The death of Johnathan Moses Walker. Updated 9/25

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The death of Johnathan Moses Walker. Updated 9/25

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:31 pm

Remembered 05-07-13
I wrote:23:42, Tierra del Fuego, Argentina. Two people in scrubs speak a soft, rolling variant of Spanish in a darkened hall. Their scrubs are green on one, dark blue on the other.

Blue says "...And the patient in 19 woke up today."

"The burn patient, right? What was his name, Hunter?" Green inquires.

Blue shakes their head, "No, Walker. From the ship. He has brain damage too, Wilks put him back under when he tried to get up. Before he went under we checked his sensation, he's got good sensation in both feet and legs, and his left arm. Some sensation in the right, with none in the most damaged fingers. He also took out his intubation tube and spoke."

"Wilks did? Why? What did he say?"

"Not Wilks, Walker did it himself. And I'm not sure I heard right, but I think he asked where his boots were."

"Boots?" Green chuckles. "A typical cowboy. Nearly dies in a fire, and the first thing he wants to know is where his boots are."
Last edited by Dogan on Fri Sep 26, 2014 12:58 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:31 pm

Remembered 06-07-2013:
I wrote:A CATACLYSMIC DAWN:

He awoke in a cold sweat, in a world painted black and red.

He knew he was awake because of the pain in his right leg, and the sweat coating his body. Whether or not he was alive was another story. Glancing around, he saw nothing but blackness and a strange, muted gray. Everywhere, all color had been washed away. He blinked in confusion.

His eyelids stuck. The hell? He reached up to feel them, and found two small gelled pads. He pulled them off, and looked again. Still dark, but there was light and color. And a flash of red to his right.

The flash illuminated the room he was in. Stark, sterile, a computer on the wall below a TV, a cheap and easily sanitized chair. SCTC? What the fuck am I doing here? SCTC- South Coast Trauma Center, his local ER and hospital. He picked up the remote attached to the standard issue hospital bed. I’ll call the nurse, ask what- The thought broke off as he realized the remote in his hand was dead, and his other hand was cuffed to the rail. Memories came flooding back. School, late night work at the police department, getting to his girlfriend's at midnight, food, booze and a quickly ignored sci-fi movie, heading home at around three in the morning, Aggrotech pounding through his helmet, rain mixed with snow, the temptation of an open and deserted straightaway causing him to roll the throttle back a bit too far, a sharp turn, the bear. The wreck. He’d swerved to avoid the bear, doing about sixty five before the speed dump, and the combination of motorcycle tires and rain-slicked asphalt had done the rest. He’d probably stunk of Jack when the EMT’s had gotten to him, thus the cuff.

“Nurse?”

No response. No closing of magazine or chart pages, no scooting of chairs. Flash of red.

“Nurse!”

Silence. Dark, pressing, complete. Another flash of red.

“HELLO! ANYONE!”

Nothing. The thought that he might be alone, stuck in the dark and chained to the bed like a dog, was not a pleasant one. He started looking for a light source, found a slit in the curtains. He pivoted around his restrained arm and swung his legs from the bed. Pain in his knee, hip, shoulder, neck. He figured he could stand in spite of the pain.

He was wrong.
Last edited by Dogan on Sat Jul 06, 2013 7:23 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:32 pm

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:32 pm

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:32 pm

Remembered 9/25/14:
BLACK SUNSHINE

Walker stepped in, and the Stables smelled, as always, of a unique blend: Diesel, ethanol, oil, and rust. Laser and Kodiak were elbows deep in a golf cart Delta had found on some farm across the ridge, hood up and doors open, both covered in grease and wearing headlamps. Cords and air hoses ran to the odd little vehicle, for which Kodiak had already fabbed up functional doors. A number of uncapped, local brews from Netties and Laser’s companion flask of… some sort of green health drink made from twigs and berries sat on a crate nearby.

“Oy! You guys do know it’s about three in the morning?” called Walker.

Laser looked up, his perpetually broad smile strangely white in the dim lights of the stables. “Johnny boy! Come see this.”

“What is it?”

Laser’s grin broadened like the Cheshire cat. “Just come see.”

Walker sauntered over, shrugging the lever action .357 from his shoulder and setting it next to a massive engine mounted to some sort of gimbaled thing. “What is it?” he repeated.

