FIC: Everything You Know Is Wrong (GK - Ray POV; Trombley/OMC, Ray/Walt)
I was just going through my folder of WIPs and snippets, and realized that this is a comment fic I did awhile back and never posted in my LJ. My only attempt at Generation Kill. Warning: Since this is Ray, probably every word in it is both nonsense & offensive.
Title: Everything You Know Is Wrong
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Trombley/OMC, Ray/Walt
Length: 1,500 words
Summary: Ray does a good deed. Trombley takes one for the team. No dogs were killed in the making of this fanfic.
Disclaimer: A transformative work based on fictional characters from an HBO mini-series, being based on a book, which was based on some observations a reporter made during the Iraq invasion.
P.S. Dear Real!Trombley, this is all made up and totally not true or libel-licious. However, you may be consider it to be karma, if it pleases you to do so. No <3, sil
----
It’s in the midst of a blinding, blunt-object induced migraine that Ray Person realizes the only way he'll possibly survive another tour in Iraq with motherfucking donkeyciding Trombley at his side is if the little bitch has been inoculated with lots and lots of cock, and begins a secret campaign--
a campaign that, strangely enough, none of his inconsiderate dickless team members will participate in (a typical exchange with Brad consisting of, "are you out of your fucking MIND, Ray? no, I do NOT-- what are you doing with those--IS THAT A DIAGRAM?")
--to Get Trombley Man-Laid.
***
Only Walt seems to sit still long enough to hear his full treatise (involving Spartans, WWII, the complete works of Oscar Wilde, and tentacle hentai), though he's always nodding in sort of a strange, delayed way and there's this glaze in his eyes that sometimes seems incongruously horror-stricken. And thus with only 234 hours until Report, Ray comes to the inevitable conclusion (he’d totally cry ‘Eureka’ and shit, but [a] it’s 4am, [b] his cousin’s passed out beside him, like the fucking pussy he is, on the not-to-be-vomit-christened couch, and [c] his mouth’s full of Captain Crunch - you know how it is) that he’ll need some additional reinforcements well versed in actual wang gargling.
The fact that his sole connection to The Secret Gay Mafia (see: Secret Jewish Mafia; less yalmulkas, more buttsex) is this kind of scruffy dude with ball twistingly tight pants who bought him a drink once at Classic Cue (cheap whiskey, tall shot) does not deter a personable and charming motherfucker such as himself, and he engages in six beers of reconnaissance, during which he acquires 5 key facts:
1. Scruffy Dude’s cell number
2. Visible proof of sluttiness and sizable package
3. General affirmation that said dude would totally blow a psycho closet case who could snap his neck with bare hands.
4. Scruffy’s got some serious dick-blisters for Eminem. (See: above)
5. A vast, mostly incomprehensible and heavily accented overview of cricket
(the things he will do for deep-seated disgust and just a tinge of apathy for a fellow Marine)
(don’t ask)
He may have also (look: six beers, yes, but then a number of uncounted yet liquidy-delicious shots afterward, so may have will be operative words for pretty much every fucking thing from halfway through the shit about bowls and batsmen and wickers-something and general confusion about a lack of horses) explained that in addition to the obvious repressed gayitude and death-dealing, Trombley may or may not:
(a) be married
(b) have fathered 0 to 5 kids
(c) like cats
(d) tolerate the eating of squirrels (note: possible additional tolerance of sister fucking - though that one’s a knee-jerk Ray Person Exclusive conjecture based on questionable whiskey tango parentage and crazy eyes, as opposed to the occasional outbursts of paranoid, muttered ramblings)
(d) have a cousin or brother or uncle in the Russian Mafia (see: Secret Gay Mafia; less glitter, more tattoos & KGB influence)
***
Overheard at a nominally crowded and pretzel strewn bar, approximately 2:46pm, Pacific Standard Time:
(“hey, so he’s this total wack-job with no fear of death, who names his fucking gun and totally lies about everything, all the time, like path-o-fucking-logically, like I eat pussy - and mister, I eat a whole a fuckton of pussy, I eat pussy like you could live on that shit, like those grass bowling English motherfuckers drink tea for goddamned breakfast - but he’s real tan and shit, and he could run 20 miles, like no fucking problem, so some serious stamina there, and you like the shaved head look, right?”)
***
And luckily, it figures that anyone who’d try to fuck him in a bar after 10 minutes of slurred conversation will actually show up to meet a slightly better looking but infinitely more homicidal acquaintance.
