Fat Link and Emba: A Vietnam Story (with a Side of Drama)
The humid jungle air clung to Fat Link’s skin as he sat on the edge of his bunk, polishing his boots. The base camp was alive with the sounds of soldiers—some laughing, some arguing, others just trying to pass the time. Fat Link wasn’t much for talking, but he had a way of listening that made people feel heard. He was a big guy, broad-shouldered and sturdy, with a face that seemed perpetually stuck in a neutral expression. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he had a heart as wide as the Mississippi.
That’s when Emba walked in.
Emba was lean and wiry, with a nervous energy that made him seem like he was always on the verge of saying something important. His hair was a mess, and his glasses were perpetually smudged, but his eyes sparkled with a kind of restless intelligence. He was the kind of guy who could talk for hours about anything—philosophy, politics, or why the world was fundamentally unfair. He had a way of seeing the world that was both cynical and oddly poetic.
“Hey, big guy,” Emba said, plopping down next to Fat Link. “You ever think about how we’re just pawns in a game we didn’t even sign up for?”
Fat Link blinked slowly, considering the question. “I don’t know much about games,” he said finally. “But my mama always said life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”
Emba snorted. “Yeah, well, my box is full of the ones nobody wants. The coconut ones. You know what I mean?”
Fat Link didn’t, but he nodded anyway. He liked Emba. The guy was different from anyone he’d ever met—always thinking, always questioning. It was exhausting sometimes, but it was also kind of fascinating.
---
Boot Camp Buddies
They met in basic training. Fat Link was the guy who could carry twice his weight in gear without breaking a sweat, while Emba was the one who could recite the entire manual on field tactics from memory. They were an odd pair, but they quickly became inseparable. Emba would talk, and Fat Link would listen. It was a good arrangement.
One night, as they sat under the stars, Emba launched into one of his rants. “You know why we’re here, don’t you?” he said, gesturing wildly. “It’s not about freedom or democracy or any of that crap. It’s about control. They send guys like us—guys who don’t fit in, who don’t have a place in their perfect little society—and they throw us into the meat grinder. We’re expendable.”
Fat Link frowned. “I don’t think I’m expendable,” he said slowly. “My mama said I’m special.”
Emba sighed, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. “Yeah, well, your mama sounds like a smart lady. But the world doesn’t care about special. The world only cares about power.”
---
The Baby Feud
Years later, after the war, Fat Link became the admin of a little corner of the internet called incels.is. It was a place where people could vent, share their frustrations, and, sometimes, find a little bit of camaraderie. Fat Link took his role seriously. He wasn’t just the admin; he was the caretaker, the guy who kept the peace and made sure everyone played by the rules.
Emba, of course, was a regular. He’d post long, rambling threads about the futility of life, the injustices of modern society, and why he was destined to be alone forever. His posts were divisive—some people loved him, others couldn’t stand him—but Fat Link always gave him a pass. After all, they’d been through hell together. That counted for something.
But then came the feud.
It started with a simple disagreement. Emba had posted a thread criticizing the moderation team, accusing them of being too heavy-handed. Fat Link, ever the diplomat, tried to reason with him. “Emba,” he wrote, “you’re being a baby about this. Just follow the rules, and we won’t have any problems.”
Emba didn’t take it well. “A baby?!” he shot back. “I’m not the one acting like a child here. You’re the one on a power trip, banning anyone who disagrees with you.”
The argument escalated quickly. Emba called Fat Link a tyrant. Fat Link called Emba a crybaby. Before long, Fat Link had had enough. He banned Emba for three months and, in a final act of petty revenge, changed Emba’s profile picture to a cartoon baby crying.
The forum erupted. Some people thought it was hilarious. Others thought it was unprofessional. Emba, of course, was furious. He took to other platforms to vent his anger, calling Fat Link every name in the book. But deep down, he knew he’d crossed a line. And so did Fat Link.
---
Reconciliation
When the ban was finally lifted, Emba returned to the forum with a new perspective. He didn’t apologize—that wasn’t his style—but he did tone down the rhetoric. Fat Link, for his part, changed Emba’s profile picture back to normal and never mentioned the incident again.
One night, Emba sent Fat Link a private message. “You know,” he wrote, “you’re still the only person who’s ever really listened to me. Even when I’m being a baby.”
Fat Link smiled as he read the message. “You’re not a baby,” he replied. “You’re just… you.”
---
Epilogue
Life went on, as it always does. Fat Link continued to run the forum, keeping the peace with a steady hand and a big heart. Emba drifted in and out, posting his rants and occasionally stirring up trouble, but he always came back. Some bonds, after all, are too strong to break—even when they’re tested by petty feuds and crying baby profile pictures.
And in the quiet moments, when the sun was setting and the air was still, Fat Link would sit at his computer and think about the war. He’d think about the jungle, the heat, the fear—and he’d think about Emba. And he’d smile, just a little, because some friendships are worth fighting for, even in a world that tries its hardest to tear them apart.
