Ah, yes. Another fine day in the life of Dr. Schmekelmeister, diabolical genius, revolutionary scientist, and—apparently—the designated target practice dummy of the Soviet jungle death course.

We had just begun the “training exercise.” A jungle, they said. A test of endurance. A proving ground. What they didn’t mention was the instantaneous anal sniping that would greet me the very moment I stepped over that cursed green line.

I took one bold step forward—BANG!
Pain. Red-hot, searing pain, right cheek. I collapsed backward with the grace of a shot gazelle, landing flat and gasping.

Undeterred (but significantly more cautious), I limped behind cover, patched myself with emergency gauze, adjusted my cape with dignity, and tried again.

BANG!
Left cheek.

At this point, I was beginning to suspect the sniper had a personal vendetta against my posterior. I have made many enemies in my time, but never did I expect one so cruel, so precise, so utterly fixated on buttocks-based humiliation.

The rest of the Contract group had already vanished into the trees. I could hear sporadic gunfire—a pistol popping in the distance, a sharp crack of a sniper round, possibly some shouting—but I had no idea what any of them were doing. For all I knew, they were already dead, defecting to the enemy, or arguing about anime.

I? I remained crouched behind a rusted steel container, too afraid to even peek over the top. Every time I did, a twig snapped or a bird chirped, and I flinched so hard I nearly reopened the wounds.

I tried to radio in, but my hands were shaking. My communicator fell in the mud. I considered crawling forward—just a little—to recover it, but the phantom sniper had proven himself a precision artist, and I wasn’t about to offer a third target.

So I stayed.
Behind the green line.
Bleeding.
Seething.

Eventually, the gunfire stopped. Someone yelled something triumphantly—maybe Justin, maybe the sniper, hard to tell. Then Gerald wandered back through the trees dragging what looked like chunks of a person and muttering something about “miscalculated trajectory.” I didn’t ask.

I don’t know how the sniper died.
I don’t know what anyone did.

All I know is that I, Dr. Schmekelmeister, was brutally ass-blasted twice and left behind in the jungle like a wounded cartoon warlord.

This is not over. The jungle may have won the battle…
…but I will win the war.