sheepdog

I looked at this pic, and almost immediately created this Sheepdog fan fiction you can read below:

Kyle pulled into the parking lot of the Best Western PLUS, making a hard left then pounding the gas pedal once; making the nearly bald tires on the Crew Cab Dodge Ram 1500 4×4 chirp loudly. Coming to an abrupt stop under the awning at the entrance, Kyle carelessly flung his door open hitting the shuttle bus next to him. He hopped out, both of his Coyote colored 5.11 combat boots hitting the ground at the same time; slamming the Ram door closed with such force it’s incredible the window didn’t shatter. This got the attention of a weathered looking lady chain smoking on the bench at his 2:00. As Kyle squeezed his girthy midsection between his truck and the bus, he glanced over at the woman and their eyes met. “The BW PLUS amirite? *rubbing his fingers together to represent big money* Not that broke regular BW shit.” he commented, impressing her with his wit. She laughed and started to reply after finishing a massive drag of her cigarette, but was interrupted by a coughing fit followed by the need to snort and spit a viscous red, grey, and green mixture of fluids on the ground as Kyle walked past her towards the hotel entrance. Realizing she was actually younger than he originally thought; “that’s a baaaaaaadd woman”, Kyle said quietly to himself as the two automatic doors sensed his presence and opened wide.

Once inside the maroon and dark wood lobby, he was greeted by a female staff member. “Checking in sir?” she said in a cheerful tone. “YUP” Kyle replied as he approached her, fumbling through his left cargo pocket. He fished around amongst the dip container, keys, flashlight, extra Ruger magazine, custom handkerchief, knucks, lighter, pen, multitool, paracord monkeyfist, cell phone, and folding knife until finally locating his RFID blocking custom EDC wallet containing his ID and credit card. It was one of those complicated wallets with bungee cords and multiple pieces, which ended up being a big production every time it was opened… Kyle loved it though. As he flipped the one retaining bungee cord off of its notch to deploy the cards, the BW girl caught a glimpse of one of his forearm tattoos. “Mow-lawn-lay-bee? Is that how you say it? That’s one of those Conservative gun things?” she asked. “Mow-lawn-law-bay… come and take them. It’s from that movie 300.” he replied, his face lighting up. “ …and yea I’ve been known to put booger hook to bang switch occasionally.” he said modestly while smirking. “We have CNN on all day here… what do you think about Trump’s new comment on silencers?” she asked. Impressed that this girl seemed to be an ally, Kyle was more than happy to talk shop with her. “Honestly, I ain’t too worried about it… Trump man… My president knows things we don’t. I trust the guy.” he said as he took a deep breath and adjusted to a more authoritative body posture. “Look, I have lotsa silencers” he continued… “but I never wore ear plugs for shooting before I had them, and I can hear fine. If they give me what I paid, for what I got.. then yea I’ll give em back. Won’t affect me none. I’ll keep on shooting. I just worry about the neighbors waking up ahhaha” he laughed. “Oh ok, good to hear sir. Anyways, your room is ready… it’s by the pool #762, down the hallway past the ice machine, then on your left. Enjoy your stay.” “Whut? I’m sorry I couldn’t hear what you said Miss, can you repeat that?” Kyle asked. She repeated the room number and directions loudly back to him in the quiet empty lobby. “762, hell yea thank you. Catch you in Valhalla. I’ll go move my truck” he said nodding once politely, then pivoting on his right foot 180 degrees surprisingly quickly before making his way back towards his parked truck.

📷@badnewsbeers92

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If you don’t protect the flock KEEP SCROLLING BUDDY.  Don’t hit play:

haha this is pretty good, like OG mattv2099 style.  I don’t want to spoil the jokes by time stamping them and writing them out to then in turn but the standard “LOL toooooo good” beside it, so just watch the video and you’ll see what I mean.

Gat tip: Will, who in the email said “my friend showed me this video”… a classic line said by those sending in their own content.  I’m perfectly fine with that btw, you just should own it when it’s that good.  A classic ENDO story is that NOIR did the same thing to me when he started making videos…. I’m talking like way wayyy back when I was parent’s basement living and we both had better hairlines and less stress.  Next time I’m at my parent’s house *implying I don’t still live there* I should fire up that OLD pc, load up gmail classic and burn that email for a few days into an old LCD monitor that’s kicking around then get him to sign it and co-auction it with him on eBay for charity; to maybe to send a Sheepdog and his family to Disneyland.

