Written by The Saxby, with a little help from myself. (he did the perverted parts)
June twelfth, Nineteen-forty-four. The air was still heavy with the scent of gunpowder and death. German soldiers were even now strewn all over the floor of the keep, their recent deaths turning the keep of the French castle of Brissac a dark red. Sergeant Anthony McFuckerson was still panting. He and his men had won. It was a hard-fought battle, one he would remember the rest of his life. Finding a seat, he took it, seeking to catch his breath back from the breath pixies who stole it from him. Several of his soldiers were still standing, also panting and also holding semi-automatics, just like him. Perfect silence save for the raging gunfire outside. They didn’t have to worry about that. Now it was time to rest. One soldier, a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed little son-of-a-bitch that only didn’t get his ass shot dead ‘cause he looked like one of the Aryans his enemies were supposed to worship, broke the silence.
“Sarge, whadda we do now?” asked that statuesque little prick of an Adonis that everyone hated so much.
Sergeant Anthony McFuckerson finally had his breath back. He was thinking clearly for the first time in days. He was wondering about the existence and usage of the English future subjunctive mood, which probably never existed and, considering how little pride Anglophones take in the subjunctives they’ve already got, never will. He asked that the question be repeated, an action which requires the use of the subjunctive mood. He noted that with a silent laugh to himself. After having heard it a second time, McFuckerson (who was now thinking about whether his wife were thinking about him, and if so, whether she were currently fingering herself to her memories of him) simply smiled and leant back in his chair. It was a stone chair that weighed at least a thousand pounds. Anthony’d always preferred the Metric system anyway, so it didn’t matter to him. It tipped back like any other chair, finding rest against the wall. Sergeant McFuckerson stared at his privates intently, licked his lips, and, after a long pause, responded to the question he’d been asked by that godlike Nazi ass wipe.
“Big testicles… with hair on them,” said he.
The room would have remained silent for the rest of the day had a grenade not interrupted the quiet. This castle keep was at least fifty feet up with windows the size of large mackerels and surrounded by rings of interconnecting walls, but someone managed to throw a hand grenade through all that. Nobody was considering that when it went through the window. Instead, they all ran away, except for Anthony McFuckerson, who was still leaning back in his chair and thought that everyone had run away because he’d just been talking about balls. The grenade exploded meekly. This wasn’t really a great grenade, y’know. It was a bit of a loser, actually. “All the other grenades used to laugh at me, but look who’s laughing now!” thought the grenade, who was obviously a sentient being with a grasp of spoken language.
The room remained. Really, it wasn’t a big explosion. It almost didn’t even blow up the grenade, for cryin’ out loud. However, that failure of a grenade turned out to be good for something after all. Sergeant Anthony McFuckerson, who had been fighting in the army for five years, lay dead in his chair. The Goddamned chair didn’t even tip over, for f*ck’s sake! This grenade was a major wimp. He couldn’t even manage to knock over a chair, for Chrissakes!
The other soldiers heard the explosion and came running back inside. They saw their beloved sergeant lying dead on the floor. Just as they would treat any other of their own, they carted him away to prepare him for his funeral back home. Someone had to go home with him to tell his wife the news. The rest of the platoon forced that big Aryan punk to volunteer. He would have to tell Mrs. McFuckerson that she was now only Ms. McFuckerson
June fifteenth, Nineteen-forty-four. The big, blue-eyed Nazi son-of-a-bitch, whose name was Heinrich Pisskidney von Erickson, looked out his window. “Still just clouds. Goddammit,” he thought. He was still thinking about how he was going to tell Mrs. McFuckerson the bad news. He prayed to God that she was having an affair. He nodded back to sleep and decided he’d think of it on the way to the house.
June fifteenth, Nineteen-forty-four. The big, blue-eyed Nazi son-of-a-bitch, whose name was Heinrich Pisskidney von Erickson, looked out his window. “Still just clouds. Goddammit,” he thought. He was still thinking about how he was going to tell Mrs. McFuckerson the bad news. He prayed to God that she was having an affair. He nodded back to sleep and decided he’d think of it on the way to the house.
Several hours later, Private Pisskidney von Erickson was able to see the house that his wonderful dead sergeant who hated him had lived in until very recently. The driver pushed him out of the car. Nobody likes the Heinrich. With a gun trained on the back of his head, which wasn’t totally unnecessary, actually, Heinrich Pisskidney von Erickson trudged up to the door and knocked. A half-naked woman with red hair both on her head and three feet down from it answered.
“Hello?” asked the obviously-panting lady, who seemed angry, as if Private Pisskidney von Erickson had been interrupting something.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Heinrich greeted, ignoring that it was three o’clock in the afternoon. “Are you Mrs. Yetta McFuckerson?”
“Yeah, I am,” Mrs. McFuckerson responded. She didn’t know who this guy was, but whoever he was, she hated him. “Whaddaya want? I gotta client over my house.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought… I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I have news about your husband Anthony.”
“What about ‘im?”
“I’m from his squad. We’d just taken over a castle in big red hairy vagin – er, I mean France,” Private Heinrich said. He couldn’t stop staring at her cunt. It looked pretty loose – looser than he’d think a girl whose husband was away for six months would seem. He realized that he hadn’t jerked off in months. His pants were getting wet just thinking about it. “Anyway, er, your husband sat down in this big stone chair when a grenade came through. He’s not coming back from the war.”
“Well, why dincha say so earlier?!” the newly-widowed Ms. McFuckerson exclaimed. She took that better than Heinrich suspected. She was probably just trying not to cry. If so, she was an incredible actress.
"I apologize. I was preoccupied with your fiery-red pubic.... uh… eyes. Your pubic eyes.” Wow, he fucked that up.
“Yeah, I know. You was lookin’ at my crotch, wasn’t ya?”
“Er… yeah.”
“So what were my husband’s last words?” Ms. McFuckerson clearly wanted to change the subject and get back with her “client”, whatever it is her job was.
“Well, that’s what really makes this hard. Your husband had some… peculiar last words.”
“So what’d he say?”
“Um… I’m going to warn you right now that if he hadn’t been killed right then, he was probably going to start a big speech or something. Alone, this seems to be quite odd, but he was probably about to make it work.”
“Spit it out!”
Heinrich wanted to say, “That’s what she said!” Instead, he told her, “Well, I asked Sarge what we should do next, and he just leaned back in this big, heavy stone chair he was sitting in, licked his lips, and said, ‘Big testicles… with hair on them.’” It felt good to finally say it. Private Pisskidney von Erickson decided he would have to start saying that more often.
“Really? Is that it?”
“Yes’m.”
“I’ve heard woise. Arright, it’s been nice conversatin’ witcha.”
“That’s it? You’re over it?”
“Yeah, whatevva. I ain’t never liked him anyways.”
Suddenly, a voice cried out from the living room. “Finish up with that guy, will ya? I’m gonna take matters into my own hands if you don’t get back here soon.”
Ms. Pisskidney von Erickson yelled something incomprehensible back. Then she turned over to the bastard at the door and said, “Yeah, I’m done witcha. Go away. You ain’t gettin’ nuttin’ from me.”
“I apologize again for having to tell you the news.”
“Yeah, ‘s’arright.”
“OK, thanks. Bye.”
Private Heinrich Pisskidney von Erickson walked back to the car. He decided that he was going to get laid before he went back to France. He wasn’t even thinking about his dead sergeant any more.
“OK, guys. I’m done. Let’s go.”
The car drove off angrily. It was angry because it hated that superior, statuesque figure it had to schlep back to an airport. It prayed that the little Aryan prick wouldn’t get laid tonight.
The End
