Donkey Punch

April 25, 2008

War Porn

Filed under: Politics, war — t4toby @ 11:27 am

The sear trips.

The hammer drops, driving the firing pin forward.

The firing pin embeds with the open, welcoming primer.

Click

The pin hits the primer.

FsssshhhhPOP

The primer cooks off.

The flame spreads into the powder in the case.

BAM

The powder cooks, and the bullet releases from the case and enters the barrel.

The pressure builds behind the round as it gathers speed down the barrel.

The gas is routed back through the gas port, inpinging on the bolt carrier.

The bold carrier is driven backwards, disengaging from the chamber.

The bullet exits the barrel, having reached it’s final velocity, and the pressure in the barrel subsides.

The bolt carrier travels back on it’s rails, pulling the spent casing back with it.

The extractor hits the cam and kicks the spent case out of the ejection port.

The bolt carrier hits the end of it’s travel and begins to return forward.

The bullet is seventy five yards downrange, traveling at twenty nine hundred feet per second.

The bolt carrier strikes the top round in the magazine, stripping it and driving it into the chamber.

The bolt locks up with the fresh round correctly headspaced in the chamber.

The round is supersonic, traveling downrange with a familiar ripping noise.

The round hits a young Iraqi, high in the chest.

It’s a 55 grain slug with a steel or titanium penetrator core.

It pierces the skin and begins to expand in the muscle. It barely touches the rib as it goes by, but it’s enough to set it to tumbling. It tumbles through the chest cavity, down and to the left, tearing through the right lung, liver and the top of the right kidney. It exits, spent, in the lower back after knocking a chunk out of the pelvis.

The young Iraqi runs a few steps, slows, looks around in confusion. Blood bubbles up in his mouth. He coughs and spits. Looks around again. Nobody’s around. The sound of gunfire still hammers in his ears. He takes a few steps into an ally, and drops to his knees.

He doesn’t know it, but his lung is collapsing while his chest cavity fills with blood. Very little blood leaks out of the small entry and almost as small exit wounds. But the bleeding is fierce. This young man’s life will, from here, be measured in minutes.

He flops, propping up against the wall of the ally. Breathing is harder. His vision is grey. The sounds of the fight seem farther away. He thinks of his childhood, of his sister, his mother. He just needs to rest. Yeah. He leans over, coughs up a great gout of blood, and he dies.

You want porn? War is porn.

Sex is beautiful, even when it’s not.

When strangers fight desperately to kill one another?

That’s the most evil pornography imaginable. And that seems perfectly acceptable to these criminals.

Bah..

mikey

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3 Comments »

  1. Remember the scene in Platoon where the unit was ambushed and they were in the mud, squirming in the grips of death? They looked like tadpoles struggling for survival, reduced to the lowest form of life. That’s what I think of when I think of what war does to people. It reduces them to nothing more than a series of neurons, snapping and gasping for survival. Brutal, ugly and pornographic for sure.

    Comment by grindchopblend — April 25, 2008 @ 11:57 am

  2. One of my favorite children’s books is Drummer Hoff by Barbara and Ed Emberley

    General Border gave the order,
    Major Scott brought the shot,
    Captain Bammer brought the rammer,
    Sergeant Chowder brought the powder,
    Corporal Farrel brought the barrel,
    Private Parriage brought the carriage,
    But Drummer Hoff fired it off.

    Each one of us is Drummer Hoff. And each of us is responsible.

    Comment by Secret Confessions of a Horny Housewife — April 29, 2008 @ 4:00 pm

  3. True.
    Nasty.
    Real.

    I’ve read that a major cause of both injury & death in WW2 was being struck by the flying body-parts of one’s fellow grunts as they got blown apart by HE rounds or bombs.

    THAT says it all.

    Comment by jim — May 7, 2008 @ 5:39 pm


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