War photog Bret K. Ellis took this now famous shot of captured Wakandan “King T’Challa” at the Battle of Atlanta. That’s first sergeant C. W. Moss escorting his majesty.
By Phillip Marlowe
As his men marched past the Leader standing up in the impromptu grandstand in company formation, four abreast, no two looked alike. They wore uniforms cobbled together from Realtree and Mossy Oak hunting garb to military surplus ACU and Woodland camo — along with a crazy assortment of ball caps, helmets and hunting boots. This oddball army might not look so fashionable but they could care less.
Most carried generic AR-15s strung over the back with Magpul quick release slings or just any old found piece of strapping material. Some had Remington and Winchester scoped bolt action deer rifles, camouflaged Mossberg slug guns and a few seriously bad ass hybrid assault rifles. Even a few Chinaman Norinco AK’s with those strange thumbhole stocks were to be seen. Many also had handguns at their hip or thigh, along with a nice dirk or combat hatchet. These were weapons brought from home, or scavenged off the dead on the field of battle.
Most had some kind of military combat vest with magazine pouches, but others only had roughly camo spray-painted muslin Wholefoods grocery bags hung diagonally across the shoulder. Packed aboard all manner of contrivance came extra ammo, water, dehydrated prepper food and big canvas sacks of Russian spuds garnered by colluding with evil White guy, Vladimir Putin. Thanks, Bro Man!
Fortunately, the 10,000 man First Cohort had a solid day of rest after moving up from Virginia along mountainous back roads. They marched by in good order — certainly no military academy graduates, but mostly in lock step. They were anxious to get where they were going and do what needed doing. As they stomped past the Leader in a muddy West Virginia beet field, they saluted with the right fist held downwards at a fierce angle and snapped determined faces up to look at him. They were digging it.
They would kill for him, sure. They would die for him, too. Well, maybe not die if at all possible. And the Leader did hate seeing any on the casualty lists, though it sometimes happened. Still, every single one hoped and prayed for another chance to forever shut the mouths of worthless Wakandans and their stinking traitor allies — mostly lefty psychos, Antifa catamites and Jew commies — now lumped together and called “Soyboys” by our side. Only a smattering were left.
Behind the grandstand, 200 watt outdoor bluetooth speakers — liberated from a fat Jew lawyer’s mansion in Charleston, South Carolina — played the soul-stirring song “Promontory” from the movie “The Last of the Mohicans.” The Leader loved that piece before going into battle and had a tech guy from the ranks edit it down to the best marching part and continuously loop a MP4 file on a spare IPOD duct-taped to one of the speakers and a Goal Zero solar panel for power anywhere.
Standing to the right of the Leader was his top War Dog, Bushrod (real last name redacted). He was a hulking, muscular specimen of a White guy. No one knew how old he was, where he came from, or that he was a veteran SEAL team member in the Zionist wars overseas (never remind him of that fact if you want to keep your head). Bushrod had piercing blue eyes, big knobby shaven noggin and the face of an angry biker ready to bust heads over a big-breasted bar bimbo.
With both of his huge hands, Bushrod grasped the bannister in front and roared throatedly at the marchers filing past — “kill them… KILL THEM ALLLLLL!”
Bushrod was certainly no idle sycophant of the Leader — many in the ranks had personally seen him kill dozens with one of his black anodized Cold Steel war hatchets, or even just bare hands in close quarter combat all across the South. He would soon be at the head of his own famed assault battalion, the “Berserkers” — greatly feared by Wakandans and Soyboys ever since the Battle of Woodstock when his men slaughtered thousands of the panic-filled enemy in a pincer movement on the outskirts of DC — right before fellow Whites the US military came over to our side once they realized we were the true American patriots and bad asses.
As his soldiers filed past saluting him, the Leader had his right fist clenched, arm likewise held down at a sharp angle, boldly to the front and slightly to the side. His face was sat in stone. He had fought countless battles with those comrades marching below and his visage showed several ugly diagonal scars. He had also been shot at least twice and once left for dead in a necessary tactical disengagement during the early days of the war. But nothing could stop the man when it came to “making America great again.”
The Leader wore a plain, unadorned with pouches or patches, Blackhawk plate carrier vest in olive drab. At his side hung a scabbarded, bona fide Civil War Confederate cavalry sword presented to him by the Victors of DC — liberated from a museum or government archive, no doubt. His uniform was Natural Gear bow hunter camo and at the moment wore nothing on his head. His now longish, salt and pepper hair was hurriedly brushed back behind his ears and he had a beard several days old.
