ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hank Price remembers witnessing 9/11 live on TV, the sound of a dial-up modem, and the taste of a Northgate Mall Cinnabon caramel pecan roll.
At the most prestigious of the Poison Ivy Schools, there is an invitation-only secret club that one can only qualify for if their great-grandfather stole a sailboat, their grandfather hijacked a Nazi German or Imperial Japanese submarine or; if their father served in Desert Storm (membership was running low during the Cold War, so admission requirements were loosened after the Berlin Wall fell.) This is the story of their newest and most exceptional member, who did not fulfill any of these requirements, but was admitted nonetheless…
Preston Howardson adjusted his collar ever so slightly. The corners of his lips curled into an ugly sneer. He couldn’t believe that this pathetic first-year student knew about Yarnell University’s Swashbuckling Club, or that she thought she could get in.
"No such club exists," he said with the smugness of a spoiled brat who had never touched his own ass once in his life, preferring that the nearest maid powder and wash his asshole instead. "There's a fencing club that allows any of the riffraff to join, why not ask them? And if they reject you too, you can always take up knitting."
Sam J. Freedom glared angrily at Preston. Sam learned of Yarnell's Swashbuckling Club during one of her many tours of duty during Operation Enduring Freedom, as an elite warrior of the Navy SEALs. She'd graduated at the top of the class. She'd been involved in numerous secret raids on al-Qaeda. And in her few missions that weren't black ops, she had racked up three hundred confirmed kills. She'd even once defeated a gorilla by using the principals set forth in that sick commie pinko book by Che Guevara (Sam poisoned a banana, then after the gorilla ate it, she and four other SEALs slowly wore the gorilla down with numerous ambushes, booby traps, and the help of some local orangutans that they'd trained. Didn't even get a medal for it, but once a year Sam and the other SEALs who took part in that operation visit that part of the Congo and are given the most bombastic heroes' welcome one could receive from a troop of orangutans.)
Sam returned Preston's sneer with twice the powder-puff's intensity. Preston surely needed a change of underwear after Sam glared at the freedom-hating sissy-boy. At any rate, he smelled bad.
Sam's eyes, with their 20/10 vision in the left and 20/5 vision in the right, belonged to God and America and she happened to be borrowing them. These eyes, in tandem with Sam's right index finger and a .300 Win Mag sniper rifle, had led to the explosion of many a foolish target's skull. Sam was, after all, the top sniper not just in the SEALs but in the entire US armed forces. Every year, she and the best snipers in the CIA, SAS, and when Mossad couldn't make it, the Marines, stage a mock battle.
Sam always wins it.
So Preston, for all his preening, was nothing to Sam J. Freedom: nothing to her but just another target. Sam swore to herself that she would wipe Preston the fuck out with precision the likes of which had never been seen before on this Earth: mark her fucking words.
But she had to be discreet about it. Sam turned her head and coughed, excused herself, then secured the perimeter. Outside of eyeshot and earshot, she used her secret encrypted satellite smartphone (called the I.N.F.E.R.N.O. (Internet Networking For Elite Remote Not-on-the-books Ops)) Dialer, to ask her boys in several three letter agencies for a small favor…
Agent Rushwood (codename. Real name unknown) was the first to respond. Sam efficiently speed-read the e-mail, memorized its contents, chuckled, then within moments hacked into the Yarnell University Swashbuckling Club's USENET forum.
Yeah. I know. They were so blue-blooded that they still used USENET.
Once again, Sam requested entry on the basis of her merit.
Adonis76 replied, "i dont no how tf u got in hre but if ur jingjing dint steal a boat u aint swashbucker material. bitch"
Sam J. Freedom was stalwart. Perhaps this was just some good old-fashioned hazing. The next message led her to believe otherwise.
Kaiser55 replied, "Though our friend from the class of 1976 has a crude way with words, he is nonetheless correct. We have a reputation to uphold. Each one of us is the proud descendant of a true hero. Every member of the Yarnell University Swashbuckling Club is made of the right stuff. The fact that you made your way to this forum by way of hacking into it is self-evident proof of your unworthiness."
Sam J. Freedom saw that Kaiser55 had a point, but presented a counter-point of her own: "I know I didn't come in through the traditional channels. But this is a Swashbuckling Club; engaging in sneaky foul play is well within the spirit of the noble tradition of seafaring pirates."
