Eric Guneagle
Pirate Master
Yet another creative writing project, so enjoy! This one is a little less serious than my other one, and a little less lengthy. There is some violence, so viewer discretion is advised.
He walked down the narrow hallway, one foot in front of the other, at a slow pace. His mind was clouded with thoughts of the past. Why he was here. Why he was doing this. He remembers growing up in Mexico with his family, emailing a girl from America that he loved with all of his heart. She had came down to visit after four years of just texting and video-chatting on Skype. He was sixteen, and he wanted to live with her. But his parents did not like the idea of their son dating a white girl, so G.I. Jose ran away with his love to America. They lived together in her parent’s apartment. After two days they got in a fight over how many kids they would have, and she then kicked him out. Jose knew he could not go back with his family, they hated him too much. So he decided to join the American military, because he had nowhere else to go. He tried being homeless for a couple of days, but he knew that he had too much Mexican Pride.
About four feet tall, three-hundred pounds, everyone laughed at him when he enlisted in the military. But he turned out to be the best soldier in his entire unit. In fact, he was so good, that Barack Obama had called him in to work for him.
So here he is now, walking down this long hallway that seemed endless. Red, white and blue flags hanging down from every corner in this white house. Two men in black suits are by his side, leading him to the giant brown door. The men in black knock on the door, and a voice ordered us to step inside. He could not believe his eyes when the door opened in front of him, and he saw the black man sitting at his desk. He looked at Jose with welcoming, but alert eyes.
“Sit, please,” said the president. Jose sat at the chair directly across from Obama, while the two men in black closed the door behind him, then stayed posted inside the room at the door watching him.
“Eh man, so what you call me in here for, man?” Jose said to the president.
“About Syria. You are aware of the situation, correct?” Said Obama. Jose looked worried. Obama did not know that President Bashar Assad of Syria had already asked Jose to spy on America from the inside. Now he had to chose sides, which made him feel very uncomfortable. The only thing that can calm Jose down it taquitos. Jose is a hired gun, and he only works for taquitos, quesadillas and burritos. Bashar refused to give him these things, so if Obama could provide the payment, he will agree to work for America. But if he refused, he would kill Obama.
“Yes, I know about Syria man why you questioning me man come on not cool,” said Jose nervously. Jose is not very fluent with English.
“Well, they have refused to give up their chemical weapons. As a punishment, we must go murder Bashar Assad, the Syrian President,” said Obama firmly.
“Oh okay thats cool yeah lets do that, yeah. But first you need to give me payment so I can work for you, yeah.”
“What do you mean?” said Obama.
“Well I hired gun I only work for food I need you to bring me twenty quesadillas and tortillas, thats how we do work in Mexico, okay?” Jose declared.
“You do realize I am the president of the United States, right?” said Obama.
“Yeah I see that, do you see the knife I have in my pocket that I could stab you with right now?” Jose threatened in a low voice.
“What was that?” Obama questioned.
“Oh nothing that was nothing, yeah. Just bring me food and I work for you I no let you down president, okay?”
“Fine,” said Obama. He looked at the men in black uniforms. “Go get him his food.”
“Good we open for business, you make good choice Mr. President!” said Jose.
“Okay, now listen. We must go in quietly, so you need to board the US-19-25-18-9-1 Plane heading for Syria. You will go up with a crew of twenty, accompanied by twelve other planes. Your plane will be in charge of the bomb, strapped to the bottom of the plane. When we are over Assad’s mansion, we will blow it to pieces. You will be part of the infantry, that will strike at the heart of Syria,” explained Obama. “I am counting on y-” the taquitos and quesadillas arrived.
“Ooh, yeah, yeah, we open for business Mr. President!” He raced over to the plate of food and shoved all of it in his mouth. “I am ready. Let’s go,” said Jose.
Two days later, December 23rd, 2013, the planes took off for Syria. It took days to reach Syria, but we were finally about to fly over the mansion. Obama was at the front of the plane, surrounded by his secretaries in black uniforms. Jose sat at the back, holding two miniguns that were strapped to each of his gigantic arms.
“Are we ready?” asked Obama. Everyone nodded. “Let us write history.”
We were lined up in front of the door. Obama went to open the door to have us parachute out. The door opened, and one by one, men were disappearing from the plane, heading into battle. Jose ran to the front and was about to push the big red button to drop the bomb, but suddenly, a loud noise was heard by his listening holes, and fire frantically covered the room. With his sharp instincts, he quickly sprang into action. He jumped out of the front window and opened his parachute. Bullets rained at him, and the other soldiers. Soldiers cried out in agony as their blood turned the sky from blue to red. Most of the men were not hit by the bullets, but some were not so lucky.
