Willie Ahearn

[vano]

Originally Posted by Cannedheat

I heard he joined the cast of Entourage and was planning to take over as the new Vincent Chase.

epic post

[ArcadiaInvite]

Originally Posted by vano

epic post

This whole thread is epic!

[Lincoln Park]

Originally Posted by ArcadiaInvite

This whole thread is epic!

I heard Willie Ahearn is so epic he wants to fight Beowulf.

[fourdegrees8924]

The swine flu thing was correct. He is dead.

[K.O.]

Willie Ahearn? They used to call him Knobbie McKnobberson back in pre-K. Last f*cking grade he went to... dropped outta that sh*t and started selling dope on the streets. No more Knobbie McKnobberson for him.Georgetown Class of 2012.5

[g2g4gold]

NEWS UPDATE

Will Ahearn is joining the Marines. A very noble thing to do and I wish him the best of luck.

[Julian Casablancas]

The Story of Willie Ahearn: Part One

The Apache stands over the body of his enemy.

Not quite dead, the fallen Navajo is slowly losing dark blood from underneath his tunic. The once-virgin snowfall is corrupted by blackness. As The Apache turns back towards his camp, the sun falls completely behind the mountains in the west. Finally surrounded by darkness, he will find a happy, peaceful sleep.



Willie Ahearn bolted awake. Beads of sweat dripped down the pale scar on his left cheek, and his hands were shaking. It was always his hands. He considered stealing a pull from his slumbering bunkmate’s hidden flask, but refrained. Willie Ahearn was not accustomed to whiskey – seemingly the only liquid these hard men drank.

As usual, a nightmare had disturbed his sleep. As usual, he couldn’t remember a thing. Wiping the sweat from his neck and brow, he tried to calm himself by breathing deeply. A medic’s duties were separate from that of an infantryman, but they still began at dawn. Willie Ahearn needed a restful sleep.

Hours later, as the sun finally overtook the copse of trees outside his barracks, Willie Ahearn slid his tall, athletic frame out of bed and into the small kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Technically this was the cook’s responsibility, but Willie Ahearn was always awake first. Growing up in a small tribe of Apache had taught him to wake before sunrise, but he was supposed to be Italian-American. Damien Maroney, he claimed, was an insomniac.

As the dented steel pot began to simmer, his attention turned to supply checks, roll call, strategy meetings and chapel services. Never once did his thoughts wander to the inevitable future, where strategy and roll call would be insignificant in the face of Panzer tanks and casualty lists. Willie Ahearn’s unit was being deployed to Normandy to fight Nazi zombies.

But this young soldier did not get distracted. His mind never considered unnecessary or improbable scenarios, and he hadn’t had a daydream in almost 10 years. If it wasn’t for the fact that he found himself wide awake, sweating and sometimes screaming in the night, he would assume to have no dreams at all.

This strict mental discipline wasn’t natural for Willie Ahearn, but it was the only way he knew how to function. Since birth his mind had been slave to hallucinations, personality changes and other mental disorders – another aspect of his life hidden from the United States army, and everyone else outside of a small tribe in New Mexico. Although the tribal elders had always tried to convince him that he owned the gift of Sight, Willie Ahearn knew better. He had a problem, and stifling his imagination was the only way to control it.

As the men in his barracks began to stir, Willie Ahearn took out a small piece of paper and scribbled a note he’d been meaning to write for years. He might not get another chance.

“Nina, I can no longer remember your face or your voice. Do you regret not coming with me? I understand why you didn’t. We were just kids. I was just a kid.”

He thought of writing more, but could never stand the knot that formed in his stomach every time he wrote home. It wasn’t anger, or shame, or even sadness that gripped him. It felt like fear - deep and unknowable. Without taking the time to sign his name, Willie Ahearn stuffed the loveless letter in an envelope addressed months ago and sent it far away.



The Apache is awake before the rest. His eyes reflect the red dawn upon which he stares, and his thoughts turn to the blood. Always the blood.

Obsession with battle is the highest virtue in his tribe, and he the most virtuous. With countless battles knotched in his belt and an uncanny knack for halting the beat of a human heart, The Apache is looked upon as less of a warrior and more of a demigod.

