Whether you’re deployed, in the field, or just in the barracks, there is a 99% chance that some officer or NCO is annoying you to take college courses. They’ll tell you that they’re important for promotion points, your future, and to acquire a level of education commensurate with your climbing rank.

They’re right, of course. That stuff is kind of important. But we at Ranger Up encourage you to look past the immediate gratification that promotion points provide, and consider the holistic benefits of being educated. Namely, it allows you to be more of a jackass while amusing yourself and others, occasionally protect The Colors and keep your friend from having sex with a beautiful woman, all in one fell swoop…

So, no shit there we were, spending the weekend in Innsbruck, Austria. We had finished skiing for the day and were now at some awesome bar when we met a bunch of pretty Austrian girls who were on vacation. My friend Doug immediately took a liking to this one 20-year-old that was truly drop dead gorgeous. She was in her second year of college, and was genetically flawless in every way. Unfortunately, as soon as she started sprecheing the English, I pretty much hated her. No matter what she was talking about, she invariably had to infuse a bunch of comments about the relative stupidity of the average American. I swallowed my pride and snarkiness for Doug’s penis’ sake, but after a while we were all getting a little aggravated (other than Doug, of course), and through the magic provided by the many red bull and vodkas that I had consumed throughout the evening, my tolerance had waned to zero.

I had just asked a question to one of the other girls about the effect of the switch from local currencies to the Euro and The Frauline said something to the effect of “I’m surprised you even know what the Euro is”. I asked why, and she told me because Americans are uneducated and rarely know anything about anything.

RAGE BUILDING.

Inner Monologue: Hold it together, Nick. Doug really wants to hook up with this girl.

I calmly fired back that was an odd statement to make given that everyone in our group had at least one college degree and she hadn’t finished hers yet. This is when she said, “American college is like Austrian Grade School”.

At this point, my shirt ripped off, my pants split and I became a giant green colossus.

NICK SMASH!

I asked her what her major was. She said math. This is the part where I hang my head in shame at executing perhaps the lamest thing I have ever done (and that is saying a f*cking lot).

I challenged her to a MATH OFF.

That’s right kids…Nick versus hot Austrian girl with pens and napkins. She got to write any question and I got to write any question. If the other person couldn’t solve it, then you had to prove you could.

She went first and gave me a kinematics problem. I was a mechanical fucking engineering major at West Point. That place took away the best four years of my life, but it fucking replaced them with a whole bunch of useless knowledge, most of it involving equations and theorems I thought I would never use again. Au contraire, Bon Jour.

I looked at the kinematics problem and I did it in my head. (Sinking, so fast)

I then gave her a triple integral with multiplication, exponents, and variables with ranges. She said she hadn’t done that in school yet and that it wasn’t a fair question. I told her I had done that in high school, like all Americans (this was an outright lie). Then I solved it. I closed by saying, “Maybe you should come to America so you can learn something…you know…if you’re smart enough to pass the entrance exams.” You know…those entrance exams to America…I sure showed her, right? Who’s with me!?!

She stormed off. Doug walked up to me and said, “You’re such a fucking douche.”

Yes, I am. But more importantly, I think we now all see the value of a good education. Use your GI Bill kids. If you don’t, you’ll never be able to completely cockblock your good friend for no apparent reason, other than a perverse desire to convince a 20-year-old girl that your country kicks ass, and that’s really what it’s all about, am I right?

Oh God, I hate myself.

The Dumb Ass Chronicles: Tempting the Mighty Gods of War

“Hey Doc,” I said uncoiling the string on the pyro I’d just pulled from its stock cardboard packaging.  “I’m about to do something dumb and you won’t be able to stop me, so don’t even try.”

“Yeah, like I could fucking stop you even if you hadn’t said that,” Doc T growled wearily at me as I finished putting on my gloves.

I looked up at him with a wicked, knowing little smile on my face as I finished getting the simulator ready to go.

* * *

In hindsight there is part of me that is amazed I can still type what happened next while looking at my computer screen with both of my eyes.  Never mind hear the gloriousness that is Lizzy Hale’s voice coming through my headphones.  Usually, when one taunts the Gods of War in such a brazen and callous way he ends up in the hospital or worse, as opposed to simply a weeklong shaving profile.

It’s like pissing on a rain turtle in March at Ft. Lewis, WA while calling the Rain God a pussy on the only partly sunny day you’d seen in the two weeks you’d been out in the field.  You know that it’s going to pour rain as soon as that last drop of piss hits the ground, because your insolence demands it.  There are some things you just don’t do.

