Blood, Bullets, and Broccoli: Issue #1

I. Remington, the Human Action Figure

Combat Log #1

• Monday morning: 0700hrs.

• Nightly Pee Schedule: 0100, 0300 and 0500.

• Note to self: Eat more fiber. No liquids after supper. Exceptions: Smoothies.

• Grocery list: Vitamin D, B12, A, D3, Multi, Dulce, Tofu, Metamucil, Almonds.

• Mood: Don’t Look Back in Anger.

I. Remington.

In the mirror, drool crusted to the side of my cheek, a hint of a gut bulbous under my white undershirt stands a mere reflection of the man I once was. A true legend in every sense of the word.

Sgt. Ian Remington: Nomad Division.

Top dog. The human action figure. Slammer Jammer.

I’ve been called ginormous. Like a monster truck, reinforced and bulky.

Once upon a time I was part of Nomad Division. An elite group of police officers with a roaming jurisdiction. Top secret stuff. If James Bond and Ethan Hunt had babies together and then trained those babies to be super cool globe trotting law enforcement officers, they'd be still be nowhere near as rad as us. And I don’t mean little babies going boom boom with Glock 19’s and grenades hidden in their diapers. That would be weird. You have to be two years old to acquire grenade privileges.

These days my retirement cheques say: I. Remington. A schlub with gingivitis and an oversized prostate. It used to be the only thing referred to as oversized in my life was my hand cannon, and well, you know. My penis. Mr. Belvedere.

Hot damn I miss those rock and roll days.

Seven hundred and twenty-five days and counting since I left the life. Since I left her.

I pull my tooth guard out, snap it back into its case and wash the sleep from my perfectly blueberry blue eyes. Hair has a mind of its own these days. I trim with extreme prejudice, masterful as a concert pianist. Like shooting the wings of a nat. I raise a small mirror over my head to examine the round circle of scalp hiding under the last remaining soldiers. How depressing. The older you get your body regulates body hair with the precision of a toddler with ADHD. Mr. Mojo meows and rubs against my leg and I say, “I know bud, it’s breakfast.”

These days, instead of jumping out of airplanes, or defusing nuclear bombs, or fighting a room full of suicidal terrorist my morning routine consists of the following:

Twenty minutes of intense yoga.

Fifteen minutes of Transcendental Meditation.

One hour of Call of Duty. Just to take the edge off.

Refuel.

Today I skip the other nonsense and go straight to refueling.

Pour water into a bowl, add half a cup of organic steel cut oats and chop up an apple, preferably a Gala. Place bowl into the microwave for two minutes. While pouring water into the kettle I say, “Alexa, research setting up a YouTube channel, specifically, ‘What I eat in a day videos.’” She says, “I found this on the web.” The microwave dings and I say, “Alexa, stop.” Add the apple and a healthy helping of cinnamon. Let sit for one minute to infuse the flavors. While I’m waiting for the flavours to infuse, I grab a cup of green tea.

Standard operating procedure.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Staring down at the newspaper I say, “Unexplained lights illuminating the woods late at night.”

Flipping the page I say, “Crime at an all time high.”

Flipping the page I say, “Drugs on our streets.”

Flipping the page I say, “Villains crawling out from the woods.”

Stirring the oatmeal I say, “Childs play for kindergarten cops.”

Maybe you’re thinking Sgt. isn’t that big of a deal, but in Nomad Division it’s like being a five-star General to you schmucks. Only the best of the best of the best, and if you’re saying to yourself, “I’ve never heard of Nomad Division, Remington you idiot,” well it’s because you’re not on my level. You’re several floors below, buried deep in the basement, bottom lip quivering from the overpowering musk of filtered adrenalin soaked through the pile of standard operating bulletproof gitch you’re cowering under. Pardon me. I mean, underwear. This far north, hidden deep within the northern Boreal forest these Canadians will rewire your brain.

For now, I can’t tell you my specific location, but let’s just say I’m somewhere sandwiched between Prince Edward Island and British Columbia. In case you’re wondering what a British Columbia is, it’s a province, and in case you’re wondering what a province is, it’s like a state but there’s a lot less of them.

Retirement. Pfft. Best years of my life. Pfft. Part of being in Nomad Division is once you retire, you’re set up with a new life. If you actually make it to retirement in this game there’s a pretty solid chance you’ve accumulated more enemies than friends. If I had Facebook, It would be filled with thousands of psychopath terrorist with the status: It’s complicated. I guess the thought is, a man like me would never live amongst the potato heads of the north. People who willingly live where the temperature drops below -50 degrees CELSIUS. If you’re wondering what a Celsius is, it’s a measurement for temperature that these simpletons use. I’d have to say these Canucks are a few bullets short of a clip. Even my most vile disturbed enemies aren’t making the trek up here, not even for my sweet ass.

No, you walk away from Nomad Division you walk away alone. No friends. No family. Just a regular life with a lot of bad memories. It’s been almost two years now, and I still miss her. We were a good team. The best.

The most excitement I get these days is if the grocery store has the perfect avocado.

I take a sip of tea and then there’s a frantic, a kind of hectic knock at my door. In my underwear, carrying a lemon ginger tea, the door opens. Standing on my doorstep is a Cowboy wrapped in a black trench coat. A cigarette hangs from his mouth. His eyes are the perfect blood shot red. Out of breath, covered in blood, and a snot bubble big and round and ready to burst, and with his eyes a glowing amber he says, “I, I need your, your help.”

I stare deep into his possessed eyes while Mr. Mojo floats between us through the air like he’s swimming. Mr. Mojo meows and swims into the living room and I look at this freak, adjust Mr. Belvedere and say, “Tea?”

I. Remington. And this is my Combat Log.

P.S. It’s not a diary. It’s a Combat Log.

Stay tuned, I have a sneaky suspicion things are about to go sideways.

Over.