Adonis76 replied, "mans got a point"
Sam: "Actually, I am a woman."
Adonis76: "NO girls aloud"
Kaiser55: "Such a thing is unprecedented. There has never been and never will there be a disgusting female creature in Yarnell University's Swashbuckling Club. You ought to consider transferring to Dartumbia or Princemouth, and trying your hand with their yard sports clubs."
Sam J. Freedom couldn't believe it. She had heard of this club during the last part of a night mission on the Pakistani border that went horribly wrong. The last words of Sam's best buddy and commanding officer Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty, still echoed in her mind to this day...
"Sam... I don't have much time left. N-no," Sam could still remember deftly dodging the spray of blood that Benjamin Q. Liberty coughed up, before returning to dutifully listening to his last words, "Get your ass into Yarnell.. University's.. S.. Sh.." Benjamin sprayed blood once more, which got all over the copilot of the helicopter, "..washbuckling.. Club."
"Why?"
"They.. need.."
And then, Benjamin died.
What did they need? Sam hoped that someone in the club could tell her.
Sam: "Let me tell you about a fallen comrade. A precious friend of mine and a true patriot. He was from the class of '94. His dad served in Desert Storm. I believe his ID here was Benny94. It was his last, dying wish that I seek you out." Sam typed out what Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty had said to her as she cradled his dying head, while piloting a helicopter, while dodging surface-to-air missiles and Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty projectile blood sprays.
Someone new joined the thread.
Invictus26: "cool story bro or should I say bitch. haha whats ur source? 'trust me bro??' neway no grls allowed. Also no one in your family stole a boat or served in Iraq. Afghanistan doesn't count loser "
Sam J. Freedom's elite warrior instinct sensed that Invictus26 was that smug prick Preston Howardson.
Adonis76: "NO GIRLS"
Kaiser55: ">Invictus26 The key requirement for post Cold War legacy admission to Yarnell University's Swashbuckling Club is, quite specifically, a father who served in Operation. Desert. Storm. The military conflict from 2 August 1990 to 28 February 1991. Need I remind you publicly of yours, and every member's duty, to memorize all of the details of the club's proud history?"
Invictus26: "I said Iraq"
Adonis76: "ya but there's 2 Iraq wars"
Invictus26: "no theres the golf war and the Iraq war!! ok boomer? "
Adonis76: “this is y deset storm kids shuddnt be aloud”
Sam read their conversation and understood why Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty's dying wish was for Sam to seek out this band of pompous, dishonorable cretins who hid their unjustifiable hatred of women behind traditions and technicalities.
Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty's last words were "they... Need..."
Sam thought he meant to say, "they need you," before his tragic death. Inside that helicopter. On that fateful night on the Pakistani border. "They need you..." That just like the SEALs and just like America, the Yarnell University Swashbuckling Club needed Sam J. Freedom and her patriotic precision.
Now, after seeing firsthand how corrupt the organization was, Sam knew for a fact that Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty's intended last words must have been…
"They.. need... An ass-kicking. Sam J. Freedom style."
She typed out a lengthy reply, which detailed her skills, her qualifications, and her righteous indignation. After detailing her achievements on the field of battle, she ended that segment of her lengthy post with: "You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, fucker."
Sam J. Freedom booted up her I.N.F.E.R.N.O. Dialer and contacted several three letter agencies, explaining to them the situation and commanding them to freeze the bank accounts of every member of Yarnell University's Swashbuckling Club and place them on no-fly lists.
As she did the I.N.F.E.R.N.O. dial with her left and right hands, she continued to tactically type out the rest of her message to the Yarnell University Swashbuckling Club with her toes. "As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life."
Invictus26: "u dont scare me bitch miss me w dat edgelord shit"
Sam J. Freedom had tasked dozens of undercover G-Men and letter boys to apprehend the members of Yarnell University's Swashbuckling Club. But she knew that in the name of American Justice, Preston "Invictus26" Howardson would have to be dealt with by her personally.
