by shootings...”

“Sir, that’s hardly an accurate-” Bacon tried to retort before he was cut off once more.

“You see! You see?” Scorchballs muttered bitterly as he pointed an accusing finger at the challenging marine, “That’s want they want you to think!”
There was an awkward pause as Scorchballs tried to regain his breath. Bacon tried to think how the could counter the absurdity of the argument but decided against it.

Scorchballs shook his head in disgust. “Its men like you loose us wars,” he continued bitterly, “If it was up to you, you’d have bypassed that little “Stronghold” back there, and probably left the regions radio centre intact, and let our boys miles away die like dogs!”

“Look sir,” Bacon said angrily, “with all due respect, a radio centre – BULL****!”He never had time to speak another word, as he disappeared in an explosion that literally tore him to shreds. The whole squad hit the jungle floor, messy gore raining down on them like…rain. Scorchballs stood up, his ears ringing. “What the **** was that!” he whispered, motioning his troops to stay low.

Private Bald held up a smoking baby booty in his hand. “Looks like you were right, sir.” He said roughly. “The sonofabitches got Bacon.”

“It’s the law of the Jungle,” Scorchballs said quietly, “He who looks like hornet makes the most honey.”

He strode away, leaving all eleven marines looking questioningly at each other, scratching their heads and shrugging their shoulders.

Part Four – Stronghold Assault

D-Day + 2

“Help…” the badly wounded and horrifically burnt Vietnamese soldier pleaded as he tried to drag his legless body away from the mangled bodies of his former comrades in the charred machine gun nest, leaving a trail of blood behind him. “You’ll Murder no more you Filthy Communist pig!” Scorchballs exclaimed as he shot the man straight in the face. “Good shot sir!” the rest of the squad cheered.
Scorchballs smiled grimly as he reloaded his rifle, kicking over the body of the dead Vietnamese soldier to the ground. “It’s either kill or be killed,” he said gruffly, and the squad nodded at the undeniable wisdom of such a statement. Private Bald lowered the field binoculars he was holding and beckoned Scorchballs over. “Looks like we caught them by surprise sir,” he said tactfully as he raised the binoculars to his eyes once more and looked in the completely wrong direction, focusing on a nearby Coca Cola billboard (Naturally frequent in the jungles of Vietnam circa 1967) “I think I can see the bastards…. moving some kind of giant…god, what is that….”

“Won’t they ever learn,” Scorchballs chuckled as a mortar strike suddenly screamed down and peppered the make shift trenches in front of them with explosions, decimating the area and filling the air with a thick cloud of blood, smoke and dust. “Nice job on the mortar strike,” he said approvingly, sweeping back his hair. He picked up a mixture of congealed blood and filthy soil, and rubbed it furiously into his hair. “Ah, much better,” he said coolly, as he examined himself in his pocket mirror and saw his hair unwavering satisfactorily.
Seizing their chance, the squad stepped out of the captured VC machine gun post and began their charge towards the Vietcong command post. Scorchballs climbed out of the nest and waved his men forward, tripping over a pile of no doubt tactfully placed Vietnamese sticks. “Get down!” he screamed, writhing in agony as a loose twig lightly scratched his shin. With shaking fingers he scrambled for his med kit and applied a bandage to the wound, grinding his teeth in an effort to keep on a show of male bravado despite the intense, blinding pain.
He stumbled to his feet, limping heavily as he struggled to keep up with his squad who rapidly disappeared into the wild, drifting smoke of battle, guns blazing. Soon he was alone, limping along, swinging his weapon back and forth suspiciously, lost in the fog of battle. And then, it happened.
Out of nowhere a Vietnamese soldier charged at him, screaming incoherently, his rifle held high with the bayonet pointed straight towards Scorchballs face. “Sorry, I don’t speak Gibberish.” Scorchballs quipped stylishly as, calling on all the training he received from the eastern Mongolian monks several years previous, he rapidly disarmed the soldier, flinging him onto a nearby conveniently placed pile of rusty knives.
He staggered backwards, trying to catch his breath that came in ragged gasps. The dim of battle had now reduced itself considerably, sporadic shots ringing out amid distant unintelligible shouts. Scorchballs could only hope it was his troops that had prevailed.
He quickly raised his rifle as the crunch of approaching boots became audible. A small bead of sweat ran down the side of his face and he blinked his eyes furiously. Hazy shadows stalked forward from the swirling smoke.
This could be it, the end, and his final blaze of glory. The figures drew closer. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Private Bald stepped forward out of the smoke with a grin on his face before stumbling over his own feet and careering face first to the ground. He lay there as the rest of the squad stepped over his motionless body.
“Good to see you made it through sir.” One of the squad said as he shouldered his carbine and offered Scorchballs a helping hand.
“Thank you Corporal Smith.” Scorchballs replied as he took the hand and hauled himself to his feet.
“It’s Wood sir, and I’m a private.” Wood said with a smile.
“Yes, yes, I did indeed know your mother.” Scorchballs replied, cocking his head.
“Sir?” Wood inquired, a puzzled look on his face.
“What? Who are you?” Scorchballs replied distantly, wandering off towards his platoons first Sergeant, who was busy reloading his carbine after the intense fighting.
“What’s the status report, Sergeant?” Scorchballs said briskly as he fiddled with his crotch.
“Enemy base camp is secure, sir.” Sergeant Flynn said as he snapped to attention. “We lost four men and sustained several minor injuries.”
“Excellent.” Scorchballs said in appraisal. “Well, not excellent that the men are dead of course, but you know what I mean.” he chuckled.
“Your cousin was among the dead, sir.” The sergeant said quietly, wincing as he anticipated the reaction.
“I didn’t even know my cousin was in the army.” Scorchballs said in wonderment as he drifted back towards the rest of his men. “OK, Good work, men!” He shouted as he indicated the group to rally around him. “But I’m afraid there’s no time to rest. Our orders were to get this job done as quickly and efficiently as possible, so we’re moving onto the next objective. Pack up your gear and be ready to move out in five”
“Sir, what about Private Bald?” Private Woods asked.
“Forget him, he’s gone.” Scorchballs said, a hint of deep sadness in his voice.
“But he’s right over there-“ Woods began.
Scorchballs dismissed the rest of the group with a wave of his hand and walked over to Private Woods, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder in a firm embrace.
“I know how you feel, Sergeant Doyle,” Scorchballs said tentatively, “But the mission comes first. Private Bald made the ultimate sacrifice so we could all go on.”
“Its Woods sir. Private Woods,” Woods replied in exasperation, “And Private Bald isn’t dead, he’s just-”
“Jimmy, snap out of it,” Scorchballs interrupted, trying to quell the young mans protests, “This is no time to-“
“Woods sir! My name is Woods!”
“So you see Timmy, Private Bald is in a better-”
“Oh for gods sake,” Private Woods muttered angrily and stormed off to help the now regaining consciousness Private Bald, shaking his head in disbelief.
Scorchballs looked at him go and indicated for Sergeant Flynn to join him. “Keep an on that young man,” he whispered in confidence, “I don’t like the look of him.”
“Yes sir.” The sergeant responded indifferently, unsurprised by Scorchballs latest inkling.