“What does a wolf think of before hunting?” a quiet voice asks.

Not only does he hear the question, but he hears the approach of his chief from a stones throw away. Still, he ignores the query. Could a deer possibly understand the mind of a wolf?

The Apache has respect for no one but Death.



Willie Ahearn should not have eaten breakfast. In fact, he shouldn’t have eaten dinner the night before. He watched in despair as every ounce of food he had eaten in the previous 24 hours vanished into the sea along with stomache bile and saliva.

“I forgot this is your first deployment. Tough ****, Maroney.”

Payton, another medic in Willie Ahearn’s unit, had appeared on deck with a cloth and a flask of probably whiskey. Willie Ahearn was by no means the only seasick soldier hugging the ship’s starboard side, but he was the only one who had been there all day.

“Motion-induced nausea tends to abate after a day or so,” Willie Ahearn spat. “I should be fully functional by then.”

Smirking, Payton handed Willie Ahearn the cloth to wipe his mouth and took a pull from the flask.

“I’d offer you some Bourbon, but somehow I don’t think it would help.”

Cursing his body’s more uncomfortable functions, Willie Ahearn rolled his eyes as the last bit of scrambled eggs hit the ocean with a satisfying plop.
His stomach ached. His abdominals were sore. His throat burned. Nightmares notwithstanding, Willie Ahearn knew he would sleep well that night.



The Apache is running.

Over rocks and broken tree limbs he sprints, paying little regard to the trail he leaves. Although a skillful tracker and hunter, his first concern is putting distance between himself and his pursuers.

The battle had begun like many before it. Slipping comfortable into his role as a soul reaper, he had sent many Navajo to the great beyond. Still, his lust for human lives was not satisfied.

He should have foreseen it. The planned mayhem of war had been growing increasingly tedious, and it was inevitable that this gnawing hunger would overtake him. But the Apache was not a man of foresight. He was a man of action and of feeling.

He was a man that could kill his chief for no reason other than the way it made him feel. The sight of his spear protruding from the great leader’s chest only excited his bloodlust, and it was not until 12 Apache warriors had fallen under his blade that he was forced to flee for his life. For although he did not fear Death, he respected its power over him.



June 4, 1944

Today, at the suggestion of my superior officers, I am starting a journal. They say it will help to clear my head in the days to come, and could be valuable for historical records.

I must admit, the prospect of war does not bother me. As I see the men around me fidget nervously every time the topic of conversation turns to the beach, I find my mind surprisingly at ease.

But I mustn’t get ahead of myself. There is still much to do before we land. Today I reviewed my combat manual, saw to the few soldiers experiencing aches and pains (a side effect of the nervousness in most cases), and took a turn at guard duty. I mustn’t forget to clean my weapons tomorrow, even though I won’t need them.

- Willie Ahearn



The Apache is no longer an Apache. Of that he is sure.

The thought fills him with joy. For 24 years he had felt trapped, confined in a society that valued war but did not worship it.

The trackers sent to kill him had been found and dealt with earlier in the day. The Apache felt insulted that the new chief had thought a contingent of five men would be enough to kill him. He did not know who the new chief was. He did not care.

The Apache stripped the men of what he could use – their tools, their food, their clothing and their weapons. He considered eating them, but quickly dismissed the idea. These men were too thin, weakened by the harsh winter and hardly worthy of his hunger.

Surrounded by the sweet aroma of death, The Apache slept more peacefully than he had in several moons.



“Single file, find a spot on the boat and stand by for instructions.”

As he prepared to step onto the small transport he was assigned to, Willie Ahearn noticed the fearful eyes of the men around him. They were looking at him, expectantly.

Somehow, he had assumed a leadership role in the previous days. While men stopped vomiting from seasickness and started vomiting from the nervous fear of death, people began noticing Willie Ahearn’s confident attitude. He surprised even himself with his calm, logical approach to combat.

As the sounds of mortar and gunfire from the shore grew increasingly loud, Willie Ahearn comforted the men next to him, giving advice and telling what few jokes he knew. Their terror amused him, and Willie Ahearn found himself starting conversations just to gauge the fear of the men around him. It was palpable.

