  The Art of War: A brief essay in covert tactics It was cold that day...too cold. Weaker men would have packed up their toy guns and gone home.
Weaker men would have wet their panties. Weaker men might have even started to cry. But this was no time for cowardice, this was a time to stand up to the enemy, look him square in the nose and say "mofo, yo ass goin' down". Unfortunately, fear got the better of me and I waited there, surrounded on all sides by paint wielding marksmen who cared nothing about my cold fingers and soiled pants. I wanted to cry, I wanted to put my arm in the air and scream "Don't shoot me I'm full of chocolate". But I didn't, I waited there, amidst the phut of glycerine balls just waiting to pop my eyes like grapes.
I waited and I waited, occasionally firing a salvo of badly aimed shots at moving targets, occasionally hitting the odd tree or barricade but never my intended victim. And so the stalemate continued. I sat there, moist from my own urine - more afraid of mortal pain than a tuppenny whore with consumption, whilst my comrades got slaughtered like sambos on lynchin' day. I popped my head around the corner of my barricade. Speeding paint nearly put me out of the game but somehow missed, taking out more of my brothers in arms as they impacted.
Whilst my brutal foe powdered their muskets, my goal became clear - the target was in site. I knew what must be done. 'Their's not to reason why but to do and die". And so bodly I rode and well, into the jaws of Death into the mouth of Hell. The crimson flag was in my grasp - victory i cried, victory was surely ours. (and it was - THE END). 
