urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:bloodgulchblue Private Church Private Church 2006-07-17T22:27:02Z urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:bloodgulchblue:542 2006-07-17T22:27:02Z 2006-07-17T22:27:02Z <a name="cutid1"></a>My dad wasn’t around much when I was a kid. He used to work away from home for weeks at a time. I always wondered what it was he did; never knew anyone to be so freakin’ cryptic all the time. I used to tell my friends he must’ve been a spy, or an assassin, something cool like that, and I said it so often I came to believe it. I was so proud of him. And when I knew he was coming home for a visit, I’d sit out on the porch for hours, just to be the first to see his car turn on to our street. And he’d always come up and give me a hug, first thing, and say ‘Hey kiddo, been looking after your flock?’ Always the same line, and it always put a smile on my face. If anyone doesn’t get the joke, look at my name again. Or, y’know, get a freaking sense of humour transplant.<br /><br />He’d come inside, greet mom and my little sister, and then phone takeout so we could all sit and talk at him without any distractions. And ‘course he’d hand out presents for us kids, always something cool, like a big toy machine gun, or a computer game (and, when I was a little older, porn, but he handed that to me in private). But one time, I’d been really missing him, getting bullied at school and stuff. Mom’d told him about it over the phone, and he’d been ready when he got back. There was the usual hug, but when I went to open the front door he stopped me, said he wanted to talk to me in private. <br /><br />“Church,” he said, “I know how hard it is on you, me not being around much. It’s hard on me too. I miss you, your sister and your mom every day I’m away, and I keep counting the seconds until I can see you all again. And I figure you must do that as well. So let me make it easier for you.” Then he reaches inside his pocket, and pulls out this really expensive looking old watch. He says it used to be my grandfather’s, and it was passed on to him, so now he was passing it on to me. Sounds corny, yeah, but you should’ve <i>seen</i> this freaking watch through the eyes of a teenager. It was 18-carat gold, ornate scripting, and looked like I could buy a years worth of computer games and candy if I sold it. I mean, not like I would, but it crossed my mind.<br /><br />So after that he made it a point to always get home at 5PM on the dot, and when I was waiting for him, I’d sit and look at the watch, look at the seconds and minutes ticking off one by one. Those were some of the happiest times of my life. I still have the watch, wear it under my armour. Sturdy little bastard it is too, survived the tank shell that blasted the crap outta me. I’m probably the only dead guy I know that wears a watch. Because when the idiots around here get too much for me, I can just go sit out the back of the base and watch the seconds tick by, remembering how it felt. My dad, possible spy, possible assassin, heck, possible freakin’ superhero for all I knew, coming home soon.<br /><br />‘Course, when I was about eighteen, I found out that he worked as a drag queen in some English seaside town, and that kinda put a damper on the whole thing. But I try not to focus on that.<br /><br />OOC: No, this isn't exactly canon, just a random idea I had when I saw the topic, but hope it works for him. urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:bloodgulchblue:477 2006-06-06T13:18:25Z 2006-06-06T13:18:25Z Okay, so I woke up expecting a helluva lot of pain, but I felt fine. That was weird. When the last thing you remember is a big freaking tank firing at you, pain's pretty much a given, yeah? Then I looked down at myself. And through myself. Yeah, I was see-through. I'm a God-damn ghost! A ghost! Christ, I thought things couldn't get much worse, but as usual they did. This is why I freaking hate being in the army. I mean, we all sign up to fight aliens, but suddenly the aliens are all gone and we're fighting other humans, just ones that wear a different colour of armour! Does anyone have a freaking clue WHY we're fighting the Reds? Seriously, why? And why in God's name did they send us such an idiot newbie that KILLS HIS OWN TEAM WITH OUR TANK?!?! That's it, Caboose is getting haunted until he goes mad with terror and has to get locked up. Or until I get really, really bored. Hell, looks like I'm staying around anyway, the whole 'afterlife' thing sounds like too much effort. And those two retards would be lost without me to tell 'em what to do. Hmm, wonder if I can posess people and stuff. That might be fun...