It was Kodiak’s turn to pop out like a strange bald mole. He was also grinning widely. “Sit in the drivers seat. I’ll grab the lights.”

“Flip down the visor.” Laser instructed.

Walker did so, and was greeted with a small, roughly wired LCD display. It looked like it had been pulled from a tablet or an even older portable DVD player.

“You know those high end cameras you pulled off that McMansion on Telegraph Hill?” inquired Kodiak.

“Yeah? What’s this thing got now, a backup cam?”

“Oh no,” said Laser, his eyes gleaming with delight. The lights went down. “much more better. Turn the key, but don’t start it, and press the button on the console.”

Walker saw the stables come to a dull, green life. Kodiak was… dancing in front of the truck. His style was somewhere between white dad at a barbeque and a stripper whose rent was due the next day, an incongruous mix of twerking and slow dancing with himself. He also saw the Weevil, the Cuck’s, and several smaller Diesel and Ethanol-converted vehicles. They had night vision.

“How-?”

“Oh man, it’s so cool.” Laser was practically giggling with delight. “So we took one of the police spotlights that Baker Company took off of the dead cruisers, mounted the camera to it-” he reached in and twisted a small knob back and forth. Walker’s view of the stables jiggled nauseatingly. “-then ran the wires to an inverter behind the kid seats-” A tangled mess of wires ran behind the seats. There must have been dozens. “-and ran the power supply to the IR source, the camera, and the display under the front seats and up the A pillars, stuck a parted out smartphone behind the dash for a processor, and took the feed from there to the screen from an old E-reader.”

“No more lights, baybay!” called Kodiak, still alone in a world where only he heard the music.

“Effective range is about two hundred feet at the moment, but we might be able to go to four hundred if we can mount the IR illuminators Alpha pulled from the dead National Guard Humvees.”

“Jesus. Total stealth. This is going to make evacs, pickups and patrols so much easier.” Walker sat back, taking in the possibilities. “No Zed pressure, no spooking half the game in the county when you go out to hunt, no AB picking up our lights and zapping us.” He looked at laser. “You do realize-”

Laser smiled so widely it looked like his head was going to split in half. “Yes, I do. We’re going to present it to Reznov in the morning.”

“Could you imagine a light technical with this and a canned gun?” Kodiak sang. “Unsuspected and undetected! It’s the only way to live! In ca-ars…” He hummed and continued to dance.
Last edited by Dogan on Tue Oct 28, 2014 1:43 am, edited 4 times in total.
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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:32 pm

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:32 pm

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:33 pm

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:33 pm

I wrote:A SIMPLE RUN:

They set out just before dawn in the Rum Runner, an old Diesel Mercedes that had been “tweaked” by Laser. Walker sat in back with the two rookies while Reznov rode shotgun. Kodiak’s former racing experience meant he drove whenever possible. Walker thought with amusement that the car was more armored than they were, for the simple supplies run to the Point’s ally, a tiny post-fall town called Beaver Falls. Built around the remains of a prison and a hospital, Beaver was a fairly neutral town nestled in a small but windy coastal valley. With a long history of coal mining and logging, it was easily accessed by the hard-packed logging roads Rum Runner now jostled over as gracefully as Kodiak could manage. Kodiak was at home behind the wheel, not even looking at gauges or the slightly stained steering wheel, operating the two ton German sedan like it was an extension of his own body, his hula dancer with an AK gyrating on the dash. Reznov was twisted around in his seat, regaling the rookies next to Walker with stories of a Soviet sniper, Joseph Pilyushin. He had just begun describing the beauty of a “white night” in Saint Petersburg, then, when Walker had tapped Kodiak on the shoulder.

“I see it.” The older man said as he slowed to the soft squeal of brakes.

He was speaking of a large tree that had fallen across the road, at least two and a half feet around, wearing a coat of gently steaming moss in the first rays of morning light. An ancient Cedar, it looked to be. It’s still shining green leaves waved gently in the morning breeze. It was beautiful, yet to Walker something still felt off. He scanned the area quickly as the car settled on its suspension.

One of the rookies cracked his door and made to get out the passenger side, hand on the pistol at his belt. Walker grabbed him without looking. “Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Something’s wrong. Leave’s are still green. Healthy trees don’t just fall over.”

“So? It probably blew down,” the rookie answered. Kodiak was looking around as well as he shifted into reverse, Walker noted.

