My Dearest Mr. Daquano,
It is with great trepidation that I write this letter. I fear it will trouble your fragile state of mind. That is the furthest from my intention, however, you have always urged me to never sugar-coat the truth.
Lance Corporal Houston and I fought valiantly against the fury of Laura. Our reportage won great honor for the 1st News Division. As others fled in fear or shivered in their quarters, we stared into Laura’s eye, undaunted, and poked it with the proverbial stick.
We fully expected to be greeted as conquering heroes, but that was not to be. There were still more battles to be fought.
We returned only to find Forward Operating Base Frat House had been overrun by troops in full retreat from the storm. Private Slappy tried to warn us, but he was unceremoniously driven from Frat House by a horde of multimedia journalists, their rainsuits damp with perspiration rather than precipitation.
As badly as he needs rebuke for abandoning his post, I can hardly fault the lad. Captain Crank was MIA, having fallen victim to the wretched virus that has separated us so. Pvt Slappy gave his best, but the sheer number of blow-dried hairdos was too much to overcome. Better for him to retreat and await reinforcements.
Today, the Lance and I arrived, and with Pvt Slappy and a healthy Capt. Crank, unleashed an assault of FOB Frat House that will go down in the annals of Newsroom lore.
I took the lead, fashioning a lash out of a discarded microphone cord and sent the horde scurrying from the Frat House main hall like the our Lord and Savior chasing money changers from the temple.
The sight of LCpl Houston’s pompadour, in all its radiant glory, further frightened the hairdos so, they hastened their pace, leaving without their storm provisions or face coverings. Pvt Slappy rounded up the stragglers and forced them out with the threat of a dirty baby diaper which he procured from his very own domicile.
Capt. Crank stood outside the doors reciting tales of yore to ensure they did not return.
Together, we planted our flag back atop the shanty we call home. It was a glorious victory for the men of Frat House. Now, I must take leave.
The horde left our premises defiled with the scent of perfume, hair spray, and latte. The lads and I are about to commence the ceremonial fumigation to return Frat House to its original glory.
Warmest personal regards,
Sgt. T. Polisher
1st News Division