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|Don’t Really Own No Elves (standard:humor, 1991 words)|
|Author: Reid Laurence||Added: Mar 28 2007||Views/Reads: 1962/1210||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Just what kind of government research goes on while we're busy doing that 9 to 5? Is it a good thing, or bad? A help, or a hindrance? Read on and find out...|
Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story naively. “She's rocket powered. Gets from here ta Chiny in twenty minutes. From here ta Canola, Irune in under ten. That fast enough fer ya?” “Gosh, that means it must be traveling at about... twelve thousand miles per hour! That's incredible.” “You know it Bub.” “Can I see it fly?” “Course ya can. That's why ya come out here, ain't it?” “Yes, I suppose,” I replied, not wanting to appear impudent, or disrespectful. “Well alrighty then, ah'll fire it up fer ya,” and without warning, the lanky Lieutenant swiftly kicked the beautiful, sleek war machine deftly in the middle of its fuselage, causing an immediate display of flashing lights and blinking gizmos... enough to make any self-respecting computer geek insanely envious. “Forgive me,” I started to say. “But isn't there a switch on the thing or some other typically simple way to start it up other then knocking it senseless?” “Nope, ain't no switch. Ya see, if this here ever falls inta the wrong hands, the army knows they ain't no way the enemy kin even figure how ta turn it on... hell, who'd be dumb enough ta spend twenty million dollars on a new weapon an then kick the shit outta it? That there's reverse psychology, ya see? The enemy'll never figure it out.” “I see,” I replied, without fully realizing the depth and impact of what had just occurred. “So, can I see it fly?” “Tell ya what,” remarked my respected new acquaintance. “Ah'll go one better. How wouldya like ta see ‘er in actual combat? Is that a hoot'n a hollar ‘er what?” “Oh, yes sir. That'd be terrific.” “You bet. Ah'll give ya somethin' ta write home ‘bout. Jus gimme a second here,” remarked my well disciplined, army escort. But as he turned away and walked to a desk in the corner of the drab, concrete finished room, I couldn't help but wonder what was going on. Then, as he pulled something from a Rolodex on the desk, I was soon able to determine the reason for his action. “This here's a picture a Osama Bingcrosby BobaHopa, the well known Al Krappa terrorist. Naw, all ah gotta do is put this here in the little slot there,” he explained, positioning the photo in a small, unassuming port at the side of the Predator Carrera 911, “an ah'll jus show ya what this varmint ‘ll do,” he explained. “Alrighty then you metal monster, listen up!” And as my guide spoke, the new Predator drone seemed to respond with yet another, even more impressive array of flashing lights and blinking switches, like the kind of machine which may only exist in the imagination, and so definitely beyond the scope of human comprehension and experience. “Ah gave ya the photo, naw git! You got half an hour ta kill that bastard or ah'm gonna personally see you get decommissioned inta tuna cans, you read me!?” But all that could be determined from the drone - if in fact any comprehensible answer could be determined - were several more blinking lights and the sound of a well tuned Chevy 350 V8 engine turning over. “I don't get it,” I said. “You just talk to it? How is that possible? And why in the world does it sound like an old Chevy Camero starting up?” “Course ah talk to it. That dad gum bastard knows more ‘en me an you put tagether. Don't need no more programm'in. But the engine noise, that was sheeer genius don'tcha think? Engineer'in threw that in at the last minute they say. Suppose ta remind us all a home sweet home, ya get it?” “I guess so. But if this thing is so efficient,” I replied, as the modern drone taxied down the special runway and took to the air. “Then why are we still at war?” “Ah dunno, Can't stop naw ah reckon. Not while we're havin' so much fun. Anyways, what in tarnation does the army do when they ain't no war ta fight? Nuthin', that's what. So where ya want yer tax dollars ta go anyway? Ta some lazy ass army that ain't got nuthin' ta do, or one that's got their hands full? Ah don't have'ta answer fer ya, do ah?” “No,” I responded. “I see the light now.” “Good, so whaddaya wanna do while that tin can killers' out do'in the job on old Osama what's his name? Wanna play horseshoes er darts?” “Gosh,” I said. “I get a choice? How about horseshoes?” “Yer on,” replied my skilled companion. But we were barely into the game when the Predator showed up on its return trip, landing gently in the exact same spot it had taken off from. “So,” remarked the Lieutenant, speaking to the drone in a most stern tone of voice. “Ya done what I told ya to, er what? Show me some proof.” And before either of us had time to look away or think, the Predator had expelled two photos from the very same slot on its side in which the Lieutenant had used to issue its target. One after the other, they simply popped out and fell to the tarmac of the runway. Picking them up from the ground, Officer Figbee began to explain... “This here's a before picture,” he noted, which appeared to be nothing more then the rock strewn side of a very plain looking, desert mountain. “An this here's the after,” he said, showing me a photo of such carnage and chaos that I tossed the horseshoe I was holding down to the ground to get a better look. “Hard to believe,” I commented. “But how do we know which one was Osama BobaHopa? It looks like the Predator wiped out a whole nest of the enemy. Who's who?” “Ah'd know that sombitch anywhere's,” offered the Air Force guide. “Look here naw. See this?” “What?” I answered, more perplexed than ever over the odd relationship shared by this rare machine and its master. “I swear boy, you as blind as a bat. Hey,” remarked the Lieutenant to his space age alter ego. “Gimme a close up shot a that scum bag Osama, an make it snappy.” And as I watched, the remarkable Predator Carrera 911 issued a new photo from the small slot in its side, not unlike any other well disciplined soldier following commands. “There ya be,” maintained Officer Figbee. “That's his head towel lay'in on the ground... size thirteen. See the number inside?” asked my guide. “Ain't no other got a head that big. He's the one. Fer sure, that's him.” “Wow, cool,” I said, amazed and awe struck at the precision with which the entire plan had been executed. “And you say we're fighting now just because we're on a roll and can't seem to stop?” “Yep, that an one other thing.” “Really?” I asked. “What else could be responsible for the continuing conflict we've been arguing over for years now. Why don't at least some of our soldiers come home since it looks as if the Predator has pretty much wrapped things up on its own. What do you think the problem is?” “Well,” began the outspoken officer. “Naw, don't quote me on this, cause ah could get in trouble fer lettin' secrets out what ain't suppose ta be let out, but jus betwixt you an me, the real reason is...the army likes ta use the word; DRONE, fer a acronym, but they Kain't figure out what them letters stand fer, no whatta mean?” “No way,” I replied. “You're kidding.” “Yep, way,” answered Officer Figbee. “Well,” I began, clearing my throat as I spoke, unable to contain myself at the thought of finally arriving at some conclusive reason for the war's continuation. “Is there at least a list of words in the making? Something they've been using in the meantime that you could let me in on? You know, just between you and me. I promise not to tell the public if you don't want me to.” “Awlright. Ah guess ah could let'cha know if ya promise then. Ah'll jus whisper it cause ya never know who might be listen'in.” And in a voice barely audible - so quiet in fact that I was forced to read the Officer's lips in conjunction with what he was saying - this is what he said... “Don't Really Own No Elves.” “And that's why we're still at war? Just because the words to describe the acronym don't make sense?” I questioned. “Yep, you got it. Anyways, may as well finish our horseshoe game. Ya remember who's turn it was?” Tweet
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