Most of the men in the unit, about two-hundred out of two hundred and thirty, survived and touched the ground. We immediately charged at the Muslim army. We shot most of them down with ease, but more and more kept coming. They started burning American flags, and it weakened the American soldiers. But not Jose. The Americans began to feel weak, especially Obama, who was being guarded by many American soldiers. Jose was shooting every Syrian with the miniguns, and suddenly, the Mexican flag was burned. Why did Syria hate Mexico? Jose was weakened. He fell to the ground. But Obama came in to save the day. Jose thought that his ObamaCare had run out, but it had one more day left. Obama brought Jose fifty quesadillas, and he got up quickly as one of the men in his unit gave him a rocket launcher. He aimed it at the president’s mansion and blew it to pieces. The Americans cheered as the Syrians fell back.
Bashar Assad was dead. An American flag was hung over the rubble, and democracy had taken its place. But a couple of Syrians shot down Jose and captured him while Obama was busy on the phone with his wife. The Americans boarded their planes and left Jose behind.
Bashar Assad stood over Jose in a dark room, lit by two torches. Eight Muslim terrorists held Jose down to the ground. Assad held his head in his hands and forced him to look at him in the eyes. Jose was confused, he thought he had killed Assad. All of America thought that the job was done.
“What happened, Jose?” asked the Syrian president. “We had a deal, didn’t we? Why are you shooting at my men?”
“Eh, Obama gave me my pay. You would not give it to me,” declared Jose.
“I told you I would give you what you wanted after the job was done,” said Assad. He looked at his men. “Kill him.” Jose struggled for freedom, and he broke free from the eight men’s grip. He took Assad’s neck by his big, beefy hand and took a knife from his pocket with the other hand. He took the knife and stabbed him in the heart.
“You can take away my freedom, but you cannot take away my Mexican pride, you hear?” declared Jose. Assad’s men backed away. Jose walked out of the underground base under the mansion and took out the quesadilla bits from his pocket he saved from earlier. “MEXICAN PRIDE!!!” he screamed, as he shoved the quesadilla bits in his mouth. He jumped into the Syrian waters and swam all the way to America. He got back with his girlfriend and had nine kids. He was a hero. G.I. Jose, a real mexican hero.
He walked down the narrow hallway, one foot in front of the other, at a slow pace. His mind was clouded with thoughts of the past. Why he was here. Why he was doing this. He remembers growing up in Mexico with his family, emailing a girl from America that he loved with all of his heart. She had came down to visit after four years of just texting and video-chatting on Skype. He was sixteen, and he wanted to live with her. But his parents did not like the idea of their son dating a white girl, so G.I. Jose ran away with his love to America. They lived together in her parent’s apartment. After two days they got in a fight over how many kids they would have, and she then kicked him out. Jose knew he could not go back with his family, they hated him too much. So he decided to join the American military, because he had nowhere else to go. He tried being homeless for a couple of days, but he knew that he had too much Mexican Pride.
About four feet tall, three-hundred pounds, everyone laughed at him when he enlisted in the military. But he turned out to be the best soldier in his entire unit. In fact, he was so good, that Barack Obama had called him in to work for him.
So here he is now, walking down this long hallway that seemed endless. Red, white and blue flags hanging down from every corner in this white house. Two men in black suits are by his side, leading him to the giant brown door. The men in black knock on the door, and a voice ordered us to step inside. He could not believe his eyes when the door opened in front of him, and he saw the black man sitting at his desk. He looked at Jose with welcoming, but alert eyes.
“Sit, please,” said the president. Jose sat at the chair directly across from Obama, while the two men in black closed the door behind him, then stayed posted inside the room at the door watching him.
“Eh man, so what you call me in here for, man?” Jose said to the president.
“About Syria. You are aware of the situation, correct?” Said Obama. Jose looked worried. Obama did not know that President Bashar Assad of Syria had already asked Jose to spy on America from the inside. Now he had to chose sides, which made him feel very uncomfortable. The only thing that can calm Jose down it taquitos. Jose is a hired gun, and he only works for taquitos, quesadillas and burritos. Bashar refused to give him these things, so if Obama could provide the payment, he will agree to work for America. But if he refused, he would kill Obama.
“Yes, I know about Syria man why you questioning me man come on not cool,” said Jose nervously. Jose is not very fluent with English.
“Well, they have refused to give up their chemical weapons. As a punishment, we must go murder Bashar Assad, the Syrian President,” said Obama firmly.
