25 - Escape from Incel Island, Part I (Patreon)

They don’t call me Mankiller Jones for nothing. They call me Mankiller Jones because I tell people that’s my name and I throw kind of a fit if anyone calls me anything else. Honestly, I have a feeling most people call me Shirley behind my back. Or Mx. Jones if they’re feeling formal.

It doesn’t bother me too much what people call me, because I’m never around to hear it. I’m always too busy infiltrating and exfiltrating the deadliest places on Earth. “War and disaster” would be my middle name if hadn’t already legally changed my middle name to Danger. I only feel alive when I’m surrounded by the dead, the dying, and the people who don’t know they’re about to find themselves in those categories. I only feel alive in the hottest of hot spots.

Spots like Incel Island, which inched over the horizon to greet us just as the sun rose behind us.      It was smooth flying, our octocopter equipped with all the newest and finest gyros and gizmos the US Army could afford.

Get in, get the data off the computer, get out. Save the world. Just another job.