Man, I Ain’t Going Out There

by AC-1119
 
Sorry sir, but you can go fist yourself, because there’s no way in hell I’m going out there to fight a fucking Jedi.
 
Have you ever just thought about a Jedi?  What they can do on paper?
 
They’re like ninjas who can murder you with their minds and use lasers as swords.  They’re essentially the perfect killing machine.
 
On the other side, you have me, and all my brother stormtroopers who are clad in bright white armor that stand out against everything, including snow, because everything is interlaced with black.  We have no peripheral vision, and the armor, which can be penetrated by a hand held pistol, encumbers our movement to such a degree that we can’t even shoot up.
 
On top of that, I’m third generation.  A clone of a clone of clone.  Something gets lost by generation because I have eight toes.  On my left foot.  Righty is a flipper.

 
I washed out of working with the SCUBA division because during training I could only swim in circles.  They weren’t even fast circles, either.

 
Our clone forefathers carried out Order 66.  They wiped the Jedi from the galaxy.  Last year, we had our lunch money taken by Ewoks.  

 
Training has gotten so bad, that we didn’t even hear them moving the logs or rocks in place for all their traps yards from our poorly defended base that was responsible for the safety of millions of lives on the most expensive structure ever-built, the Death Star II.

 
Those furry little bastards invented the wheel last year, and fire six months after that, and they still took out a legion of troopers with the ability to see in the dark and who used hard light to kill their enemies.

 
Lieutenant, do you have any idea of the engineering genius that goes into designing an Imperial Walker?  That goes double for the AT-ST, and not a single one survived the rock and stick mechanocide on the Forest Moon of Endor.


 
Fuck you, LT, I’m a man.  I have dreams, and not a single one involves dying gloriously in a fucking airlock storming a diplomatic shuttle.
 
I don’t care if we’re the Empire, guess what; everyone else has guns, too, and they can actually see out of their helmets, and they aren’t being led by the guy who only got promoted because everyone in front of him was force strangled from across the room.

 
Yeah, we know, sir.  We had one of the droids hack into your service record.  You misspelled your name on the application form, and spent six months hitting bombs with a tiny hammer checking for duds.  The only reason you got called up was because they were looking for choke fodder, but somehow you kept bumblefucking your way through the ranks, and now you expect me to to go through that door and fight Luke fucking Skywalker.

 
He blew up the Death Star and murdered both the Emperor and Darth Vader.  I’m not even entirely sure I’ve ever even killed anyone.
 
Can you hear the screams?  Men are being cut in half by a fucking laser out there.  There are still heads in the helmets that keep  rolling back here, and most of the corpses are missing arms.
 
No, way, fuck that.  You go out there in your gay little hat and kill him.  Show him those bullshit buttons on your chest.  What the fuck are those anyway?

 
You, the chain of command, tradition, duty, honor, and force ghosts are all going to need to tongue my butthole because the only thing on the other side of that door is a funeral that walks like a man.

*-*-*

Bounce.

Matt