“With what wind? We haven’t had so much as a breeze the past week.” Reznov interjected.

Walker saw what he was looking for, and told Kodiak “Go back. Now. Back, BACK BACK BACK!” The car lurched backwards just as something sparked through the grate that covered the windshield, striking Reznov low in the side and hitting the newb in the lower leg. Walker felt the young man’s body tense as he screamed in pain, and leaned automatically to put pressure on the wound and close his still open door. Reznov moaned, clamping an arm to his bleeding side. Kodiak finished his J-turn and accelerated. Another round hit the rear of the car with a loud THWACK as the Runner started to pick up speed. Walker wheeled around, and spotted a massive blur of gray and brown falling from among the trees. It looked like a telephone pole. And it was ahead of them.

“HIGH RIGHT!” from Walker.

“SHIT!” from Kodiak as he accelerated harder, burying the tach in the red. The pole kept coming, apparently in slow motion. It was going to be close.
To be continued soon.
Last edited by Dogan on Wed Aug 07, 2013 2:31 am, edited 4 times in total.
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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:33 pm

Remembered 9/25/14:
STEAM AND MIRRORS

Everything happen in a moment, which felt like an hour. The pole almost missed them. It clipped the back end of the Mercedes with a glass shattering, bone jostling smash, sending the front end high in the air. Dontflipdontflipforfuckssakedontflip thought Walker just as, with an incredible sense of slow motion and zero gravity, the front end starting to fall, the car still careening forward, accelerating towards another, final impact with the earth. The hood immediately deformed as Reznov and Kodiak were thrown hard against the dashboard and steering wheel, Kodiak feeling a sharp snap in his wrist.

Reznov, clutching his injured side, shouted “GET DOWN! STAY IN THE CAR!” even as everyone shook stars from their eyes and the feeling of an all over punch from their bodies.

Kodiak squirmed into the wheel well, grabbing the radio and calling “This is Rum Runner, nine Darkwing Pass, taking fire, need help fast!”

The radio crackled in reply after a few seconds. “Twelve-three-three… Rum Runner, this is Arco, we hear you. Adam, Bravo and a PRC squad are mobing out, ETA three-zero minutes, over.”

Kodiak recovered a little, responding with better security “Arco we have two nine-nines, we’re three-sixed and five-seven’d, heavy blood loss on both and a-” Kodiak glanced back, involuntarily wincing at the sight of what had been a young man’s leg moments before, hanging at a strange angle “-and a bad one-eight. Anyone closer? Over.

“That’s a big five-six, Rum Runner. Charlie-five it if possible. Over.”

“Negative on the fiver, Arco. Any oh-five around? Over.”

“Negative, Rum Runner. Sorry. Over.”

“Rum Runner out.” Kodiak replaced the handset with a sigh.

“What was that?” asked the unhit rookie after a few seconds.

Kodiak translated “We’re on our own for thirty minutes. But they know we’re pinned down, taking fire, we’ve got two people hit and one that can’t-” something THWACKed off the roof, richocheting into the woods. Everyone ducked involuntarily. “-move. We have no recent patrols or intel on settlements in the area.”

Walker was applying a tourniquet to the other rookie’s leg, blood quickly pooling in the floor pan. “So what do we do? Stay put?”

Reznov motioned awkwardly for the FAK in the hat rack, and spoke as he bandaged himself. “No. We don’t know if it is a lone mall ninja with a suppressed rifle or” wince as gauze touched what was a graze “a whole squad, with the sniper on overwatch as sappers flank us.” He looked up from his wound to see the hit rookie ashen and slumped unhealthily, the second rookie looking rattled, Walker laying across both of their laps, left shoulder covered in blood from laying in front of the seats. Steam from the car wafted away on the breeze.

“Walker, rookies, signal mirrors?”

Walker dug out his own, then searched the hit rookie, as the other rookie did the same.

“Scan as well as you can, look for movement, let your eyes blur, but DO NOT raise your heads!”

They all scanned for several minutes. Without targets, the sniper waited, unseen. After several minutes, Reznov broke the sililence.

“Rookie, what is your name?”

“Kevin Moore.”

“Kevin, you and Walker are going to get out on either side at the same time, and make for the trees. Kevin, you’re going to try and flank while Walker provides covering fire.”

