Days of sitting in this belt. Days of waiting. Days of sheer bordom. Days of rememberance. All of these adjectives describe my new assingment. I have been tasked with saving the new pilots from the ravages of can flippers the only way I know how; Killing them.
[Log Entry: 0135 - 02-20-09]
"Prospective flipper approcing at vecor 1212 zeta 1." My nav officer stated.
"Impairor." My targing commando said in his, and everyone elses, monotone voice. I would need to correct that.
"Lock him, make him shit himself away."
"Sir?" The first non-monotone I've heard in a long while, this had to be good, "He's red."
"Lock him down, kill the bigger."
Assault missiles left their tubes, and soon after one noob frigate poped before our eyes.
[Log Entry: 0137 - 02-20-09]
Read log 135, ship type Magnate.