by Hoss
The sun vanished steadily beneath the tree filled horizon. Birds ceased chirping and nestled into their nests for a long winter's sleep. The guerillas stopped advancing towards us, because they could not see in the dark. Night had fallen.
We hid a tunnel dug by our enemy. Earlier, we had been separated from our comrades in a midst of gunfire and shells. I looked at my pocketwatch. It was eleven fifty-nine, December 24. The only Christmas trees around us were spiny tree ferns decorated with the blood of our fallen comrades. There were no presents except for the smell of war. This was the worst Christmas ever. Fireworks went off at the stroke of midnight. Flashes of martyr shells and bombs filled the night air.
"We must do it," I said.
"Are you crazy?! Our comrades are still out there in the battlefield!" replied an anxious Pika.
"Hoss is right. If we don't do it now, we'll be doomed to a life of pain and torture from sharp pointy sticks. And these sticks don't stab, they shave!" said Al.
"Yea, I'd say that the lives of our volunteer soldiers are well worth the sweet taste of victory!" agreed Wakefield.
With approval of the remnants of the Pacific Army, I unleashed my trap. At the tug of a rope, the forest floor of one thousand square miles collasped, sending anyone on top into a pit of despair, suffering, and razor sharp spears. It was like a giant punji pit, a small country sized punji pit. Screams from friend and foe alike rang through the otherwise silent air. A million explosions went off simultaneously as the pit lit afire and ignited all the dynamite. Weeks of work in the rank and dark underground had paid off. The enemy was vanquished. The spectacle was so fantastic that it could be seen from the moon.
Of course, we were safe. I had brought along a big sheet of foil and a magic carpet for protection.
"Merry Christmas, guys."