He’s pretty sure he told Trombley this dude’s his step-cousin, twice removed, through a broken shell of a marriage. He’s called him Anwar, Sameer, hey you, and, very likely, Mohinder, but the guy’s name is actually something like Deven (definitely a D, and at least one E somewhere) and his slim hips, worn-soft girl jeans, and guitar-pick calluses are straight out of every Rolling Stone issue that college girls are reading for the articles before reaching down to click the mouse. It’s kind of hot to think about, and how sick as fuck it would be to jerk it to the image of his girlfriend petting the pussy for this homo’s punk rock smirk is just icing on the cake for a celebrated, degenerate pervert such as himself.
Ray quietly recommends a hasty application of mouth to cock to avert any vicious beatings about the head, and announces an immediate and inescapable need for Pineapple Lime Icee (with just a dollop of Dr Pepper, some coconut shavings, and half a cherry Twizzler).
7-Eleven waits for no man.
Well, arguably 7-Eleven waits for every man - that’s kind of their deal - but what would useless fucks such as Ray finds here know about the love of good slushie?
So after the unfortunate and, frankly, scandalous substitution of strawberry licorice (having raised strident objections of varied, creativity profanity), Ray walks through his own front door into one of the most shocking displays he has ever witnessed in the comportment of an honest to god, stone cold marine killer.
There should be a law against it,
(admittedly, there actually is a law against it, but chapter and verse can suck his tender, virginal asshole and is very much not the fucking point, as Ray has made a happy crusade of breaking all such government retardese with a spring in his step and pot plants peppering his backyard)
this slow push of tongue, slim fingers lazily curled around the back of Trombley’s neck, thumb lightly stroking at his pulse kind of kissing (on a goddamn couch that cousin Jimmy had completely defiled, again, not 2 days ago). It’s twisted and fucking wrong, Trombley reaching down to give his own dick a squeeze, and even if the other guy’s hand immediately follows it, that’s some shameful shit right there. Some pansy ass, over the clothes dick rubbing on Ray’s motherfucking couch. Trombley getting the kind of action Ray got in 10th grade, eyes scrunched closed now and panting into Deven’s neck like it’s Megan Fox tonguing his balls, and then Trombley makes a choked off groan, breath hitching as his hips roll. And if it were anyone else that might be not entirely unappealing, and that is just the fucking end of it.
Clearly the only appropriate response is to shriek, “I knew you didn’t speak Spanish!”, mutter something about shameful lack of knob polishing and married a mexican my ass, then grab a bottle of Jameson to go with his slushie and flee the room with the sole goal of becoming blindingly drunk.
***
The fuzzy, benevolent grace of copious gulps of alcohol uncovers the only available balm to Ray’s now tarnished reputation. It is clearly Walt’s fault his somewhat affectionately crafted plan has gone so horribly awry-- for abandoning him in his time of need, in the midst of such a righteous campaign. And for hiding all the cherry Twizzlers, the complete bastard.
Text sent 11:13 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
giong to prform obscene acts on yr bodd
Text sent 11:13 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
body
Text sent sent 11:14 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
see icemn has visuals in inbox
Text received 11:20 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
wtf person ?
Text received 12:05 am, Pacific Standard Time:
??
Text received 3:32 am, Pacific Standard Time:
ok
Epilogue
So apparently Trombley’s mom’s a total rainbow waving PFLAG junkie who always wanted him to meet a nice boy (she’s promised Ray unlimited baked goods; it’s totally sweet), and Trombley just thought the guys in dress uniform looked ‘seriously fuckable’ killing that dragon, and he actually is completely wacked, so protesting too much and slaughtering the occasional hajii livestock made the weirdo kind of sense.
The dude’s name is actually Deven (because Ray is a fucking detail-oriented professional, thank you very much), and his band sucks in this totally authentic way where no one would beat your ass for wearing his t-shirt, and turns out he only jerked it to Eminem, like, once, and was mostly interested in someone who’d befriend a man of such extensive vocabulary and storytelling prowess.
They go on double dates, and kick Trombley under the table when he’s full of shit, and Walt says the moral of the story is shut up, don’t call them dates, and sometimes you can totally judge a book by its cover if the cover is obviously true.
The moral of the story, according to Ray, is something like:
(a) cookies
(b) gay blind dates are weak sauce
(c) sodomy saves lives!
(I mean, Trombley kills like no babies these days and Poke caught the sneaky bitch emptying the bullets from Captain America’s gun when he thought no one was looking. Think of the children, yo.)
