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Prop Hunt: Letters From The Front Lines

  • BO4

Prop Hunt may be fun, but it's no joke to the brave props fighting for survival.

Prop Hunt: Letters From The Front Lines

  • BO4

Prop Hunt may be fun, but it's no joke to the brave props fighting for survival.

We obtained this letter from the Crab Widow of the deceased Blue Crab who perished in the prop wars of 1862. We reprinted it here with her permission to honor his heroism and memory.

My Very Dear Crab Wife,

Indications are strong that we will move in a few days, perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel compelled to write a few lines that may bring you joy if this hunt is to be my last. I wallow in sadness imagining you alone with only our simple Crab Son to console you.

When I scuttled to the surface to take up the noble cause of the props, I knew odds of survival were long. But, our cause was just and worth fighting for. Hiding and eluding these two-legged monsters until they got too tired to chase us and quit was, and remains, the most noble pursuit of any prop – crab or otherwise.

Our enemy, the bi-pod Specialists of ambiguous origins, was strong. With arms, hands and thumbs they wielded weapons and we, the simple props, had none. I regularly thank our all-knowing Crab God that our devastatingly simple Crab Son did not accompany me to the beach. He'd just chase the sound of his claws in small circles until he got shot. Oh, our sweet, useless Crab Son! Even still, were it not for the bravery of my comrades on the shores of Contraband – Rusty Barrell, Fork Lift and Row Boat – we’d have never made it this far.

As the rapid fire of MX9’s rang out for what felt like four minutes, I thought I was safe from the onslaught. I watched my old pal Ship Console slide past my underwater sanctuary. He yelled, “They’re on to us, Blue Crab!” just before a burly, red-haired beast brought old Ship to a quick end. I cried out for help in the only way I knew how. Just as I instructed our Crab Son to do when the older Crabs bully him at Crab School, I whistled for assistance. I tell you this, Crab Wife, were it not for my remaining stun grenade this letter would be from a Crab Ghost.

I long for your embrace, Crab Wife. I dream of your red-tipped claws, all 10 of them. Stomping the sea floor, drawing the envy of all other Crabs, you are the perfect mother to our oafish Crab Son, bless his heart. He will grow up, as I have, and likely never know his father’s love and care. I hope he keeps my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. On the other hand, he may not. He is such a dull Crab Child.

All my love,
Blue Crab

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