#adam3

“Here goes nothing,” Leilani muttered to herself, thrusting the post-it note with Adam’s home address into her pocket (she was thankful Caius didn’t ask too many questions upon asking for it). Was it wrong of her to show up uninvited? Most likely. Was it even worse that since the Summer Festival Lani has been avoiding Adam without explanation? Probably not. But the truth was that she was concerned for him. It was one thing to change her shifts to not overlap with Adam’s presence, but it was another to learn that he wasn’t coming in to the gym at all. If he chewed her out for her visit she would give him a tongue lashing of her own.

Making her way to the front door, she rapped her knuckles against it gently. “Adam?” Waited a moment. Then impatiently banged her fist against it.

Daisy was brought out of her slumber by the feeling of a wet nose in her face, closely followed by a lick to her ear as she began to move. As soon as she popped on eye open, she was greeted by the big face of the Pitt-mix Moose who, as always, was over the moon to see her. “Hey big stuff,” she chuckled, a smile spreading over her face, “Let’s get you outside”. 

Since Adam didn’t seem to have roused yet, She threw on her long coat over her pyjamas and took Moose out so he could do his morning business. It didn’t take her long before she was back inside and back in her pyjamas and bare feet. By pyjamas she meant she was in an oversized t-shirt that skimmed her thighs. She listened for signs of life in the apartment and when she heard none, she made her way to the kitchen to make breakfast, careful to close the door behind her so she could play some music. All the while, Moose followed her dutifully. She was humming away to herself as she made some pancakes and set out the topping of the counter. Once she had made a few, she stopped as Moose stood on his hind legs as she held his front paws as they, well she, danced along to Frank Sinatra as it played relatively quietly over the speaker. All the while Moose was happy to let her move him around the room as she sang Fly Me to the Moon.

Posted by

Adam Popovich3

on

August 11, 2012

The Bears attacked again this morning. Me and Sanders have spent the last 3 days without any real form of sleep. We take turns taking naps in between feverish fits of jerking each other off. It’s the only way to stave off The Bear Plague, and the adrenaline and endorphins keep us alert. We’ve managed to hold them off with ample suppressive fire, but we’re running low on munitions quickly, and at this rate we’ll be defenseless in 2 days. Sanders has been working on making a prototype grenade to load into the mortars. Hopefully it’ll thin out their numbers, but they’ve been hitting us relentlessly with wave after wave of pandas. It’s almost like their inability to procreate or eat food properly fuels them to become the most efficient suicidal soldiers possible. I saw one take 2 full clips from a MP5 before finally going down.

I’ve been thinking about how the grenades are really less of a tactical weapon, and just a way to keep hope. Perhaps Sanders isn’t working on anything at all. Perhaps it’s all a ruse, meant to keep the rest of us believing in the fight. Watching Vapperelli slowly turn was a brutal blow to moral as well. Seeing a man, slowly turn over the course of one night. It did things to our platoon. Vapperelli wailed in pain for hours as the Bear Plague took him. The sound of his bones, slowly cracking into place to fit his shifting ursine frame, will stay with me for the rest of my life. Even his wailing slowly turned, from a long droning howl, to a deep, heavy growl, and towards the end, a full on roar. I don’t know who put the bullet in his head. Nobody would admit to it, but whoever did, did him a kindness.

It’s 3:33 am and I can see the Grizzly Brigade, across the field, slowly building their garrison. They’re mustering their troops for a final charge. I have no doubt that this is where I’ll die. They’ll come, we’ll fight, and we’ll lose. Is it enough to die fighting? To sit and wait for the black paw of death to claw your face in? As I sit here, receiving yet another life preserving handjob from Sanders, I ponder if it’s even worth it. They say that Man makes plans, while Bear God laughs. In the end, we’re all sons of bitches anyway.