Operation Dung Beetle

Dear Diary…hahahaha…Diary. What am I a prepubescent little girl? Nope, but Rocco is. I woke up to him screaming like one. Which is funny because it’s never a pretty sight to see a giant black man whimpering like a stuck pig, especially when your head is pounding from tequila shots from the night before. The single mom that he brought back to the penthouse we rented in Trump Tower for Salty’s bachelor weekend was attempting to eat his face off. Which was rather unfortunate because I lost the autographed KISS guitar that we lifted from The Rio bashing the little hussy’s head in. In hindsight, the putters that Django bought from the put-put golf would have posed a better weapon choice. I never did understand his affinity for random trinkets as souvenirs but he was the intellectual one as his love for Jazz awarded his nickname. A ginger as a Jazz fan. Interesting to say the least.

Since I’m on the topic of nicknames, Salty got his serving in Iraq. A MARSOC Recon member he was on the first wave into Baghdad and he was on one of the first medevac helicopters out when an insurgent’s AK-47 round clipped his right testicle clean off. That is where he met Geronimo and I. Rocco, an Army Ranger assigned to the 2nd Ranger Battalion spends his off time volunteering as a nursing assistant in an extended care facility, hence Saint Rocco. Then there is Geronimo. He was born in Cuba and immigrated to the United States in the 90’s. He’s pretty racist, and if you know anything about the real Geronimo you can figure out who he hates. Geronimo and I work together in a manner of speaking. Geronimo is a Pararescuemen and we flew Salty’s skinny white butt out when he got clipped. Rocco we all met in Okinawa during a hard night of drinking. I’ll write about his butterfly tattoo that he got there another time. I have to save the ink because this pen is straight FUBAR.

Back on target, after wasting Kim or Diane or whatever the hell her name was I immediately projectile vomited straight beer all over Rocco’s leg. I made this day even harder on myself which was evident with last night’s antics still undigested all over Rocco. We made our way to one of the bedrooms to find a giant of a woman towering at least 6’2” and pushing 250lbs spooning Geronimo like a baby. In the bathroom, Salty woke up when we entered. He was floating in what appeared to be a mixture of bathwater, vomit, urine and probably some tears wearing a snorkel and mask yelling, “I’m a Navy Seal”.

It was at that point we heard yelling from back in the bedroom. As we got there, Geronimo was choking the life out of the woman and exclaiming at the top of his lungs, “If I can survive Castro, I can survive anything”! The commotion rattled the cheap painting off the wall and onto the giants head saving her from what would have been a communist beat down. We finally made our way back to the kitchen area where we found Django making coffee. His exact words were, “If this is what I think it is, I’m not starting this day without some java.”

Yes, we took five and drank some coffee and talked about what we were going to do. Django, our neighborhood friendly intelligence junkie turned on the television and just like in the movies, the destruction and mayhem was everywhere. As usual the government was aware of the threat months ago and had found a vaccine. One they had already gave to us grunt types, the anthrax series. Apparently, the North Koreans had created a superbug based upon anthrax. Luckily for us, we have been given every available shot and look, still no autism!

Our situation was not exactly looking bright. We were in a skyscraper full of potential face eaters with limited weaponry and a hangover that Charlie Sheen could relate to. Django reminded us the reason we didn’t have any weapons was because of all the security surrounding the President. We didn’t know if he was in the building and not that we cared at this point but the Secret Service was bound to have some sort of armory in the building.

So, we set out to the top floor not knowing if we were going to be able to find the weapons cache let alone get inside of it. As we made it up the stairwells we encountered little resistance armed with metal stakes forged from the ironing boards we found in the rooms. Which was a bit interesting considering if you could afford a place like that wouldn’t you want to send your laundry out? Anyways, luckily one of the resistors was a maintenance man roaming the stairwells which he kindly handed over the all access pass when Rocco stuck him with his iron spear…hahaha iron spear…

We finally made it to the top when a shot grazed Salty’s shoulder. Just our luck, the disease infested face eaters still have the mental capacity to use weaponry. However, it wasn’t the case. A lone secret service agent was still around. After the long ordeal of convincing him we were who we said we were which I’ll spare you the details of we were informed that the President was still alive along with his wife, his daughter, and Hillary Clinton. Yes, Hillary fucking Rodham Clinton. Apparently Donald, was in a strange lover’s triangle with Hillary and his wife Melania. The only thing we can figure out is it was some kind of dominance or power thing.

Django was right. The Secret Service agent, which we will name Bob let us in to the armory. We never got his name because he didn’t last much longer due to good ol’ slick willy, former President Bill Clinton himself came out from behind some curtains and piranha’d his ass. You’d think it was one of us “commando” types that would have speared him through one of his eye sockets. But you’d be wrong, it was Hillary Clinton. She unholstered the special agent’s gun, fired three rounds like a boss. The last of the three couldn’t have been put more centered into slick willy’s forehead. The first two, although I didn’t visually confirm, but best guess. One for each one of his testicles. All the guy’s started smiling and looked at Salty. Geronimo said to Salty, “You can relate can’t you”.

After confirming Hillary did in fact have ice water running through her veins we disarmed her and geared up ourselves. I obviously once the situation calmed down claimed dibs on Ivanka. Which didn’t go over well with the President, but I’m committed to winning him over. This damn pen. Alright, to sum things up because I’m pretty sure I don’t have much juice left we decided that it was our duty to protect the President and his hair of course, I mean heir….or did I? Anyways, I’m leaving this in the Secret Service safe house vault we ended up at tonight in case anybody comes looking for us. We are headed towards the place the President met “Lewinsky and Harding”. Apparently you suit wearing types know where that is otherwise I will let you draw your own conclusions. Anyways, I hope to tell you the rest of the story sometime. I’ll give you a hint, they picked to wrong day to protest the military and the use of drones in downtown today!

Oh last thing, they call me FJ! After the rapper….F….