[CHUTICLE] ONCE UNTO THE BREACH

Day 1,699, 08:04 • Published in USA USA • by Chutley


ONCE UNTO THE BREACH


As I sit here with a downward brow and a somewhat muted physiognomy, I feel a twinge of melancholia creep down my spine. I am solemn, morose, and, above all, I am nervous.

For I am on the precipice of what will be, perhaps, my final battle.



For you see, I am no Hero of Battle… nay, I have no such titled medal to my name. Each day I stare at that hollowed out torso, bust, and laurelled upside-down magnet where my BH trophy should be…but it isn’t.



And my heart is just as empty.


I pine for this achievement and its accompanying glory, prestige, and endless amounts of gold. Ye, do I wish badly for my name to appear in your news feeds with such honor. I dream of these words scrolling by thine eyes:

Chutley


And I weep with desire.


For 10 months have I been building the factories and fishieries and saltpeter mines that I require to succeed. I have Q3 weird tanky looking things and plates of food abounding, pushing my 3,000 item storage to its limit, like a fat woman’s stomach in a tracksuit of size at least two X’s too S.

I have saved bazooka parts without assembling and amassed candy bars still uneaten. And I lament the irrelevance of hundreds of unused triggers and barrels and stocks. Damn you, you wasteful and odious triggers and barrels and stocks!




They sit, ever unused and entirely despised.


No Major or Captain or General anymore am I. No indeed. I have now just entered the hallowed fields of marshals! Even have I recently been granted a *, so you know I am of tough and obdurate mettle.

Through it all, I have not added one single penny to the eRepublik coffers. No. My coppers have remained mine own, and I take solace in this modest abstention. But it has left me in an eMendicant state, so I have stowed away my goods like a gay squirrel and his nuts of sustenance and sexual stimulation. Ye, have I acted like a gay squirrel!


But, dear friends, now is the eve of my first and, perhaps, final battle. I will enter its red and bloody and ambient on/off fields and I will bring eEverything I eHave. I will travel to some weird place that seems forgotten, distant, and uninhabited, like Western Transdanubia. Or Marmara. Or Kentucky.

And Dio help me, I will fight.

But, I know not how will the winds blow this day. I pray for gusts that sweep me past my competitors and enemies - and also allies - and leave me in a land only known to the victorious. That land where my name is among the elites, like Romper, and Romper, and Romper.

But oh how cruel can breezy Aeolus be. He may conspire with the fates to adorn my Q6 battle tanks with flags of surrender as I watch others speed by me with more rank points than I could ever dream of. While I am rocketless, others are rocketful, and I may suffer the 11th hour consequences.



Rocketless am I.


But, lo! if I win, dear friends…

How sweet the music will be on that day. How delicious the fruits and tannin-y the wine. And how free will be the softcore pornography on Cinemax for just a few hours.

But, oh, such sorrow if I fail! I may never recuperate, for I know not whether I may convalesce after such a brutal drubbing to and emptying of my eWeapons, eBazookas, and mine ever wavering eEgo.

Yet, into the fields I must go. With courage and prayer guiding me I will fight till the ticker strikes 1800. I must be strong and fierce and stalwart, but I must never forget myself. I must remember - no matter what…I shall emerge…a Chutley.



So, to all my eFriends, please wish me luck and love and...

Godspeed to all,
Chutley






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