So long, and thanks for all the fish.

So here I am. Back in edmonton. A full ledged member of the regiment. And I can now honestly say i think I love the military. While there are aspects that do at times drive me nuts, I love the constantly changing job/environment. I've been in constant training for the last year or so and that doesn't look like its going to change any time soon. After christmas I have another six months of training in wainright qualifying on the bridge layer and badger (picture a giant armoured bulldozer with an excavation arm, and machine guns). And after that work up training for the 2010 afghanistan tour. Plus I'm on the list for the combat after capture course. So much to do .

More good news. I finally bought the car of my dreams, a 2004 Subaru WRX STI. Shes small, sleek, sexy, and ever so fast. I don't think I have ever loved a woman the way I love this car. A close second might be my long lost beard...*sniffles*

Not dead.
Massive post comming.

Promise

-Marksman Out

Having all this personal freedom on PAT Platoon is proving a problem. For instance, last night we realised there was nothing stopping us from getting drunk on a week night any more. So logically we decided to exercise this new found freedom and hop a cab into Fredericton. There were two major factors in the bar which led to my total destruction. 1) It was $3 Jager night. That's right any Jager shot or drink, only $3. 2) The shooter girl had a cute "girl next door" smile, a mess of curly brown hair down to her ass, a western drawl, and that curvy figure which obliterates my rational mind. She had me pegged as an easy mark, and swung by our table every 10 minutes, confident in the knowledge that I would purchase her alcohol. Long story short, she managed to get $100 out of me in under 2 hours, and my liver still hurts.

No more drinking on Tuesdays. Dam PAT Platoon.

P.S. Becky if your reading this I lost your number,

So as I stated the other day, I am not dead. I have made it through Basic Military Qualification more or less unscathed. I thought about relating the details of my training, but I think we have all seen enough army movies to know what it's all about. They don't let you sleep much, they run you hard, your given very little time to eat, and your mothers honour is questioned almost as often as your sexuality.

Instead thought I would relate a funny and little talked about aspect of the Canadian military, French Instructors. There is nothing quite so funny as someone yelling at you in a language that they have only been speaking a short time. It leads to such wonderfully broken sentences as "You think you sweat? I make you sweater!" and my all time favourite "You think I know fuck? I know fuck all!" My French instructors were probably my favourites. How can you not like a guy who presents himself before the troops for the first time and says "Stop me if you not understand my fucked up English." Despite the broken english the man proved to be a reservoir of useful information. Anyone who has completed over 250 rece missions has to have something worth saying. Even if it does some times come out as "You fuck with me, you going to get some pain".


So everyone throw up a salute to my favourite Master Corporal


Just look at that smile. You know he loved fuckin with our heads.

-Marksman Out

Not Dead. More to follow.

- Marksman Out

Well the military has finally accepted me. So my career pumping oil is over, and my career fighting for oil is about to begin. I can say with little doubt that this is going to be the hardest/best thing I have ever done. Well that's it really.

So long and thanks for all the fish.

-Marksman out

So there I was friday night... back in Wetaskiwin. Once again I should state that it was not by choice. I despise that little den of filth, as does every one who escaped its clutches. But I was once again pulled in by bonds of friend ship, like a small comet caught in a black holes gravity, hurtling towards inescapable doom.

My good friend Ian was on leave from the army and back in town visiting his parents. He and our pal Junck, (yes that's his real name) wanted to hit the bar with the old crew Friday night. A night to be filled with intoxication and various forms of debauchery. I recommend many a pub and watering hole in Edmonton, Red Deer, even Camrose, but no, they wanted to hang in Wetaskiwin because it was the local high school grad night, and the temptation of 18 year old pussy was to great to ignore. This was only the first in a long line of mistakes we made.

10:00 We decided to hit the bar early, thus we could capitalize on "Power Hour". I'm not sure if this is something that happens at other bars, as I usually don't got out until midnight, but at our local dive from 10:00 to 11:00 you can purchase a jug of any mixed drink for about $5. We happy.

10:30 I now remember why this place is so goddamed boring. Its packed with wiggers and mullets. The music might have been cool around the mid 90's. Further more the only women in the place are old skanks. Don't get me wrong now, I love cougars, but these are the old worn out whores who have been here every friday for the last 25 years, and man does it ever show. I decide to power drink until this place seems cool.

11:00I'm on my third jug of Rye & Coke. My judgment is most definetly impaired, as evidenced by my shameless flirting with women who likely carry more disease than Sadams Bio-weapons division. Oh yeah, I'm feeling it.

