Dear Planet Earth,
That was a long enough nap. Greetings from Seattle! Wish you were here. Unless you’re a mole man, in which case, you know, screw you.
We raided two other slave labor camps on the way up here. It was exhilarating to be one of the actual liberators this time around, though I’ll leave out the long paragraphs about strategy that you would only skim over and the mole people would likely exploit.
I will say that our latest score of high-tech rocket launchers may have something to do with our success. We found them among the remains of Fort Kross and they’re officially called “SMAWs,” or “Shoulder Mounted Ass Wipers.” Don’t quote me on that.
When we prepared to drive the mole men out of this city, General Talpa finally trusted me enough to aid the missile squad. I loaded up the rounds for Lieutenant Stoya and watched their gargantuan drill snake shudder from the impacts. Those ominous-looking saw blades were completely destroyed, and it looked like victory was near.
Then the metal monster started firing a small Gatling gun that popped out from underneath. Stoya took a hit in the shoulder (he’s fine now), and the SMAW went down with him. Maybe he screamed or told me to retreat or to try and ice the sucker myself — I don’t know, I had lost all hearing hours ago. I do know that something else took hold of me then. Some kind of calm, innate spirit within me pushed everything else to the side and just focused on picking up that rocket launcher and icing the sucker myself.
It looked just like this . . .
. . . but 1,000 times more badass.