Fan Fiction

A couple people sent me this pic, so I had to do another Sheepdog Fan Fiction.

“They don’t want this smoke!” Charles muttered as he strutted on the deck, vaguely motioning to the outside world while looking over at Irene, his wife of 65 years. “Isn’t that what our grandson DeShawn says?” he asked. Irene entirely missed what he said, but looked up.. shook her head yes.. smiled.. then looked back down at her Reader’s Digest. “I’ll tell you whUT, if the sound of me putting one in the chamber doesn’t scare them away, or the birdshot doesn’t kill em, then the 1911 will finish the job.” he said as he removed the no-frills GI series Rock Island Armory .45 from the Uncle Mike’s nylon holster his left hip. He proceeded to press check it 5 or 6 times, not because he was old and forgetful, but rather since recently getting a desktop computer he noticed that on “website tv” all the young kids were doing that. “Your tea is getting cold” Irene warned, to which he rolled his eyes and gingerly placed the 1911 back in its holster before going to join her on the patio set. As he sat down pain jolted through his right side, specifically his leg “AHagggggggghhhhgHHGHG Irene my leg! Call 911 I think I’m having a.. a stroke!”. Irene frantically put down the Reader’s Digest and rose from her seat to get the phone from inside the house. She looked over at Charles to make sure he was at least good enough to be alone for the few seconds he would be out of her sight. She noticed something… the shotgun holster straps… “Hey Charley…” she said barely able to contain her laughter. “Get that sorted out with your tight holster straps and you’ll be fine… idiot.” she said as she went to sit back down. “Tip of the spear… isn’t that what you and Clarence call each other from back in the day?” she said said chuckling as he fiddled with the leather straps looking relieved but unamused.

👴👴👴 📷blackacestactical via @these_dying_lights @deishell09

Thoughts?

COMMENT

Had to do another one after hundreds of you sent me the picture:

“Did you remember to pack food?” Kim yelled from the kitchen to Scott, her husband of 5 years. “Kim. Please, I got this.” he replied in what his wife would describe as a tone. If there’s one thing that got under his skin, it was when Kim played the role of the concerned mother. “I’m a prepper and a Sheepdog for God’s sake…” Scott mumbled under his breath, shaking his head as he bent down to tie the laces on his pristine white Nike Air Monarchs, only spoken loud enough for their french bulldog (Leonidas) and the baby, Finnigan Gaston in close proximity to hear. Finnigan was his wife’s idea… the compromise was Gaston (an obvious homage to Glock) as a middle name. Scott went through his usual mental checklist every time he took Finnigan out for a walk:

✓ Plate carrier with baby holding compartment
✓ Serpa retention holster with the FNS .40 loaded with G2 Research R.I.P Ammo
✓ Progressive lenses with aftermarket anti-wolf coating
✓ Snacks (formula for Finnigan – Gushers, lemon LaCroix, and beef jerky for himself)
✓ Diapers and wipes

Scott did a quick COMMs check, looking at the screen and verifying that his iPhone 6s was indeed connected to the 4G network. “Alright Finnigan, you ready to rock & roll?” Scott said into the baby bassinet as he picked the little guy up, placing him in the plate carrier compartment. “Be still sweet prince… shhhhhh…” Scott whispered to Finnigan and kissed him on the forehead as the boy fussed a bit. Lastly Scott removed the FNS .40 from the Serpa, doing a quick press check before grabbing his house key dangling from the thin-blue-line sheepdog “flock protector” emblazoned lanyard, hanging on the artisan wrought iron hooks near the front door light switch. “Remember, If we’re not back in one hour, call SWAT for assistance Kimberly. I don’t want you out there looking for me with wolves prowling around. Let my fellow men of arms handle it. I love you!” Scott said as he opened the front door, miming throwing a flashbang onto the porch before conducting Finnigan’s EXFIL.

Thoughts?

COMMENT

I wrote another one:

Robert did a full 360 degree threat scan and checked all mirrors before assessing it as safe, then clicked on his left turn signal to change lanes. Salt Lake City tended to straddle the thin wolf-grey colored line between order and chaos as most large cities do… a non-permissive wolf-eat-sheep environment thought Robert. They were all mutton and they didn’t even know it. When his transition into the far left lane completed, the traffic light unexpectedly changed from amber to red. He forcibly hit the brakes, slowing the massive Tacoma’s roll; barely stopping before the rear bumper of the Chevrolet Volt in front of him. The little hairs on the back of Robert’s neck began to stand up… he was too close. Too close to the Volt to perform a standard evasive maneuver if need be. The curb to the left was obviously not an issue for the incredibly high factory lift on the Tacoma… the issue was the Ford Raptor behind him left him no room to back up, and knew he didn’t have the turning radius to pop out. Damn. Robert knew this was a rookie mistake. He needed a plan of action, and he needed one quick. This Costco run (or OPERATION KIRKLAND as he preferred to call it) was the primary sustenance target on the list of objectives his wife had given him. Too easy, Robert thought as he chuckled under his breath. If need be he would perform what he liked to call “the shepherd’s hook”; an evasive maneuver where he would slam the beastly 3.5 liter V6 into reverse smashing into the Ford Raptor behind him, pushing it back several feet. He would then shift into drive, crank his steering wheel all the way to the left and use every ounce of that 278 HP to rocket over the curb fishtailing a U-turn to expediently Golf Tango Foxtrot Oscar (GTFO). His heart pounded as he kept checking on the status of the traffic light… situational awareness at peak while continuing to scan his environment. A homeless man who was begging for money on the median further back was advancing to his position rapidly. Instinctively Robert’s hand went for the Springfield XD gripzone area protruding from his IWB Nylon holster, as he kept watch in the left side mirror. “Easyyyyy.. easy….” Robert said aloud, partially as reaffirmation to himself to keep his cool, and partially hoping that it would telekinetically cause the homeless man to slow his roll. Glancing back and forth between the advancing homeless man in the side mirror and the traffic light, Robert’s heart pounded even faster. He tightened his grip on the aptly named zone, readying himself for action. Suddenly a savior.. the glowing left pointing green arrow of hope appeared. The Chevy Volt quickly made its way through the intersection, with Robert rolling at a safe distance behind. He laughed morbidly that he would live to die another day, as he made a sharp right into FOB COSTCO. 📷: @mottleycrew65 @maisonhorne

I put it up on instagram last week, and people really liked it.

I’m going to be looking more into publishing these into a book format.  Seems like people are liking them more than I ever expected.  I have a great time writing them; thank you to those of you who take the time to read!  I know they are a bit longer than my usual posts.

COMMENT

Oregon is on fire (figuratively and literally).  Instructor Zero is me:

Here’s a quick Sheepdog fan fiction I whipped up for you fellas:

The small wiener dog gasps for air as I pull his heat-exhausted limp body through the window frame of the 2008 Chevy Malibu.  The crowd in the Walmart parking lot that gathered around me cheers, yelling “Hip Hip Horayyyyy” as I put my FABARM STF-12 on safe and take a knee.  I pour cool water into my hand and bring it to the long K-9s mouth; his tongue lapping it up… life coursing back into him.  “Not today my friend… not today” I whisper as I gently pet his small head.  I hear a scuffle… people yelling… 1 woman…2 women… a whole bunch of citizens coming to my defense.  The aggressor / vehicle owner pushes their way through the crowd to confront me.  “WE WuZ JUST IN THERE FOR A MINUTE.  YOU OWE $200 FOR THAT WINDOW.” an emaciated looking woman with rotten teeth yells at me, getting all up in my face.  Still down one one knee next to her dog, I remain calm.  “Miss, it’s 108 degrees out.”  I say as I look down at the dog who is now wagging his tail and see that his ID tag reads Weenie.  “Weenie wouldn’t have lasted another 2 minutes, my work here is done.” I say.  “BuT MUH WINDOW?!” she replies earnestly.  I pet Weenie’s long body one last time, say a quick goodbye and good luck to him before getting back into my Tacoma in an adjacent parking spot.  Weenie’s owner screaming obscenities at me, and the crowd cheering in my honor; I gingerly reverse the massive SR5… navigating expertly, even with the limited visibly due to the 24″ diameter punisher head decal and full length thin blue line on the rear window.

Thoughts?  You practicing some glass breaking soon?  Gotta train like you fight.

COMMENT

I wrote another one:

People on my instagram page seemed to like it.  Make sure you’re following me there if you have the app.

COMMENT

*The squats are paying off, I’m looking like a snack* thought Rebecca, as she grabbed the rear waistband area of her Alexo Athletica pants; lifting it upwards a couple inches, then letting go. “THIIIIIIIIIIICC” she said out loud, bursting into laughter while checking herself out in the full length bedroom mirror. She looked really good for 37, and wanted everyone to know it. Rebecca’s husband Mark was going to be home from work in an hour, and she still needed to take their young son Justin, to the park to play. “Mommy will be there in a second sweetie!” she yelled out while entering the code to the small gun safe in top of the bedroom closet. “Ugh Mark can never put shit back properly” she whispered under her breath through clenched teeth. Annoyed, taking his Hi-Point C9 out and setting it next to the safe by his tie rack, so she could properly get at her Glock 43. *Mark you’re an accountant with an MBA for God sake… have some dignity* she thought, and instantly felt bad as she closed the safe. The G43 slid smoothy into the Alexo waistband pocket, to the right of the pocket she permanently designated as snack storage.