The Leader hardly had time to eat, let alone clean up before ordering this latest assault once he saw the enemy were in full retreat. Not since the encirclement and utter annihilation of the foolishly led Wakandan army at the Battle of Apelanta had such a fat juicy target sat waiting their fury.
As soon as the enemy were routed, it would be easy to chase them all the way back to Chicago — laughingly called Chimpchago by the men — now political headquarters for lefty traitors east of the Missip. Intel had it Obama himself was desperately trying to cobble together some semblance of an army out of surly Gangsta Wakandans from the Southside — now sick and tired of war after so many cuz lay rotting in massed heaps further south and all the fast food chicken restaurants remaining unopened.
We all sincerely hoped Obama — now out openly gay after Michelle committed suicide when CIA medical documents found in Langley proved “it” indeed had a shriveled donglet — would be successful at rustling up another Gangsta army. Nothing like picking off hip-hopping Hottentots furiously waving around Glocks and AKs. The men hadn’t had that kind of shooting fun since Apelanta.
Hanratty’s 10th New York, fresh from securing the Northern front and comprised mostly of Irish and Italians full of piss and vinegar, came down to take part in all the hijinks. They quickly cleared Pittsburgh with help from local militias. At one point, things did get a bit out-of-control with blood lust, I must admit. Hundreds of panicking Wakandans drowned trying to cross the Monongahela and Ohio rivers in wildly nigger-rigged watercraft, capsizing midstream from massive overloading. A few of our men, “against orders” climbed up to the rooftops of nearby buildings to take potshots at them as they flailed away in the current.
Video from drones now showed the Wakandans were shivering in muddy, barely fortified encampments just outside the looted and mostly burned down Wheeling, West Virginia. These bozos always crap up their own beds.
The Leader was sorely tempted to order Gatling gun strafing and bomb attacks from the squadron of A-10 “Warthogs” newly put at his disposal (how he loved seeing those babies in action). But he demurred to save munitions for use against the Wakandan redoubts of Columbus — next on the hit list. That would be a target-rich environment and help further instill panic with any potential Chimpchago forces led out by Obongo or some other Soyboy pretend general.
The Leader would launch rocket attacks and mortars using homegrown phosphorus shells to initiate the assault. This always freaked out Wakandans and allowed our men to get close enough to infiltrate outer defenses. Then it was a simple matter of gunning them down as they ran screaming every which way to save their worthless hides.
The poor jiggaboos always lost their shit.
At a certain point, the Leader would order his signature “Dagger” ground assault — the now famous military tactic where Bushrod’s entire Berserker battalion was unleashed at a frantic run, wildly screaming the new Rebel Yell while making a beeline for the headquarters area of the enemy with no concern over anything left or right. Other units moved down the flanks, picking off Soyboys and Wakandans who dared show their fat faces as they went. The Leader stood nearby at the head of the reserves — ready and eager to respond to unforeseen threats from any direction. One can hope, can’t they?
As usual, the cowardly Wakandans folded quickly. After only a couple hours or so, those not laying dead and wounded, came out crying “Massa, Massa, we bez yo slaves agin!” A handful did escape to the west during the night. No big whoop: We would deal with those sorry bastards soon enough.
Now it was just a matter of securing and frisking each sobbing SOB; then photographing the clowns using digital cameras feeding biometric software and special high tech-looking roll-down backgrounds. During interrogation procedures, we certainly slapped a few around a bit, entered in name and ID specifics into the master database and then took DNA swabs from inside of the cheek, should they be recaptured latter (not really since we didn’t yet have time and resources, but never let on about that).
The two cent cost of a little cotton swab and officially printed DNA plastic baggies worked wonders on the idiot Wakandans. They innately feared computerized White man trickery and readily cooperated so they could get back to shucking and jiving on the streets back home ASAP.
We also handed them with great fanfare laminated lifetime discount KFC cards, totally bogus BTW — yet another cheap trick to gain accurate ID info. The database program even dropped in their biometric face shot automatically!
We explained in no uncertain terms that if they were ever captured again taking up arms against our forces or harmed a hair on the head of any White non-combatant anywhere on the planet, they would be subject to immediate hanging on the spot.
Then they would be transported or forced marched to re-education camps as close to where they were originally from. AI biometric programs did help in later battles where a few captured were found fighting again — but for the last time, I assure you. To drive the point home, rows of such types hung dead near where our people processed the newly captured. Sometimes, we merely strung up a few enemy corpses from the battle, or those who gave us just a little too much smart mouth during interrogations.
The whole system worked beautifully!
NEXT: The liberation of Wakandan-held Columbus and the resulting I-70 “Highway of Death.”
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