As I was uncoiling the method of my own destruction, I wasn’t thinking that way.  I was too busy reveling in another field problem being done.  Enjoying the tired haggard looks on my students’ faces from my latest operations plan.  Too proud, too confident I’d been there, done that.  Too tired myself to notice I was holding a mine simulator booby trap and not a detection “whistler” noise-making device.

I had done this dozens of times before with whistlers. At the end of our field problem all pyro must be expended and rather than take the five minutes to rig all the leftovers up to something, spool out the wire and detonate, we just grabbed the fuckers and threw them as we pulled the string.  It takes a whistler about a second and a half to activate, more than enough time for it to hit the ground a safe distance away from you.  Whistlers are all white.  The pyro tube I was holding in my hand was yellow with a white top.  What had I been telling my students for the past two weeks? Oh yeah “attention to detail,” that’s right.

“You sure about this?” JJ, a fellow instructor, asked me. I just smiled the same “I’m invincible” smile that Bellerophon must have had on his face as he mounted Pegasus and tried to ride to Mt. Olympus.  I grabbed the end of the string firmly, lowered the end of the pyro tube towards the ground, and pulled the string.

Click!

I heard the click and two things happened as fast as my synapses could make them so.  I turned my head the other way and thought:

SHIIIIIIIIIIIT!!!

BOOM!

The booby trap went off about six inches from my hand and two feet from my face.  I stumbled back as my ears rang and eyes watered.  My nose felt I’d just gotten done sparring with my old Muay Thai coach when I wouldn’t listen to him about covering up after throwing a hook to the body.  The whole experience reminded me of the time I was a private and my Spc-4, Goldsworthy, had thrown a flash bang at my feet without telling me about it.  I hadn’t liked eating that banger, and I certainly wasn’t a fan of what I’d just done to myself.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  You jackass!”  JJ said from on top of the wall, laughing so hard that he almost fell off.  “You should see yourself right now!”  He choked out, trying to keep his balance.  “You, (smirk) should, AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”  He gasped before finally giving up and just continued laughing.

“God damn it,” I said wiping my fingers across my upper lip, confirming the blood trickling out of my nose.  “Doc you got any ice?”

“HOLY SHIT Sargent!  You’re bleedin pretty good!”  One of my students told me as he rushed over, staring incredulously.  The look begging to know why the hell I thought that had been a good idea.

“I’m fucking fine, go away.  I just need some ice,” I snarled, ignoring the pleading eyes of my PFC.

“No, first you need to get that cleaned out, and all I have is alcohol swabs,” Doc T told me with a smug, satisfied, smirk.

“Come here.”

“That sting?”  Doc asked as I winced as he ran the first swab across the gash on my cheek.

“I’m fine,” I growled, determined to not let the sting show anymore, but failing miserably.

“Good,” Doc T told me smirking as some of my students started to crowd around.  “I’m going to have to do this at least twice to each.”

There’s a lesson to be learned here, I think…something about safety maybe?  I vow to never do that again…to be an example.  Hold on, one of my instructors is on the phone…there’s some extra C4!

Be right back!

• Tommy Batboy>>
• Arachnophobia by Kelly Crigger>>
• Protect the Package >>
• Grammar Police >>
• Detective John Kimball >>
• The Chicken Hawk >>

Tim Kennedy remains the only dude I know that transitions from being an elite soldier to a world class fighter with the same ease that I transition from screaming obscenities at the television while watching my favorite college football team to screaming obscenities at the television while watching my favorite pro football team. He is deployed again, and we thought it’d be cool if he kept his fans posted every now and then as to how he is doing. Enjoy!

by

Tim Kennedy

A Note from Tim: I communicate almost exclusively using verbal sarcasm. So using this medium of communication (writing) is rather challenging. Please be forgiving.

28 October 2008

Today, as I was sitting around looking at the other men in my unit, I commented that we led really privileged lives. Other suckers have to pay thousands of dollars to tour different exotic countries and experience unique cultures, whereas I get PAID (while not very much) to do the same thing. Granted, I’m sure that when you pay for the trip, instead of cruising on Uncle Sam’s dollar, you don’t get shot at, blown up, or not get to bathe for weeks at a time, but it still seems like a pretty sweet deal. I realize that many of you don’t come from a military background, so from time to time I will try to explain a few things that will help you understand my ramblings.

