Gearing up for the second article for The Hive dealing with supplemental content. The last one got crazy busy and I’m hoping this time has even more people showing up – a good chunk of people popped on by the introductions thread since the last discussion so that means we should have a light increase, at least. These first three weeks aren’t very sexy, either way; it’s all the preliminary stuff. Financing, distribution and marketing – that’s when The Hive blows up.

Anyway, The Moose continues…

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Senior year in high school I played paintball for the first time. It was outdoors, in the snow, a bunch of kids from high school playing this massive 30 on 30 game of capture the flag – it was a great time. People hiding behind snow banks, climbing into trees and laying down cover fire. The snow made the paintballs wicked frozen and, in turn, it felt like people were pelting you with rocks. At the same time, when they didn’t jam in the gun, they rarely burst so the games where over pretty quick – a speedy runner can grab the flag and be back at base without getting a single paintball opening up on him.

I was the general for one round – I ordered half of my troops to take a frontal assault and sent a small group of ten to circle around the back and surprise the enemy.

They were the first to get shot up, we lost that round.

After hours of playing and having fun, both guys and girls alike, we left that snowy field with a newfound love of paintball, ready to play again, talking about getting our own guns and making seasonal trips out to the countryside to play wargames.

Freshman year in college was the second and last time I played paintball.

My boss from the dining hall organized a trip out to Brockton, Massachusetts – the fucking white trash jewel of the East Coast – to play some indoor paintball. Pretty much everyone who worked in the dining hall signed up and some of us brought friends along – I brought R, for instance, and we were ready for an afternoon of frolicking fun and paintball goodness.

We were supposed to have the place to ourselves – at least that’s what the owner told us. Ten minutes before we were to start this pick-up truck pulled up out front, guys jumping out with full camouflage and a variety of paintball guns strapped to their body. Thick glasses, flat feet and fucked up teeth – these were the guys that couldn’t make into the marines and were pissed to all hell about being stuck in their jobs at the gas station.

The owner tells us that these guys are going to play with us and we’re obviously not too happy about that but, we figure, what the fuck, right? It’s only paintball. Meanwhile these guys are talking about flanking patterns and practicing their cover formations and hand signals, looking at paintball magazines and saying how they need to invest in a scope or some paint-mines.

These games went fast as well – not because the paintballs weren’t rupturing or because they were getting jammed but because we were getting fucking killed. R dropped out within an hour, two deep bruises on her skin from well placed paintballs. I was taking my lumps, spending most of the days in a “defensive posture” which basically meant I found somewhere to hide and only shot if my opponent was alone and within three feet of me.

The indoor game – it made the paintballs hurt a lot more, people turning corners and shooting you in the gut from five feet away. The professionals we were up against had these automatic guns and they’d lay down three or four shots within a second and a half, hit you first on your arm that’s brandishing the weapon, twice in the chest and once in the mask for good measure. They were fucking insane.

One time I was “defending and there was a hole in the wall above my head. A fucking paintball gun comes through the hole while I’m not paying attention and presses against my head. The inbred idiot quietly whispers, “You can take it or throw your hands up.”

Seriously, who the fuck would take it? Who’s the tough guy that would take a paintball to the cranium from two inches? If there was any doubt that this was a dangerous situation we got ourselves into it was erased right there – these guys were future fucking killers.

I throw my hands up and walk through the building yelling, “Dead Man coming through”. I see my boss sitting in the neutral zone, drenched in paint, and I tell him this was the worst fucking idea he’s ever had – why Brocton? Of all the places we could have went to, why did we need to pick this shit kicking town?

We had a ROTC chick on our side, she was the only one that was really producing for us, she’d just run through rooms popping shots. One time me and her where laying behind this shield, there were two of our opponents across the room from us and holding us down. She looks at me and tells me we’re going over, asks if I’m ready. I say yeah, I’m with a fucking marine for shit’s sake. She yells “simper fie”; I get amped and bring my body up about three inches before taking a paintball to the head.

I shit you not – worst pain of all time. You see stars, your brain hurts, and you’re dizzy. Ms. Marines asks me if I’m all right and I just whimper. I finally have enough in me to stand up again and I just yell “Dead Man coming through” and get the fuck out of the hot zone, call it a day. R’s pissed at me, the whole crew is beat to shit, we never won a single match – paintball just isn’t for me, I guess.