Doug: Today

Today:

I got real sleep, where I woke up rested.

I got up, and got a personal record on the PFT.

I got my phone fixed.

I talked to people I love.

I'm going to work outside, and finish the table and benches.

I'm going to eat a meal with my brother.

I'm going to sleep in tomorrow.

Today's a good day.

-Doug

"Because nothing is built like a tank. NOTHING."

-Moto poster.

That guy: An actual piece of writing?

I stare down at them. Scurrying about. Worker ants. Drones.
My steel cage provides no comfort, but at least I am elevated from their level.
At least I can see.



I see them flashing their plastic smiles.

I see them flaunting their plastic love.

I feel them fading away from the core.


And I grimace.
Their laughter; fake.
Their joy; fake.


I watch their sense fade away.
A Heartless amongst us all.
Their hollow pain multiplies. Exponentially. Infecting, spreading.
No force can stop this cycle. No power that is can comfort them.



So they draw forth their plastic. They cover their gifts in lies; in fallacies.
And I glare, high above their mighty land.

There is no comfort. There is no sensation.




There is only waste.
There is only decrepance.
There is only hate.



There is only rage.

Doug: A story idea

The sun painted the clouds the red orange of sunset, and William squinted as he stood by the railing on the open air balcony, taking in the breathtaking view. After a moment he glanced down at the never-ending clouds below him and resisted the urge to take a step back. It still disconcerted him to think of the endless depths beneath the floating city of Windward, and the horrible pressure and gravity in the depths of the gas giant. He was alerted to a presence behind him by a soft chuckle and the soft sound of a wooden cane striking the metal decking.

“Still afraid of heights I see.” The man that approached smiled as he made his way to William’s side, lifting the cane to indicate the sunset. “Just look at the horizon, try not to think about what would happen if the stabilizers and anti gravity generators failed.” He cackled at the look on Will’s face. “Oh relax boy. That hasn’t happened in almost eighty years, and the new neutral buoyancy safeties would engage long before we got to crush depth. Amazing that there is a gas that could actually make this monstrosity neutral buoyant, but there is.”

William, a strangely tall man for his Asian descent, turned to the older man. “Forgive me grandfather, you must admit though, it is an impressive sight.” His hand indicated the nothingness over the ledge.

“To someone like you, perhaps, who grew up on solid ground, but my generation knew nothing but the sky as our home.” He slowly eased himself into one of the chairs on the balcony, indicating that William should join him. “You youngsters and your dirt planets, afraid of a little fall.” His laugh turned into a cough and William put his hand on the older man.

“Grandfather Rel, you’ve been neglecting your medicine.” His words were more concern than disapproval.

Rel waved him away, and William sat across from him, a small wrought iron table between them. The table was extremely old, and Will knew that a hundred years ago even this small amount of scrap iron floating around would have been considered an extravagant luxury. Rel noticed his attention on the table and attempted to change the subject. “It was given to me by The Captain, at your grandmother and I’s wedding. That was just after the Icarus mission.” He smiled, clearly lost in memory, “Everyone was getting married. I think that’s a side effect of suicide missions that you happen to survive. Your entire outlook on life changes; your grandmother and I decided life was just too short and too cheap for what ifs and maybes. When your life almost ends the concept letting a good thing go because there isn’t time, or you’re afraid, or not really ready, just sort of flies out the window. Not for the Captain though,” Rel frowned, as though carrying some deep regret that wasn’t wholly his, “He and Molly never… “ His eyes snapped back to present. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. My dear boy,” he put his hand on William’s arm and looked him in the eyes, “I’m glad you came, I know it is a long journey.”

William gave his grandfather a genuine smile, “Not at all Grandfather, I needed a break from my work in any case, I was getting burnt out.” He looked down at his hands, which Rel had relinquished. “To tell the truth, it’s not nearly as interesting as I thought it would be.” Rel watched Will’s eyes flick back up to him, seeking something, reassurance perhaps.

Rel’s wizened features appeared thoughtful. He nodded slowly, almost but not quite resting his chin on the cane he held before him. For the first time William noticed how old his grandfather looked. His shaved bald head was covered in age spots, and his eyebrows and beard were shock white. His eyes were alert, though almost hidden behind his narrow lids. It gave him the look of an ancient monk.