Here goes: I live on a FOB. FOBs or Forward Operating Bases are bases located forward (Tim, did anyone ever tell you not to use the words you are trying to define in the definition? Screw you, Tim! Am I arguing with myself again?) into unfriendly terrain with the purpose of securing ground and providing support to the locals. In actuality, FOBs are targets located in hostile territory surrounded by people that are not sympathetic to your cause. To add to that fun, resources tend to be extremely limited, making mission accomplishment very challenging – but hey, that’s what I signed up for – if it was easy, they’d call it mortgage derivatives trading, right? I mean – who could screw that up?

Now that you understand that I live miles away from anything useful surrounded by people that generally don’t like me despite my sunny disposition, you will appreciate the fact that training for my next fight with ORGANIZATION when I get back can prove rather challenging.

Anyone that has ever met me knows I am somewhat energetic, but I’m a freak when it come to physical conditioning. Not working out two to three times a day drives me absolutely insane. In case you missed it when I whined about this previously, we have somewhat limited supplies at my current home away from home (have no fear this will not dissuade me). (I love parenthesis) “and quotation marks”. Anyhow…Like I was saying…THIS WILL NOT DISSUADE ME! Anyone can do pushups or go for a run. Many may even find some graspable object located 5-8 feet off the ground for pull ups, but when you know your opponent is in some Dolph Lundgren-like altitude chamber using $300k worth of gym equipment while eating the best food money can buy, you realize you have to do your best to make things a little more fun, if not more imaginative.

So I work with what I’ve got.

In the Army there are always certain things in abundance: Crap, lots of crap especially in a combat area – scrap metal, car chassis, goats, etc.. We basically blow things up, or get things blown up around us, leaving me with plenty of material to work with. My typical approaches are as follows:

1. Find some Crap.

2. Try to jump on top of it. If you can, then see how many times you can do it without smashing your legs against “it”. This is tricky. Box jumping is a science and an art. You have to know your ability, and more importantly, how to gauge your ability. I use landmarks on my own body. At first I was jumping things waist high. Then I would move up one rib at a time. I’m sure you can imagine the locals seeing this crazy white guy walk up to some inanimate object, and then jump on top of it and then walk up to something a little taller and try it again. And then the inevitable occurs – I eat it, bust my shins, and fall on my face… Not to worry, though – repeating this chain of events has enabled me to now jump things at nipple height! Isn’t that exciting?!?!? I also have bruises up and down my legs which I think of as a bonus.

3. Throw it. I love finding all these things that once served a useful purpose and seeing how far I can throw them…and then running to it, picking it up, turning around and throwing it again. I do this until the thing I’m trying to throw ends up trying to throw me. The heavier, and more awkward the object is, the better. I look at this as yet another opportunity to impress the local audience, who for some reason are always watching (at some distance now) with a certain mild trepidation. They’re not sure what is going on, or the reason for me yelling every time I chuck a transmission. All they know is something strange is going on and they don’t want to miss it.

4. And lastly – my favorite: Slamming! While it’s fun to pick heavy things up, it’s even more fun to throw them down. I mean straight down. Tires, ammo cans, water bottles – you name it and I bet you I can slam the living daylight out of it. It all sounds simple enough. Find something heavy, pick it up, slam, and repeat. In truth, however, a lot more goes in to it. First of all you have to make sure that you don’t slam yourself, which just hurts. Second, you need to ensure that the thing that you are slamming will not in some way be able to attack you after you slam it(you would be surprised at how vicious a tire is if slammed incorrectly). Finally, you have to take the audience into consideration (their fear is palpable during the slamming process). Even though they are now standing even further away the last thing you need is a dead local from a armored truck tire that went awry.

If any of you find yourself in INSERT MIDDLE EASTERN COUNTRY HERE, please feel free to use my regime.

Well, that’s it for now. As always, thanks for your support.

Tim “TKO” Kennedy

Tim Kennedy

Adding Tommy Batboy to the Ranger Up team has made a huge difference – he’s energetic, a natural salesman, has great stories, and works his ass off 24/7 to tell the world about Ranger Up. One of the unexpected things that has come out of the Tommy Batboy acquisition; however, is that I have realized that I am a giant dumbass. Now, this in itself was no surprise to me, but as I started telling him more stories about my military career, the depth and breadth of my dumbassery really came to light. As such, on occasion, I will tell a story from the Dumbass Chronicles.