He was anxious, but not from fear. His heart beat rapidly, but not from nerves. His senses were heightened, and his fingers continually twitched toward the knife in his bootstrap. He had left his M1911 pistol in his quarters – would a medic have use for such a weapon?

And as fire and brimstone began raining down from all sides, Willie Ahearn began to feel the strangest sense of… peace. He would sleep well that night.

To be continued...

[Equinox2100]

oh my god my life just got 4000x better

[Cannedheat]

Willie Ahearn wishes he was that bad ass.

[HJfrick]

Originally Posted by Julian Casablancas

The Story of Willie Ahearn: Part One

The Apache stands over the body of his enemy.

Not quite dead, the fallen Navajo is slowly losing dark blood from underneath his tunic. The once-virgin snowfall is corrupted by blackness. As The Apache turns back towards his camp, the sun falls completely behind the mountains in the west. Finally surrounded by darkness, he will find a happy, peaceful sleep.



Willie Ahearn bolted awake. Beads of sweat dripped down the pale scar on his left cheek, and his hands were shaking. It was always his hands. He considered stealing a pull from his slumbering bunkmate’s hidden flask, but refrained. Willie Ahearn was not accustomed to whiskey – seemingly the only liquid these hard men drank.

As usual, a nightmare had disturbed his sleep. As usual, he couldn’t remember a thing. Wiping the sweat from his neck and brow, he tried to calm himself by breathing deeply. A medic’s duties were separate from that of an infantryman, but they still began at dawn. Willie Ahearn needed a restful sleep.

Hours later, as the sun finally overtook the copse of trees outside his barracks, Willie Ahearn slid his tall, athletic frame out of bed and into the small kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Technically this was the cook’s responsibility, but Willie Ahearn was always awake first. Growing up in a small tribe of Apache had taught him to wake before sunrise, but he was supposed to be Italian-American. Damien Maroney, he claimed, was an insomniac.

As the dented steel pot began to simmer, his attention turned to supply checks, roll call, strategy meetings and chapel services. Never once did his thoughts wander to the inevitable future, where strategy and roll call would be insignificant in the face of Panzer tanks and casualty lists. Willie Ahearn’s unit was being deployed to Normandy to fight Nazi zombies.

But this young soldier did not get distracted. His mind never considered unnecessary or improbable scenarios, and he hadn’t had a daydream in almost 10 years. If it wasn’t for the fact that he found himself wide awake, sweating and sometimes screaming in the night, he would assume to have no dreams at all.

This strict mental discipline wasn’t natural for Willie Ahearn, but it was the only way he knew how to function. Since birth his mind had been slave to hallucinations, personality changes and other mental disorders – another aspect of his life hidden from the United States army, and everyone else outside of a small tribe in New Mexico. Although the tribal elders had always tried to convince him that he owned the gift of Sight, Willie Ahearn knew better. He had a problem, and stifling his imagination was the only way to control it.

As the men in his barracks began to stir, Willie Ahearn took out a small piece of paper and scribbled a note he’d been meaning to write for years. He might not get another chance.

“Nina, I can no longer remember your face or your voice. Do you regret not coming with me? I understand why you didn’t. We were just kids. I was just a kid.”

He thought of writing more, but could never stand the knot that formed in his stomach every time he wrote home. It wasn’t anger, or shame, or even sadness that gripped him. It felt like fear - deep and unknowable. Without taking the time to sign his name, Willie Ahearn stuffed the loveless letter in an envelope addressed months ago and sent it far away.



The Apache is awake before the rest. His eyes reflect the red dawn upon which he stares, and his thoughts turn to the blood. Always the blood.

Obsession with battle is the highest virtue in his tribe, and he the most virtuous. With countless battles knotched in his belt and an uncanny knack for halting the beat of a human heart, The Apache is looked upon as less of a warrior and more of a demigod.

“What does a wolf think of before hunting?” a quiet voice asks.

Not only does he hear the question, but he hears the approach of his chief from a stones throw away. Still, he ignores the query. Could a deer possibly understand the mind of a wolf?

The Apache has respect for no one but Death.



Willie Ahearn should not have eaten breakfast. In fact, he shouldn’t have eaten dinner the night before. He watched in despair as every ounce of food he had eaten in the previous 24 hours vanished into the sea along with stomache bile and saliva.

