Requested Position: Rifleman
Name: Maximillian “Max” Jammer
Date of Birth: 26 June 2219
Place of Birth: Washington D.C.
Race and Ethnicity: Caucasian
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Brown
Medical Record: Appendectomy, July 21, 2232. Knee surgery for torn ACL, 11 November 2235.
Physical Appearance: Max is shorter than average which allows him to blend in, but has a powerfully built physique (he hates to run but loves lifting weights). Wears his hair in an almost low-fade fashion that is continuously longer than regulations allow. An omnipresent cigarette can be found dangling from his mouth, as well as a glint in his eyes that suggests a more than recreational level of prior narcotics ingestion. Has a tattoo on left upper arm of Bettie Page reclining in a state of undress on a sofa with the words “At Ease!” stencilled above.
Personality: Max has a laid back personality that borders on lazy. He considers volunteering to a sin, with the exception of helping friends or others in need. He had absolutely no intention of joining the Colonial Marines and is largely motivated by the avoidance of attention until the glorious day that he is discharged. Despite his copesetic nature, there are certain subjects that will drive Max to belligerence.
Background: Max was born in Washington D.C. His father was a famous CMC General, and his mother was a German school-teacher whom his father had met while stationed abroad. He grew up mainly in D.C. Max was an intelligent student but didn't care much for school. He preferred taking part in the local music scene. He got along quite well with his mother, and not at all with his father, who considered his partying, womanizing, and interest in protests to be undignified. Upon turning 18, Max's parents became divorced, and his father gave him an ultimatum. Either go to Germany with his mother or join the Military. Max chose to go to university in Germany. Six years later Max returned to D.C. For his father's funeral, during which time he was involved in an incident at a local bar which he could not entirely recall. Due in large part to Max's inability to refrain from bursting out laughing when the charges were read, as well as the “disgrace” he had brought upon his father's good name, the Judge gave him a choice between serving his sentence in prison or the Colonial Marine Corps. When Max replied “prison” without a dignified amount of pause-time, the judge rescinded the prison offer, telling him that a stint in the Corps was exactly what he needed.
Example Post: NOTE:
Two hundred newly minted Marines were hustled at the double into the low-lying quonset hut. There were several office-style cubicles along with a half-dozen rows of chairs that they were instructed to sit down in by the exasperated Staff Sergeant that had the dubious pleasure of chaperoning them.
“Sit down. Quickly quickly quickly. Good. Now stay seated and don't go playing Houdini on me. I don't want to hear any of you girls flirting so keep your cock-holsters shut. When you hear your last four called move with a purpose to the desk that calls you. Don't waste their time or I'll waste yours.”
With his instructions dispensed, the Staff Sergeant walked briskly from the hut, stopping momentarily to knife-hand a young Marine that looked like he might be getting ideas. Max sat down in the chair next to his Boot Camp buddy “Skater”. Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket he gave a cursory inventory and cursed softly under his breath.
“I told ya Skate, we should've stopped at the gas station. I've only got three left. You know I get intense when I don't have my smokes.”
Skater jokingly elbowed Max and attempted to slap the pack out of his hands. “You and your coffin nails. You know we would've been late if we had stopped. We were barely on time as it was.”
“On time is late and fifteen minutes early is on time!” Max bull-frogged in his best Drill Instructor impression.
Skater chuckled and leaned back in his seat. He elegantly placed his cover over his eyes. “Wake me up when they discharge me. Skater out.” Max looked across the bank of cubicles, then glanced at the number of Marines waiting in the rows. Estimating that he had at least an hour wait before he might be called, he pulled a book from his seabag and proceeded reading from the page he had dog-earred. While it was a decent book, his eyelids grew heavy from the Southern heat and lack of air conditioning in the waiting area. He awoke when Skater nudged him.
“You're up, killer.”
Max dazedly made his way to the admin Marine that was looking at him expectantly. Max glanced as his PFC chevrons with a sigh of relief.
“Welcome to Camp Jackson, Marine. Have fun on the Island?” The Marine threw Max a wink.
“Oh yes, immensely. As the South Carolina slogan says, 'smiling faces, beautiful places'.”
