I Fucking Hate the Army
Orcs hate the army with a passion. When the hell did my life start turning into such a clusterfuck? Actually, there's no point pinpointing a "when." Just being born into an orc family had already doomed me. Nah, scratch that. Being an orc is bad enough, but let's get precise: the moment I popped out from under my old man—the orc the whole neighborhood called the "crazy bastard"—that's when shit really hit the fan, to put it bluntly.
How does it always happen that just when I'm finally sucking some sweet honey, something blows up not long after? Why the fuck did I scramble and claw my way through years among those monster bastards? To survive? Sure, what's the point of gold, jewels, and babes if you're dead? But that was just one piece of it. Truth is, I just wanted an easy life for myself—someone to scratch my back, fill my belly, let me live fat and happy. In a world where raw strength solves everything, dropped smack in the middle of beasts who prove their worth with muscle, don't you think the higher you climb, the sweeter the honey that drips down?
That's why I busted my ass like a madman. And now this—actual fucking war breaks out. Honestly, the army here isn't like humans with their strict codes and pedigree bullshit for promotions. It's just the strongest guy on top. I figured I could coast here, suck some honey, and quietly kick the bucket someday. But charging into real battle? Hell no.
Fine, fuck it—time to throw a fit and demand discharge. That balding balrog bastard knows damn well how much I've poured into this unit, right? Butter him up with some smooth talk, snag my honey, and get my discharge papers too! Hell, I even made it to acting battalion commander before getting out. That's a solid career! Nothing to be ashamed of back home! Pumped up, I stormed off to find the balrog.
"No dice."
"Why not?"
"You think I'd let a capable punk like you walk in this manpower shortage? You idiot."
Ah, busted. A stinger in the pocket eventually pokes through, and I'd strutted around so much—poking my head out of my pants like a show-off dick—that I'd revealed my edge on the promotion path. Should've just survived in the cracks. I overplayed my hand.
While I stood there sputtering like a fool, the balrog meticulously groomed every single hair around his horns, then gave me that "what can ya do" look and continued.
"Plus, I'm finally transferring out, you punk."
"Why now?"
"You know I wasn't supposed to end up here originally, right? Was headed for Demon King's direct ops staff, but the spot wasn't open yet, so I was just temp-managing these grunts till it was. Now it's free, so I'm bouncing."
"One thing I've been wondering, though."
"What, punk?"
"Why do you keep tacking on 'you punk' at the end? Been curious for a while."
"It's a tic."
"Oh."
I could already see him shipping off to the heavenly realms only to get demoted on the spot for it. Disabilities aren't bad, but picturing him telling the Demon King "Thanks, you punk!" while receiving his appointment letter? Hilarious already.
Anyway, long story short: the balrog was just killing time as unwanted CO until a spot opened up top. Now it's here, and he's got a successor lined up, so screw handovers—he's dusting off and splitting.
"Who's the successor, though?"
"You, punk."
"Me?"
What the hell? Why am I suddenly your replacement? I shot him a baffled look, and he set down the mirror he'd been staring into.
"You think the grunts listen to you more than me? Nah, punk. I'm just a balrog—born into a race tougher and stronger than the rest. That's the only reason they obeyed."
"But how's that got anything to do with me taking over?"
"What do you think a deer thinks when it sees a lion, punk?"
"Usually, run like hell."
"What if it can't escape? Say there's an unscalable cliff behind it?"
"Then it'd fight. And look for any breakout path."
"That's why you're tapped as my successor."
"??"
Was this some wordplay bullshit? Before I could snap, the balrog got dead serious and laid it out.
"Most guys submit to overwhelming power they can't fight, and fear sinks into their bones. Later, they'll bow to whatever that guy wants—even their own lives. Like how we'd gladly offer ours if the Demon King demanded it. But you're different. You're an orc—a lowly race compared to others—yet you honed yourself, sharpened your edge, bypassed obstacles, crushed some, leaped others. That's how you ended up right under me here."
Why's his assessment of me so damn harsh? At this rate, I'd be cornered for real. Time to play up my flaws.
"Okay, fine, but I'm an orc like you said. Will the grunts even listen to me? Right now they follow because you're here. Without your sky-zapping lightning, all I got is fists."
"How many of those grunts do you think have actually taken my lightning?"
"Tons, probably."
"Zero."
"Huh?"
"From the day I arrived, they cowered just knowing a superior balrog race had shown up. That's all it took for submission. But you? Weak orc that you are, you surpassed them with your own body and wits, proving you're the alpha. They've watched your every survival scrap up close—experienced it on their own hides. You think they won't listen to you now?"
Shit, no comeback for that... But wait—there was one hole in his logic, my golden ticket!
"So you're saying I won't stop here—I'll keep climbing higher, right?"
A bit risky, but hey, rebel streak means better to discharge me now? He snorted, then eyed me.
"Remember the deer and lion?"
"Yeah."
"What does a human think of an ant?"
"Ignores it or squashes it if annoyed."
"What about a dragon?"
"Might not even notice it—ah..."
He shrugged and waved me out. This unit? The Demon King could wipe it with a flick. That's how little an orc like me is worth. Sure, I could boss the grunts here, but one swat from the big shots' flyswatter and I'm paste. From the top brass view, handing this post to a smart, obedient orc? No threat.
Maybe someday I'd outgrow "just an orc," but war's on now. No way some orc gets strong enough to threaten the Demon King in this meat grinder worse than the wilds. What more could I say? As I turned to bow out, one last question hit me.
"You said it was a tic, but you stopped adding 'punk' at some point?"
He beckoned me closer. I shuffled over, and he whispered in my ear.
"Ever gotten an appointment straight from the Demon King and heard what comes next?"
"Uh... 'Thank you, Demon King! I'll grind my bones to dust' or whatever?"
"How many times you think you'll get one handed personally?"
"...Unless I'm stacking Four Heavenly Kings or ops staff under him direct? Almost never."
He yanked my ear closer and murmured.
"So how many chances you think you'll get to call the Demon King 'punk'?"
"...Any sane guy? Zero... ah?"
Ah. No fucking way? As my brows shot up in realization, he winked.
"Got it? Now scram, punk—and don't blab."
Unit full of crazies, and even the CO's a next-level psycho. Figures.