S
Summo
Guest
I've just heard that Operation Flashpoint: Resistance has been released and so, with 15 minutes to go before closing, I drove into town to visit my friendly Game store. I parked illegally in a loading area in front of some bloke in an a old Sierra. Dashed across to Game but sadly, it had closed (two minutes early by my watch 
). I retraced my steps in search of another game vendor and at about 200 metres from my car I noticed the Sierra bloke looking in through my passenger window.
No problem, I thought. He's just looking in my car. Now, I like my car. Maybe I even love it. I washed it today. Then it rained. Then I washed it again. My car is lovely. Every time I see it out of my bedroom window I think, what a great car. I love you. I find myself greeting it in the morning by saying 'Hello, baby' in the exact same way I used to say it to my ex-girlfriend. Anyway, you get the idea.
So I'm watching this Sierra man looking at my car and obviously I can't let it go. I maintain my distance and just keep an eye on him. I'm sure its fine, but no harm in watching. He walks round the back of my car and peers in through the driver's window. My driver's window, which had just been treated to a coat of Nilco glass cleaner (and had come up a treat if I say so myself.) If this had been Operation Flashpoint I'd have instructed White Team to flank left through Boots the Chemist, Red Team to establish a roadblock opposite Debenhams and my sniper to maintain position on the roof of The Meadows Shopping Centre. It wasn't, so I watched some more.
I glance about, not wanting the fella to catch me staring at him, and I look back. He's opened the door and he's got in! WHAT the FUCK? HE'S IN MY FUCKING CAR! No sign of any tool, he's just opened the door and sat down. I always lock my door. At this point the red mist fell like a car-thief with six 9mm rounds in his stomach. In slow motion I ran towards my baby, my feet pounding the pavement, scattering consumers left and right. It suddenly seemed like a long distance to cover and my buzzing brain had time to think about what I was going to do when I got there. Would he be able to start the car? Would he have pulled out into the road when I got there? Would I throw myself onto the bonnet? What about the paintwork? There's metal studs on my jeans. I couldn't see him sitting in the car as the sky reflected of the beautifully polished windscreen, but the car wasn't moving. 150 metres to go and I had to assume he'd still be sitting there in MY CAR in a few seconds time.
I'm not a big man. I'm tall, but skinny. I don't have an aggressive face, but I can act. I decided to play the part of absolutely mental motherfucker. I widened my eyes and bared my teeth and did my best to contort my face to portray an utterly psychotic, relentless killing machine. What I lacked in physical bearing I would make up for in single-minded, fearless, unabating violence. Think Robert Carlyle in Trainspotting. If this guy got out of my car he would not be given the opportunity to say a word or throw a punch. If he did turn violent I'd use the 'windmill' fighting technique and cover him in a flurry of weak blows which never relent, always running straight into him. With any luck he'd trip over backwatds and I could make my daring escape.
Sorted I thought, running with 50 metres to go and my face aching. With 25 metres to go I began to shout. "Oi! Get the FUCK OUT OF MY CAR, YOU FUCKING SHIT!" At 5 metres I slowed down and prepared to open the door and drag the bastard to the ground. It's a low car so it shouldn't be difficult. I had the element of psychotic surprise, after all. My heart pounding. My first proper adult fight. Here we go...
A metre away the light wasn't reflecting off the windscreen anymore and I could get a look at the utter, utter fucker who had the nerve to enter my wife. He wasn't there. The car was empty. Impossible! I would have seen him get out. I tried to open the door but it was locked.
I looked at the Sierra behind and there he was. The Fucking Shit. Staring back at me. I couldn't work out if he was smug or amused. He certainly wasn't quivering in fear. I guess he had no reason to. After a second I realised that the door I'd seen him open was the door to his own car, parked behind mine. It really did look like my door. It really did.