But then, Ray’s a sly motherfucker. His boyfriend says so.
the end.
Title: Everything You Know Is Wrong
Fandom: Generation Kill
Pairing: Trombley/OMC, Ray/Walt
Length: 1,500 words
Summary: Ray does a good deed. Trombley takes one for the team. No dogs were killed in the making of this fanfic.
Disclaimer: A transformative work based on fictional characters from an HBO mini-series, being based on a book, which was based on some observations a reporter made during the Iraq invasion.
P.S. Dear Real!Trombley, this is all made up and totally not true or libel-licious. However, you may be consider it to be karma, if it pleases you to do so. No <3, sil
----
It’s in the midst of a blinding, blunt-object induced migraine that Ray Person realizes the only way he'll possibly survive another tour in Iraq with motherfucking donkeyciding Trombley at his side is if the little bitch has been inoculated with lots and lots of cock, and begins a secret campaign--
a campaign that, strangely enough, none of his inconsiderate dickless team members will participate in (a typical exchange with Brad consisting of, "are you out of your fucking MIND, Ray? no, I do NOT-- what are you doing with those--IS THAT A DIAGRAM?")
--to Get Trombley Man-Laid.
***
Only Walt seems to sit still long enough to hear his full treatise (involving Spartans, WWII, the complete works of Oscar Wilde, and tentacle hentai), though he's always nodding in sort of a strange, delayed way and there's this glaze in his eyes that sometimes seems incongruously horror-stricken. And thus with only 234 hours until Report, Ray comes to the inevitable conclusion (he’d totally cry ‘Eureka’ and shit, but [a] it’s 4am, [b] his cousin’s passed out beside him, like the fucking pussy he is, on the not-to-be-vomit-christened couch, and [c] his mouth’s full of Captain Crunch - you know how it is) that he’ll need some additional reinforcements well versed in actual wang gargling.
The fact that his sole connection to The Secret Gay Mafia (see: Secret Jewish Mafia; less yalmulkas, more buttsex) is this kind of scruffy dude with ball twistingly tight pants who bought him a drink once at Classic Cue (cheap whiskey, tall shot) does not deter a personable and charming motherfucker such as himself, and he engages in six beers of reconnaissance, during which he acquires 5 key facts:
1. Scruffy Dude’s cell number
2. Visible proof of sluttiness and sizable package
3. General affirmation that said dude would totally blow a psycho closet case who could snap his neck with bare hands.
4. Scruffy’s got some serious dick-blisters for Eminem. (See: above)
5. A vast, mostly incomprehensible and heavily accented overview of cricket
(the things he will do for deep-seated disgust and just a tinge of apathy for a fellow Marine)
(don’t ask)
He may have also (look: six beers, yes, but then a number of uncounted yet liquidy-delicious shots afterward, so may have will be operative words for pretty much every fucking thing from halfway through the shit about bowls and batsmen and wickers-something and general confusion about a lack of horses) explained that in addition to the obvious repressed gayitude and death-dealing, Trombley may or may not:
(a) be married
(b) have fathered 0 to 5 kids
(c) like cats
(d) tolerate the eating of squirrels (note: possible additional tolerance of sister fucking - though that one’s a knee-jerk Ray Person Exclusive conjecture based on questionable whiskey tango parentage and crazy eyes, as opposed to the occasional outbursts of paranoid, muttered ramblings)
(d) have a cousin or brother or uncle in the Russian Mafia (see: Secret Gay Mafia; less glitter, more tattoos & KGB influence)
***
Overheard at a nominally crowded and pretzel strewn bar, approximately 2:46pm, Pacific Standard Time:
(“hey, so he’s this total wack-job with no fear of death, who names his fucking gun and totally lies about everything, all the time, like path-o-fucking-logically, like I eat pussy - and mister, I eat a whole a fuckton of pussy, I eat pussy like you could live on that shit, like those grass bowling English motherfuckers drink tea for goddamned breakfast - but he’s real tan and shit, and he could run 20 miles, like no fucking problem, so some serious stamina there, and you like the shaved head look, right?”)
***
And luckily, it figures that anyone who’d try to fuck him in a bar after 10 minutes of slurred conversation will actually show up to meet a slightly better looking but infinitely more homicidal acquaintance.
