Frontier Justice

The rotors of the helicopter whipped leaves off the trees of the vast jungle. Its inhabitants could be seen hiding or running for cover as the aircraft disrupted the trees they called home. It was a humid day; Marshal Jones and his mercenaries felt relieved that they did not have to walk these jungles, as the mosquitoes would surely get them.

“Just like ‘Nam,” Marshal Jones muttered to himself.
That was a strange thing to say though as he had never been to Vietnam. Jones was a Texan - born in Texas, bred in Texas, in his opinion, there was only Texas. The Marshal looked down to see Bruce on his lap. Bruce, his trusty 12 gauge, uncountable outlaws and insurgents had fallen by its shells of justice. Oak handle and steel barrel, the firearm was a thing of beauty. It had the kick of an elephant and the sound of a lion. Bruce had even won the 100 metre dash when it was 5. Strapped to his back was Lucy, a flamethrower he had found, working in a sweatshop in Bangkok. She was the dragon of Texas. Crafted of Metals of Doom and able to spew the fires of Hell, Lucy was not a weapon to be messed with.

This would be a simple mission. Marshal Jones and his team of mercenaries would be deployed by helicopter into a US bunker. From there, they would proceed to the insurgents base. Marshal Jones was idly checking Bruces ammo, the mercenaries were chatting, three were playing dice.

Marshal Jones stood up and peered through the open door of the helicopter, holding onto Arnold the Minigun for support. From the corner of his eye he noticed an advancing object. On closer inspection, he realised that it was, in fact, an anti-air rocket. He shouted orders to his crew seconds before the impact. The rocket collided with the helicopter, spinning it out of control. Metal shattered and the incessant beeping of the crash warning could be heard. Jones held onto Arnold with all his strength. The helicopter hit the ground, destroying a lining of trees in the process. Marshal Jones emerged from the wreckage, lit a cigar and said, “That was not in my flight plan.”

Strolling casually away from the wreckage, he noticed that one of the mercenaries was alive. The mercs name was Bucket. A scrawny man that could hardly handle an assault rifle. Jones gave him a hand and helped him up. Bucket thanked him and Jones replied, “Are ya’ ready for some Frontier Justice, kid.”

“Yessir,” Bucket replied.

With that they set off to find the Insurgent leader who was responsible for ruining the cake which was stored in the helicopter.
Hours later they trudged up to the outskirts of the insurgents base. At that time, Bucket had lost his nerve and started blubbering like a baby. The Marshal slapped him and said, “I’ll make a supersonic man out of you if it kills me.”

Bucket toughened up and they entered the base. As the insurgents began to notice them, Jones pointed Bruce at them and simply said, “Eat lead.”

Each shot fired killed multiple targets. Some were decapitated by the force. The two man army shot a clean path to the HQ. Arriving at the small wooden door, Jones knocked. An eye slot opened and a man asked, “Password?”

Jones replied, “Justice!” and kicked down the door. The insurgent leader stood there arrogantly, a smirk on his face, Marshal Jones did not need to inspect further; this was a dupe. He had been tricked. He dispatched the fake and left the building. Bucket asked him what they would do next. Jones thought for about half a minute. There was only one place an insurgent leader would hide. After realising where he had to go, he replied to Bucket, “It’s time to kick ass and chew bubblegum, but I’m all out of gum.”

Kentucky, the terrorist capital of the world. If the Insurgent leader wasn’t here, he didn’t exist. Landing their magical ponies, Bucket and Jones advanced towards the infamous McDonalds. Terrorists and Insurgents engaged them as they walked. Jones scorched them with Lucy as Bucket fired his sub-machine gun, missing the terrorists and killing the last of the Bald Eagles. There were too many, however, and they were forced to drop their weapons. A circle of enemies surrounded them and made space for a dark figure to enter. The figure drew closer and spoke, “Hello, my name is Hillary Clinton and I want you to vote for the Democrats in the national election.”

“NEVER!!!” Jones shouted and kicked Bruce from the asphalt ground into his hands. The shot brought her to her knees as the insurgent henchmen evaporated. Marshal Jones walked towards her to deliver the final blow. As he aimed Bruce at her head, she said with her final breath, “I am your father.”

The Marshal pulled the trigger. He allowed the corpse of his father to fall onto the ground as he and Bucket walked into the sunset.
“It’s all over,” Bucket said.
“Yes, but at what cost?” replied the Marshal.