11:15 While shooting pool I run into a girl I went to school with. She's pretty cute so I hand off my pool que, and try my best at drunken flirting. It isn't pretty. I say all the wrong things when I'm sober. So imagine if you will how charming I am when half my brain is off line. But to my surprise, she giggles, she flirts, she returns my inappropriate groping.... she's smashed. JACKPOT! I love it when they're already drunk, it saves so much time and money.

12:00 We've both finished another jug of hard liquor which may or may not have contained mix. Her girlfriends get into an argument while trying to decide who among them has the best boobs. It is determined that I alone can settle this, and I am told to squeeze and weigh each set, then name the winner. It occurs to me that I might not be the only one here who's inhibitions have taken a vacation.

12:23 Having done my duty as tit judge, and naming my old friend the clear winner. We have a seat and bullshit about old times. She tells me a wonderful story, about how she would have fucked my brains out a couple years back had I not totally fucked it up. I am thrilled with the direction this is going. How ever she follows that up by saying, had I not been a tongue tied coward that night, she would not be with her current boyfriend.... Well shit. I cant say I saw that coming. But fuck it, I've got this much time invested, I might as well keep at it.

1:00ish Ian and I are still talking to the girl with the boyfriend(at this point I cant remember why), when Jason walks over and informs us that there are a half dozen or so guys here who want to kick the shit out of him. I am less than surprised. Jason is the ultimate shit disturber, he can enter a room and have half the crowd mad enough to kill him in a 30 minutes or less. Funniest part is he doesn't actually do it on purpose, he is just one of those people who never realize they are pushing every button in reach. I am not surprised by any of this, I am how ever delighted.

Whiskey makes me violent as a rule. Combine that with the anger I fell after spending all night chasing one specific pussy that I have no chance with, and I become 10' tall and bullet proof. Show me a target.

I'll quit with the time bullets now because from that point forward the flow of time gets fuzzy.

Jason gestures towards the center of the bar, an area populated by at least 20 people at the moment. I ask him to be more specific Unfortunately the fellow who had called him on had faded into the crowd, and Jay didn't really get a good look at his wingmen. We realize that we could likely be dealing with an ambush situation involving and unknown number of aggressors. Looking around I see my pals stripping off rings, piercings, chains, and dog tags. Rule 1, don't give an enemy any potential handholds. Thank god the one night I'm facing unknown odds, from unknown aggressors, I have a pack of trained killers at my back.

While I was stashing my watch and other metal bits, this guy in a polo shirt and spiked hair came walking up to me. This looks exactly like some one Jason would have pissed off. I'm preparing myself for the battle, the sinew is tight, the blood is up, and I'm reaching back for my pool que just as he says, "Hey man, I just want you to know I'm a friend of Juncks when the shit goes down, so... umm, yeah don't kill me."

I literally fell down I was laughing so hard. I have never really considered my self to be all that intimidating, but this fucker went out of his way to ensure I wouldn't target him. That was probably the best moment of the entire night.

We try to lay out a battle plan for a few minutes, but between the overly loud music, and our reduced reasoning capabilities this proves impossible. In the end we decide to wander the floor until they spring on us, and then just take it from there. I don't know how long we searched the crowd but it became pretty obvious that every one here is just a lot of talk. Fuck! Could this night get any more boring, we can't even get into a brawl! Later on Jason gets a call about a party a couple towns south. I'm to drunk and pissed to care, Jason however really wants to go.In the end we compromise, he is gonna head to the party and I'm gonna sleep in the box of his truck. As we're leaving the bar, those fuckers who were calling for Jays blood emerge from the crowd and call out "PUSSIES" (oh how very original). Finally I can vent my aggression, I spin around to deal out death and torment, but through some form of Wigger magic they have once again evaporated into the crowd. Great. What a night, bad music, crap whiskey, no play, and no action.

I hate this town. I hate it so very very much.

So here I am, wallowing in self pity. I truly feel like half a man. Oh well, perhaps I'll cheer up when it fills in a little more.



And I figured while I was posting, I might travel back in time a little. Due to federal law I had to dig out all my old rifles and register them. This was actually much less of a hassle than I expected it to be. The point is, as I was digging through all my old gopher rifles of yester year, I came upon this. My very first rifle.



My father made this for me at the tender age of 10. He lovingly made each peice by hand. The bullnose, the rear site mount, the trigger gaurd, the wrist plate, the but plate, and the stock, were all crafted in the shop not ten feet from my bed room. The only original parts are the action and barrel. And even these were modified to better fit the project. I put tens of thousands of rounds down the barrel of this baby.This was my first true love, and the reason I am known as the Marksman today.