TerrorFirmer

Part Five – Guerrilla Warfare

D Day + 3

“Christ…” Raven muttered as he tweaked the focus wheel on the binoculars to try and sharpen his view of the Vietcong camp.

“What can you see, sir?” Sergeant Flynn hissed, his hand clutched nervously around the barrel of his scoped M1 Garand.

“What an ass…” Scorchballs breathed, continuing to fiddle with the focus wheel as he stared into the open showers at the far end of the enemy camp.

“What was that, sir?” Sergeant Flynn whispered.

“Uh…” Scorchballs said cautiously, “I said, three enemy tangos, six o clock.”

He lowered the binoculars and slid back from the grassy stump that overlooked the Vietcong camp. “Ok, we have several guards on the outer perimeter but inside the camp looks pretty quiet.” He said slowly.

“I say we get straight in, **** them over, and get out of there as quickly as possible.” Sergeant Flynn said matter of fact as he planted his rifle stock on the ground, meeting with nods of approval from the rest of the squad.

“Get in, **** them, get out…” Scorchballs repeated, mesmerized. “**** them over,” He added quickly, shuffling uncomfortably. “Yes, that’s a plan with balls. You got my support sergeant, set these men up into fireteams.”

Scorchballs wormed his way back up to the edge of the stump as Sergeant Flynn began to divide the men into teams and raised the binoculars once more. The compound wasn’t exceptionally large, a few shacks and supply tents in an open clearing surrounding by rough wooden fencing. A single watch tower lay vacant in the dead centre of the camp.

“Sergeant Flynn,” Scorchballs called out, “I’ll need one of your men to cover this ridge with an MG.” He turned around, scanning the huddled group. His eyes focused on Private Wood.

“I’ll take Corporal Kelly there.” He said, turning back to this binoculars.” The rest of you move out.”

There was an initial pause as the group wasn’t quite sure who was being referred go, given that there was no man in the group by that name.

“My name is Private Wood, sir.” Wood said glumly.

“Yes, of course,” Scorchballs replied, completely oblivious to what Wood was saying. “Set up the MG, keep an eye out. Make sure our boys have cover if they need it.”

“Yes captain.” Private Wood replied, stealthily moving towards the ridge with the squads’ m-60 in one arm and a belt of ammunition in another. The rest of the squad moved off into the jungle, swallowed up by the dense foliage in seconds.

“Hand me that M1, Doyle.” Scorchballs said after several moments of silence.

“Its Woods, sir.” Woods said in a monotone voice as he handed the scoped rifle over.

“No time for chit chat Doyle, stay focused,” Scorchballs replied vaguely as he raised his eye to the scope, “Ah, now that’s one hell of a view…”

Matt Holck

id fun bit disjointed
side kick keeps flipping
Scorchballs pisses in a river
and the stench chokes the hidden enemy

Sarky

You. Start being cohesive.