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The Chameleon
Topic Started: Oct 28 2016, 02:53 PM (22 Views)
Mikey
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"I am the chameleon, ever changing and evolving to not only survive, but to thrive. And like the chameleon, I have many colors"
-Dean f'n Davies



Dead bodies everywhere. Do you know what that does to someone? It does everlasting damage on the psyche is what it does. It will fuck you up for life. You become desensitized to everything around you. Eventually you let go of all empathy because empathy will get you killed.

First things first; I can't say what seal team I was a member of, because technically, we didn't exist. You see, we didn't work for the military - not really. Sure, we trained at military compounds, we wore the colors and the flag on our arm. I went through basic just like everyone else who called themselves a naval officer. While we were a seal team, I use that term very loosely. We were black ops. The team that didn't exist who answered, it seemed, to the CIA.

My first mission was the mission that broke me - it didn't take long. We got the call in the middle of night. We were heading to Juarez, Mexico to put down the head of one of the cartels. The CIA and our US government had decided it was time to shift the power to someone they could control a little better.

Our target was Miguel Acevado - who had been dropping bodies all over Arizona and Texas and had created a warzone in Juarez that had destabilized an already shaky city. We were given our directive and rules of engagement - free fire, no survivors - and began the four mile trek to our location.

Once we were within range of the compound, catching a glimpse of the white brick wall surrounding the home of Acevado, our O-3 Lieutenant pulled the sixteen man team into a close huddle as he knelt down, putting his knee on the dry and arid ground.

Lt. Jackson: Our intelligence tells us the target is in there. He has nine men armed with automatic weapons.

Jackson pulled out the blue print and spread it out on the drit, then put dots on it.

Lt. Jackson: They are located here, here, and here. The only other people on the premises are the family. We have no rights of extradition so this is strictly a penetrate and execute mission. We go in, take everyone down as quietly as possible, and then back out. We move in two teams of eight and penetrate here and here.

He pointed again at the map.

Everything went off without a hitch, it always did. We were a fluid team. Black ops had to be. But then came that moment, the one that changed everything for me. My eight man team had gotten Acevedo. Just as Jackson pulled the trigger to take down the target we heard a yelp behind us and turned to find his wife hiding in fear, holding her stomach that held a child, a child that looked to be ready to come any day. She tried to beg us, but it was in Spanish and I had no clue what she was saying, but could tell by her voice she was both frantic and terrified.

Lt. Jackson: Execute the directive.

I pointed my gun and sighted her, from this range it was simple. I hesitated though. This seemed wrong.

Dean Davies: She's not the target, sir.

Lt. Jackson: That's not your directive. The directive is to kill on sight.

I hesitated again but Jackson didn't. He put one in her stomach followed by one in the head.

Both fell dead.

That was the moment that broke me. It was like something clicked and changed inside of me. Much like a chameleon changes his colors, I was forced to adjust and transform into something else.

What was the moment that broke you Slade? Because you are very much fucking broken. Maybe not like me, definitely not like me, but broken you are.

While all the other names of your past have moved on, something inside of you is fractured and splintered because you just can't let it go. Is it the rush of the crowd or the thrill of the fight? Maybe the calm before the storm or the wave of adrenaline. Or could it be the smell of sweat and blood - or does it matter - because it doesn't change what you are!

You're a fossil of a time past trying to cling on to what you've done all while destroying what you've built. You've wore out your welcome and stayed past your expiration date, Slade. You're that carton of milk in the back of the fridge that you're afraid to remove the cap from because the stench won't leave your nostrils for the rest of the day.

That's what's broken. It's that eternal clock that should be saying "Fuck, I'm no good anymore , maybe I should hang up my boots." It's made you a shell of a man and no matter how many stupid fucking "fight night" speeches you give or what your fire-crotch Chihuahua you call arm candy tries to spew to you, I can see the pain in your eye. It's written all over you as you watch Dante Saffron walk to the finals for the Redemption Championship, Stephen Rawlings politic himself into a shot at the World Championship, all the while you are the man that has continued to fall short and left wanting more as you somehow find yourself in a position to win the Classic Championship without winning a match to get you there. It stings you to watch the people you view as peers find their success while you roam around in the dark reaching for a switch that doesn't exist - at least not for you. And I find humor in it.

So yes, you are broken; but not in the same way I am broken.

Even before the - before your inevitable decline - weren't you always the bridesmaid and never the bride? You were runner-up to Chase Martelle, beaten to the belt by Ravyn, played second fiddle to Ramsey. You brag about being a grand slam winner, but you are only a grand slam winner because you couldn't hack it with the big dogs anymore. While people like me have progressed and gotten better with time, much like a fine wine though mine is a bitter taste, you've declined at breakneck pace.

Most people wouldn't take much pleasure in beating a broke down fossil trying to recapture that glory he never really had. I'm not most people. I find that I derive pleasure from other's fucking misery. Many look at you and they feel sorry. Empathy is for the weak. Me, I find humor in it and I laugh my fucking ass off because the pathetic shouldn't be relished, the pathetic should be ridiculed and humiliated for our own entertainment.

The question isn't whether or not I win. The question becomes does a sadist like me play for the win or does the sadist in me break you even more to put my wife one step closer to taking what we already know you're not good enough to have - the Classic Championship?

So think about that while you look in the mirror and wonder why you still do this despite the fact that your better days, if they ever were, are far behind you. Let that eat in the back of your mind as you wonder whether or not you are marching to the middle of the ring to lay on your back for three second or if you're coming to the ring with the sole goal that you don't make it to Reloaded.

That is what a true sadist does. It's not always about the physical. I'm not always what I seem - because despite the fact that both of us are broken, I am the chameleon.
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