ABENI

    THE COMMANDER:
“There’s better ways to go than this,” the commander thought, just as a shower of wood chippings and dust rained upon him. Not a second later, the shot surrounded him, deafeningly loud and equally piercing, almost perfectly audible through even his trusty headgear. After this seemingly suspicious moment of quiet, bursts and sustained gunfire alike sounded throughout the street, striking each individual particle of the table. This skirmish was in no doubt a counter-attack from the rebellious prisoners with jobs, who’d, quite unfortunately, managed to breach the site’s basement armory. Although he’d managed to lock down the site’s front and back door, the garage remained vulnerable to breach and escape by the rebels. Assured by the heavily reinforced exit points, constructed of a material which was beyond him at the moment, the commander was positive the rebels would collapse the roof and walls upon themselves before breaching them with an improvised explosive.
Unfortunately for the commander, the rebels had used their malnourished and deformed selves to distract the commander from his original lookout. As they were taunting him from the maintenance slit just below the powerless automated 40mm GMG, which was mounted upon the house’s chimney, the majority of the rebel forces charged into the garage breaking through barbed wire, moats, and an improvised turret. While the turret nearly managed to decimate their front line, a wiser rebel had shot the turrets belt, prohibiting it from downing no more than 3 of their force.
Blindly mag-dumping into his imminent demise from his position inside the ornately designed watchtower, the commander screeched his war cry and complimentary insults to the rebels, fueled to a state of pure rage by a combination of caffeine and cocaine, among other things. Despite his situation, he still managed to get a complete thought through the chaotic mist that embodied his mind: “Where is Abeni,” after which he instantaneously fainted due to the sheer amount of pure energy he’d injected into his laughably unprepared left pinky, which consequently lost all motor control only moments later.

ABENI:
“ KLI KLI KLI KLO KA KA KI KLI” Abeni violently clicked his tongue in his native African language, Khoisan. The violent clicking undecipherable to most could be roughly translated as “Have at thee you f*cking subhumans.” Abeni, riddled with shrapnel and in a cocaine-fueled rage, was firing wildly out the massive hole in the splintered door in the second-floor bathroom. The door, now gone, was directly adjacent to the top of the stairway, which wrapped around the interior of the 1930s era plantation-style house. The bathroom, including the railing just outside, had been hit with the “very young indentured servants” makeshift IED. The railing was gone, the bathroom door was shattered and the ceramic bathroom tiles cracked and now separated from most of the bathroom floor. At the time of the explosion, the then-11-year-old Abeni had been railing lines of coke and gunpowder (a delicacy to the warlords native to Abeni’s home in West Africa) off the edge of the bathroom sink. Abeni, finding himself with a surplus of ammunition, highly active psychoactive stimulants, a nearly limitless supply of fresh water, an almost completely bulletproof and very large cast iron bathtub, and the now loose ceramic bathroom tiles, decides that staying put is the most reasonable strategic option. Immediately after the explosion Abeni, dazed, heard comically light footsteps and prepubescent voices making their way upstairs. Abeni reached for his radio bringing it close to his face “Commander where are you!” only to realize that magically the radio had, at its own expense, saved him from a 3-inch piece of shrapnel consisting of the commanders missing toenail clipper and another 5-inch roofing nail. “KLIK KLI KU KU KU.” Abeni clicked the violent racial slurs the commander had taught him towards the underaged assailants. (unknown to Abeni, these slurs were reserved only for ethnic Albanians and Ottoman Turks.) “KA KA KLI KLI KA.” he screamed in a confused state of primal fear and rage. He shouldered his rifle, a Heckler and Koch G3 chambered in 7.62x51mm NATO. A German cold war battle rifle that has long been phased out of its intended role due to its cartridge being considered too powerful for the job. Abeni lining up the sights held them just above the top of the stairwell “As soon as they crest the dune, fire…” he spoke to himself thinking of all the times him and the commander watched “Zulu” together. This was his moment of glory.

THE COMMANDER:
Slowly but surely, the commander regained consciousness. It wasn’t until 10 or 20 minutes after his awakening that he’d realized the situation awaiting him. Coming out of the drug-induced daze, the commander sprung to his feet and brought his rifle into firing position, all in one quick, steady motion. Again screaming battle cries as he was still slightly under the influence of his concoction, which he later noted should probably be left to the experts for production, one very recognizable click could be heard. Briefly stunned by his apparent demise due to not reloading, the commander nearly dove for cover behind a nearby car. However, he came to the realization that not a single soul was within his sight.