At this point the realisation dawned that I had charged 200 metres across the centre of town looking like a thin, white gorilla, swearing like my grandma. It was half past five and streets were pretty full of office dwellers. I didn't stay to gauge their reaction. I came home.
I still don't have my game.
). I retraced my steps in search of another game vendor and at about 200 metres from my car I noticed the Sierra bloke looking in through my passenger window.No problem, I thought. He's just looking in my car. Now, I like my car. Maybe I even love it. I washed it today. Then it rained. Then I washed it again. My car is lovely. Every time I see it out of my bedroom window I think, what a great car. I love you. I find myself greeting it in the morning by saying 'Hello, baby' in the exact same way I used to say it to my ex-girlfriend. Anyway, you get the idea.
So I'm watching this Sierra man looking at my car and obviously I can't let it go. I maintain my distance and just keep an eye on him. I'm sure its fine, but no harm in watching. He walks round the back of my car and peers in through the driver's window. My driver's window, which had just been treated to a coat of Nilco glass cleaner (and had come up a treat if I say so myself.) If this had been Operation Flashpoint I'd have instructed White Team to flank left through Boots the Chemist, Red Team to establish a roadblock opposite Debenhams and my sniper to maintain position on the roof of The Meadows Shopping Centre. It wasn't, so I watched some more.
I glance about, not wanting the fella to catch me staring at him, and I look back. He's opened the door and he's got in! WHAT the FUCK? HE'S IN MY FUCKING CAR! No sign of any tool, he's just opened the door and sat down. I always lock my door. At this point the red mist fell like a car-thief with six 9mm rounds in his stomach. In slow motion I ran towards my baby, my feet pounding the pavement, scattering consumers left and right. It suddenly seemed like a long distance to cover and my buzzing brain had time to think about what I was going to do when I got there. Would he be able to start the car? Would he have pulled out into the road when I got there? Would I throw myself onto the bonnet? What about the paintwork? There's metal studs on my jeans. I couldn't see him sitting in the car as the sky reflected of the beautifully polished windscreen, but the car wasn't moving. 150 metres to go and I had to assume he'd still be sitting there in MY CAR in a few seconds time.
I'm not a big man. I'm tall, but skinny. I don't have an aggressive face, but I can act. I decided to play the part of absolutely mental motherfucker. I widened my eyes and bared my teeth and did my best to contort my face to portray an utterly psychotic, relentless killing machine. What I lacked in physical bearing I would make up for in single-minded, fearless, unabating violence. Think Robert Carlyle in Trainspotting. If this guy got out of my car he would not be given the opportunity to say a word or throw a punch. If he did turn violent I'd use the 'windmill' fighting technique and cover him in a flurry of weak blows which never relent, always running straight into him. With any luck he'd trip over backwatds and I could make my daring escape.
Sorted I thought, running with 50 metres to go and my face aching. With 25 metres to go I began to shout. "Oi! Get the FUCK OUT OF MY CAR, YOU FUCKING SHIT!" At 5 metres I slowed down and prepared to open the door and drag the bastard to the ground. It's a low car so it shouldn't be difficult. I had the element of psychotic surprise, after all. My heart pounding. My first proper adult fight. Here we go...
A metre away the light wasn't reflecting off the windscreen anymore and I could get a look at the utter, utter fucker who had the nerve to enter my wife. He wasn't there. The car was empty. Impossible! I would have seen him get out. I tried to open the door but it was locked.
I looked at the Sierra behind and there he was. The Fucking Shit. Staring back at me. I couldn't work out if he was smug or amused. He certainly wasn't quivering in fear. I guess he had no reason to. After a second I realised that the door I'd seen him open was the door to his own car, parked behind mine. It really did look like my door. It really did.
At this point the realisation dawned that I had charged 200 metres across the centre of town looking like a thin, white gorilla, swearing like my grandma. It was half past five and streets were pretty full of office dwellers. I didn't stay to gauge their reaction. I came home.
I still don't have my game.
