Goeie dag julle wonderlike mense.
That’s a bit of Afrikaans there in that greeting.
So I’m very mindful of nostalgia at this time, but I have been playing old video games from when I was younger. I’ve tried playing new modern games, I’ve even spent money on them regrettably. I notice that they give me vertigo, and anything more than 15 minutes on them makes me feel queasy. Old age I guess.
However I was binge playing Tropico 4 again.
Tropico is a good game. If you haven’t played it before, it is about starting your own island nation. It’s pretty class.
Based on your decision, you can either be a Communist or a Capitalist, among many other political factions. The game is very satirical, and ultimately any path you choose leads to your eventual demise. Either from your own people or the outside world. Much like real politics.
I’ve done a short story this week as promised, but I know it is late. My weekend was spent in the Emergency room with my kid and the rest of the time I was sorting out my people on my Island.
Support the Patreon please.
I have been busy with content, but the cunts don’t really pay well, so if you can afford to buy me a cup of coffee each month, please do so. If you can’t, then that is also ok. You can read for free. It is a system based on kindness.
https://www.patreon.com/Blacksheepwriting?fan_landing=true
This story doesn’t really follow the usual three act structure of the Hero’s Journey, as I’m writing a book and it’s a model that gets really boring if you are doing it over and over. If you haven’t read any of my other blogs, you won’t understand the narrative of the story. I suggest you go back to some earlier blogs. Fuck off.
For the rest of you, I’ll see you all next week.
Mind yourself.
Please enjoy the following short story.
Saving Ryan’s Privates
If it wasn’t for this dead headphone I’d be fully immersed. I could get an Air Hostess to change them for me, but I’m trying to keep a low profile.
I read once on IMDB that the blood and guts in this film was actually real offal. They got all of it from a local butcher and kept it on ice in the props room when they were filming. They didn’t use that synthetic shit like they used in other movies. They even used real war vets and disabled people.
There’s nothing wrong with a war film when it’s on, and when I saw that Saving Private Ryan was on the menu, I immediately clicked it.
It is my favourite movie of all time. The authenticity of that opening scene is exacerbated by the fact that there was no recycling of extras.
Usually the film directors would save costs by shooting multiple scenes using the same actors, but in this one, they didn’t.
I look at their faces. I fall in love with each and every one of them each time, especially the wounded ones. Pure sexy. Just the agony of a brave soldier fighting for his life while the world around him is on fire is like porn to me.
I once saw my husband dressed up in my summer frock that he got me for Christmas the year before.
He knows I don’t really wear frocks, especially if it is bright and flowery. I wore it once when we attended a dinner hosted by the Yacht Club. I got no compliments that night, I usually get loads of compliments by those fat rich cunts who pretend to be super suave with their young wives. We all know the deal.
Those bitches are in it for the money, I know this because I am. Well, at least I was. The only thing I looked forward to in those days was when Robbie turned up at the swingers party. Robbie was new money, and he makes it the old fashion way, by being a man.
He owned and operated a successful game fishing yacht that hosted world elites. I’ve heard that he had Barack Obama on there, as well as Mark Cuban. They do tuna hunting, so he has those big manly hands and a scruffy beard that I imagine a soldier would have. I can picture that he would fit in well in this scene.
I always found my way to him, Bryan hates it, but he knows that it makes me happy.
Bryan is a good man, we have two kids, Don and Sophie. He is a good dad and a good husband.
His job at the bank is stressful, so when I caught him in the frock, I didn’t reprimand him. It is his way of getting rid of some of the negative impacts of his job. He has been wearing my clothes for years though, but I don’t really mind, he bought it for us anyway.
The flight for me is considerably shorter than what it is for Major John Drummond. I’m not sure why I call him by his full name and title, we have known each other for nearly four years already. We met on Facebook.
I joined a group way back in 2015 that was about single war vets looking for love. I’m not sure why I joined up, I could never meet up with any of them, I would never leave Bryan. At least that’s what I thought back then.
It all started with a DM.
Major John Drummond started it.
We chatted for a while on Messenger, the odd message here and there. He was in the US Marines at the time, speaking to me from occupied Afghanistan. I often pleasured myself with the thought of him killing Arabs while under heavy fire. I fucking hate Arabs, especially because in Afghanistan they are mostly Muslims.
In my adopted country of New Zealand they actually respect the Muslims. Last year some Australian lad killed fifty of the pigs in a Mosque in Christchurch. I still have the video saved on my phone. I can get in trouble for that.
Bryan’s bank donated fifty thousand, on his instruction, to the families that lost loved ones in that incident. I think that is when I stopped loving him.
Major John Drummond was different though.
He was big and strong and had a beard like Robbie from the swingers club. Every picture on his Facebook was him in uniform, except for the odd topless picture. But even those had some sort of military paraphernalia in it somehow. The arid conditions of the backgrounds in his pictures contrasted beautifully with his beautifully tanned skin.
He voice called me on Whatsapp once, but I didn’t answer.
He is American, I’m from Russia. It is a match that does not go well. Plus I worry about my accent, I worry that he won’t understand me. That’s why I’m trying to meet up face to face. I know I’m gorgeous and he loves my tits. He told me this himself.
The guy at Fijian customs is friendly, he has a small round face and he has bulging eyes. Looks more Indian than Fijian to me, but I have arrived.
Now I need contact, I removed my sim card from my phone to avoid being tracked. I just left the house for yoga and disappeared.
“Do you have Wifi here sir? I’m mindful of my data,” I say in my best Kiwi accent.
“Yes we do ma’am,” he says while staring at my immaculate breasts.
“How can I get on it?” I ask, making sure I bend forward a bit so he gets a better view. These puppies get me everything.
“Well it is staff only, but I’ll sort you out,” he takes my phone.
He punches the screen for a minute as I scan the room to see if Major John Drummond is in the vicinity. He’s not.
“Here you go ma’m,” he hands it back.
I give him a wink and a pout and set off for the row of chairs that line the front of the waiting area.
I open Facebook Messenger.
Me – WRU?
Him – Bit of problem
Me – ????
Him – Held at customs Australia
Me – ????
Him – I sent all my money to Fiji and I need some to release my bags
Me – How much
Him – $1600
Me – KK
I’ve sent him money before when he was in Afghanistan. I already gave him well over twenty thousand and I know he will pay it back when we meet. Besides, if Bryan is giving money to the Muslims, I may as well give some to an actual war hero. I transfer $2000 into his account, but it fails as I don’t have the sim for the Netcode.
I go back to the counter, tits blazing.
“Can I use your PC for a money transfer?” I ask the goggle eyed Indian.
“Not sure I can do that ma’am,” he replies.
“I’ll give you something,” I say, staying as vague as possible.
“I have a lunch break soon,” he says, knowing what my offer is.
“Ok,” I say.
I text Major John Drummond again.
Me – Give me an hour
Him – OK, see you soon. I love you
The scrawny Indian lad waves me into a door that sits behind his desk.
There is a single table and chair and I lean over the table. It is over in about thirty seconds.
He then pulls out a laptop.
“What’s the account number?’ he asks, still out of breath.
I give it to him.
He types then enters, and then he types again.
“Sorry ma’am, I can’t put money in this account,” he says.
“What? Why?” I ask, uncomfortable from the mess in my undies.
“This account ma’am,” he says.
“Yes it is an American account, Major John Drummond” I reassure him.
“No ma’am. We have NSA software here. This is the Syrian account. It is in the name of Mohammed Bin Ali.”
