Why some players tk :)

[BladeRunner Profile]

http://www.bf42.com/forums/showthread.php?s=&threadid=50231
credit to marknclw for the funny story.
copy /paste of his post:
Confessions of a 35-year-old Team Killer
Pvt. Spork was my first hit; I realize that now.
It was daytime, on the outskirts of camp, somewhere in Bocage. Pvt. Spork had been standing in our airfield, staring into space for nearly 5 minutes. He had a wistful expression, like he was waiting for a plane to appear. Clearly he was delusional. So I stood next to him to check his responses. Nothing. He simply stood there, staring out at the airfield with that same dreamy look. I was puzzled. Should I join my comrades in the front? Or should I stay behind and help poor Spork, who was clearly experiencing some sort of shell shock? I decided to grab a jeep and get Spork to the infirmary; he needed help fast. At the infirmary he could at least lie down on one of its many beds and get some rest. But as I made my motion to leave for the jeep, doing my usual smart about-face, Spork suddenly sprang to life. It was startling -- like he'd noticed me for the first time. He stared at me for a second -- and I might be imagining this, but later it seemed to me that his stare was more like a scowl or even a sneer at the time, but I could be wrong. He stared -- or glared -- at me and then, unbelievably, he started running in circles around me. Yes, you read that right: he started running in circles around me on the airfield... like he was crazy. He wasn't talking, either, which made it even crazier -- just staring at me. Did I mention he was holding a gun too? So I shot him. Point blank. Boom, dead. He was obviously a mental case: Section 8 all the way. Too bad. I did it for the benefit of the team. A lunatic, running around in circles, weapon in hand, not saying anything, waiting for god knows what, can never be trusted. So he had to be shot. You simply can't allow fruitcakes on your team in battle.

My next victim had the unfortunate name of Foreskin Gump. I realize I could have killed him for choosing that particularly cheesy name, but I didn't. I killed him for driving off in someone else's Priest, which caused the Priest to get blown apart by an enemy tank. The poor gunner died, and Gump, who had practically driven the Priest right up to the tank's muzzle as if to say "HEY, LOOK AT ME! I'M CLUELESS," survived. He didn't get far, though. Instead of trying to destroy the tank, Gump ran for cover. Coward! So I tossed a grenade in his direction just to flush him out of the woods. Gump's body was subsequently blown skyward and landed with a thump in front of the tank. The tank rolled forward, oblivious to Gump's lifeless body, and poor Gump spent the next ten seconds entangled inside the tank's chassis.

My third victim was a medic named David. David wasn't evil -- just stupid. He chose to stand next to me while I was lying on a hillside in a prone position as a scout, using binoculars to call for artillery against a Japanese village. David stood next to me and began shooting his Thompson at a Japanese tank about 200 yards away. Needless to say, the tank responded by shelling the ground all around us, nearly getting us killed. David, using an obviously ineffective weapon against armor, was going to me killed. So I put down the binoculars, grabbed my pistol, and shot him in the leg. "GET LOST," I hissed. David didn't budge. Was he dumb? The shelling from the tank continued. My health was getting dangerously low. "MEDIC!" I screamed, hoping David would turn his attention to me -- anything to get his attention away from the tank. But David apparently was possessed by the notion he could destroy the tank with a few clips from his Thompson; he didn't care that I was bleeding to death right next to him. David's bullets continued to zing harmlessly off the tank and soon another tank appeared. Now there were two Japanese tanks facing us, side by side! I began to slither away on my stomach, critically wounded, hoping to reach some underbrush about 10 feet away, the whole time cursing this medic -- this glorified NURSE -- who was pretending to be General Patton. In what felt liked an eternity, I finally reached the underbrush, the ground erupting and convulsing with flying dirt around me. I felt somewhat safe, so I twisted myself around to look for David. Incredibly, he was still in the same position, ten feet away, but now with a pistol in his hands. Jesus! He was firing his pistol at the tanks! The DAMNED FOOL! I pulled out a grenade and tossed it toward him. It was either him or me. The grenade ricocheted off something but still blew David apart. It was a quick death, mercifully: David was now dead... and I was alive.
Speaking of mercifully, the tanks soon lost interest and began to wander back to the village, so I crawled my way over to David's body to retrieve his medkit. Thank God. I was now healthy again. And very, very pissed.

The next "hit" was during Omaha Beach, where I was fortunate enough to be occupying the back seat of the destroyer, which means I was responsible for most of the artillery. Unfortunately, someone named Fredo was on the beach (as a scout) calling for artillery every 2 seconds, which was really screwing up my aim: I could never identify a target long enough before Fredo was once again on the radio screaming for artillery ("I need artillery fire! I have a target for artillery!"). Fredo must have done this at least 80 times in less than a minute. Needless to say, my coordinates were in total shambles; I couldn't aim, and I was getting a migraine. To make matters worse, at least half the time Fredo was accidentally aiming the binoculars at the ground! Good to see your lovely boots in extreme close up, I thought, but I'd rather be aiming at something useful -- which you certainly AREN'T. Then it dawned on me: use the coordinates on him, since he's the fool who keeps calling for artillery while aiming at his own two feet. So I let the shells rip; Ka-BOOM! The artillery hit the shore next to Fredo and blew him skyward. He flapped his arms madly in the air as he flew, like a wounded pigeon, trying desperately to open his parachute. But all for naught: he landed in a heap near some rocks, quite dead. Fredo's coordinates were still engaged, so I could see his body--or what was left of it--lying on a sand dune near the rocks. I began to laugh hysterically. Later, I had to slap myself in order to stop; but it was worth it. Here's giggling at you, kid.


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Online name: Faster Pussycat

[Hellacious Profile]

Wow....one on one on how to kill your team..glad that he does not play on ecgn. He needs some:help:

[BladeRunner Profile]

Originally posted by Hellacious
Wow....one on one on how to kill your team..glad that he does not play on ecgn. He needs some:help:

Roger that Hellacious, he is a tker but he does tell a pretty
good story. his story may just be "tongue in cheek" but
you never know.

[the_slog]

LOL,

That was a great story.

[Chacal Profile Website]

"HEY, LOOK AT ME! I'M CLUELESS"

[Bullhead]

I'd consider those all acts of self-defense more than tk'ing........except for maybe the last one, which could be considered self-defense of sanity...

[Fat Bastard]

[Doc Johnny]

Entertaining, but dumb.