See title, while I could go into specifics about why this thing is one of the best monstrosities to ever be wielded by man, I shall instead tell you the tale of my first game ever in it today in order to convince you of its unimaginable evil power.
The FV4005 is no ordinary tank. It is not even something I would even consider to be from the world of the living or fashioned by mortal hands. If God wished to truly punish man, the FV4005 would act as his right hand, culling heretics in an appallingly brutal fashion. This is raw power. Biggest dick energy. The Great Grey Man of the Cairngorms. Destroyer of Central Europe. Fat Man's estranged Anglo cousin.
Now let us get onto the game on the Ardennes that bought me a special place in hell. I spawned in, towering over the lowly Yankee peasants. My 183mm gun lord above all else. After a little bit of driving, we reached the outskirts of base A. I spy a bit of movement between the buildings. Thot detected. It was a Type 62 of all things, a rare catch indeed. I poached the giant panda without remorse. One shot is all I needed to turn his crew into pasta sauce. A shot hit me, a T-44-100 trying his luck, however unlucky for him, my armour was thin enough to stop his shell detonating. My breach and a loader ate the spall. Not one visible dent in the reload speed, which was already fast enough to put the T30 of the same br to shame. I awaited repairs, gleefully watching the T-44 getting savagely slaughtered by a friendly M103. The repairs stopped, I entered the cap, slaying an IS-3 as I entered with the ease of a falcon snatching a mouse off the forest floor. Then it happened. I became a war criminal.
It was an ordinary maneuver, I flanked one side of the building, the M103 took the other side and lo and behold, the midriff of an IS-6. On instinct I shot him. Engine busted in flames and a loader splattered. I waited, watched him, his gun unable to turn to face me from the angle, my very existence terrifying him. By now the M103 was getting killed, but I could do nothing. I prepared the second shot, little did I know I would simply prolong the torture of the lone IS-6. It hit him with the force of a thousand suns. I broke his proverbial spine like the tip of a pencil. His gun barrel blew, both his tracks and drive wheels, transmission, the commander and a fuel tank. By some miracle he made it with an ammorack intact, wheezing along with just an injured commander and driver, struggling with every second to exist, like some sort of stillborn fetus. He was helpless, I was the Predator, he the prey. No cries for mercy, just silent suffering and you know what? I enjoyed it. The raw power I was exposed to brought out that deep animalistic nature present in us all. It felt incredible. The final shot ended the grisly affair. His ammorack blew, taking the tormented soul with it. I was then punished for my cruelty by an SU-122-54. A burst of mg fire was all it took to end my reign of terror. I vanished from the battlefield. It was over.
I then spawned in a Wyvern and got shit on instantly by an mlg Israeli Coelian. Not the ending I was looking for, but I hoped you enjoyed my little story of my first game in the war crime on tracks, the FV4005.
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© Post "Buy the Fv4005 Now if You Want a Free Trip to Nuremberg" for game War Thunder.
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