By

Nick

The best job in the world to me, other than earning the right to be a platoon sergeant, is being a platoon leader. I was fortunate enough to get to hold that job twice for the better part of three years – a luxury few people get nowadays with the need to promote people to fill vacancies in the upper echelons – and I loved every freakin’ minute of it.

So there I was with my first platoon – sitting at our hardsite – a building that had been an embalming station 8 months previous, when my Commander rolled up in a HMMWV.

Me: Hey, sir – how goes it?

CO: Fine. I got good news for you!

Me: What’s that?

CO: The Battalion Commander wants you on his staff – you’re going to be the assistant S-4.

Me: Ehhh…that’s cool. CPT G (The S4) is a good dude. So, when does this happen? When we get back?

CO: No – in 4 days. You have to start doing the handover with LT Cherry today.

I felt like I had just gotten kicked in the nuts. Here we were, 3 months from the end of our deployment, our platoon was running smooth as shit, I had made huge strides toward closing the ethnic rift issue just enough that the two sides were meeting in the town council, and I was right in the middle of dealing with all kinds of complex problems involving NGOs (non-governmental organizations) and the local economy, and quite frankly I didn’t want anyone else leading my guys in a dangerous environment, certainly not LT Cherry.

I’d solve this.

Me: Sir, you gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. Can I talk to the BC about this?

CO: He said you’d say that – and he already said ‘No’. He wants you to redeploy the battalion. Said you did a great job with that UMO shit on the way over.

UMO?!?!?! I started cursing UMO (Unit Movement Officer) training. I had been sent to a five day trip that amounted to me partying like crazy in Heidelberg every night while learning an extremely basic computer system by day, all the time wondering why no one else wanted this gig. Well, Nick – here’s why dumbass: in the Army, if you know anything about something and no one else does, you are the subject matter expert, and if you’re the SME and anything remotely involving that subject comes up, you’re on the hook. I was fucked. I tried one more desperate plea.

Me: Sir, we’re leaving soon. Can’t we work this out so that he takes over when we get back?

CO: No. The BC wants you in the four shop.

Me: Sir, I’ll do both jobs.

CO: Nick – you’re the new AS4 in four days. Get used to the idea. Train LT Cherry.

And with that he rolled out to visit his next hardsite.

Vengeance is a Childish Prank

A good officer would have accepted the fact that I had a good run as a platoon leader, a new guy was coming in who needed experience, and I had a new job to do that was essential to both the wartime mission and the redeployment. I on the other hand, with some of my other dumbass cohorts, found the worst pictures I could of every officer that could have remotely had any influence over the decision, including, among others, all the company commanders, the battalion commander, and the sergeant major, and posted them on www.amihotornot.com, which at the time was a new phenomenon.

They all, with the help of our photo selection, received “hot scores” ranging from a lowly 3.7 to a truly spectacular 1.1 (out of 10). I then printed hundreds of copies of these items (that’s right – I wasted taxpayer money) and posted them all over camp, as well as ensured that a copy of each man’s rating was sent to every hardsite in the task force.

Vengeance got Boring – I Needed a New Outlet

While embarrassing superior officers was fun for awhile, the novelty quickly wore off, and I had to focus my energy elsewhere. When I wasn’t supplying units with stuff, I was building an absurd entrance maze into the four shop with plywood and 2X4s (everyone hated it and it gave us like a full minute of warning as they weaved their way through the labyrinth so we could shut off minesweeper) or practicing knife throwing (we thought it was funny that in movies military guys always could throw knives from across the room and kill a man, so we bought throwing knives and practiced nonstop). Believe it or not, maze-building and knife-throwing do not fill a man’s day, so when we weren’t working, we surfed the newly burgeoning internet in a quest to find amusement.

That’s when Mac hit the motherload.

It was a balmy September morning when Mac emerged from the labyrinth and walked over to my desk. He immediately pushed me aside and typed in a website – some radio station.

Mac: Dude, check this shit out.

Me: What is it?

Mac: These guys prank call people and use celebrity movie clips to talk to people – like Arnold Schwarzenegger and Al Pacino.

At first the idea just seemed dumb. Who the hell would fall for that? I was soooooo wrong. Listening to person after person try to have an intelligent conversation with Aaaaanald was absolutely priceless.

Me: Mac, this is awesome. Greeeaaat find.

