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| A crazed World War II guerilla fighter unboxes his new pistol |
Chapter 1: I Was Born in a Box, Not a Battlefield
They called me Lola Bertha. Not because I was old, but because I had the temper of a grandmother who just found out her favorite soap opera was canceled. I was forged in a dusty American factory, shipped to Manila, and promptly forgotten in a crate labeled “Miscellaneous Freedom.” That is, until he found me.
My wielder was a guerrilla warrior named Mang Isko—a man with the hygiene of a jungle boar and the tactical finesse of a drunk carabao. He wore banana leaves as camouflage and believed that shouting “BANG!” before shooting made the bullet faster. I adored him. Mostly because he was too stupid to use me properly, which meant I got to monologue internally while he missed every shot.
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💥 Chapter 2: Humans Are the Real Ammunition
Let me tell you something about humans: they think they’re the apex species because they invented cheese and indoor plumbing. But when war breaks out, they send their poorest, most vulnerable citizens to die in muddy fields while their leaders sip imported tea and argue about borders drawn with rulers.
Mang Isko once asked me, “Bertha, do you think war makes men noble?” I wanted to scream, No, Isko! War makes men dead! But alas, I’m a pistol. I can’t scream. I can only fire and judge silently.
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🧠 Chapter 3: Guerrilla Warfare or Jungle Karaoke?
Our missions were less “strategic operations” and more “improvised jungle musicals.” One time, Isko tried to ambush a Japanese convoy by hiding in a mango tree and throwing coconuts. Another time, he used me to shoot a snake that was “giving him bad vibes.” I was designed for liberation, not pest control.
Still, we fought. We fought because the alternative was surrender, and Isko said surrendering was “for people who wear socks indoors.”
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🧨 Chapter 4: The Hypocrisy of Homo Sapiens
Humans preach peace while manufacturing bullets. They hold summits about diplomacy while funding invasions. They write poems about love while stabbing each other over ideology. And worst of all? They call me dangerous.
I’m just a tool. A glorified metal tube with a trigger. I don’t start wars—I just finish arguments. The real weapon is the human ego, wrapped in nationalism and dipped in propaganda.
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🥭 Chapter 5: Mangoes, Madness, and Meaning
One day, Isko sat beside a fallen comrade and whispered, “He died for freedom.” I wanted to ask, Whose freedom? Yours? Mine? Or the politicians who’ll rewrite this war into a heroic bedtime story?
But I stayed silent. Because even a sentient pistol knows that grief needs space.
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Chapter 6: Final Shot, Final Fool
Isko’s last stand was as theatrical as a telenovela finale. He’d smeared mud across his face like war paint, strapped a coconut to his chest “for morale,” and whispered to me, “Bertha, if I die, make sure they know I was handsome.”
We were cornered in a rice field, surrounded by Japanese troops. Isko had one bullet left. One glorious, dramatic, overacted bullet. He raised me to the sky, screamed “FOR THE MANGOES!” and fired.
The bullet hit a tree.
Not a soldier. Not a tank. A tree.
Then came the silence. The kind that tastes like goodbye. Isko fell, clutching me like a lover in a tragic opera. His last breath smelled like fermented banana.
And just like that, I was alone.
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