Commander Rambo smiled to himself as the battlewagon skewed to a halt next to the burning shell of a makeshift community hospital, kicking up a cloud of dust as his fighters swarmed over the sides of the vehicle and with gunshots and wild cries, hurled themselves upon their prey. More of his fighters, riding on horseback, had flung a cordon around the village and were shooting all who tried to flee, there would be no escape. Rambo was not called the “devil of Kivu” for nothing: no protection money, no resources, no tribute, no submission, or even the wrong word meant certain death, slavery, rape, torture and uncompromising terror. This particular village had not paid up in over three months now; apparently a new NGO had shown up in the area and encouraged the villagers to defy the warlord and to be self-sufficient; setting up local councils, public works projects and the like – most of which had already been smashed or burned by Rambo’s fighters in the course of the last few days. Well, thought Rambo, whatever naive fools had shown up to help these pathetic peasants, it would not help them now as his fighters poured into the village. Their UN “protectors” had panicked and run as soon as his militia had attacked, preferring to save their own skins, these people were at his mercy and he would see to it that it was the most agonizing mercy he had ever inflicted: such was the price of defiance.
Rambo leapt from the battlewagon, shouting out orders harshly to his men as he stalked forward, un-holstering his magnum – whose silhouette alone was enough terrify most into silence and those who did not shut up at that point typically paid with their lives for their stupidity. The villagers now seemed to be running toward a particular place on the far side of the village as Rambo led his men in pursuit, stepping over a handful of dead bodies of those who had been shot.
Rambo knew how things worked: his own men would quickly lose respect for him if he showed any hesitation. Leading from the front and partaking in the worst acts of brutality without mercy was the only way to keep killers in line – otherwise it was your ass they would use for target practice. Fear was and always would be his weapon of choice and he knew that it was a weapon far more lethal than his magnum. He would show no mercy to these people who had disobeyed his “law”. He ordered his men to close in, grinning evilly as he wondered how many pretty girls this village might be able to provide him to satisfy his lusts – knowing that he would unquestionably get first pick.
“Humanitas Universalis!” The thunderous cry in a foreign tongue shook Rambo from his reverie and there was a sudden explosion of gunfire. Two of his fighters who had been at the head of his advancing force fell screaming, their bodies riddled with bullets from unseen assailants. Rambo spun and saw, both to his left and right, villagers armed with AK-47s pouring fire at his men from the cover of the blazing huts – fools, how could they be so organized? Did they actually think they could stop him?
Rambo cursed and brought up his magnum – placing a shot clean through the head of one tribesman while roaring at the machine-gunner on his battlewagon to open fire. A stream of 50’ calibre ammunition tore through the useless protection of the grass huts, the machinegun’s chatter drowning out the death screams of several villagers while the rest were sent scrambling over each other to flee. The firefight quickly became a walkover as Rambo’s hardened fighters’ poured fire into the inexperienced tribesmen. He was amazed how long some of them stood their ground and kept shooting even at the loss of over a dozen of their number. Four of Rambo’s fighters lay dead before the last of the villagers retreated.
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