I.
“Hell man, remember those mad lads who sent a box full of nigger dicks and balls to the United Nations building?”
A roar of laughter.
“Fuck dudes, Popobawa headed up one hell of wet work team. All across the Northeast and the Great Lakes, those motherfuckers pulled off some insane shit.”
“Anyone ever figure out who the hell they were?”
Capt. Marcus Sears (ret. USCA) let out a guffaw.
“Yo!” the whiskey slurred voice came, “Captain Mustard knows something here. Marc, story’s you had some dealings with the Popobawa.”
Marcus turned to look at the second floor window of the American Legion Hall on Sixth Avenue in a former American city. Derelicts, human and vehicular, littered the street below, half-lit in the patchwork street lighting, smothered in driving rain. Streams formed in the shitted-up gutters and overran the shattered sidewalks.
His hard, gaunt frame hung there suspended between the then and the now.
Marcus sucked down his sake and cleared his throat. “Some things aren’t safe to talk about. Even two decades later. Some powerful, dangerous men have secrets they would prefer to take to the grave.”
He knocked back the rest of the sake and made for the bar. “Oh, and it wasn’t the U.N. in New York; they airmailed it to NATO headquarters in Brussels, and it wasn’t a box, it was a crate…”
The old vets fell silent for a moment and picked up again once Marcus sat down at the bar.
II.
“Captain, can the 11th provide fire support on the Warehouse district and the Flats?”
Lt. Colonel Kugler looked very grave.
Captain Marcus Sears of the 11th Dragon Guns asked, “What sort of mission are we supporting?”
Lt. Col. Kugler stood up from the AO map of central city Cleveland and cocked his chin at a shadowed corner of the command tent.
Something big and dark detached itself from the shadows.
Capt. Sears hadn’t noticed him before. The figure stepped forward glorying in the light; easily six foot four, he dwarfed everyone in the tent. Capt. Sears could tell this was no regular militia or army man. He carried two pistols, a silenced submachine gun, two sheath knives, flash bangs, tear gas canisters, and enough magazines to re-bathe Harlem in blood.
His carriage and bearing reminded Capt. Sears of a well-publicized incident in Manhattan during one of many particularly brutal riots that signaled the end of the former U.S.; an ESU officer went apeshit during some riots, gutting and blasting antifa. That blood-soaked hazel-eyed leering visage seemed to stare back at him through the man’s balaclava.
A moment later, Capt. Sears suspicions’ were partially confirmed when the Lt. Colonel said, “Officer Hernan—eh,” an awkward pause, a suppressed smile, “Popobawa, if you wish to inform our dear Captain here as to the nature of your mission.”
Definitely not military, Capt. Sears thought.
Popobawa held out a massive paw. Captain Sears took it and shook.
“I see no problem; it will either happen tomorrow night or not at all. Hardly enough time for any leaks to spook our targets.”
Popobawa turned to Capt. Sears, “Our mission is a simple smash and grab directed at the leadership of the Black Liberation League. What we would need from your Dragon Guns is an artillery and tear gas shield lasting 20 minutes at, oh, 0330 hours. Then any fire missions we may need to cover our infiltration and exfiltration. Small Potatoes for the Butcher of Philly.”
Capt. Sears could detect a cruel smirk under Popobawa’s balaclava.
III.
The next day was mostly preparations and supporting harassment and interdiction fire. Capt. Sears checked over his company, liaised with his commanders, and dealt with a massive headache obtaining and transporting the 40 shells of nasty CS/CN homebrew some sick fuck REMF cooked up for the dragon guns.
Capt. Sears announced as the sun set, “Half alert, rotating two hour shifts until 0300, H&I as we get them.”
Marcus sat down overlooking Cleveland as the day’s last rays graced there way over the snow flecked smoking pounded ruins.
“Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. You got yours, we get ours,” Marcus said to himself.
IV.
Out of the north on Lake Erie, two Seafox SWCL prowled over the black waves under a crescent moon. A giant of a man helmed the lead boat; a former NYPD ESU sergeant, Popobawa, exhorted his black clad cohort over the roar of the early winter surf.
“Remember, men, the world these degenerate animals took from you! Payback time!”
Popobawa hit his throat mike, “SP 24 incoming to Dragons. One click out, give us our diversion! Predesignated targets.”
V.