Mac: I know, right?

Me: Yeah – these are priceless. Wish we could do this.

Mac: Nick, we can. I already tested it.

Introducing Detective John Kimball

Mac was now the executive officer for Charlie Company and as such, he had access to multiple computers. He had spent a few hours searching for Schwarzenegger sound bites and downloaded them onto a computer locked away in a small room big enough to fit three chairs. He had about 12 downloaded quotes, including key ones like “I’m Detective John Kimball!” a la Kindergarten Cop, “I’m a police officer”, “Yeah”, “I’ll be back”, “Who is your daddy and what does he do”, and my personal favorite “Put my hand through your stomach! Tear out your goddamn spine!”

So with our twelve quotes in hand, we practiced how a conversation would play out and decided to test it on the Charlie Company CQ. We would alternate between him talking and rapidly trying to find an appropriate answer from our small stable of quotes. It worked, sort of, but we sucked at it so it took Arnold like 30 seconds to answer between each comment he made to us. Finally, he was like, “Hey is this you, LT? You guys fucking around again?” Arnold quickly gave him the “Put my hand through your stomach! Tear out your goddamn spine!” quote and we hung up.

We were deflated, but we’re not quitters either. We knew there was work to be done if we were going to be good at this.

Over the next few days, not unlike the nasty disgusting caterpillar, we cocooned ourselves into Mac’s hovel with nothing but combos, ramen, and the occasional trip to the 24 hour DEFAC to sustain us. We developed a three man process that required two phones spliced together – one with the end of the phone taped to the computer speaker and the other on speaker phone.

One man would record the conversation and hang up, one man would spot the expected next needed quote, and the other man physically clicked the quote. When we finally emerged, we were a beautiful Arnold Schwarzenegger spewing butterfly. About 50 trials with various CQs had us ready for prime time – we knew what they were going to say before they did.

In the process, we also found a “special” CQ. We’ll call him Specialist Bag-o-Donuts. He was as country as country can be, and we’re pretty sure he had never heard of a computer, because no matter how many times we called him, he never realized he was hearing the same quotes. He truly thought some Austrian dude was just tormenting him.

Here’s our first conversation with him:

SPC BoD: Charlie Company, Specialist Bag-o-Donuts speaking.

Aaaaanald: Yeah.

SPC: Hello

A: Yeah

SPC: Who is this?

A: I’m detective John Kimball!

SPC: Who?

A: I’m a cop you idiot!

SPC: Ok, sir. How can I help you?

A: I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I want to have them answered immediately!

SPC: Ummm…I think I should get the CO

A: I’m going to ask you a few questions, and I want to have them answered immediately!

SPC: You just said that, sir.

A: Yeah.

SPC: Well, ok.

A: Who is your daddy and what does he do?

SPC: What?

A: Who is your daddy and what does he do?

SPC: None of your damn business.

A: Yeah

SPC: Why do you keep saying that?

A: Yeah. Now we’re going to do something extremely fun.

SPC: What’s that?

A: Kiss me.

SPC: What?

A: Kiss me.

SPC: Faggot.

A: You son of a bitch!

SPC: You’re the son of a bitch.

A: Yeah. Put my hand through your stomach, tear out your goddamn spine!

Click.

We waited five minutes and called him again. He got so fired up, he started invoking every god you can think of to do horrible things to poor Arnold, so we had no choice but to walk down to the engineers’ area, pull down their CQ schedule and call him every single time he was on.

We Needed More

Now, there is no question that torturing an engineer specialist is a great time, but that wasn’t our goal. We had to move up the food chain.

And we did.

First, the Commanders. Too easy. One of them actually took notes and logged a call from a Detective John Kimball, who he just assumed was some sort of actual authority figure.

Next came the CSM. He instantly knew it was bullshit, but got so pissed off that someone was trying to mess with him that he dropped the most unholy, but beautifully crafted and interwoven series of expletives that we had ever heard. There are two types of men in this world that can swear and make it a thing of pure beauty – the British and old school NCOs – and the CSM was on that night. Poor Arnold cried himself to sleep.

Next came the BC – our task force commander. For those of you that have never served in the military, this is the level where our stupidity begins to escalate to absurd proportions. This guy is a Lieutenant Colonel and has a hell of a lot of power to make our lives miserable. We knew we were playing with fire, and we did it anyway.

