"Morgan Jones" is the pseudonym being used by a security officer and American contractor that witnessed the Benghazi attack for-real-real, and not for-play-play. Below, in his own words, is a brief account of what happened that day.
It all started in a bar, where I was drinking "Jimmy Beefslab", the most badass mercenary in the business, right under the goddamn table. He might have been fluent in the ancient language of Shit-Talk, but he handles his whiskey like a man whose liver's made of paper mache'.
The first shot cuts through the air, and I'm as sober as the pope.
"Some shit's finally going down, boys," I says.
And they're like, "Aw shit, down at the embassy? You need some backup?"
"Yeah," I say. "I'll need you to guard that bottle of whiskey until I'm finished kicking ass."
Next think I know, I'm jumping over the motherfucking wall of the American embassy, and it's like an Al Qaeda family reunion. All of the biggest, most hardass insurgents in North Africa were staring me down. So I figure, it's time to get this party started. And what'a a party without a pinata? Only nobody had the decency to bring one, so I had to use this insurgent's head and the butt of my rifle. And that's all it took to light a fire under his buddy's asses.
It was pure Matrix shit in there, the way I dodged those rounds. I was moving so quickly, I couldn't even shoulder my rifle. If I was going to survive this shitstorm, my black belt martial arts would have to do. My body flowed from evasive maneuvers directly into roundhouse kicks and haymakers. Even if those bastards had dental records, they'd be useless for identifying the bodies when I got done with them.
These terrorists were real pros. I could tell because they waited for me to leave before making their play. And because they decided to stop being retards just this once, there were American causalities. Goddamnit, I'm only one man with the strength of three. Obama knew that, but he neglected to teleport operatives in to keep things warm until I showed up. Yeah, I said "teleport." We can do that. How do you think Obama gets his crisis actors from place to place so quickly?
Anyway, I take a few minutes to scream at the sky while kneeling over the employees who fell victim to these scumbags before those scumbags had a chance to fall victim to my knuckles. But there was no time to mourn. I learned that Stevens had been transported by civvies to a local doc-shop to see if something could be done. Nothing could. Not until I was there, anyway.
Using the rooftops to bypass the roadblocks, I finally arrived in the overtaxed medical center where I shoved the bewildered doctors aside and performed High-Efficiency CPR for well over an hour. Alas, though my hands are instruments of death, they failed to return a life on that terrible day.
As I stood in that crowded trauma ward, I lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and put it out on my bicep. Now was not the time for tears, however manly those tears would have been. Now was the time for retribution.
A lot of people have made noise about me telling my employer that I was in my villa during the entire incident, and that I couldn't even get close to the compound after I hit the road blocks and decided to give up and go home. But you've gotten a taste of the truth today, my fellow Patriot. And if you want the whole truth, you'll do your civic duty and grasp it firmly in your hands. You may grasp it firmly at any store where fine books are sold for $29.99.
No comments:
Post a Comment