He’s pretty sure he told Trombley this dude’s his step-cousin, twice removed, through a broken shell of a marriage. He’s called him Anwar, Sameer, hey you, and, very likely, Mohinder, but the guy’s name is actually something like Deven (definitely a D, and at least one E somewhere) and his slim hips, worn-soft girl jeans, and guitar-pick calluses are straight out of every Rolling Stone issue that college girls are reading for the articles before reaching down to click the mouse. It’s kind of hot to think about, and how sick as fuck it would be to jerk it to the image of his girlfriend petting the pussy for this homo’s punk rock smirk is just icing on the cake for a celebrated, degenerate pervert such as himself.
Ray quietly recommends a hasty application of mouth to cock to avert any vicious beatings about the head, and announces an immediate and inescapable need for Pineapple Lime Icee (with just a dollop of Dr Pepper, some coconut shavings, and half a cherry Twizzler).
7-Eleven waits for no man.
Well, arguably 7-Eleven waits for every man - that’s kind of their deal - but what would useless fucks such as Ray finds here know about the love of good slushie?
So after the unfortunate and, frankly, scandalous substitution of strawberry licorice (having raised strident objections of varied, creativity profanity), Ray walks through his own front door into one of the most shocking displays he has ever witnessed in the comportment of an honest to god, stone cold marine killer.
There should be a law against it,
(admittedly, there actually is a law against it, but chapter and verse can suck his tender, virginal asshole and is very much not the fucking point, as Ray has made a happy crusade of breaking all such government retardese with a spring in his step and pot plants peppering his backyard)
this slow push of tongue, slim fingers lazily curled around the back of Trombley’s neck, thumb lightly stroking at his pulse kind of kissing (on a goddamn couch that cousin Jimmy had completely defiled, again, not 2 days ago). It’s twisted and fucking wrong, Trombley reaching down to give his own dick a squeeze, and even if the other guy’s hand immediately follows it, that’s some shameful shit right there. Some pansy ass, over the clothes dick rubbing on Ray’s motherfucking couch. Trombley getting the kind of action Ray got in 10th grade, eyes scrunched closed now and panting into Deven’s neck like it’s Megan Fox tonguing his balls, and then Trombley makes a choked off groan, breath hitching as his hips roll. And if it were anyone else that might be not entirely unappealing, and that is just the fucking end of it.
Clearly the only appropriate response is to shriek, “I knew you didn’t speak Spanish!”, mutter something about shameful lack of knob polishing and married a mexican my ass, then grab a bottle of Jameson to go with his slushie and flee the room with the sole goal of becoming blindingly drunk.
***
The fuzzy, benevolent grace of copious gulps of alcohol uncovers the only available balm to Ray’s now tarnished reputation. It is clearly Walt’s fault his somewhat affectionately crafted plan has gone so horribly awry-- for abandoning him in his time of need, in the midst of such a righteous campaign. And for hiding all the cherry Twizzlers, the complete bastard.
Text sent 11:13 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
giong to prform obscene acts on yr bodd
Text sent 11:13 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
body
Text sent sent 11:14 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
see icemn has visuals in inbox
Text received 11:20 pm, Pacific Standard Time:
wtf person ?
Text received 12:05 am, Pacific Standard Time:
??
Text received 3:32 am, Pacific Standard Time:
ok
Epilogue
So apparently Trombley’s mom’s a total rainbow waving PFLAG junkie who always wanted him to meet a nice boy (she’s promised Ray unlimited baked goods; it’s totally sweet), and Trombley just thought the guys in dress uniform looked ‘seriously fuckable’ killing that dragon, and he actually is completely wacked, so protesting too much and slaughtering the occasional hajii livestock made the weirdo kind of sense.
The dude’s name is actually Deven (because Ray is a fucking detail-oriented professional, thank you very much), and his band sucks in this totally authentic way where no one would beat your ass for wearing his t-shirt, and turns out he only jerked it to Eminem, like, once, and was mostly interested in someone who’d befriend a man of such extensive vocabulary and storytelling prowess.
They go on double dates, and kick Trombley under the table when he’s full of shit, and Walt says the moral of the story is shut up, don’t call them dates, and sometimes you can totally judge a book by its cover if the cover is obviously true.
The moral of the story, according to Ray, is something like:
(a) cookies
(b) gay blind dates are weak sauce
(c) sodomy saves lives!
(I mean, Trombley kills like no babies these days and Poke caught the sneaky bitch emptying the bullets from Captain America’s gun when he thought no one was looking. Think of the children, yo.)
But then, Ray’s a sly motherfucker. His boyfriend says so.
the end.