Nerf Rules of Engagement

to be referred to as “the N.R.E.”

1. Choice of arms is restricted to one main weapon, one sub weapon (sub weapon being defined as any pistol and shotgun variant), and one last-ditch n-force non-firearm (axe, sword, etc.). Should you take an opponent’s weapon, you are required to drop your corresponding unit.

2. A “kill” constitutes as three significant hits (significant being defined as torso), OR one shot to the head, OR three consecutive significant hits from a last-ditch n-force non-firearm (if melee vs. melee— one if melee vs. firearm). Once killed, victim has a 10-Mississippi count before a return to action.

3. No modification of the gun in terms of ammunition (i.e., engineering it to shoot screwdrivers, as entertaining as that may be) is permissible.

4. Point-blank shots are only allowed to the back of the head.

5. If someone is out of ammo, execution-style is warranted. Oppressor may demand captive to get on knees to fulfill proper etiquette. Captive must oblige. ”Cr0wning” is allowed execution-style or if victim is surprised/ambushed.

6. Pistol-whipping is strictly prohibited, as is any striking using the butt of a rifle.

7. Weapons may not be stolen unless a) dropped by opponent, b) knocked from their grasp by your superior instrument of mayhem, or c) pried from his/her cold dead hands.

8. Foraging for ammunition is permissible during the 10-Mississippi count, and no ammunition outside of that stored in your clips is allowed.

9. Empty clips are not weapons. Enemy clips cannot be retrieved unless enemy gun is being used.

Son

The day wasn't being very kind to me that Wednesday. Things were rolling around in my head that should have been put away ages ago and it was, for obvious reasons, frustrating me to no end. That's the nature of the human psyche, I suppose. It somehow finds the most inconvenient time for you to have the most inconvenient thoughts. For me, it was on "Hump Day" and the thoughts revolved around the words my parents decided to ever so kindly impart on me the night before.

We had a fight, you see.

It turns out that fifty-something first generation Filipino immigrants aren't very understanding of youthful trends and the indiscretion of young adults during their time of discovery. In short, they weren't happy with me getting tattoos. The usual reasons were thrown about the room like snowballs in November.

You'll never get a job.

You'll regret that when you're older.

How are you supposed to face the rest of the family?

I thought we raised you better than that.

You look like a criminal.

Different times carry with them different mindsets and I would surmise that had it been in their generation, perhaps some of those would hold true. Of course, I was smart enough not to get anything I couldn't hide for an interview with a nice looking button up. I thought they would, at the very least, acknowledge that. However, that's not what I got. What I got was stern admonishing and frowns that weighed me down like a boulder. I suppose you could say that my relationship with my parents is very much akin to a boulder.

No, I don't mean that it's hard (although it is). There are times when I feel as if I'm Sisyphus watching my boulder roll down the hill after reaching the top. That's how it's always been with us. I push this boulder up and when I think I finally have a way of connecting, the boulder rolls back down.

All of those thoughts rolled (pun immensely intended) around my head that Wednesday afternoon as I drove home. I didn't want to come home to them, but I had to. I didn't want to go home to people who were ashamed of me, but I had to.

My eyes were tired by the time I opened the door to my house and was greeted by two overly excited dogs. I set my bag down and let the thud of my books fill the living room as I let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit cube that we call our home. Slowly, I made my way to the kitchen to make myself something to eat. I decided to check the fridge to see if I could shortcut my way out of cooking and I saw something that caught my attention and started a fire in my heart.

It was a small pot at the bottom of the fridge with black handles jutting out of the opposite sides. I picked up the pot and looked at it and I already knew what was inside. Of all the years we've lived in our house, my mother has only used that pot for one thing and one thing only. It was for my favorite food in the world, bistek. Whenever I saw that pot, I knew that she made it for me. The pot was small and didn't have enough servings for one family dinner. It did, however, have enough for me.

I didn't realize it until they hit the top of the lid and rolled to my fingers, but I had been crying. Not a profuse or dramatic cry, but a subtle build up of tears that come from a certain realization. All that anger, all that shame, and now a pot.

Bistek is my favorite food in the world.

For my mother, it was her quiet way of saying that I'm still her son.

A Quieting.

Things weren’t what she expected. The house that they were in was dark and there was very little food left in the pantries and cupboards. She took stock and walked around the house slowly to see what she could use. She breathed a small sigh of relief when she reached the bathroom and found a fully stocked medicine cabinet. She rooted around the cabinets in the bathroom and found a first aid kid. A weak smile appeared on her face as she grabbed the kit and slowly walked back into the living room. The living room was sparse with only a single couch and a broken television. There was a thick rug in the middle that looked like it had gone out of style ages before she was even born. On the couch there was a young man lying down covered in blankets with sweat covering his face. He was breathing hard and his eyes occasionally flickered with sudden bursts of hallucinations.

“How are you, monkey?” she stepped closer to him kit in hand.

He slowly turned his head to look at her and gave her a faint smile. He labored to sit up and as he did the blankets he wrapped himself in fell to the floor revealing an arm wrapped in dirty bandages.

“This isn’t smart, you know.” He looked at her intently, “We promised each other that we wouldn’t be this dumb about this.”

“But….but CEDA said there was a cure…I think we can make the center before-”

“We won’t,” he interrupted, “Babe, look at me. They got me real good tonight and I don’t know about you, but I don’t think this is something you walk away from.”

“But you can’t just expect me to…to do that!”

“You can’t put this off forever.”

She dropped the kit and walked towards him. “Yes, I can.”

He kept looking at the rug. Her eyes were the saddest he will ever see and it did him no good to dwell on them. He wanted to detach himself from her. He wanted to pretend that he had already died so that he could throw away his fear. He didn’t want to leave her. He never intended to leave her and he felt like he was breaking a promise, like he was failing. He looked at his arm in disgust and played back the moment he was bitten. He remembered the act of mercy that brought him too close to the fire and got him burned. His head was feeling light and he knew what was happening to him. He didn’t want to say anything anymore. He was weak and he wanted to savor his moment with her. He closed his eyes and kept his head down and waited for her to get close to him. He rested her head on her chest and breathed a heavy sigh. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed the top of his head. She felt him exhale and grow limp in her arms so she held him tighter.

“You’re a liar. You said you wouldn’t go anywhere.”

She felt his body begin to twitch lightly and as his convulsions slowly grew, she took out a long trench knife that was strapped to her side. His convulsions were growing more violent and she could feel him slowly starting to breathe again. Tears were welling up in her eyes as she held the tip of the knife at the base of the back of his head.

“I love you, monkey.”

She shoved the knife as hard as she could up the back of his head and she felt him go limp a second time.

She held him until morning.

It was quiet.