The humid jungle air clung to Fat Link’s skin as he sat on the edge of his bunk, polishing his boots. The base camp was alive with the sounds of soldiers—some laughing, some arguing, others just trying to pass the time. Fat Link wasn’t much for talking, but he had a way of listening that made people feel heard. He was a big guy, broad-shouldered and sturdy, with a face that seemed perpetually stuck in a neutral expression. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he had a heart as wide as the Mississippi.
That’s when Emba walked in.
Emba was lean and wiry, with a nervous energy that made him seem like he was always on the verge of saying something important. His hair was a mess, and his glasses were perpetually smudged, but his eyes sparkled with a kind of restless intelligence. He was the kind of guy who could talk for hours about anything—philosophy, politics, or why the world was fundamentally unfair. He had a way of seeing the world that was both cynical and oddly poetic.
“Hey, big guy,” Emba said, plopping down next to Fat Link. “You ever think about how we’re just pawns in a game we didn’t even sign up for?”
Fat Link blinked slowly, considering the question. “I don’t know much about games,” he said finally. “But my mama always said life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”
Emba snorted. “Yeah, well, my box is full of the ones nobody wants. The coconut ones. You know what I mean?”
Fat Link didn’t, but he nodded anyway. He liked Emba. The guy was different from anyone he’d ever met—always thinking, always questioning. It was exhausting sometimes, but it was also kind of fascinating.
---
Boot Camp Buddies
They met in basic training. Fat Link was the guy who could carry twice his weight in gear without breaking a sweat, while Emba was the one who could recite the entire manual on field tactics from memory. They were an odd pair, but they quickly became inseparable. Emba would talk, and Fat Link would listen. It was a good arrangement.
One night, as they sat under the stars, Emba launched into one of his rants. “You know why we’re here, don’t you?” he said, gesturing wildly. “It’s not about freedom or democracy or any of that crap. It’s about control. They send guys like us—guys who don’t fit in, who don’t have a place in their perfect little society—and they throw us into the meat grinder. We’re expendable.”
Fat Link frowned. “I don’t think I’m expendable,” he said slowly. “My mama said I’m special.”
Emba sighed, but there was a hint of a smile on his face. “Yeah, well, your mama sounds like a smart lady. But the world doesn’t care about special. The world only cares about power.”
---
The Baby Feud
Years later, after the war, Fat Link became the admin of a little corner of the internet called incels.is. It was a place where people could vent, share their frustrations, and, sometimes, find a little bit of camaraderie. Fat Link took his role seriously. He wasn’t just the admin; he was the caretaker, the guy who kept the peace and made sure everyone played by the rules.
Emba, of course, was a regular. He’d post long, rambling threads about the futility of life, the injustices of modern society, and why he was destined to be alone forever. His posts were divisive—some people loved him, others couldn’t stand him—but Fat Link always gave him a pass. After all, they’d been through hell together. That counted for something.
But then came the feud.
It started with a simple disagreement. Emba had posted a thread criticizing the moderation team, accusing them of being too heavy-handed. Fat Link, ever the diplomat, tried to reason with him. “Emba,” he wrote, “you’re being a baby about this. Just follow the rules, and we won’t have any problems.”
Emba didn’t take it well. “A baby?!” he shot back. “I’m not the one acting like a child here. You’re the one on a power trip, banning anyone who disagrees with you.”
The argument escalated quickly. Emba called Fat Link a tyrant. Fat Link called Emba a crybaby. Before long, Fat Link had had enough. He banned Emba for three months and, in a final act of petty revenge, changed Emba’s profile picture to a cartoon baby crying.
The forum erupted. Some people thought it was hilarious. Others thought it was unprofessional. Emba, of course, was furious. He took to other platforms to vent his anger, calling Fat Link every name in the book. But deep down, he knew he’d crossed a line. And so did Fat Link.
---
Reconciliation
When the ban was finally lifted, Emba returned to the forum with a new perspective. He didn’t apologize—that wasn’t his style—but he did tone down the rhetoric. Fat Link, for his part, changed Emba’s profile picture back to normal and never mentioned the incident again.
One night, Emba sent Fat Link a private message. “You know,” he wrote, “you’re still the only person who’s ever really listened to me. Even when I’m being a baby.”
Fat Link smiled as he read the message. “You’re not a baby,” he replied. “You’re just… you.”
---
Epilogue
Life went on, as it always does. Fat Link continued to run the forum, keeping the peace with a steady hand and a big heart. Emba drifted in and out, posting his rants and occasionally stirring up trouble, but he always came back. Some bonds, after all, are too strong to break—even when they’re tested by petty feuds and crying baby profile pictures.
And in the quiet moments, when the sun was setting and the air was still, Fat Link would sit at his computer and think about the war. He’d think about the jungle, the heat, the fear—and he’d think about Emba. And he’d smile, just a little, because some friendships are worth fighting for, even in a world that tries its hardest to tear them apart.