“Hmm. I must admit that my reasons for summoning you are not altogether without ulterior motives then my grandson. The request I wish to make of you may be another load I hesitate to burden your mind with. Still, it may perhaps be a blessing in disguise.” He nodded slowly.

“Grandfather,” William said, frowning. “I would do anything for you; you need but ask.”

Rel sighed. “Ah, I’d forgotten how loyal you are, dear William. Yes…” he paused, seemingly searching for words. Finally:

“I’m dying, William.”

William immediately took his grandfather’s hand in his own. “What are you talking about grandfather, you’re as healthy as ever.”

Rel narrowed his eyes at this obvious lie. “Flattery will get you everywhere William, but not with me, I am too old, and have everything I want already.”

Will grinned, “Of course Grandfather. It is true you are no longer young, but you are hardly at death’s door.”

“Wrong, William. I have Boren’s disease, and, as you know, there is no cure.” He nodded to himself again, “Said it was probably an after effect of using all those particle beam weapons, all suit jockey’s get it eventually.” He shrugged, leaning back, eyes locking on William. “I have no regrets.” He paused for moment thinking. “Well, no serious ones.”

Will took this revelation in stride, not unsurprised at the development of Boren’s disease, but deciding to treat it as he knew his grandfather did: resigned acceptance mixed with mild irritation. To get upset would be useless, and grief would come later, elsewhere.

“I’ve been getting my affairs in order.” Rel commanded his attention again, “The will has been in place for years now, and there are only a few things that need tending to, but that isn’t why I summoned you.”

William said nothing, waiting for Rel to continue.

“Good, you know the value of silence.” Rel’s eyes narrowed. “I have left something undone for a long time, my grandson, and I had hoped that, despite your dissatisfaction with your current career, you would help me to do something I promised your Grandmother I would do, a long time ago.”

Will still waited in silence.

“I’m going to tell you a story. The Story, as a matter of fact, and my skills as a writer are hardly up to the challenge.” He smiled, “You, on the other hand, have most prodigious skill in that art. If you’re up to the challenge, that is.”

Will was stunned. “But, histories have been written about The Icarus Mission. I mean, you’re a Hero to the entire human race, people have been writing about you since almost before you and the Roughnecks came back from the dead and opened up space for humanity again. What could I possibly add to that?”

Rel wrinkled his nose, “I’ve read those histories. And your mother tried to con me into seeing the vids.” He shook his head. “Those overblown historian monkeys got it all wrong, and the vid people did even worse with their version. No, I want to tell the real story, what really happened. We weren’t heroes up there,” He turned his head to look at the night sky. While they had been talking the sun had slowly set, and the stars were coming out. “We were just a bunch of Jumpers that happened to be in a position to do some good.” He looked back down at Will, “Believe me, if someone else had been there, we’d have passed the buck at the drop of an escape tube. But there wasn’t, so we did it.”

“Some would say that’s the definition of a hero.” Will countered, amused now.

“Ha! I’m not a hero.” Rel’s face darkened, “The heroes were the guys that didn’t come back, like Stiltson, and Nhils, and that brave bastard Roberts, and all the others.” He paused, “And the Captain, though he would loathe hearing it. That man gave us something to fight for, something to die for.” His eyes seemed to bore into William’s in the darkness. “Will you help me tell this tale, Grandson? Tell the truth of it? Not the nonsense giants the worlds have made us out to be? Help me tell a story about a Jumper unit called The Roughnecks. About a Captain that wouldn’t quit, even when all hope was lost. And about a alien starship called The Icarus.”

There was a long silence. Finally, William replied: “I’ll get my notepad.”

Doug: One LONG weekend.

