[thenightwriterblog] The Night Writer: Battle Royale...with Cheese

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Posted by The Night Writer:
Battle Royale...with Cheese
http://thenightwriterblog.powerblogs.com/posts/1154490660.shtml


   Kevin Ecker is trying to organize a Splatball (or Paintball) [1]Battle
   Royale pitting the local lefty and righty MOBsters against each other
   on the field of valor and latex projectiles. So far the righties have
   shown more interest in getting all Pulp Fiction with it, while the
   other side appears to have its head tucked under its collective left
   wing.
   If it's an outdoor event I don't know if I'll be able to participate
   since running around on uneven terrain dodging sniper fire isn't
   something on the approved activities list for my knee. I can't,
   however, be called a "chickenhawk" because I actually have played
   splatball before. A few years ago an evening of splatball was the
   featured attraction of a bachelor party for a friend of mine. It was
   wintertime so we rented an indoor splatball arena, in this case a
   warehouse-sized building with an urban warfare motif inside featuring
   false building fronts, windows, doors, alleys and a no-man's-land in
   the middle that also had some cover.
   Former governor Jesse Ventura once said, "You haven't hunted until
   you've hunted man," and that was one of the few things he said that I
   could agree with. I'd never played splatball before that night and
   when the whistle blew to start the first game I got a rush of
   adrenaline unlike any I'd ever experienced playing football or
   basketball or even from getting into fights; the thought that someone
   I might not even be able to see might be drawing a bead on me at that
   very moment definitely got my heart pumping. I didn't like the idea of
   standing still on defense so I decided to join a couple of guys who
   were going to try and get around the other team's flank. To do so,
   however, I'd have to cross an open space about 10 feet wide. I took
   the first two steps of my dash...and took a paintball pellet on the
   forehead part of my visor. Actually it hit the air vent of the visor,
   and the paint dripped through the vent and into my eyes. Thirty
   seconds into the game and I was baptized, literally, by fire -- and I
   hadn't even fired a shot yet! The good, they die young.
   Fortunately there were several more games to go and many more chances
   to get my licks in. One problem we were having, however, was that the
   temperature outside was about 20 below, and the warehouse was
   minimally heated. With all the energy we were expending the
   temperature wasn't uncomfortable for us, but the plastic skin of the
   pellets we were shooting grew brittle and would rupture easily,
   squibbing your shot and jamming your gun when it happened. One time I
   had laboriously worked my way around and behind a guy on the other
   team; leaping out from cover I shouted, "Die, scum!" or something
   similar, triggering my gun as my opponent turned. Instead of hearing a
   satisfying, "pssshh-THWACK!" I heard a muffled blub and purple paint
   seeped out of my barrel while my would-be victim dove over a box and
   tried to return fire as I did my own disappearing act.
   In another game, each side was allowed a "medic"; if you were hit you
   could get back in the game if your team's medic could get over and
   touch you. Right off the bat this friend of mine took off on a banzai
   charge right at the middle of the other team's defensive wall. He was
   shot down directly under the guns of the other team, and began calling
   for the medic. Our medic decided, however, that this was a terminal
   case and not worth picking up a few more welts in the attempt.
   Another variation in the rules called for a player on each side,
   previously and secretly designated by the referee, to turncoat on his
   teammates. Unfortunately for me, the "spy" on our team was sharing a
   bunker with me as we tried to pick off any heads that popped up in the
   sector in front of us. In the middle of the battle I heard,
   "Hey, John."
   "Yeah?"
   "I'm the spy. Surrender?"
   He held his gun on me, the barrel about a foot from my wide target,
   close enough to raise a welt the size of a popsicle. I considered.
   "Ah, oui, mon ami," I said.
   All in all it was a very fun time and it took a couple of hours for my
   heart rate to return to normal afterwards, and another day or two for
   the various bumps and bruises on my body to fade. The memories haven't
   faded yet, and I have warm thoughts of my night on the front lines. If
   I do it again, however, I'm going to be sure my ammo is warm, too.

References

   1. http://www.eckernet.com/2006/07/blogosphere_battle_royale_upda.html