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It’s too easy, and therefore becomes to hard, to give a name to a large and frightful character. ‘Victor’ ‘Frankenstein’ ‘Adolph’… And that’s just keeping it in the Teutonic vein- we didn’t even start into things like ‘Vlad’ or ‘Imhotep’. There are others, more common and thus calling less attention to themselves: Oskar, Jakob, Jürgen, Ernst, Schultz, Dieter… Stuff with lots of ‘k’ sounds and unfamiliar consonant sets. The umlaut was hard not to jump at. “Helmut”, though. Man, why have I NOT used that name in this strip before now?
Apparently, Helmut’s had a long day. He knows, or at least assumes that others know, that he’d take the shots and stay in the game. So Helmut calls the training day to a close, and everyone goes home to treat their wounds, physical and emotional.
Broken Bones Heal and Chicks Dig Scars. Isn’t that the old adage? I remember being a kid so long ago that we had the big G.I. Joe dolls that had dog tags, fuzzy-wuzzy hair, and those weird pre-KungFu grip hands that were supposed to hold a rifle, but looked really stupid. They had scars down one cheek. Everyone my age secretly wanted to have a bike wreck SO bad that you’d get a cool scar like that. Plus, y’know, if it was from a bike wreck, it wouldn’t actually be your fault, so you wouldn’t be in trouble so much and you’d still have the cool scar.
You try to get ONE li’l advantage over everyone, and where does it get ya? Shot in the butt with a frozen paintball by the same punk that you just shot with one. Anarchists. Haven’t they heard the old aphorism? “Humor is when you’re shot with frozen paintballs, tragedy is when I’m shot with frozen paintballs.”