“Contact Front!” I hear the alert less than a second after I hear the gunshots.
“Finally.” I mutter, already on the deck in the kneeling position, eyeing the terrain in front of me. We are in the nature reserve right next to Fort Lewis, which is the closest thing to untouched temperate rainforest I’ve ever seen. Unfortunately, temperate rainforest is a nightmare for anyone trying to do squad operations.
Fallen trees litter the ground, which is uneven, with the accumulation of literally millions of years of loam and hedge creating little valleys and hills. None high enough to be any real cover, just big enough for you to twist your ankle if you put your foot down wrong, which happens a lot. On top of that are bushes, ferns, and vines that make up the ground cover. The bushes and ferns are fine, none really big enough to stop an armored individual who wants to step through them; it’s the vines that keep killing our operational effectiveness.
Some kind of ground creeper, these vines have sharp thorns that WILL cut you through your thick trousers. But it gets better, not only is this shit on the ground, it curls up and around trees too and dangles, around head height. I discovered this while we were under contact about two hours ago, when one of the vines sliced my face and grabbed onto my cover and held. Deep gashes and a dull ache mark my hands where I yanked it off. They also tend to somehow tangle in your boots, forcing everyone to high step to either avoid them, or tear them off already tangled boots.
The final proverbial straw, at least from the terrain department, is that this section of Fort Lewis is an ANT reserve.
That’s right.
Ant.
Reserve.
There are anthills that approach five feet in height scattered every ten meters or so. We’re not allowed to interact with them, because apparently they’re endangered. Fine, whatever, we don’t give two shits about some stupid ants.
That is until you’re taking fire and you dive for cover behind/on the closest ground to you… which just happens to be a towering pile of twigs, leaves, and ten million angry ants. I’ve pissed on more than one anthill, out of vengeance.
This is the kind of terrain that gives commanders a coronary, and gets infantry grunts like me killed. The only good thing is that because of all the brush no one can see more than twenty meters in any direction, you or the enemy. That, and the fact that all the trees and micro terrain make excellent cover during a firefight, are the only two slightly positive things that I can pull out of time we’ve spent conducting operations. Unfortunately, those two points of data are advantages for the enemy as well.
Huddled up against this tree in the middle of nowhere, I ready my body for the assault order that I know is coming.
I am exhausted. We have been hunting ghosts for more than eight hours now. I am covered in ant and spider bites. My hands are cut up from jumping over logs and falling on my face. My legs are seizing up and refusing to move when I tell them to, and I’m starting to get combat hypnosis from staring at all the foliage, hunting for an enemy that isn’t there. Now, finally, when contact finally comes, it comes from the far left, and my fire team has to run about fifty meters through nightmare terrain before we can even begin to assault the enemy.
An enemy that is not there.
We’ve done five squad movements and assaults. This is our sixth. We are using rubber rifles that might hurt someone if we beat them over the head with them, but won’t even go bang for us. Moving through this terrain is HARD. Assaulting is harder, we’re exhausted, pissed off, thirsty and hungry. We’ve been informed that chow will be available at the next objective. That was five objectives ago.
Not that we don’t have food. Our cargo pockets are stuffed with whatever pieces of MRE that we didn’t eat this morning. We’ve been nibbling on those during briefing breaks, but they never last long enough to really eat. There’s just enough time to hydrate and speculate about the next operation.
I’m of the opinion that we can’t be doing too many more night is approaching, and doing squad problems in the dark would just be stupid. Larry brings up the fact that doing squad problems for eight hours isn’t particularly intelligent, but we’ve been doing it anyway. With that cheerful thought fresh in our minds, our fire team leader, Omahan, had run up and began to brief us for this particular operation.
Running as hard as I can to get into position for the buddy rushes, I pick Omahan’s shape out of the foliage ahead of me.
Glancing right, I pick up Larry, crouched against some brush. My spot is to his right, and about five meters back. At that moment, Wiggin’s loud female voice breaks over the gunfire. “Rush!”
FUCK. Not only am I out of position, two of my buddies are in my firing lane.