With her I.N.F.E.R.N.O. Dialer, she asked the nearest friendly G-Man for a ride to Invictus26's dorm. Mere moments later, a black helicopter with no markings on it and the latest in stealth technology touched down on Yarnell's Bocce field. Several agencies used it as a secret extraction point because nobody at Yarnell fucking plays Bocce except for people who suck ass at Croquet. The Bocce field only stayed out of the Croquet Club's hands because of an eternal, hateful rivalry between the descendants of the founding members of the Bocce Club and the Croquet Club. The Bocce Club supplied generous donations (on the books, and off-the-books trips, hookers and blow) to the Dean to ensure that the Croquet Club would never have use of the Bocce field. Instead, the rival Croquet Club had to commute. And the nearest Croquet field, was inconveniently located at the Eight Fortunes Country Club, a place nominally open to all but with a roster exclusively East Asian. The Croquet Club meets there on Tuesdays.
So, nobody witnessed Sam J. Freedom's black helicopter extraction from Yarnell's Bocce field. Nor did they witness her fast rope descent from the black helicopter, because the operation was timed with such precision that it happened when all of the students, faculty and maintenance were either in class, in a meeting, eating lunch, or suddenly received a false AMBER Alert on their phones courtesy of the NSA. The boys in the agency like to call that trick the "pocket screecher".
As Preston "Invictus26" Howardson's gooning session was interrupted by a sudden notification to be on the alert for a 1993 White Ford Bronco, Sam J. Freedom crashed through the window of Preston's dormitory.
"Holy shit! It's just like you said in your last post! You really can be anywhere, anytime! But.."
Preston grabbed a pair of curved blades hanging from the wall.
"I doubt you can really kill me in over seven hundred ways, with just your bare hands. Eat your words! It is you who is fucking dead, kid!"
Sam J. Freedom grinned, then snapped her fingers. That was it. That was the signal that she and the commandant of the Marine Corps had agreed upon when she told him he owed her a favor.
A smoke grenade blasted into the room from the black helicopter. Sam was secretly inoculated against smoke grenades and was thus unaffected. Preston fell to the ground, wheezing and coughing.
Sam could have stopped there. In fact, the Marine Commandant messaged her over I.N.F.E.R.N.O. Dialer, meekly requesting that the operation end there.
Sam J. Freedom messaged back, "Does the name Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty mean ANYTHING to you?!"
"Very well," replied the Commandant. "As we agreed, you have access to the entire arsenal."
Sam ordered helicopter extractions across the country. One for every member of Yarnell University's Swashbuckling Club. (Overseas members were lucky... For now.)
After all of the stateside members of Yarnell University's Swashbuckling Club were rounded up, they were taken to a secret undersea Marine Corps facility near Guantanamo Bay. This was where the worst off-the-books cruel and unusual punishments were carried out, and technically didn't violate the 8th Amendment because anything that doesn't happen in America doesn't matter.
Sam J. Freedom used the full extent of the Marine Corps' arsenal to wipe the miserable asses of the Yarnell University Swashbuckling Club off the face of the continent.
But that still wasn't enough.
She descended triumphantly from the black helicopter to an unmarked submarine. A single tear rolled down her cheek because she knew these heroes would never receive any medals for their courageous actions. There wasn't even an American flag on the submarine. Sam quickly painted one on, and everyone on board made sure to give her a, "hip hip, hooray!" and a salute as she walked by.
After refusing the freshly caught fish in the officer's mess, preferring a simple meal of hardtack and swill eaten by the rank and file, Sam disembarked from the submarine and entered the secret underwater facility near Guantanamo Bay.
She walked around the mass holding cell. There was constant K-Pop music blasting through loudspeakers at changing speeds, bright flashing lights, and sometimes the cell, which was dangling over the open ocean, would be lowered slowly into the ocean's ice-cold waters.
Men – old men, middle-aged men, mid-life-crisised-but-in-denial-of-it-and-acting-like-they’re-still-teenagers and young men -- all pampered and blue-blooded -- clung to the sides of the giant cage for as long as they could, but it was mercilessly lowered into the water by a bored technician who was watching Netflix on his phone while operating the crane. The water was so cold it instantly made their toes turn blue. The technician scratched his butt and tried to ignore the pleas of the detainees.
Sam J. Freedom held a megaphone in her hands. She raised one arm and the music and the flashing lights stopped. The cage was lifted out. The men caught their breath, then Sam began her elite interrogation.
"Where's Preston?"
One guy replied, "Who?"
