Sgt. Rock Cleans His Room

Sgt. Rock's own M16A4 assault rifle was completely empty, leaving only his Glock 18 pistol and his knife as his sole weapons for the final assault on the enemy's remaining forces. As for the rest of his squad, one of the men still had half an unspent cartridge in his RPK, another had 14 rounds in his UMP-45, and the third had just two rounds left is his SV 98 sniper rifle.

Their only hope for overcoming the enemy's superior numbers was the FIM-92 Stinger that they had managed to carry with them. Sure, it was intended as a surface-to-air weapon for taking down low-flying jets and helicopters, but Sgt. Rock had a pretty good hunch that it would also be effective in turning the enemy's gun tower into a smoldering pile of mush.

However, it was a completely different pile of mush that was the subject of Sgt. Rock's current dilemma.  Moments ago, in the midst of inventorying his squad's remaining firepower, his corporal's radio had suddenly crackled with an incoming message.

"What is it?" Sgt. Rock asked in a barking whisper.

"Headquarters, Sarge," the corporal answered.

"What in hell do they want?"

"They want to know if you're hungry."

"Am I hungry!?" Sgt. Rock exclaimed. "Jeez! Tell them no, for Christ's sake. Don't they know we're in the middle of a mission?"

"They're asking if you want some applesauce."

"Applesauce?! Are they out of their friggin'… okay, fine, tell them yes. Otherwise they'll just keep calling. And, corporal?"

"Yeah, Sarge?"

"Tell them to put cinnamon on it. But not too much. Not like the last time."

"Roger," the corporal replied. But before he could relay Sgt. Rock's command, the back of his helmet suddenly exploded with a burst of blood, and he fell to the ground.

Sgt. Rock pivoted to his left and saw an enemy combatant standing a few yards away, pointing an AK74M directly at him. Dropping to a crouch, Sgt. Rock quickly drew his Glock and fired two bursts from it into the enemy's forehead.

Then he stood up and turned to look at the body of his fallen corporal, whose lifeless hand still clutched the radio. Sgt. Rock bent down, grabbed the radio and shouted into it, "I hope you're happy now, damn it! A man is dead because of you. What? No, I don't have any homework! I told you, I did it already. What? Are you serious? Stop now? But, I'm just about to break through the enemy's last line of defense! Do you know how many hours it's taken me to…"

The radio crackled with a loud response.

"Yes, yes, I promise. I'll clean my room as soon as I'm done. Just five more minutes more. Please?!"

The radio was silent. Sgt. Rock breathed a sigh of relief, then quickly turned to the last two members of his squad and resumed his tone of authority.

"Men," he said to them, "I know this sounds crazy, but we've only got five minutes to take this place and kill the entire enemy. We have no choice. Orders from above. HQ has no idea what we're up against. They just want this operation over with as quickly as possible so they can satisfy some God-damned timetable they've set for themselves."

Sgt. Rock drew a breath and weighed the odds of his team surviving the coming firefight. He had waged this same battle at least two dozen times already, the same enemy, the same fortress.  He dared not tell his men what he already knew in his gut – that once again they would fail to achieve their objective. They would not reach level 12. Not this time.

"So, okay, let's light this candle," Sgt. Rock said, lifting the Stinger launcher to his shoulder. He looked through its viewfinder and took aim at the gun tower. In his mind, he pictured the coming impact and explosion. He knew that there would be body parts and blood, and the air would soon be filled with the overpowering smell of death.

He even felt he could smell it already. Then he realized it was only the aroma of his mother's excellent meatloaf wafting into his room from the kitchen.