“Punch right Larry, Rushing!” I yell at Larry, ordering him to get the hell out of my way before I tear past him into the woods. When the squad leader tells you to rush, you better fucking rush. Any lack in aggressiveness could get Marines killed. No one wants that on them. A few seconds later I dive behind a fallen log, hitting harder than usual and yell. “DOWN!”
Larry, my rush partner, yells “I’m up!” and I can see his blurred shape tear past on my right, high stepping so as not to get caught up in the shit that’s tangled on the ground. He slams into a tree hard enough to shake the upper level branches and sinks into the kneeling position. “Down!”
I’m up again, running for a pile of logs I’d normally avoid, but any variation right or left during an assault can put you in your mate’s firing lanes, thereby increasing your chance of catching dead, which is a pretty nasty and prevalent disease out here in the jungle.
I try and jump over the logs, but I’m too tired, and my foot doesn’t quite make it. I can see where I’m about to fall, a nicely placed broken off branch sticking straight up, just aching to impale someone. My hand shoots out and my palm takes most of the force while I redirect my body to fall away from the natural spike. Pain lances up my arm and a steady stream of swearwords issue from my mouth. Larry sees my trouble and sings out.
“You all right?”
“Fuckassshitmother… Fine!” False, I am not fine, my hand feels like it’s been hit with a dull spike, but we’re in the middle of an assault, so I am fucking fine, because I’m not going to risk other Marines for my stupidity. I roll over to the other side of the log and crawl to cover. “Down! Rush Larry!”
Larry bounds past me just as I hear the words I’ve been waiting for.
“Hasty 180!” Wiggin shouts. Great, they’re all dead, wherever they were. I pull back in close to where the main action had been taking place and post on perimeter. After giving Omahan my report, I eye the trees, it would be just like the Sergeant instructors to set off a secondary ambush and fuck with our hard earned real estate.
But they don’t, and a few minutes later Wiggin calls us all over. A small flicker of hope rises in me, hope that maybe we’re done.
Wiggin looks how I feel, beat up, exhausted, angry and irritable. There is a gleam in her eyes that is absent in that of those around her though, and as she briefs us, we understand why.
“Grab some dirt gents.” There is a slight delay, then we squat to the ground, gentle on the rapidly forming bruises. She sits down too, on a convenient log. “Good job today. You guys really put out. That’s the kind of stuff we want to see.” Normally this would all be bullshit, but positive reenforcent is something new and different to us. Feels pretty good. Larry and I knock fists.
“You will actually be getting chow.” A ripple of excitement mixed with apprehension runs through the squad. “We’re moving to the extraction point, where we’re going to resupply and change these, “She indicated the rifle slung behind her back, “For some actual sixteens. No real ammo though.” A face, disappointment mixed with a little bit of humor. “We’ll also be setting up Bivoac for the night. Sgt ‘Ski will brief us ambushes and after that…” an evil grin crosses everyone’s face. “We get to go play Hide and Seek with the Army.”
Feral grins are plastered on everyone’s face. “But we have a lot of work to do before that, so let’s get to it. Fall in for extraction.”
It was not a particularly good speech, off the cuff, not verbose, or particularly eloquent. But it was exactly what we wanted to hear. Proves that a speech depends more on how and where it is delivered than actual content.
***
MREs are not bad, if you ever get the opportunity to heat them up. They come with chem reaction heaters that will make whatever meal you’ve got as hot as it would be if you’d just cooked it. Unfortunately, rarely do you get the chance, and cold anything is always dubious. But when you’re hungry…
During the squad problems I’d wolfed down something that said it was a grilled steak. It was disgusting, but upon reflection, if I’d had time to heat it then it might have been okay. After eight hours of squad problems, the hot clam chowder substitute I was devouring was fucking delicious. The shredded potato sticks were delicious, the wheat bread was delicious, even the canned peaches. I don’t even like peaches.
One thing that actually is delicious even when you aren’t hungry is the cheese spread. It’s laced with little peppers, so it gives a little bit of a burn. On the hardtack like crackers that come in most MREs the stuff is like magic.
We’re sitting in two rows, bullshitting. Fifty meters to our north is an army camp, where we got the M-16s currently leaned up against everyone’s shoulder.
If there is one thing the Marine Corps takes seriously, and there are many things (but this especially), it is rifle safety. The Marine Corps rules regarding rifle safely are like the Lord’s Prayer to us; every single one of us knows them, and they are observed in the strictest manner possible. Still, every year a few Marines are injured or killed by NDs. (Negligent Discharges).
