I am a man of promises and because of that I got some help for a terrible idea someone told me I should do. Here is your fanfiction with help from friends.
M*A*S*H*: The Suicide Boyz
HEawkeyes grabbed the rock (a ball) from Moustache and bounced it a lot down the court. I have played basketball a bit and I am pretty sure the rules say you have to bounce it a lot. Moustache couldn’t catch up to him. He was out of breath from smoking.
Suddenly! Hawkeye didn’t have the ball anymore! WHAT! Colonel Harry Potter had it and he was on a horse. He did a triple back flip and slipped the rock into the net gingerly.
“Wicked moves Pete!” yelled Moustache.
“You are not allowed to ride horses in basketballs.” Spat Porkeyes and he did his angry dance.
Colonol potter galloped away with his horse and he just fucking cackled. Dick move potter.
“Is there anything to do in Vietnam that ISN’T to do with baskets?” hawkayes said funnily. Moustache laughed pretty hard at this. Hot tits bobbed out of a tent.
“I’m sick of your fucking jokes eyes!” she screamed. Moustache laughed pretty hard at this.
That mean guy also walked out. Not the first one the second one who is actually not that bad. Major payne or something. Anyway he was wearing a towel and looked pretty embarrassed. I think they were having sex in there. I think they are married maybe?
Alan alda was always playing jokes on hot hips. Just the other day he wrote a mean note saying “Horse Lips” to her. I laughed but I felt bad because it was pretty mean. Hot Blips was pretty mean in return though. She is always angry even though nurses are meant to be nice.
Hakeye replied. He said “You love my jokes because they are your babies.” Moustache hi fived him. They were definitely the coolest dudes in town. Everyone in Vietnam loved their jokes. Everywhere they went you could hear laughter. But not for much longer. Colonel potter has got a letter, a letter that would change the camp forever. He had sighed pretty hard when he read it. Radar had cried like baby.
At that point all of a sudden surprise! Heelacopters came in! They were playing rock music really loudly. “Cut it out man I am trying to sleep” Harkayes smiled at the copters. Moustache laughed at this but also he was laughing because he was nervous. These coptas were too cool, too fly. They didn’t even land before three dudes jumped out.
The dudes strode up to the camp like their legs were made out of horny stallions. They wore sunglasses and their green shirts were unbuttoned. You could see there stomach tattooes that read PUNCH LIFE and also the tops of their pubic hairs. They were tall and handsome. They hi fived each other beautifully like doves who play volleyball. One of them jumped and then did a 360 and landed it. The other two fist pumped really hard when he did. They were the suicide boyz and nothing in the camp would ever be the same!
Father Mulcahy does not see the suicide boyz arrive because he is busy widening the hole he has dug in which to bury his faithless, dead god. He has been digging the hole for six weeks, having bribed the border patrol to let him walk out into the jungle and return each day without question or comment. In the bottom of the hole, which opens like the mouth of hell he has left his bible. Beside it squirms Houlihan’s child. Bound by the confessional, Mulcahy had helped deliver the blighted, half-breed thing. Whether Houlihan had a soul or not, he had sworn her a promise and this was the fruit of it. It had slid from her twisted and unfit for life, but so it had proven unfit for death too. Sometimes it cries, but this morning it burbles in the deep dark of the jungle hole – sliding its chelicerae over one another slickly as it pipes, in a high sweet parody of its mother’s voice:
‘Kiss me with those hot lips. Kiss me with those hot lips.’
Mulcahy stabs the shovel into a mound of soft dirt, wiping sweat from his brow to watch the rock-and-roll emitting helicopters. He hopes they will crash. They will consume the camp and the war in flame and burn the world clean. He has long since given up on trying to kill the baby. He crosses himself twice. One of these days the whole will be deep enough and the baby, he hopes, will be crushed to death under the weight of a dead god. He looks into the whole and says, ‘Paws up, little monster’
He is thinking to himself how that will be a good song lyric in the future sometime. And begins the trudge back to camp.
Hawkeeye scurffs his foot in the dirt sulkily. BJ pats him on the back and says, ‘Come on, Hawky, it will be good to have some more Hunks around.’
‘What would you even know about Hunks, Beejay you have a big moustache and aren’t a hunk like me.’