Another said, "Huh?"
One more asked, "The fuck's that?"
Sam chuckled. "Guess he's new. Where's Invictus26?"
All of the cowardly men in the cage tried to walk, hobble, or crawl backwards, as far from Sam's indignation as they could get.
"Don't you try any of this 'I'm Spartacus' bullshit."
"We're not! He's trying to hide!"
Sam glared, and in an instant, with her top sniper instincts and better-than-perfect eyesight, she locked onto the target.
"You there. Yeah, you asshole. Step forward."
He didn't. So, Sam entered the cage. All the men, dressed only in Abu Ghraib style black outfits, covered the backs of their necks with their hands and huddled over, whimpering in fear of Sam's righteous fury. Somehow, Sam grabbed Preston the same way Emperor Palpatine "somehow" returned to life in that Disney Star Wars movie.
But it wasn't the dark side, nor was it unnatural. No, Truth and Justice were on Sam's side.
Preston whimpered. He was wet, half-naked, cold and hungry. He sneezed.
Sam J. Freedom felt no mercy or pity. She spoke into the bullhorn: "You little shit."
Those words stabbed Preston deep into his soul.
Preston wished he could have known what unholy retribution his little "clever" comment was to bring down upon him. He felt deep regret in that moment. Couldn't he have, for just once in his life, held his fucking tongue?
But he couldn't.
He didn't.
And now, he was paying the price.
The other members of the Yarnell University Swashbuckling Club shouted, "you goddamn idiot!"
Then, the strangest thing happened. Sam J. Freedom undid her suspenders, dropped her pants, and blasted wide a furious spray of... Really nasty stuff all over Preston. He drowned in it and fucking died.
Then, Sam J. Freedom said: "You're fucking dead, kiddo."
One man walked over to Sam, assisted by two other members of the Yarnell University Swashbuckling Club.
In a quiet, stammering voice, awestruck by the lengths Sam J. Freedom had taken to enact her vengeance, he introduced himself. "I-I'm the o-oldesst l-living m-member of t-the club. My nu-nuh-nih-nick," he took a deep breath, "nay-name is kuh-ka-Kaiser." So, this was Kaiser55 from the Yarnell University Swashbuckling Club's USENET forum.
"Wi-wi-with, o-o-open, a-a-arms, we, u-u-unani-m-muh-mo..."
One of the men supporting Kaiser elbowed him in the ribs. "Shut the fuck up! We all received the same enhanced interrogation that you did! You're embarrassing yourself. Take a rest, gramps." Two other members of the club took Kaiser from the class of '55 back with the rest of the group. Sam, with her near-superhuman hearing, heard Kaiser mumble, "I'd whup your ass good if I had my walker with me.."
The man standing before Sam said, "I'm Adonis. Class of '76. You're a real bad-ass. It's clear that you embody the true spirit of the swashbucker. On behalf of the entire club, I extend an invitation to--"
Sam J. Freedom thought for a moment. Adonis from the Class of 76's voice felt like it was thousands of miles away. Sam was having a flashback. A flashback to Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty's dramatic final moments.
With her perfect photographic memory, she stared once more upon her dying buddy, that fateful evening on the Pakistani border that went horribly wrong. But she used her ability to astral project, this time. She didn't think to use it the last time she had a flashback, because that would have been stealing the spotlight from Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty. And he'd lost everything back then, on that fateful evening. She saluted him one last time, as her spirit floated over the scene in her memory. She heard once more her comrade's last words. She saw him spit blood once more, and she saw her younger self dodge the blood spray.
But wait... She enhanced the level of detail in her memory. She saw something now that she -- torn at the time with a patriotic amount of grief while simultaneously piloting a helicopter one-handed -- couldn't have seen back then.
Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty had tactically sprayed his last will and testament in blood, on the inside of the helicopter!
"Hey." Sam interrupted Adonis from the class of '76. "Shut up, freedom-hater. I'm gonna go ask some real Americans something." Adonis saluted.
Sam used the I.N.F.E.R.N.O. Dialer to ask the letter boys for photographs of the inside window of the helicopter that Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty had died in. As luck -- or perhaps, the manifest destiny of Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Freedom -- would have it, one photo was taken.