Treat your rifle as if it were loaded at all times.
Never point the weapon you do not intend to shoot.
Keep your finger straight and off the trigger until you intend to fire.
Keep your weapon on safe until you are ready to fire.
These are not suggestions. These are laws. You will obey them.
It’s a noticeable difference between us and every other service. We treat our weapons better than we do our lovers. A rifle will never leave the side of its Marine, if we have something to do that requires two hands, we either sling the rifle, or hand it off to a buddy who we absolutely know will treat it with the respect and care it requires. Every time a Marine hands off a rife, he will clear the magazine and chamber, declare the weapon ‘condition four’ safe, and then hand it off. The receiving Marine will then confirm the weapon’s ‘condition four’ status just to be sure.
Every Marine has the serial number of his rifle memorized and can disassemble and reassemble her blindfolded if he has to.
I had my rifle for approximately twenty two hours. Her serial number is 6208343. She is a gas operated, magazine fed Colt M-16 A2. She can fire at a rate of over six hundred rounds a minute, and shoots 5.56 millimeter NATO rounds. I named her Irene. Peacemaker.
Ask anyone in my unit and they’ll repeat the same details about their rifles. This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
The Major walks by and we all attempt to snap to attention from the sitting position. Before we can rise he tells us to relax. He bullshits with us for a few minutes, shows us a trick for clearing jams on our rifles. My absolute confidence in Irene is shattered when I am told that the blank rounds I’ll be feeding her tend to cause jams. I glare down at the mags stacked by my right foot. There are only twenty rounds in the thirty round mags, because the shitty magazines we use apparently become even less functional if the springs are at all stressed. We were only issued three magazines.
Sixty rounds… Not enough. But being well supplied is for POGs and Army scum. Marines make do.
***
It is four hours later, around 2200. The sun set about an hour ago, and full dark is upon us. Sergeant Pederson is briefing us on the attack plan, which sounds simple enough. Walk down the road for about five hundred meters, turn 90 degrees port and make your way into the jungle. In about a hundred yards you should hit the army base. At that time, using radios and flares, we’ll assault through their main base, and regroup on the road that’s located on the opposite side, codename HARDBALL. From HARDBALL, we will regroup, assault through the enemy again, regroup in the woods, and return to base. Pedersen himself will be taking a small commando team to harass the enemy from a different vector.
I want to volunteer, knowing Pederson’s team will get more action, but don’t knowing that if I do volunteer, I won’t get picked.
I am not picked anyway, and Pederson’s team, Him, Sgt. ‘Ski, Larry and Plute all step off early, so as to be in place before we arrive.
After he leaves, Winslow, our squad leader, gets up in front of us all and issues last minute instructions. “Stick with your buddy, and keep it tight when we’re moving through the jungle. Don’t let anyone get lost. We’ll be running silent until contact, so keep track of who you’re with. Remember, ‘Tap, Rack, Bang”.”
‘Tap, Rack, Bang’ is the Marine Corps prescribed medicine for any rifle that’s jammed. Tap really means jiggle the magazine a little, which usually chambers the jammed round. If that doesn’t work, rack the charging handle and the jammed round should eject. Both of those should be able to fix whatever problem you encounter. If not… well, we don’t have an armory handy, so if your weapon is gummed up worse than that, we can’t fix it out here.
A jammed Irene is the last thing I want to think about right now.
“Weapons to Condition One.”
A small storm of magazines being slapped into place and charging handles being racked fills the quiet night air.
Irene jams. This is not happening. I think, and jiggle the mag. The bolt slides home and I grunt in satisfaction. I haven’t even fired this bitch.
“Move out.” I can see Winslow’s eyes flash in the darkness.
***
One hour later.
There is no Army. I think, tripping yet again over a fallen tree that I cannot see. They’re in a barracks somewhere, watching porn and laughing at us. A little over forty minutes ago, we’d arrived at what we believed to be the attack site, only there was something missing. The Army.
We figured we were lost, and promptly got lost trying to find our target. Seargent Johnson is currently snarling into the radio for Pederson, who, lucky him, has found then enemy, to throw up an illume flare so we can tell where they are. Pederson, heavily outnumbered, rightly does not want to give away his position.
It doesn’t matter. I know we are probably more than a mile off our original vector. Not because I’ve got a map, or a GPS, or a compass, or anything that would tell us where we are. No my knowledge is common sense, something that seems to have taken a vacation this evening.
