A crowd begins to form.
"You piece of stuff. There's a sanctity to human lives, you're right that there are things worth dying for, but a bunch of loving boxes?! I don't care what's in the boxes! It's not going to bring Steele back! He'll never see another day. He'll never age another year! He's gone! Two AWACS rammed each other too! What about those people? They'll never see another day!" I argue.
I pause to attempt to regain some coherence.
"And you've the nerve to call us the chair force? We are the reason you can be even marginally successful. We bring down the wrath of the Gods upon the mother forgeters you can't kill! I'm sorry you couldn't muster the mental capability to even grasp at the complexities of an aircraft, air warfare, or combined arms for that matter!" I return.
My blood boils and the hot coals flare up in my chest.
: If I had until the End Times I could not explain all the ways that what you just said was the stupidest and most ill-thought out word vomit to ever dribble out of your stroke-addled loving mouth.
The pilot gets between Kissinger and the Marine in an attempt to defuse any physical situation that may arise, but it's too late. The Marine, conservatively estimated at being one and a half times the poor forgeter's mass, shoves the pilot aside like a twig and punches Kissinger in the jaw with the power of an enraged gorilla. The carbon-reinforced knuckles on his glove amplify the force to bone cracking levels, and you feel your dignity exit your body in the form of a handful of teeth. The other pilot recovers in time to grab the Marine's arm before he can throw another punch, sparing you any further injury, but your jaw is very much fractured at the very least.
: HEY! That's ENOUGH!
:
[Un-loving-believable...] One of you gawkers go get a medic for the poor forgeter, before he bleeds on my tools.
today in abs fiesta: mjolnir learns that stuff-talking marines is a terrible idea
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