Twas the Night Before WARDOGS

’Twas the night before WARDOGS, and all through the house,

Not a rifle was firing, not a click of the mouse.

Steam sat there waiting, our wallets prepared,

In hopes that tomorrow the servers would fare.

The boys were in Discord, prepared for the fight,

Knowing damn well we’d be playing all night.

Three teams, one circle, a hundred points to claim, And somehow Blue Team still won’t play the fucking game.

The Green boys built FOBs like engineers on crack, With pallets and trucks running out and back.

Fuel for the drills, ammo stacked by the ton, While some dude yelled “PLAY ZONE” at literally everyone.

Black Hawks flew over with supplies underneath, Little Birds buzzed by bringing nothing but grief.

Some pilot spent thousands supplying the team, While his helicopter crashed directly into a tree.

Then out in the distance arose such a clatter, I looked toward the Hot Zone to see what was the matter.

A tank rolled through town like he owned the whole map, Because some unemployed bastard had finished the grind gap.

The RPG hit once.

The tank did not care.

The RPG hit twice.

Still sitting right there.

Then back at the FOB came my beautiful plan, Five thousand in cash and some mechanical parts in hand.

The Stingray took flight, steering like absolute shit, But one good connection and the tanker rage quit.

Seven tanks later, their armor was gone, Three spawn vehicles dead, yet the battle rolled on.

They hunted our FOBs, pissed off by the score, So naturally we built two or three fucking more.

Mortars started dropping, the HESCOs went high, Someone screamed “HELI” as a Havoc flew by.

The drill started humming, the Hot Zone drew near, And suddenly our useless FOB became fucking premier.

Cash is king, so we worked every scheme. Some fought in the circle, some supplied the whole team.

Some spotted targets, some drove trucks for an hour, Some spent their entire savings on fifteen minutes of tank power.

And somewhere out there is a man with one goal, No FOB, no logistics, no interest in control.

He’ll spawn with a rifle, sprint twelve hundred meters away, Die to a sniper, then type: “Why is nobody playing objective?”

For four long days they took WARDOGS away. We opened Steam every morning and suffered each day.

We saw construction sites and thought “good FOB spot.” We heard helicopters and immediately looked for a shot.

But the waiting is over. September tenth has arrived.

The PTO is taken

The boys have survived.

So fill up the Ural.

Get the Black Hawk in flight.

Stack mechanical parts.

Get the FOB placement right.

Build the mortars.

Start the drill.

Buy the tank.

Lose it immediately.

And I heard my squad yell as we loaded into the fight: “HAPPY WARDOGS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT.”