I know we’re completely foxtrotted because of the foliage. What had been merely a nuisance during the day had become a nightmare at night. Every step we take sounds like we’re taking a chainsaw to the forest. Even our resident scout sniper can’t move without making enough noise to wake up all the dead at Gettysburg. If the Army had heard us then they would have engaged us, which means we’ve been nowhere near the Army all night.
The thought makes me want to slam my fist into something. We’ve been chasing our own tails out here in the dark for well over an hour now. This was not how it was supposed to go, we were supposed to find them, kill them, and then go to bed.
In our frustration, we’d returned to the general area the Army was supposed to be in the first place, trying to get our bearings. Finally, Sergeant Johnson manages to persuade Staff Sergeant Pederson to throw up a flare to mark the enemy position. Seconds later I avert my eyes as an illume flare arcs into the sky…
Less than a hundred meters from our position.
They were right there the entire time.
Still no gunfire. You’d think with their position lit up like God eyefucking them they’d at least try and kill the illuminator. Winslow instantly tells everyone to take cover. What illuminates their position will also light us up like a spotlight.
We wait the 90 seconds for the parachute flare to die and get up slowly. Winslow passes the word, in whispers, that we are going to advance on the enemy until they initiate contact. Sweet.
Advancing slowly, we enter the dense part of the woods the Army has chosen to hide their base in. We’re still making more noise than a raging bull would, but still no one shoots at us. Two chemlights mark an open area, which we skirt carefully. Everything I’ve been taught is telling me that this is a trap, and we’re all going to die. I can feel my heart twitching at irregular intervals.
I don’t want to die.
You’re not going to die. You’re going to make the other motherfucker out there die. My ears, hypersensitive, hear the distinctive snick a rifle’s safety makes when it changes from safe to not. I realize I have unconsciously switched my rifle off safe.
I decide that I have let myself slip way too deep into this simulation, but since I’m already there I just roll with it.
“Flash.” A tremulous voice breaks out in front of us.
I can feel the glances around in confusion. We don’t have any recognition codes set up.
After an awkward pause…
“Thunder?” Johnson’s word is more a question, and it sounds like it.
“Advance and be recognized.”
You cannot be serious. Johnson eloquently sums up our collective incredulity at the Army’s colossal stupidity by switching his rifle to burst and emptying his magazine at the general location of the voice. We dive for cover, expecting automatic rifle fire to cut us to ribbons, but we’ve caught the Army by surprise and apparently by the balls. Swearing and sporadic rifle fire lance out, but no one opens up with the really heavy stuff we know they have.
We, on the other hand, are lighting these poor motherfuckers up like its cool. Muzzle flashes are making our side of the assault line almost light as day. Irene jams, and I start saying words that would make a sailor blush.
Tap… Rack… the satisfying BANG of a weapon that fires greets me and I sight in on the muzzle flashes that are starting to become more and more common on the Army side of the line.
I can hear a woman screaming something that sounds like “They’re all around us!” and hear the distinctive whine of the simulated Artie in their base. Pederson must have initiated his attack. I can feel the shockwave as the Artie rounds blow, the flash blinding everyone momentarily. As my vision clears, I see a series of muzzle flashes that are going much faster than anything I’ve seen before tonight, just as I hear the diemotherfuckerdie buzz of the M240 SAW.
Shit. Their automatic weapons are online. Time to get the Hell outta Dodge.
Winslow, seemingly reading my thoughts, shouts “HARDBALL! EVERYONE HARDBALL!”
Sgt. Johnson and Sgt. Poaster both pop smoke, not that anyone can see shit anyway, and we pull back, firing intermittently. The Army keeps firing, though we are no longer there to appreciate the fireworks.
The dark separates everyone. I have only the slightest inclination where I’m going; trees appear like ghosts in the night. I can hear sporadic gunfire behind me as the others disengage. Suddenly I am thrust into the open, trees falling off to my left and right.
HARDBALL.
Ten meters to my left another figure bursts out of the woods, I train my rifle on them, and recognize Winslow as I get closer. Figures are appearing out of the night left and right.
“Security.” Winslow says. “We’ve got our dicks hanging on the chopping block out here.”
I agree, we’re exposed. The underclassmen take up sectors while the upperclassmen confer. A few people almost get shot as they approach the perimeter, but we’re careful.
