So Tres calls me in for a report today.
"Look for anything suspicious," he says, "Miracles. Fine acts. Strange bouts of love, kindness and beauty. That's where the enemy will be. That's the reports I want."
With the monkey boys!? They's head down in global jihad... they call it. Everyone's a bloody terrorist! Where am I supposed to find acts of kindness. On top of that they make me skin crawl and I ain't a pretty picture without me skin... well for humans anyway.
So I combed the Internet looking for any malicious, maloderous acts of niceness and whatever else would turn my stomach and bundled up me findings right pretty in a spreadsheet. Old Mal taught me all this here technical folderol. I got to admit I like the old oogly googly. Makes finding that needle in the haystack as easy as puppy pie.
I give Tres my report and he just shakes his head and says, "This is why they named you aimless... no direction... no sense of order. What am I supposed to do with this?" Then he throws me work back on the table right under my nose like it's useless guts.
Oh he knows how to get under my skin, that one. He knows how to fry me gizzards up right toasty he does. He knows damn well how I got my name. It was for glory! It was for honor in battle! It was for the accounting of my talents in slaughter.... lack of direction... PAH!!!
Where was old Tres at the second ring war? He wasn't even a pimple on the arse of his monkey boy daddy. You see I got my name at the battle of the blood mound across from the northern rim of the first ring of hell. That's where Big-S broke through with his demon kin. A full legion of us lessor demons was waiting for 'em when they came through and I had charge of the crossbow boys at the top of the mound.
Big-S came in full on with his own legion of cave crusher trolls. They came in tossing boulders like pebbles and our entire front line went done in one pass. Nasty brutes those trolls... smashed into our spear men and broke 'em like twigs. Me crossbow boys was taking 'em down one by one, but it was too slow. They was wading through me mates below like calm surf. So I screamed to my mighty boys, "AIM LESS! SHOOT MORE! AIM LESS! SHOOT MORE!"
Oh that got that lot up. Was like a hail storm of iron and wood. The sky filled with our mighty bolts and more than one cave crusher looked like a porkypine. Troll blood ran in rivers down that mound and our spear boys and sword slayers waded back into the mess with renewed fire in their eyes.
We turned the tide on that lot and sent 'em back into the breach of the northern rim. They didn't come through MY section of the ring that day and old Luke knew who done him right. He heard my story and he gave me my name and I wears it with pride!
So old Tres can kiss my sorry Arse. What the hell kind of name is Tres anyway? Who's he to be disrespecting my Nom de Guerre? I earned it...
Oh and in case anyone's curious Bottlebottom is not the shape of my sitting piece! It's a family name earned by our singular reputation. Pass us the bottle and we'll drink it right down to the bottom! Now that's a Bottlebottom!!
-AIM LESS