Kevin nodded weakly, clutching his AR. Walker grabbed a mosin with a scope from between the seats. “When?”

“Unlatch your doors, and on the count of three, open them and run. Get to the trees. Walker, find a comfortable spot and engage. Kevin, work your way towards the sniper, tree to tree. He’s somewhere…” He looked at the hole in the mesh covering the windshield, seat and floorboard “In a tree or a stand, probably camouflaged, just West of the road. He’s probably within a few hundred yards of the cedar. Got it?”

Both men nodded, placing their hands on the door handles.

“Good. Count of three, one… two… three.”

Both bolted, Moore going West, Walker East. A plume of dust kicked up just behind Moore, and two more plumes followed him to the first tree. Walker dove into a stand of blackberries without even noticing the thorns. He crawled to a small stand of alder, and rested the rifle on a branch.

His comms crackled to life. “Any sign Walker?”

“No.”

“Alright. Kevin, start flanking.”
Last edited by Dogan on Fri Sep 26, 2014 12:55 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:33 pm

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:36 pm

I wrote:A BEAUTIFUL PLACE TO DIE:

Petyr ran alongside Walker, ran for his life and the life of the child he carried.
It was the final evacuation of Point Resignation, a small stronghold in the Northwest. The Point had been one of the most promising bastions of humanity left on the west coast, with bustling trade thanks to abundant rain, rich soil and dense forests just inland of a fertile Pacific. Now, with its defensive force and fortifications weakened by an unsuccessful raid, and a hoard attracted by the smells and sounds of combat, it had to be left behind. The crops had burned in its last stand, after being trampled by desperate feet. The wooden palisades had followed, and that was when the evac had been started.

The Point had been abandoned twice before, once for a storm, once for wildfire, but all who were leaving now knew that this time, there would be no returning.

They reached the beach, where an ocean tug was waiting, the Nakoa. Survivors were already on board, safe just beyond the breakers. A Zodiac was closer in, already aimed for the tug. Petyr stopped. He set the child on the sand and told him to run to the smaller boat. He did not even know the boy’s name. Petyr turned to Walker when the child was out of earshot.

“My friend,” he said in his heavy Russian accent, “I want you to take this.” He undid a clasp on his leather armor. “It will do someone else a great deal more good.”

Walker looked at him, disbelief, shock, a million emotions flashing through his face, but he reached for the armor no less. He started to speak “You know-”

Petyr raised his hand. “Stop. I know things do not need to be like this. But you cannot save me. No one can on this continent. Not now.” He lowered his hand.

Walker looked at his friend. The bloody patch over his now missing left eye. The wrap around his right knee, where he had fallen from the walls of Resignation. The bloody bandages around his abdomen and his left hand, where he had been shot during the final conflict with the raiders. He knew his friend was right. Tears welling in his eyes, he hugged his best friend for the last time, and said simply “It’s been an honor, Colonel.”

“Likewise. We have fought well together. Saved a few lives, and comforted those we could not save.” He looked into his comrade’s eyes. ”In this life, my friend, you cannot ask for much more.”

The Nakoa sounded its horn. The men and child in the zodiac simply watched.

Petyr stepped back, and gestured to the boats. “Your chariot awaits.” He paused. “Live well, Walker.”

“Never surrender, Petyr.” Walker turned away, knowing he would never see his best friend again, and not wanting to have to see his comrade in the bloodied, broken state he was in.

“You know I shall die on a pile of brass!” Petyr shouted after him.

Petyr stood and watched the zodiac leave, the last to do so. Walker did not look back, but Petyr could see him stroking the circumpunct on his leather armor, the symbol of Resignations defenders, who had always been the few against the many. He watched until he could no longer make out the grey hull against the sea, and then he turned back towards the funeral pyre that his creation had become. He knew his friend and the child would be safe, that the tug would take them to New Boston, Umpqua, or even as far as Baja. He looked at the beach, the dunes, and the forest beyond. He said aloud “As beautiful a place to die as any,” and walked towards the flames.


LAST LAUGH:

The old soldier looked at the palisades burning across the fort. He ran his hand down the closest palisade, over the crude marks made by the drawknife he had used to peel the bark from a pine log years before. He could hear the pack closing in, their growls and slitherings unmistakable. This was at least three times the size of the pack he had fought at The Fist, in his younger days. He smiled at the memory, a true Oprichik, embracing death and introducing those who did not to it with a Tokarev in one hand and a hatchet in the other, a true warrior, gambling all in a battle he knew he could not win, but fighting anyway, for his family, his friends. For something larger than himself.

