Every single day I spend in this squadron I become more and more certain that this was some kind of macabre punishment assignment.
I don't know what I did to be consigned to this piece of stuff squadron, but someone's got it out for me.
In the squadron I may well be called Captain, but the title brings with it all the prestige and responsibilities of some kinda forgetin' man-child kindergarten teacher.
To think, the the NAUC Air Force lives to call this penal squadron a frontline tactical fighter squadron.
If I remember correctly though, it's all about performance. It's like the new leadership, once you get all the fun showy stuff out of the way they send you to die. All the rookies want to outperform each other in the air despite knowing jack-stuff about combat. And they still don't. But that doesn't stop 'em.
So they send me to a squadron of egotistical and narcissistic pilots to perform and turn the tide of war.
Not to mention the INCOMPETENT pilots, the HOMICIDAL base security, SUSPICIOUS loving Tippy, USELESS ground crews, and BATstuff forgetIN' Tippy, not to mention the crotchety loving POG pieces of stuff we are supposed to call Requisitions Officers, who have a LEGION of bureaucratic starfishs.
And if this wasn't bad enough, we have Tippy to worry about, crazy bastard.
But what could be worse than one homicidal suspicious loving batstuff loving pilot? The Huitzlaotani, hell bent on enslaving everybody they encounter for an eternity.
Yet the pilots still go about their daily business, constantly looking over their shoulders and talking stuff about one another. And who wouldn't? Even the Requisitions Office on-base are talking stuff twenty-four-seven.
Despite it all though, this squadron of narcissistic pricks spends every waking hour bragging about their kill-scores, or wondering in awe at what happens when we are enslaved by the Huitzlaotani.
And if things go wrong it's hardly a problem. Our bureaucratic CO's ensure plentiful replacements in a matter of days.
I don't know why I'm even recording this. I sure as forget don't need it for myself. Sure I could complain about it and send it to the CO with all the transgressions and bullstuff about this squadron over the months, but what's the point? Who would give a stuff other than HiCom making me suddenly disappear?
I suppose I could send it and upload it to the Global IntraCommNet and let people make their own judgements, after all I'M the one sitting out here in the desert, pissing my life away leisurely.
I don't care what they call me back in the squadron. I'm not an starfish. I'm a man of principles and standards. And if lives get in the way of those principles, so be it. I'd say I'm the better man here.
Once they called me Captain, but when it's all said and done—
I'll be a hero.
If you run across this entry by chance, get your useless piece of stuff ass over to the nearest recruitment station, and start bustin' heads.
Jaakko gives thought to the complex moral questions of war and life.
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