Five miles away Capt. Sears, replied over the field telephone, “Acknowledged, SP 24. Artillery diversion to commence,” he checked the glowing hands of his wrist watch, “in two minutes at 0320 hours. Slow your approach and enjoy the show.”
Capt. Sears stepped from his command tent and shouted to the assembled battery, “HE rounds, commence battery in 90 seconds! You know the game plan.”
Lt. Phillips ran down the line, informing the section sergeants.
Capt. Sears watched the seconds tick away on his watch, 80…79…78…77…10..9…8…7…6…5…4…3…2…1.
“FIRE!” he shouted, a point of ceremony.
The earth’s mantle cracked open as 20 guns began their serenade to the BLL on the Flats and in the Warehouse District.
The chilling wind died with the coming of night. In cold stillness, Capt. Sears saw the bursting shells’ temporary light give some life back to the dead and dark city.
Popobawa watched with satisfaction as the Warehouse District and the Flats exploded as 105mm high explosive shells ripped through the night setting fires.
30 men watched through their NVGs from the vast silence of the lake.
“Yo! Sarge! We never had this much fun on the force.”
“Sure beats the shit out of trading blow for blow.”
“Fucking niggers.”
“Waaaaakanda!”
Popobawa ran his finger along the blade of his Marine Raider bowie. “Take us in.”
30 men loaded for bear pushed towards the Cleveland docks over the lake.
“Targets sighted, sentry presence is light, scattered, just as the aerial reports said.”
“10-4, Masher. As usual, let’s keep this quiet.”
VI.
Shuan fed his nigger dick to the fat white girl. Pressed her head by its short dyke bitch cut onto his chub. The docks were quiet that night. She slobbered on his knob, saliva dripping down his balls as he gripped his Deltonics AR in his left hand.
His boys gathered round, warm by the fire, waiting their turn, on watch duty.
Watch the docks.
Watch the bitch.
Wait your turn.
He exploded in her mouth when the artillery pounded Cleveland.
“Yo! Shuan, should we be doing something?”
“’Bout what, nigger? Fuck you gonna do about shit blowin’ up?”
“We could, you know, see if we need to be on the lookout.”
Shuan whipped around, dick still in the bitch’s mouth. “I tell you what, foo’; why don’t you do something an’ pound this tifa bitch. You can even jump in line.”
The man dropped the issue.
VII.
Tactical boots hit the dock as the first four man wedge hid in the dark beneath the docks and slipped towards the Warehouse District.
Another.
Then another.
And another.
Until all but the Seafoxes’ pilots and gunners were on land.
“SP 24-1 to SP 24-2, are you in position?”
“Affirmative, SP 24-1, we are moving inland and clear. Light those spooks up.”
The boat gunners put infrared lasers on the fuck ‘n’ blow party on the dock.
Gunners’ NVGs were adjusted.
Popobawa and his men crept through the shadows.
The Seafoxes button hooked 400 yards away from the docks.
Ma-Duces swung on pintel mounts.
“Send it!” the boats’ Captain shouted.
“Mark!”
Shuan’s dick turned into a wet noodle as soon as the dock exploded into red splinters.
Embers from the fires flew in all directions, setting alight the diesel fuel barrels.
His boys, his spectators turned into chunks of meat.
He turned and ran. “Fucking white man can never fight fair!”
Shooting his AR in the wrong direction, towards land, he ran.
The fat white bitch ran after him, “Shuuuuaaaan!”
Titties flopped in the wind bouncing in time with her waddling run, then they exploded into chunks of fatty ground meat.
Her head, cored like an apple, followed, sending its contents into the night wind.
He ran until a burst of .50 cal vaporized his thighs and torso.
The boat gunners turned their sights to the dock buildings. Glass, wood, and concrete shattered, pinning down any reinforcements who could have intercepted the teams.
Popobawa radioed his men, “If you aren’t masked up, now would be a good time.”
Popobawa radioed back to the firebase, “On my mark, release the Dragon’s Tears.”
Tear gas rained from the night sky.
Four teams in fighting wedges stalked into the blackness.
***
For all installments of “Popobawa,” click here.
Proteus Juvenalis, of the Lost Generation, is a cynic and misanthrope orbiting Neptune and contemplating his former home. His stream of consciousness broadcasts can be found on Telegram.
