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Post by Mason Breaker on Jun 1, 2010 19:44:43 GMT -5
Snorting, the Irishman listened to Keith's retort, and was about to make one of his own when Patrick shouted "Spitter!". Quickly reacting, he jumped away from where he was standing to avoid the possible goo. However, it was not aimed at him, rather it was aimed at the others. Luckily, Mason wasn't that far from where it was hiding. In fact, he was pretty much right under it.
Backing away from the house a bit, he took aim, and threw the plank of wood at the slobbering infected, striking it in the face. Dazed, it stumbled from it's hiding place and out the window, hitting the ground with a wet splat. Acidic ooze splattered around it, which usually signified that it was dead. However, it was still twitching a bit, meaning it wasn't dead yet. Taking no chances, he gave it a good kick to the head, crushing it.
"Taken care of." He announced, not noticing the cackling getting nearer and nearer to him...
"Now, let's get mo-HELL!"
He yelled in surprise when he felt a weight suddenly force itself onto his back, taking him by surprise. Thin, bony hands clawed at his face as the Jockey began steering him away from the group, using his weight against him.
"Get! This! Thing! OFF! ME!"
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Post by Keith the Great on Jun 2, 2010 21:54:36 GMT -5
Keith had been completely and totally ready to play Whack-A-Jockey. He had not, however, prepared to be showered in a sizzling gob of acid that burned worse than badly-fried turkey.
Screaming, Keith followed the improvised fire-safety method: Get the hell out of the fire, then stop, drop, and roll. He leapt out of the puddle, managing to escape with just a new, crispier fringe on the hem of his jeans. The corn was soft to land on, and a simple roll got rid of danger quickly. Quickly enough, in fact, to catch Mason’s yells about how the little midget thing was attacking.
Sensing his opportunity for an act of heroism, the hobo snatched his trusty board and sprinted over with a cackle escaping his scarf. Catching up almost seemed to be the toughest challenge; the Jockey was a fast little bugger and he wasn’t leaving his victim behind. Nevertheless, Keith kept to it and caught up around the side of the barn.
Once he was in swinging range, the rest was easy. Keith steadied his grip, pretended he was in the MLB, yelled “Batter up!” for good measure, and batta’-SWING! The horizontal sweep of the problem-solver hit dead on, knocking the poor creature off its ride and into the corn. Switching to sledgehammer-mode, Keith shifted his grip on the plank and promptly drove the end of it into the fallen infected’s spine. After two whacks, something cracked and all the Jockey’s twitching stopped.
Punching the air with a triumphant cheer, Keith turned back to Mason and gave a thumbs-up. “Got ‘im!”
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Post by Mason Breaker on Jun 13, 2010 23:06:55 GMT -5
(Temporary post)
As soon as the Jockey was off of him, Mason almost fell to the ground with the sudden weight change. Luckily he was able to maintain his balance, watching out of the corner of his eye as Keith finished off the head-humper.
"Thanks lad, that was really...Demeaning." He spat to the side, a little blood in his mouth. "Damn humpers."
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Post by Patrick Schrader on Jun 14, 2010 3:12:07 GMT -5
Patrick was able to avoid the acidic goo of the spitter. Unfortuantly for Keith, he got slimed, like 95% all over his body slimed. The kid screamed in agony as he rolled in the cornfield, trying to get the toxic poison off of his clothes. The scene only brought to light of the tragic memories of war. He tried to block the phantoms of his past, but he couldn't.
It was suppose an easy mission: no casualties, just a simple search and destory. His unit was in charge of securing a weapon's cache outside of Bagadad...
"Damnit, not now," Patrick thought to himself, "I need to focus." The veteran then shook his head and using his rifle, got up from the ground. It was then when he realized that Mason was having trouble with jockey. Despite the Irishman being a giant, the little headhumper was putting up a good fight. Immediatly, Patrick aimed his Garand at the jockey. The rancher had a clear shot; he was calm and steady, yet Patrick wouldn't pull the trigger. There was a feeling of unease as he was afraid hitting his comrade, either from the Mason's movement or the fear the bullet would pass through jockey. But, there was another problem that was buzzing in his head: Where was the beast that was snorting like a mule? Furthermore, how did that jockey flank them when it was in the cornfield, unless...
As soon as Patrick eyed Keith running towards Mason to help him out, there was a sudden swift of weight a pair of boney, dry hands covered the ranger's mouth and eyes. The clever jockey seemed know the right time to attack and took it as it latched on to Patrick's back, causing him to drop his rifle and giving the infected control his body. Blind and muffed, the cowboy was rode into the thick cornfields, unsure of his destination or if he'll ever be found.
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