Remember remember, the Fifth of November When breathers get eaten or shot. To zombies it’s nought but a dinner delivered But to trenchies it means quite a lot.
Zetheren, they came for Ridleybank. The breathers strayed into our home, seeking some titanic battle, some legendary victory. They got neither. They found merely death.
Death at your hands!
They sought to conquer our land and claim it for their own, but instead, in the building which fuels their most asinine fantasies, Blackmore, they found an army prepared. They found zombies too organised, too smart and too damned strong to be swept aside by the likes of them. Zetheren, they found you!
The day came and went and they never once came close to their objective of taking Blackmore, because you would not let them. You took your headshots with an honour and a bravery that no mere breather can ever even comprehend, much less match. You died and rose, died and rose, and then you fought, bloodied but unbowed, like heroes to defend that which is ours by right.
You did not yield.
I am proud of you, zetheren. For the second successive year this pathetic joke of an anniversary has been crushed by the RIdleybank Resistance Front, by you. Now, let no breather escape the homeland with their life. Kill them all, ruin every building. Show these breathers that we know no fear, accept no defeat and respect no life. Show them what we are.
We are the masters of death.
We are the ministers of the New Flesh.
We are the nightmare that does not end.
We are the RIDLEYBANK RESISTANCE FRONT.