The admin Marine gave a lop-sided smile before turning to his computer and tapping several keystrokes. He paused a few seconds and then tapped some more. After a few more keystrokes he finally found what he was looking for.
“Here we go. Maximillian Jammer. You've got way too many M's my friend.”
“I apologize”, Max said with a straight face. After a pause he added, “It's pronounced Yah-mer, by the way.”
The admin Marine scrunched his face for a moment and then said, “That's German, right?”
Max nodded. “It means misery. Quite fitting, considering our locale.”
The admin Marine chuckled before continuing to type a few keystrokes.
“Alright Marine, what are your preferences for occupation? Whatever allows you to blow shit up is the usual answer.” he said with a wry grin.
“Well actually, I was thinking of...” Max paused and deliberated for a moment, “umm, well, getting some professional training. Admin or logistics, maybe something mechanic-oriented...” He added much more quietly, “Not too keen on getting up near the shooting.”
The admin Marine thought for a moment, then typed some more. He muttered a curse and then made a few more taps. With a final tap he turned to Max.
“There's something wrong with the system. Let me go check with my boss.”
The admin Marine swiveled his chair away from the desk and walked towards the back of the hut. He knocked on an office door and spoke briefly with a clean-cut looking Gunnery Sergeant. The admin Marine gestured wildly and then gave him the PFC salute (arms held to the sides, palms up, to indicate an utter lack of comprehension). The Gunny gestured back and then indicated that he would follow the admin Marine. Upon returning to his seat he pointed at the monitor while simultaneously tapping on the keyboard with his other hand.
“See what I mean Gunny? I keep trying to go to the preference screen but it won't let me. Can't figure out what the hell is wrong with it...”
The Gunnery Sergeant indicated that he should stand, and then he took the now unoccupied chair. Leaning forward, he pointed at the bottom of the screen.
“You ever seen this code before?” The PFC shook his head, so the Gunnery Sergeant continued, “It means that the preference screen is locked. Usually because of an open contract or an MOS request or...”
The Gunnery Sergeant gave a few taps on the keyboard and then gave a disapproving look at Max. “Or the Marine is dodging a prison sentence, and therefore has no right to state their preference for their occupation. Isn't that so PFC...” the Gunny tapped the keyboard once more, “...Jammer.”
Max was momentarily stunned by the fact that the Gunnery Sergeant had correctly pronounced his name, and almost forgot to reply, “Yes Gunnery Sergeant.”
The Gunnery Sergeant leaned back in the chair, lacing his hands behind his head. “You know there was a pretty famous Marine General that had the same name as you. Jammer the Hammer. Ever heard of him?”
Of all the lousy luck in the world. Max had managed to stumble upon the 1% of the CMC that had some knowledge of recent military history. Max sighed quietly and said, “Yes Gunnery Sergeant, he was my father.”
The Gunnery Sergeant raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, and for the first time looked slightly impressed by Max. “Hell of a Marine. That man was a hero...”
“...He was also an asshole.” Max had answered on instinct, unintentionally doing what he hated most; sticking his neck out for no reason.
The Gunnery Sergeant seemed taken aback, narrowing his eyes and settling a cold gaze on Max. He then leaned forward, staring Max down the entire distance.
“Regardless of your personal opinions PFC Jammer, you'll learn the two things are not necessarily mutually exclusive.” He continued to stare at Max, while reaching out with his hand and hitting a keyboard key from memory. He then broke his stare and looked at the monitor, adding a few more keystrokes.
“Well you're in luck PFC.” He turned towards Max and for the first time grinned at him. It was certainly not a reassuring grin, however. Max felt his blood grow cold.
“There's a rifleman's slot open. Same as your father. You can follow in the asshole's foot steps.” With that the Gunnery Sergeant threw his head back and roared with laughter, while swiveling away from Max and walking away without a glance back.
Max caught the eye of the admin Marine who had intelligently kept his mouth shut during the exchange.
“Well...” Max said, pausing several moments, “...Fuck you REMF.”
He then snatched his file off the admin Marine's desk and made his way sullenly back to the waiting chairs to inform Skater about his latest encounter with the big green weenie.
"Man, asking me to that is like asking NWA not to be black... It can't be done!"