We Russians know sacrifice better than anyone else, he thought.

A nearby snarl brought him out of his musings. A flaming abomination stood before him, longing for the death it once knew. He was glad to oblige.

He leveled his PPSH, set the selector to single shot, and put a round into the beasts rotted skull. Even as it’s flaming, mangled corpse fell, it’s pack howled at the noise, at the smell of blood coming from the Colonel.

That’s it, come for me. I will take as many of you bastards to the grave with me as I can. Come, we dance one last dance of death.

He smiled. This was a fitting end for a man who had survived the Gulag, the collapse of his old country, and the death of his new country. He took a silver flask from his hip, a gift from Walker. It was filled with homemade vodka, tinged with cinnamon and honey behind its fiery kick. He took a long draw from it now, knowing it would likely be his last. He watched the pack inch towards him, and drank. He reflected on his life. His loves, his losses, his adventures and battles with Walker. The day that they had found Walker’s daughter, creeping through the forest with a bloodied axe in her hands, almost as feral as any stray dog. Teaching his goddaughter to shoot, some time later. Giving her her first gun, his grandfathers pistol, with “All hail Peter the Great” still emblazoned proudly on the side. Telling her about the battle of Stalingrad and how his own father had ferried troops and supplies across the Volga under cover of darkness to the Red October factory during the siege.

He had emptied his flask, and he looked at his own death, limping toward him on ragged limbs. My rifles are cleaned, my aim is true and my heart is pure. He laughed.

So long as I fight, you cannot win. You can end my life and pull the flesh from my bones, but for so long as I have blood in my veins and bullets in my magazine, I will never surrender. I shall die, as Walker says, with my boots on, on a pile of dead bodies and empty brass.

He shouldered his PPSH and began his last fight, never wavering. He dropped nearly seventy of them as they drew ever nearer. He laid his faithful rifle on the ground, and calmly drew his pistol. He fired, aimed, fired, with each shot another one fell. In this way 15 more met their end. Save one for yourself.

He lowered his pistol and watched them. They were strangely beautiful, in a terrible way. They had no cares, no needs or wants except for hunger. They did not know loss, regret, or pain. When they were at arm’s length, he pressed the barrel to his head, and closed his eyes. He squeezed the trigger.

The gun fired, and the Russian still stood, bleeding, missing pieces, but far from broken. His eyes blazed with a fury the likes of which he had never known. He drew his knife with his injured hand.

"I will never surrender! NOT TO THE LIKES OF YOU!"

He laid into the pack in one last blaze, hacking with his left hand and bludgeoning with his right. He carved a path through the clutching hands and hungry mouths.

When his pistol flew from his grip and his knife wedged in a skull, he used his fists. When his knuckles split and bled, he grabbed one of them by the head and started slamming it into the ground. He thought nothing. He felt nothing but focused rage. When he felt teeth digging into his shoulder, he slammed his body back and clenched his hands into fists, his blood streaming onto the ground, causing some of the freaks to bite at the stained dirt.

That’s it. One last meal. Just come a little closer.

He laughed. He did not feel the maws closing on his legs and arms; he did not even feel the fatal teeth at his neck, tearing away at him. He fell to the ground, and looked back towards the beach. He could just make out sand and salt spray through the legs of the pack.

He unclenched his fists. Two small metal objects flew through the air.

A beautiful place to die, indeed.

The grenades in his hands detonated.
Last edited by Dogan on Tue Oct 28, 2014 1:12 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

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goofygurl wrote:Dogan – In charge of all things fucked up
Are you ready to die, John Walker?| CLAPTRAP!
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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

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goofygurl wrote:Dogan – In charge of all things fucked up
Are you ready to die, John Walker?| CLAPTRAP!
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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

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goofygurl wrote:Dogan – In charge of all things fucked up
Are you ready to die, John Walker?| CLAPTRAP!
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Re: The death of Johnathan Moses Walker: Strain Batic.

Post by Dogan » Fri Jul 05, 2013 9:36 pm

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goofygurl wrote:Dogan – In charge of all things fucked up
Are you ready to die, John Walker?| CLAPTRAP!
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