But nothing happened. He spent most of the call trying to figure out why a detective was calling him and then finally realized it was someone fucking with him and said, “Fucking assholes” as he chuckled to himself and hung up.

We giggled like schoolgirls and, as we had yet to learn a lesson, kept calling other people – at one point we had even called the BRIGADE TASK FORCE COMMANDER – essentially the guy that was running the entire sector for miles, and we remained untouchable…until that fateful day.

Never Underestimate the Power of Stupidity

Detective Kimball was feeling saucy one morning and decided to drop the Task Force TOC a call (the TOC is essentially the command center). The call was picked up by Captain Flatline. Captain Flatline was a brilliant man if you were asking trivia or wanted someone to take a standardized test. However, when it came to things that involved the application of common sense or the translation of sarcasm, Captain Flatline was a rock. Why is this noteworthy, you ask?

We messed with Flatline for the better part of 20 minutes. Unlike most people, who figured it out and hung up or stayed on to amuse themselves, Flatline continued to ask probing questions – you know – in the hopes that Kimball would break and give away his location. Finally, we got bored, hit him with the standard “Put my hand through your stomach, tear out your goddamn spine” line and went on our way.

It was about an hour later that I heard a little buzz going on among the military intelligence folks. Apparently, a report had just come over the SIPRNet that there was a strong belief that terrorists had infiltrated our network. Mac and I were intrigued, so we sought a couple of the folks we knew up there and tried to get some more information.

That’s when the world came crashing down.

Our friend showed us the following report:

“At 10:08 this morning, we received a phone call at the task force TOC by a man claiming to be a Detective John Kimball. Kimball tried to portray himself as an American, but he had a distinct accent that seemed to be of either Austrian, Jamaican, or British West Indes descent. He began the conversation rather pleasantly, but he had a broad emotional range and often seemed to fly into a rage. He peppered me with questions about the work my father did and when I refused to answer, he grew very upset, at one point threatening, I believe, to tear out my spine. Finally, in what seemed like frustration, he hung up. For him to have made this call, he must be either inside our base perimeter, or has tapped into it. In either case, I believe this is a significant security threat.”

Murphy’s Law

Goddamit.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand, the guy tasked with thinking like the enemy – our S2 – had misinterpreted loosely strewn together Arnold Schwarzenegger quotes to be a terrorist threat, and had spun up the entire Task Force and Brigade Task Force TOC about it. That of course, was hilarious.

Furthermore, he somehow felt that Austrian, Jamaican, and West Indes accents actually sound alike.

Even funnier.

On the other hand; however, there was at least a 25% chance that we were going to end up in jail. That was somewhat less funny.

Mac, Adam (our third conspirator), and I were racking our brains trying to find a way to unfuck this, but we couldn’t. We had no choice but to come clean – as much as we were idiots, we weren’t soulless ones – we weren’t going to let them waste resources on a wild goose chase when they could be used to find actual bad guys. This one was gonna hurt. I suddenly had a flashback of ALL the senior officers we had fucked with and then I remembered the CSM saying something about a combination of sodomy, pain, and hell, and the quality of my day dropped measurably.

I was trudging my way towards the Brigade TOC when I saw one of my friends – a female lieutenant that ultimately would marry one of my best friends – smiling at me with a shit-eating grin on her face.

Me: Hey Sarah.

Sarah: Dumbass.

Me: Huh?

Sarah: You guys are idiots.

Me: You already know?

Sarah: John Kimball? Yeah.

Me: How?

Sarah: One of the captains was about to hand the G2 the report about Kimball and I happened to look at it, and I thought, “That’s from Kindergarten Cop…” Then I thought, that must be from those infantry jackasses. I couldn’t get a hold of you, so I called Jim and he confirmed that it was you guys. I told the G2 that it was just a joke and he should drop it. He asked me if I was sure, and I played him one of the recordings on the net, and he laughed his ass off. You guys are good to go.

Me: Sarah, you are the shit.

Sarah: Yes, I know that.

So, after dodging yet another bullet and thanking Sarah profusely, I found myself walking back to Mac’s room wondering why God had stepped in and saved us in this instance. Maybe it was time to turn over a new leaf. Maybe it was time to grow up.

I walked in and explained to Mac and Adam what had just gone down.

We agreed that we had just lucked out in the best way possible.

But five minutes later, we agreed it was 1900. Specialist Bag-o-Donuts had just made it to the desk.

It was time for Detective Kimball to make a call.

Copyright of Nick