Timmy Nebraska (Im back)

Jameis Winston discussing the situation with Jaxson Dart and Abdul Carter:

@MrsLovelyBones1 ???

I gave you so much time, it’s my time now.

Working on getting my Roscoe Nailguns story together all into ine long story instead of a collection.. Its been fun writing again.. #RoscoeNailguns

@MrsLovelyBones1 Pesce yet?

I love you, but this is war.

I have 13 more of these lemme know if you wanna hear more #roscoenailguns

Some call him a hero.. some call him a menace.. But we all call him Roscoe Nailguns

“I meant to do that.” Captain Mira shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re still insane.” Roscoe adjusted his goggles proudly. “Yeah,” he said. “But I’m useful insane.” From that day on, stories of Roscoe Nailguns spread across the wasteland.

And nobody expected the pilot to be a raccoon with a power tool. By dawn, the raiders retreated back into the desert. Crankshaft Gulch survived. The townsfolk cheered as The Thunderbucket crash-landed sideways through a vegetable stand. Roscoe climbed out coughing smoke. t

He swooped low over the battlefield, firing nails into raider engines and dropping homemade bombs made from fuel cans and kitchen timers. Every pass scattered the Iron Jackals into confusion. Nobody had seen a plane fly in nearly twenty years.

“This is either gonna be legendary,” he muttered, “or extremely educational.” The plane lifted violently into the air. Barely. Bolts rattled loose instantly. One wing caught fire. The engine screamed like an angry monster. Roscoe laughed like a maniac. “OH, WE ARE SO BACK!”

Harpoons fired through the air. Explosions shook the town. And right as the raiders breached the outer wall— The Thunderbucket started rolling down the runway. Roscoe sat in the cockpit gripping the controls with one paw and holding his nailgun in the other.

By the time the Iron Jackals appeared on the horizon, black smoke already poured from the plane’s engines. “That seems bad,” the fox kid said. “Nah,” Roscoe replied. “That smoke means it’s thinking.” The Jackals attacked at sundown. Armored trucks thundered across the dunes.

The whole town gathered parts from ruins miles away while Roscoe transformed the rusted aircraft into something half genius and half disaster. He named it The Thunderbucket. Naturally.

Roscoe worked nonstop beneath the blazing desert sun, hammering armor plates onto an ancient cargo plane while yelling at anyone who handed him the wrong wrench. Sparks rained through the night. Engines roared.