As Justin played on the swings Rebecca’s eyes wandered across the park, noticing the usual cliques of young moms trying to “one-up” one another. Whether it be SUVs, handbags, or $2000 strollers… this place was for checking your social rank as much as it was for letting your kids burn off some energy. Being a good 5 years older than these women, Rebecca was glad to have nothing to prove to anyone. She knew this annoyed them, judging by the eyes she could always feel on her and the few comments in the past, that she was not supposed to (but supposed to) hear. “I’ll give you three more pushes then we gotta get home to see Dad” said Rebecca as they finished up.

Rebecca began making dinner while little Justin played with his LEGOs. They were having Greek salad, and chicken souvlaki tonight; Mark’s favorite. “Babe? I’m home!” Mark’s voice echoed through the foyer and into the kitchen. ” I’ll come say hi and help you in a second, I’m just going to change clothes.” he said as he briskly bounded up the stairs to the bedroom. Opening the bedroom closet to put his suit and tie away, he noticed the C9 out of the safe sitting next to his tie rack. *Hello old friend* Mark thought, interestingly enough feeling guilty for neglecting it for over a decade since graduating from school and buying several HKs and Glocks. As Mark touched the slide of the handgun, it was like a lightening bolt hit him. He blurted out at full volume “MY DIAMONDS CERTIFIED / MY TRIGGER WORKING / GOT IT OUT THE MUD BABY / THAT’S WHY MY CUP DIRTY”. Instantly recoiling in amazement and an excited terror, Mark’s heart rate and breath quickened. “Mark? What?” he heard faintly from downstairs. “Uh, nothing hunnie, I’ll be down in a minute”. Mark stared at the Hi-Point and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He reached out and grabbed the entire gun by the grip “I’M A MONSTER, EXORCISMS / TOTE TOOLS LIKE MECHANICS, MECHANISMS”. Rebecca had no idea what was going on, but at this point the vegetables Mark was supposed to help cut up were finished, and the chicken was almost ready. She took of her glasses, sighed and massaged the bridge of her nose with the thumb and index finger of her right hand. “I’m going to go check on daddy” Rebecca said to little Justin, before taking a generous sip of her Chardonnay and headed towards the stairs. She wasn’t ready for what she saw as she rounded the corner into the bedroom. Mark wearing only his boxers, C9 in hand and in a daze yelling stuff at himself in the mirror “YOU WALKING WITH YOUR HEAD DOWN, SCARED TO LOOK / YOU SHOOK / CAUSE AIN’T NO SUCH THINGS AS HALFWAY CROOKS / THEY NEVER AROUND WITH THE BEEF COOKS IN MY PART OF TOWN….”. Rebecca gasped, yelling out “MARK NO!”. Stopping mid sentence Mark looked over at her with a vacant expression. “I’VE BEEN OUT HERE GETTING BREAD. I DON’T NEED YOU ALL IN MY LOAF” he continued while fist pumping the gun at himself in the mirror. “Mark stop, this isn’t funny” pleaded Rebecca as she walked towards him. She could hear Justin crying downstairs, likely scared by what was going on. She knew what she had to do. Mark continued rapping into the mirror while Rebecca maneuvered stealthy behind him. “Mark, put the gun down or I’m going to call the police” she pleaded with him. This caught his attention. Knocking the proverbial wind out of his sails he spun around to face Rebecca, gun limp in hand at his side – “I’LL NEVER TALK TO THE COPS. I DON’T SPEAK PIG LATIN.” he obnoxiously yelled at her while standing there like a robot. She saw the opportunity so she went for it, smacking the gun out of his hand. The C9 hit the hardwood floor with a loud thud, as did Mark’s now limp exhausted body. Half in a stupor he saw Rebecca kneeling sideways propped up on one hand in front of him “Wha… what happened?”. “You just fainted. You need to drink more water during the day babe.” said Rebecca in a concerned voice as tears welled up in her eyes. She kissed him then cleared her throat loudly to cover for the sound, as she used one foot to kick the Hi-Point deep underneath the king size bed.

Thoughts?  I don’t know how many of you guys follow me on Instagram, but I think this is like the 8 or 9th fan fiction I’ve done now if you care to read more like this.  Most of the previous ones were heavily sheepdog related, so I thought I’d switch it up a bit.  I do plan on compiling them in one place someday.

P.S.: Here are the songs I referenced:

Future – For Da Gang
Lil Wayne – President Carter
Mobb Deep – Survival Of The Fittest
Lil Wayne – UOENO
Lil Wanye & 2Chainz – Rich as Fuck

COMMENT