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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

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haha I thought this was a joke initially because of the non serious sound of the narrator’s voice, but nope:

FuNkEr TaCtiCaL never disappoints. Like I mentioned in the title, the Sheepdog rebrand is genius…. call them “Citizen Defenders” and it immediately sounds more upscale and less derpy, even while using the same Sheepdog flock protecting rhetoric.

I love how Funker needed to specify that this is an [Intense Promo Video] in the actual title, so we knew what we were in for.

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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.

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Trevor took a short walk from his front porch and stood in the morning shadows of the douglas fir in his front yard to check the weather. He slowly grazed the calloused forefinger of his right hand back and forth across the debossed lettering on his outside the waistband Savoy Leather holster; “HAVE NO FEAR FOR ODIN AWAITS IN VALHALLA”. It served as a reminder to himself, and as “a warning to the canis lupus” Trevor liked to smugly recite when people asked; knowing they damn well wouldn’t know it was latin for wolf. His feeling of mental superiority further skyrocketing after typically mumbling “Ovis aries…” (latin for domestic sheep) under his breath. Trevor didn’t particularly enjoy interacting with the sheep; it was simply his duty. A 24 hour per day grind that involved peak situational awareness and readiness. His sheepdog senses were on high alert today, after recent local newscasts were reporting increased teen mischief in the area. This is exactly why Trevor decided to forgo his usual braided paracord bracelet in favor of the .410 buckshot bracelet. Trevor knew from experience that even the sight of .410 was a major deterrent to a teen wolf plotting wolf things. Combine that with the Bond Arms pistol in the aforementioned fancy holster, peacocking on an obnoxiously loud red white and blue painted leather belt with the embellished phrase “STAND DOWN BECAUSE I WON’T”; another mantra Trevor lived by, and was ready to die by if need be.

Convinced that the open flannel button-up shirt combined with a greyman fishing vest he had on was low-key enough and weather appropriate for the day, he turned around to go back inside his house. Barely out of the shadow of the immense douglas fir, he stopped dead in his tracks… the hair on the back of his neck standing up. Trevor could hear a rumble like that of a freight train coming from the steep hill out of sight, a few houses over and around the corner from his house. It was getting increasingly louder. His heart beating quickly, he pulled out the bond arms body dropper .410, rushed back into the shadows, and bladed at a tactical 45 degree stance towards the threat. Suddenly, six laughing teens on skateboards appeared. Trevor reverted back to his training, doing 360 degree search and assess… scanning for more threats. Convinced there were only six teens, he visually locked in on them in case they tried anything. Laughing and joking, the teens were doing ollies and hitting mailboxes with their backpacks on their way down the street. Not on my watch thought Trevor as he readied himself, breathing deeply and steadily.

Adrenaline surged through Trevor’s body, slowing the speed of the world around him. The sound of hard skateboard wheels on the sidewalk was deafening as the teens quickly approached… the coolest looking one in the lead began twisting his body, his long frail arm clutching a red Supreme backpack being pre-loaded to strike. Mere seconds to backpack impact, Trevor emerged from the shadows of the douglas fir, his .410 glistening in the morning sun – “DON’T TREAD ON ME” he stated loudly at the group, staccato in cadence, dumping all his adrenaline in the process. In unison all six teens erupted in uncontrollable laughter, almost falling off their boards as the coolest one in the lead untwisted his body expertly timing his swing of the backpack. Upon impact, Trevor’s aluminum mailbox separated from the wooden post it was attached to, split at the seams, sailing across his property spewing mail everywhere. The little red semaphore flag mockingly landed at Trevor’s feet as one of the teens yelled “Loser!”; the distance between the teens and the scene of the crime rapidly increasing proportional to Trevor’s embarrassment. In a state of shock that his stern words and .410 were not enough of a deterrent, Trevor 360 degree scanned his yard, re-holstered the mighty pistol, and said out loud to himself therapeutically “The only “L” I’ll ever take, is a lesson. I will defeat the wolf another day, it is the sheepdog way.”

Gat tip: Joseph

Thanks for reading m’lady’s 🎩👌 & fellas.  Hope you have a splendid weekend.

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