    Shocked, was an understatement at the moment, “Do not play games with me you measly, cowardly, spineless, motherf…”, the commander was cut off by the not-so-distant firing of a familiar rifle. While he couldn’t quite pinpoint the why it stood out to him, he knew the sound belonged to something he held dear in this odd life he led. Strangely enough, there was even more familiar clicks and clacks, albeit almost inaudible from where he was. Despite being on the brink of inaudibility, he figured the sound was past the enemies annexed front yard, from the interior of what he’d called home not even half a year ago. Intensely curious and intrigued, the aged commander swiftly, yet somewhat silently, made his way through the carnage of the defenses of the quasi-military fortress created from a large southern suburban home (currently being used for the sale distribution and manufacture of surplus firearms and heavy ordnance, as well as narcotics.) that a close friend and himself had set up only a year ago.
    The battle raging from within was now clearer than ever, yet managed to also be equally confusing. Amidst the chaos of explosions, gunfire, and seemingly over-violent clicking, the commander was forced to fight through the enemies surprisingly capable defenses. “Those younger types have always had a way with innovation,” the commander silently murmured. “KLI KLI KLI” sounded from behind him, and the commander yelled out in pain. What had felt like a searingly hot knife had just gone through his lower back area. In response, he slammed back his head with all the force he could muster, only to collapse backward. Something had softened his fall, he realized, and upon investigating this he was aware that it was a rebel, rather short, having been crushed under 300 pounds of himself and his equipment. “Pathetic.” Was all he had to say before ending the miserable rebel’s existence, although this was just a bluff on his part, the foreign object in his lower back was becoming increasingly noticeable, and thus painful. Trying his best to ignore this pain, he continued his battle to what appeared to be the stairwell, just past the kitchen, which was littered with bodies, tap water, and shell casings at the stairwell base, some of the bodies being as equally short as the one he’d just executed. After a very brief inspection, he realized that some of the bodies had no bullet holes, and the very large spent casings having parallel black lines of carbon going all around them. The commander knew full well that only one gun leaves those marks on casings and exit wounds that big, not yet realizing the implications of the specific gun used (or whom would have been using it.) just yet.
    Suspiciously, the battle seemed to have ended just after he was stabbed, albeit the commander hadn’t completely thought of this until he was half-way up the stairwell. “Abeni better be up here,” he told himself and scaled the remaining stairs. Before reaching the top, he almost tripped upon another rebel body. He froze, heavy, labored breathing could be heard from the inside of the battle-worn bathroom. Pieces of the ceiling breaking up from the battle that had just taken place fell upon his near-pristine uniform, the 90’s Serbian “Tigrovi” insignia embroidered on it’s left shoulder sleeve being discolored by the soot. The general area was filled with smoke and ceramic dust, the commander tread carefully up the stairs attempting not to slip on the alphabet soup of blood types, finding traction only on the intermittent piles of wood splinters and copper fragments. As he cursed the lousy rebels, their impoverished countries, and the absolute mess they've made of his house, the commander proceeded into the bathroom, spotting an almost limp, very familiar figure in a bullet-ridden bathtub.