“I forgot this is your first deployment. Tough ****, Maroney.”

Payton, another medic in Willie Ahearn’s unit, had appeared on deck with a cloth and a flask of probably whiskey. Willie Ahearn was by no means the only seasick soldier hugging the ship’s starboard side, but he was the only one who had been there all day.

“Motion-induced nausea tends to abate after a day or so,” Willie Ahearn spat. “I should be fully functional by then.”

Smirking, Payton handed Willie Ahearn the cloth to wipe his mouth and took a pull from the flask.

“I’d offer you some Bourbon, but somehow I don’t think it would help.”

Cursing his body’s more uncomfortable functions, Willie Ahearn rolled his eyes as the last bit of scrambled eggs hit the ocean with a satisfying plop.
His stomach ached. His abdominals were sore. His throat burned. Nightmares notwithstanding, Willie Ahearn knew he would sleep well that night.



The Apache is running.

Over rocks and broken tree limbs he sprints, paying little regard to the trail he leaves. Although a skillful tracker and hunter, his first concern is putting distance between himself and his pursuers.

The battle had begun like many before it. Slipping comfortable into his role as a soul reaper, he had sent many Navajo to the great beyond. Still, his lust for human lives was not satisfied.

He should have foreseen it. The planned mayhem of war had been growing increasingly tedious, and it was inevitable that this gnawing hunger would overtake him. But the Apache was not a man of foresight. He was a man of action and of feeling.

He was a man that could kill his chief for no reason other than the way it made him feel. The sight of his spear protruding from the great leader’s chest only excited his bloodlust, and it was not until 12 Apache warriors had fallen under his blade that he was forced to flee for his life. For although he did not fear Death, he respected its power over him.



June 4, 1944

Today, at the suggestion of my superior officers, I am starting a journal. They say it will help to clear my head in the days to come, and could be valuable for historical records.

I must admit, the prospect of war does not bother me. As I see the men around me fidget nervously every time the topic of conversation turns to the beach, I find my mind surprisingly at ease.

But I mustn’t get ahead of myself. There is still much to do before we land. Today I reviewed my combat manual, saw to the few soldiers experiencing aches and pains (a side effect of the nervousness in most cases), and took a turn at guard duty. I mustn’t forget to clean my weapons tomorrow, even though I won’t need them.

- Willie Ahearn



The Apache is no longer an Apache. Of that he is sure.

The thought fills him with joy. For 24 years he had felt trapped, confined in a society that valued war but did not worship it.

The trackers sent to kill him had been found and dealt with earlier in the day. The Apache felt insulted that the new chief had thought a contingent of five men would be enough to kill him. He did not know who the new chief was. He did not care.

The Apache stripped the men of what he could use – their tools, their food, their clothing and their weapons. He considered eating them, but quickly dismissed the idea. These men were too thin, weakened by the harsh winter and hardly worthy of his hunger.

Surrounded by the sweet aroma of death, The Apache slept more peacefully than he had in several moons.



“Single file, find a spot on the boat and stand by for instructions.”

As he prepared to step onto the small transport he was assigned to, Willie Ahearn noticed the fearful eyes of the men around him. They were looking at him, expectantly.

Somehow, he had assumed a leadership role in the previous days. While men stopped vomiting from seasickness and started vomiting from the nervous fear of death, people began noticing Willie Ahearn’s confident attitude. He surprised even himself with his calm, logical approach to combat.

As the sounds of mortar and gunfire from the shore grew increasingly loud, Willie Ahearn comforted the men next to him, giving advice and telling what few jokes he knew. Their terror amused him, and Willie Ahearn found himself starting conversations just to gauge the fear of the men around him. It was palpable.

He was anxious, but not from fear. His heart beat rapidly, but not from nerves. His senses were heightened, and his fingers continually twitched toward the knife in his bootstrap. He had left his M1911 pistol in his quarters – would a medic have use for such a weapon?

And as fire and brimstone began raining down from all sides, Willie Ahearn began to feel the strangest sense of… peace. He would sleep well that night.

To be continued...

Dude, I just got your solo album! Going to listen to it in a bit, I'll let you know what I think.