"Here it is," Agent Moleman replied, "But why do you want a picture of some blood spatter? Haven't you seen enough of them with how much of an incredible elite warrior you are?"
Sam replied, "Think back to your time in the Boy Scouts. The time I was unfairly denied on account of my gender... But my father insisted that I cross-dress and be both the best Boy Scout and Girl Scout there ever was. I got all the merit badges possible and sold the most cookies. If the Non-Binary Scouts had existed in those days, I would've been the best one there ever was..."
"Of course!," Agent Moleman messaged back, "Morse code!"
Sam saw the hidden message in the photo, because to someone who was fluent in every currently spoken language and was, in fact, so fluent that they got bored and combined some of them together for fun, Morse Code was as easy as Klingon Esperanto.
Sam J. Freedom walked back into the cage where all of the members of Yarnell University's Swashbuckling Club were held. A few more men dressed in nothing but dark sheets that didn't cover anything below the waist, with faces covered in hoods -- Abu Ghraib attire -- were led into the cage at gunpoint.
Sam J. Freedom saluted the troops who'd bravely abducted the Yarnell University Swashbuckling Club members who had happened to be overseas at the time that Sam called in the favor that the Marine Corps owed her. But maybe she shouldn't have saluted. Blasphemy, I know, but consider the facts: The operation began at 1430 hours. It was now 1455. Sam was going to have some words with the Commandant; his boys were slacking. The SEALs would have completed the operation at 1440, then had a nice mid-day snack of crayons!
Sam J. Freedom held up a grainy, black-and-white photo. "These were the last words of Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty. Class of '94. Nickname: Benny."
"That's just a blood spray, you stupid bitch!"
"Take me back to Tahiti!"
"My lawyers will have a word with you!"
Sam J. Freedom commanded the silence of all the members of the Yarnell University Swashbuckling Club, and By God, she had it.
Then, she said, "It's in Morse Code."
"Oh."
"Oh yeah, I can see it now."
"A circular pattern..."
"I never learned Morse Code. What does it say?"
"Uh, heh, yeah, I don't know it either..."
"Is SOS dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot, or the other way around?"
"I think you said OSO..."
Sam was indignant. "You call yourselves swashbuckers, but you can't decipher Morse Code?!" Sam groaned in freedom-loving frustration. "I'll read it for you:"
And Master Chief Junior Grade Benjamin Q. Liberty's final message read:
"Sam. If you're reading this, it means you used astral projection while re-watching my death. I'm sorry for burdening you with seeing that fateful moment once again. It must be agonizing for you. You did everything right. You went above and beyond the call of duty. You are the pinnacle of American society. The most elite warrior who ever touched a rifle. The day your father's sperm touched your mother's egg and your life totally began at conception, because we all know that the Bible says in Psalm 139:13: 'For you formed my inward parts; you covered me in my mother's womb,' which could mean fucking anything but it's close enough to what the right-wing wants to hear, which is why abortion should be illegal, and it's totally not just some hot-button issue that the right wing callously and cynically uses to manipulate clueless religious conservatives who couldn't even quote 'Jesus Wept' from memory if they tried, because who could when we live in an era where people are flooded with constantly changing information all the time. Uh, anyway. The day you were conceived was the mark of a new era, and all future calendars will begin from that day. All that stuff I said while I was dying was just a smokescreen to lead you to this Abrams-Lindeloffian moment of revelation. Yeah, that time you're gonna pull down your pants and kill someone by drowning them in shit? Completely unnecessary. Didn't have to happen. Maybe the medics can resuscitate him, in fact, I know they will because you are too much of a patriot to spill innocently misguided blood..."
The message went on and on. The details are classified.
When Sam finished reading it, the members of the Yarnell University Swashbuckling Club all stood and saluted. Even the one that Sam killed by drowning in shit; he was humbled by his near-death experience and now he and Sam are best friends. Then, all the Marines saluted, then applauded. Several congratulatory messages from the I.N.F.E.R.N.O. Dialer, from all the clandestine agencies that Sam had contact with nearly crashed it.
But all the general public knows of that incident, which, like many of Sam's other black ops, must be kept under wraps, is a certain widely copied and pasted message, which begins with: What the fuck did you just fucking say about me, you little bitch?
The part where she 'shit fury' and someone drowned in it isn't, as you've read, the whole truth.