ABENI:
Abeni, having intermittently been losing consciousness for the past 2 minutes woke up to a man with a very familiar, fatherly, muffled, and panicked voice, of which whom he could not see or hear very well, “Abeni! Wake up are you hit! Get up we gotta...EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE...Abeni!?” Abeni, missing most of what was said due to the fact thousands of rounds were fired from inside of a very small restroom, noticed the man was untying the bootlaces he had used to fasten the loose bathroom tiles to his chest and head. “KLI KLO KLOK KLOK, KLO KLO KLO...EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE....(he took a long pause until he regained his hearing before continuing with the story.) ...KLO.” the series of clicks roughly translating to “Commander! The workers are attempting to take over the compound, there were tons of them you should have seen it!” “KLOK KLOK KLOK KI KLO BOOM BOOM BOOM KLI KLI KI KO KLO KLO KLOK KLIK KLIK KLO KLOK KLO KLOK KLOK...” (“There was a big explosion, but then they started coming up the stairs and I was like BOOM BOOM BOOM, and they were dropping like flies, then I started using the bathtub and the loose tiles as armor, but then, then… I turned on all the faucets and started pushing the shell casings onto the stairs so they’d slip and kill themselves it was SO COOL, and then I grabbed the flare gun…”) As Abeni continued telling the story akin to the way a child plays with his action figures, (with lots of animation and sound effects) hoping to impress the commander with his heroic tale and his strategic prowess, was cut off just before the best part by the commander telling him to get Afrikaner behind out of the bathtub into the armory. Abeni, annoyed by the lack of reverence he was given by the commander thought to himself, “ He should be proud of me, I just held all those rebels off and I don’t even get a pat on the back!? After all the times I've saved his ass in the field, let alone on that cargo ship!...” Abeni’s train of thought being cut off by the commander saying something aloud he’d deep down been waiting to hear all his life, “Поносан сам на тебе, сине. You gave ‘em hell Abeni, but this stories not over so we gotta get to the Armory.” Abeni, from the very little Serbian he had learned from the commander, had picked up this word, сине. It meant son. This was the first time the Commander had ever called Abeni son. Abeni’s expression changed from the exhausted and annoyed grimace, instead his face filling up with just the biggest grin one could ever give. He grabbed his G3, his flare gun, filled his cargo pockets with all the ammo he could, and a dime bag of questionable substances, just in case. “Let’s go,” he said. Gazing out the bathroom door at the carnage he had just created.

Cautiously edging down the stairwell, Abeni was sure to make himself hidden. Rifle poised in firing position, he directed his sight towards the kitchen exit arch. Whether a door had previously resided in the passage, one couldn’t say, for the entirety of the room was smothered by soot and red stains upon the walls and floors. Anything that had been near the stove was no longer a thing, for the minefield Abeni had recommended to the commander had performed it’s purpose without a flaw. Finally reaching the bottom, Abeni signaled for the commander to proceed, who’d been alert at the top of the stairwell. Despite his declining health, the commander managed to maneuver to the bottom floor. Through clenched teeth, the commander managed to tell Abeni: “Head to the basement, let’s finish these sad excuses of animals.” They trudged forward, the two knowing, yet not quite accepting, that there was no scenario where they came back out of this situation.
	THE FINAL BATTLE::
	After what seemed to be the most difficult journey the commander had ever taken, they arrived at the door. It was no ordinary door, and would’ve required a great deal of time to breach just the riveted surface plates. To Abeni’s and his own disbelief, the door had remained unlocked even after the chaotic battle not but a few minutes ago. Each looked at one another hesitantly, and the commander took lead, reaching to open the door. The door drug heavily against the metal baseplate supporting it, making an impossibly loud screech. With the door almost open, Abeni readied himself, about to charg -- “click”, a sound so seemingly faint that he nearly believed it was his imagination, yet which was so real that he dreaded the very concept of what was to come. Before Abeni could so much as reach out to the commander, who’d completely ignored reason and tactical necessity and stood directly in front of the doorway, the sound Abeni feared became a reality. Three deafening cracks ripped through the stairs leading to the basement, not too much nor too little Abeni noted. Before the commander could utter even the beginning of a stereotypical remark against his assailant, he was on the ground. Anything below his waist rendered useless from a round that had struck his spine, while the others had struck his upper right chest. While Abeni was stuck in a state of disbelief and horror, footsteps rushed up the stairs. “KLI KLI?,” softly he spoke to the commander, holding in the sheer panic and desperate feelings of loss he was experiencing.
	Abeni readied himself behind the reinforced door, waiting for the assailant to reach the top. He waited for something, anything, to indicate the remaining rebel was in position. Finally, he heard the commander attempting to form what was likely a racist remark to the rebel, Abeni acted without hesitation. Hurling himself with all his might against the door, he crush the unsuspecting rebel between the door and wall. The all-too familiar sound of bone snapping could be heard he believed was two times over, yet it was impossible to tell. Gleaming with pride, Abeni turned to the commander, only to realize he was grasping at Abeni and trying to point behind the door. Whilst celebrating, he’d failed to feel the door slightly move towards his own body, thus the door was thrusted with unbelievable strength at himself. Flung to the floor and hearing several loud thuds and a few lighter cracks, his body surged with pain. Rapidly, violently, he clicked “KLI KLO KLI KLO KLI KLO KLI KLO KLOK KLOK KLIK KLOK KLI KLI KLI KLI KLI KLI KLI KLI KLI KLI KLI KLI!”, and brought himself up to a standing position. The foe which he faced was unlike the others, with a face full of determination and color, and a well-nourished, somewhat older body than his own, Abeni realized this fight would be his last.
