The town of Vernon burned an effigy when my mother returned from the war. The townspeople said they were inspired by the spirit of Boudicca. My mother told me that was horseshit. She didn’t live because of a warrior’s protection— she said it was just luck.

No one had expected a war. At most a battle. Maybe even a light scuffle if blood sugar levels were elevated. But they were wrong about that too. The town across the valley, Bernon, wanted a war. They claimed our town was a cheap approximation of their own— and they demanded restitution. Our city council told them to sit on it and spin. Not very effective politics, but lively.

You’d be forgiven for thinking this is a story of bloodshed and woe. It is not. Except for when Lonny Masters skinned his knee while running into the first skirmish. He had to have iodine poured on it and yelped like a kicked dog.
See, violence in this valley isn’t dictated by the gun. But by the ammo. And our ammo was paintballs.

A reverent crowd watched on from specially constructed forest leans— where they could watch the “warriors” scurry past as they tried to avoid corpulent splats of wet paint. My mother made sure they didn’t. Janice Halthen, my mom, was the single best shot with a paintball gun since Bobby Carmichael. But that makes sense, since he was her older brother’s best friend. After she surpassed Bobby in skill, he started calling her “Dirty J” as a joke. The name stuck like the fools she plastered and I’ve grown up in the canvassed shadow of my mother’s fame and her enemies shame.

Watching the paint dry might be the most exciting thing this valley has to offer.