Everyone nods, because they know that BJ is not so hunky but they nod sadly because BJ has tears in his eyes because what Hawkkeye said was not funny but just mean.
‘Anyway,’ Howkeye says over the loud boohoohooing of BJ, ‘They are different polarity. Everyone knows Hunks have two polarities. Cool and snarky like me and burly and super studly like them and if there are both of them then it doesn’t go well.’
The Suicide Boyz are flexing at all the nurses who are swooning like they are being shot by Vietnamese bullets. Only Houlihan is not swooning because she is rolling her eyes and is going, ‘I am not even impressed because I am a no-nonsense feminist’ (which she is) The main Boyz turns his head and smiles his mouth at Hakeye, ‘Did I hear you say you thought I was studly?’ he quipped.
‘No!’ says Hawkee, ‘I only said it ironically in a maudlin way like when I say ‘isn’t it a party’ when there are dead people’ Everyone laughs out of obligation, but they think it is a weak joke. Hawkeye wishes he wasn’t a sissy medic but a soldier so he could get out his shooter and they could have a duel but he is only a doctor. Radar interrupts his thoughts by running into him and knocking him into the dirt, he says sorry but does he really mean it? Not so much, because he is too impressed by the Boyz.
‘Omigod!’ squees Radar, ‘You are the suicide Boyz!’
The Suicide Boyz form up and pump their firsts and then make hand gun signs and pretend to fire bullets into eachother’s tattoos. (This is their cool-guy charlie’s angel pose)
Radar is basically wetting himself when he says, ‘You’re Shooter Hardfist!’ he screams at the main one who Haweke says was studly but reckons he doesn’t mean. ‘And you’re Spider!’ he says to one of the other ones. Houlihan raises an eye about this and looks interested. ‘And you’re Lovemarkers!’
‘What is all this? What is all this?’ says Colonel Potter, punching Radar out of the way. He had missed the landing because he was kind of bad at hearing and also because he was stabling his horse which was a really handsome Persian racehorse with a chocolate brown coat and a light blue star on its forehead which was really unusual in a horse which is why he called it Rigel-Starhors.
‘Who are all of you Hunks coming in here and flexing at my nurses?’
‘That one is Shooter Hardfizt and that one is Zpider and that one is Lovemakerz!’ bawled Radar.
Meanwhile, Trapper who you kind of forget is in the show and looks a bit like Will Farell, was in the surgical tent, desperately trying to save the life of a Korean lady villager whose name he didn’t know but was probably Park Park of Key Park or Sing Song like all the others. She was beautiful, in a Chinese sort of way. She had a fine face, the dusky skin of a worker. He found himself tracing the line of her brow with his gloved finger, down along her nose and under her eye. Across her lips. Into her mouth…
Where the other surgeons were, he couldn’t tell. He’d heard the drumming of inbound birds but whoever they’d brought with them –alive or dead—Radar hadn’t announced. Just another chance to prove myself, he thought with a grim smile. Another chance to show them that he was the best damn surgeon in the company, hell, probably in the war.
He laughed at the thought as he pinched off an artery he’d accidently nicked with with the edge of his rolex but stopped when he realised he was spitting crumbs into the chest cavity of the patient.
‘Damn it, Sing Song!’ he screamed, slamming his fist down onto the table next to her head. Startled, the woman, who had been pretending to read a poster on deep vein thrombosis that was hanging on the wall but obviously couldn’t read english, tried rolling to the side. But Trapper had a good hold of her ribs and she wasn’t going anywhere.
‘Not today, Ping Pong,’ he said, straddling her so she couldn’t move. ‘Not until we find out what’s wrong with you.’
Why don’t you find out what’s wrong with you first, Will Farell thought to himself as he got to binding the woman back together. Maybe then you can go yelling at the poor devil.
But of course he already knew what was wrong with him. He was in love. He may as well admit it.
‘No,’ he whispered through clenched teeth, staring down at the womam. ‘I’ll see you in the ground before I tell you I love you.’
Suddenly, Klinger burst into the tent, his dress stained and filthy and his legs running red. In his hands he was holding a bundled up pile of guts.
‘IVE HAD A MISCARRIAGE’ HE SCREAMED THROUGH HIS NOSE.
(Because this is just the biscuits I am going to keep continuing with this story with help from as many friends as possible.)