	Rifle being flung across the floor, there was no hope in engaging the assailant from a distance, and the assailant knew this to be so. Slowly taking aim, the rebel chuckled to himself, and Abeni knew this would be his last few seconds to shine. The air around Abeni exploded with what could only be described as ear-piercing bolts of lighting, while bullets whizzed from every direction which he could think of. He sprinted slightly before all this toward the assailant, all the while ducking and weaving, attempting to take as few hits as possible. This was of little use, as the feeling of bullet ripping and tearing through flesh as knife would do to butter, Abeni collapsed. Not but 3 feet from his target, Abeni crawled desperately, trying to deliver even a slight blow, but the attacker pinned his foot against Abeni’s one remaining good arm. Smiling, the attacker leveled the barrel with Abeni’s head, but took all the time in the world for effect, and for Abeni, this was enough. Lashing out with his leg, he kicked the assailant directly in the groin, whilst screeching the most derogatory of racist insults. He felt the pressure on his arm lessen, and went for his knife. Upon getting a secure hold, Abeni plunged the knife into the right thigh of the assailant, almost feeling the immediate tensing and pain. The rebel reacted seconds later by clubbing Abeni with the stock of his rifle, and was about to finish the dazed Abeni before he heard a ragged voice from behind him, “Видимо се у паклу, човек од памука.” He whipped his head around, the commander already had a knife in throwing position, and let loose the knife which he’d cherished for so many years. A rusty bayonet from an AK-47, with its beautiful marbled bakelite handle contrasting the worn, beaten, and rusted blade. The few clean splotches of the knife glistening as it whipped end over end to it’s target, the commander thought to himself, “If the wound doesn't kill him the combo of hepatitis and tetanus surly will.” Just before it struck the stomach of the rebel, the commander managed to viciously click at the rebel. “KLI KLI KLO збогом одгајивачнице дечко!”

	Abeni now realizing (after hearing the commanders demeaning remark “kennel boy”) that the boy had been placed in charge of the bear kennels, as the commander had a surplus of bears for security purposes. The job was a grueling one, but whoever did it had access to the food storage as they had to feed the bears and had to be cunning, strong, and in great physical shape in order to survive more than a week. Abeni now realized why the boy was so well fed and in shape, as only the elder workers, usually around 14 (several years older than Abeni), would be give the dangerous job, as to spare the youngers. Abeni saw the boy magically get up and limp towards the elephant rifle sitting on the mantle of the fireplace Abeni and the commander had built in the basement of the house many years ago. The commander, not yet accepting defeat directed Abeni towards the garage door opener laying where the boy had been crushed behind the door. Abeni, assuming it blew the whole house up, as the commander regularly refurbished WW1 artillery shells into remote detonated IED’s after a regular night of drinking, just before bed. Abeni crawled towards the button picked it up in his hand, looked at the commander, uttering these words, not in clicks, but in the commander's native tongue. “много те волим.” pressing the button. To Abenis surprise, he heard not a boom, but the sound of the bear kennels releasing. He knew that him and the commander would peacefully die of blood loss well before the hungry beasts made it downstairs leaving the boy to be inevitably ripped apart by the pack of bears, in envy of the two who will soon be lying dead at the other end of the room. He looked at the commander in a mutual understanding, realizing that while the battle was not worth the price they were now condemned to pay, the two spent their last moments together laughing and reminiscing of the many adventures they shared together. Arms around each others shoulders, sharing tokes of  one of the commanders hand rolled cigars, speaking of battles won and lost, treasures pilfered, cargo ships captured, warlords overthrown, that time Abeni annexed the neighbors front yard, the house they had spent years building together. The army of  “liberated” West African child soldiers and Eastern European war criminals they built from the ground up. Dying as they lived, Adventurers and Warriors, Commander and Soldier, Father and son…