“Oh okay thats cool yeah lets do that, yeah. But first you need to give me payment so I can work for you, yeah.”
“What do you mean?” said Obama.
“Well I hired gun I only work for food I need you to bring me twenty quesadillas and tortillas, thats how we do work in Mexico, okay?” Jose declared.
“You do realize I am the president of the United States, right?” said Obama.
“Yeah I see that, do you see the knife I have in my pocket that I could stab you with right now?” Jose threatened in a low voice.
“What was that?” Obama questioned.
“Oh nothing that was nothing, yeah. Just bring me food and I work for you I no let you down president, okay?”
“Fine,” said Obama. He looked at the men in black uniforms. “Go get him his food.”
“Good we open for business, you make good choice Mr. President!” said Jose.
“Okay, now listen. We must go in quietly, so you need to board the US-19-25-18-9-1 Plane heading for Syria. You will go up with a crew of twenty, accompanied by twelve other planes. Your plane will be in charge of the bomb, strapped to the bottom of the plane. When we are over Assad’s mansion, we will blow it to pieces. You will be part of the infantry, that will strike at the heart of Syria,” explained Obama. “I am counting on y-” the taquitos and quesadillas arrived.
“Ooh, yeah, yeah, we open for business Mr. President!” He raced over to the plate of food and shoved all of it in his mouth. “I am ready. Let’s go,” said Jose.
Two days later, December 23rd, 2013, the planes took off for Syria. It took days to reach Syria, but we were finally about to fly over the mansion. Obama was at the front of the plane, surrounded by his secretaries in black uniforms. Jose sat at the back, holding two miniguns that were strapped to each of his gigantic arms.
“Are we ready?” asked Obama. Everyone nodded. “Let us write history.”
We were lined up in front of the door. Obama went to open the door to have us parachute out. The door opened, and one by one, men were disappearing from the plane, heading into battle. Jose ran to the front and was about to push the big red button to drop the bomb, but suddenly, a loud noise was heard by his listening holes, and fire frantically covered the room. With his sharp instincts, he quickly sprang into action. He jumped out of the front window and opened his parachute. Bullets rained at him, and the other soldiers. Soldiers cried out in agony as their blood turned the sky from blue to red. Most of the men were not hit by the bullets, but some were not so lucky.
Most of the men in the unit, about two-hundred out of two hundred and thirty, survived and touched the ground. We immediately charged at the Muslim army. We shot most of them down with ease, but more and more kept coming. They started burning American flags, and it weakened the American soldiers. But not Jose. The Americans began to feel weak, especially Obama, who was being guarded by many American soldiers. Jose was shooting every Syrian with the miniguns, and suddenly, the Mexican flag was burned. Why did Syria hate Mexico? Jose was weakened. He fell to the ground. But Obama came in to save the day. Jose thought that his ObamaCare had run out, but it had one more day left. Obama brought Jose fifty quesadillas, and he got up quickly as one of the men in his unit gave him a rocket launcher. He aimed it at the president’s mansion and blew it to pieces. The Americans cheered as the Syrians fell back.
Bashar Assad was dead. An American flag was hung over the rubble, and democracy had taken its place. But a couple of Syrians shot down Jose and captured him while Obama was busy on the phone with his wife. The Americans boarded their planes and left Jose behind.
Bashar Assad stood over Jose in a dark room, lit by two torches. Eight Muslim terrorists held Jose down to the ground. Assad held his head in his hands and forced him to look at him in the eyes. Jose was confused, he thought he had killed Assad. All of America thought that the job was done.
“What happened, Jose?” asked the Syrian president. “We had a deal, didn’t we? Why are you shooting at my men?”
“Eh, Obama gave me my pay. You would not give it to me,” declared Jose.
“I told you I would give you what you wanted after the job was done,” said Assad. He looked at his men. “Kill him.” Jose struggled for freedom, and he broke free from the eight men’s grip. He took Assad’s neck by his big, beefy hand and took a knife from his pocket with the other hand. He took the knife and stabbed him in the heart.
“You can take away my freedom, but you cannot take away my Mexican pride, you hear?” declared Jose. Assad’s men backed away. Jose walked out of the underground base under the mansion and took out the quesadilla bits from his pocket he saved from earlier. “MEXICAN PRIDE!!!” he screamed, as he shoved the quesadilla bits in his mouth. He jumped into the Syrian waters and swam all the way to America. He got back with his girlfriend and had nine kids. He was a hero. G.I. Jose, a real mexican hero.