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DANVILLE, Va. -- Not too long ago I got my chance to stand up for big oil -- or at least a fictional version of it.

The members of Rogue Cell invited me to take part in the battle for Energy Corp., "a group of corrupt, power hungry politicians" who apparently control the world's oil supply. I used to do some shooting when I was in high school, but haven't picked up a gun of any sort in years.

But I grabbed a paintball gun, went into the woods and did my duty.

Rogue Cell was taking part in a scenario paintball game called "Scorched Earth" at Paintball Virginia, a park about an hour's drive north of Greensboro.

The team, which almost always plays the role of the bad guys, is made up of active and retired military personnel, law enforcement officers and firemen, among others. And for a short while on a Saturday in late summer, they also had a journalist on their squad.

I showed up at Paintball Virginia in a pair of worn out jeans and a faded Ball State University T-shirt, with a notebook in hand, and wife, Lana, at my side.

Team members Larry "Iron Man" Rivenbark and Edward "Bull" Panatex lent me some equipment and ammo (actually 16-calibre gelatin coated balls filled with a brightly colored, but foul-tasting liquid).

"It's very much an adrenaline rush -- walking through the woods, there's a guy 100 feet up ahead of you, and he doesn't know when he's going to walk right into your sight," Rivenbark said. "You're back there, you're checking cover, you're covering for somebody else. You're looking to crouch down somewhere, and all of a sudden somebody is up shooting at you, and you've got to figure out where it's coming from without sticking your head up, because somebody is going to tag you. It's very intense."

I slipped on a paintball mask and headed into action, following Rivenbark's 13-year-old son Chris. I fired a few rounds at a tree in the distance. The green-colored rounds splattered with a soft pop. Though the pop may sound soft, the impact on your skin is anything but.

"At the end of the day," he said, "you can look like you have chicken pox."

I didn't have much guidance other than that. I crouched down next to a shrub, near a couple of players. When they fired, I fired, aiming only at what appeared to be some humanoid figures in the distant foliage. Soon, we came under heavy fire.

My pulse quickened as the gelatin spheres whizzed by. I saw a guy go down next to me. I kept firing, but I was losing my focus. In a fit of bravado, I ran over into the line of fire to get a better shot.

I tried fighting the good fight, but ran out of ammo, and at that moment, I felt a few rounds bounce off me. One hit me in the neck, leaving a nice round welt. I was, for all intents and purposes, dead.

I walked off the field, holding up my marker (paintball parlance for gun) to signal that I was no longer in the game. I went into the "dead zone" and grabbed a bottle of water.

The nice thing about scenario is that I had the option of going back in, but it was closing in on noon, and I was getting hungry. And when all was said and done, I was still paying close to $4 a gallon for gas.

Contact Robert C. Lopez at 691-5091 or robert.lopez@news-record.com