Yesterday, Andrew and I went paint balling, for Ben Bays birthday, with some other friends. I was on the black team (hence the name "Black Faction" in this blog). Unfortunately we forgot to use our face paint, although I doubt it would have made much difference.

The Soldier

The sun scorched through the needles, filtered by the upper canopy of the pine forest that had turned into a battle ground. The cool breeze came off the snow clad mountains to the west, making the heat from the sun slightly more bearable. The weather however was the least of their worries right now. "pop" "whirrrrzzzmmmfff", John could hear them whizzing past his head as he flattened himself out behind a fallen tree that barely covered him from the hail of bullets that were directed toward his vicinity.

Earlier that day, though it seemed like an indeterminable period (in reality it was 15 minutes), the "soldiers" of the black faction, motivated by greed, boredom or most likely a strong idealism, converged, their faces painted to achieve maximum inconspicuousness, they percolated through the pinus radiata to their rendezvous point for their surprise raid on those who would get in the way of them achieving their undisclosed objectives.

Purposefully, the guerrillas moved, traversing the terrain quickly, but without compromising their camouflage, always alert, scanning the perimeter, weapons ready for the unlikely event of an ambush.

Stopping just out of eyesight of where their scouts had told them the sentries were, they immediately moved into their pre appointed positions, blending into the surroundings, disappearing like a $50 note left in a bus stop, awaiting the signal to start the operation.

To John, a member of Black Faction, it seemed like an epoch ago, and with only a few centimeters between his present state and eternity, he wondered what he had done in his life that was worthwhile. Cautiously, he peeked through the rotting roots of the tree he was behind and let off a spray of bullets over to where his present adversary was taking cover. Rolling to reduce the amount of his person that was exposed, he shuffled round to try and get a better angle with which he could then dispatch his enemy. Raising his gun, he felt the sudden searing pain of two direct hits to his shoulder......... GAME OVER.....

I was away at Arahina for 2 weeks, hence the lack of blogging. On the way there, we had a blowout.

In case you are thinking something else, that disgruntled entity at the beginning of this one, is the tyre that blew. Not me.

The tyre

Because of the revolution, he was forced to adjust, stretching to accommodate the new position that he found himself, degraded and slighted, he carried the whole societal structure on his shoulders, but because of his unglamorous position, he was more often than not ignored.

The acuteness of his sense of duty was, in the past, immense, but over the recent months especially, his patience with the whole degrading system was wearing thin. Very thin. It had started with only an innocently disgruntled thought. "why am I doing this?", which evolved into a more "why am 'I' doing this?".

Inevitably, under such incredible internal and external pressure, he cracked. Not visibly, but he had sprung a leak, which would, in the near future, rip him apart.

Black smoke, the acrid smell of burning rubber, the squeal of balding tyres - Who ever was driving, they were in a hurry. The moon, partly shrouded by an evening mist, cast it's reflection on the shiny black surface of the speeding car. Onward and upward it drove, the driver concentrating hard, trying to keep himself awake, was always alert for the flashing lights, the wailing sirens that would indicate that their identity had been discovered. Round the bend ">>>>>>75" said the sign, ">>>>>>85", the driver unconsciously calculated. Over the rise they drove, the panorama of the ocean reflecting the night sky. "No time to look at the scenery...", the driver thought glancing at the clock - 12:47 - they were making good time....

"mmmmmmmmmmmmmrrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmm...." The unexpected sound, accompanied by a rumbling vibration, snapped the sleeping occupants of the vehicle back into consciousness. The tyre, full of vengeful hatred - rather than air, had chosen this moment to spring it's last gasp surprise on the driver. It had chosen an effective time to go - 02:03.

The rubber of the tyre was torn. Pieces of steel were sticking out at unnatural angles, giving it, in the darkness of the summers night, the look of a mouth, snarling up at the driver (who was at that time, holding a cell phone's luminous face up to it, as he hadn't a torch).