Dear Planet Earth,
We found a couple mole people wandering around a serene stretch of wood defiantly calling itself Seola Park. They were just walking, like two humans on a casual stroll. They clutched their large rifles as though they were carrying something as harmless as groceries. A bright sun, clear sky, and song of sparrows framed the scene.
Private Karter, now Corporal Karter, gave me the binoculars to get a closer look. The glowing red eyes from their masks, at one time a menacing image that implied something demonic, now looked ridiculous — almost comical — from our safe vantage point 200 yards away.
“Be vewy, vewy quiet,” he said behind the lens of an M24 sniper rifle. “I’m hunting mole men. Heh heh heh heh heh.”
I was supposed to be Karter’s spotter, but I have my suspicions that he knew even less than I did about what that meant.
He fired, and the resounding noise forced me to bury my head in my arms. I readjusted myself in time to see one of the mole men down for the count as his comrade darted his head erratically in all directions. Karter opened and closed the barrel, and an empty cartridge landed in the grass beside us. He fired again. I was able to withstand the piercing sound this time and see the lone invader fly a few feet before landing in a puddle of red.
A morbid silence filled the air within seconds. Karter stood up, stretched out his arms and legs, and smiled like he just heard a clever Chuck Norris joke.
“That calls for a beer.”