When Wiggin calls us all back, still watching our sectors, I breathe a sigh of relief. We’re good to go.
***
“Seeds?” Staff Sergeant Williams shakes the bag of sunflower seeds at me.
I open my eyes. We’ve been sitting in the van for a good hour, and I’ve gotten this question four times now, all when I’ve been about to fall asleep. It’s a pattern. “Sure.”
We’re waiting on the Army. Part of playing the OPFOR is you have to set up situations where the people you’re OPFORing for can exercise their training. Right now, for us, this means waiting in a van for hours on end for the Army to get into position to set up a roadblock. I can’t blame them taking forever; I had to move through that terrain yesterday. It sucked, it took forever, and I was angry when I did it.
But when they make me wait a whole two hours? Then I can blame the shit out of them, scum.
So, me and my squad have sat out here, with Staff Sergeant Williams, in this van, for two fucking hours now. We are bored Marines. Bored Marines do stupid things. I eye the simulated Artie in Williams’ bag with speculation.
A flicker of movement twitches at the edge of my vision. Very slowly I turn my head.
“Army Contact, Right.” That grey camoflauge doesn’t do them ANY good.
“Rodg.” Williams starts the van. “We’re going to go up the road a bit and turn around, give them a few minutes to set up a roadblock.”
I nod, and put my cover over my eyes again. We’ll probably have to wait another thirty minutes.
Twenty minutes later the radio wakes me. Mexican music, apparently I can’t even escape this shit when I leave New Mexico. A blast of Spanish hits my ears and I wince. The “operational situation” (what we pretend is going on) is thus. The country of Polomia, a Spanish speaking culture apparently, has the unfortunate problem of being a haven for terrorists, known as “Fuegans”, after their leader, “El Fuego.” The U.S. Army has entered the country and is attempting to root out the Fuegans.
Our van is supposed to be a Polomian van that will be searched by the Army. We’re not supposed to give them any trouble. Williams and I agreed that that was too easy for the Army, so before they arrived we punched two guys out into the woods. These guys are going to be “Fuegans” who attack at an opportune moment. Right now our van is rolling down the apparently empty road where the army roadblock is supposed to be. Just as I wonder if they overshot their objective a figure in Kevlar steps into the road with an M-16 in one hand and the other hand raised. Suddenly a dozen figures raise up from the field next to us.
Right where I expected them to be. Still, their coordination is impressive.
“Stop! You are surrounded!” In English. Our country speaks Spanish holmes.
Williams stops the van anyway. “Step out of the vehicle!” Again with the English.
Larry and I bust out a horrible mutilation of what we think Spanish sounds like while getting out of the vehicle. We’ve still got our M-16’s, slung though they are. Apparently the Army wasn’t prepared for this.
“They’re armed!” Their point man screams back at whoever’s running this clusterfuck.
“No shit.” Larry mumbles to me, “Our country is plagued by terrorists, there’s no fucking way I’m running around NOT armed.” He smiles a shit eating grin at the point man. “America good!”
“I love America!” I add, then, for effect, “George Bush good!”
Williams is getting in on the act, trying to speak genuine Spanish to the guys in the field next to us.
“Put you weapons on the ground.” This fucker’s been inching closer every second, I wonder if he’s just stupid or has a death wish.
“Or… Not…” I’ve switched over to English because I’ve run out of Spanish swearwords, kept the filthy Mexican accent though.
“Oh you speak English now.”
“Studied in America. George Bush good!”
“He’s not even the President anymore dude. Drop your weapons.”
I glance over to Williams, I’m taking my ques from him. He shakes his head slightly. “No! You no take our weapons!”
“If I can’t take your weapons, at least take your magazines out!”
I consider. Our weapons are at Con 1, they’ve got a bullet in the chamber. We could still kill someone with that one bullet. Williams nods.
“Okay America, we do your way.”
Just then one of the army kids, a girl screams, “Movement in the trees!”
All that hard work putting the guy in front of me at ease, and all of a sudden he’s on his guard. Our guys in the brush, realizing they’ve been made, open fire.
The Army flips a shit. We, pretending to be surprised and scared locals, flip a shit. Larry screams like a girl and starts crawling on top of the Army point man. I hit the deck and start crawling behind the van. Williams grabs one of the guys that got too close to him and starts pawing at him, screaming, in Spanish, ‘save me America!”
The Army has no idea what to do, three of their guys try and engage the ‘Fuegans’ in the trees, while the rest of them start shouting conflicting orders. Someone loud and seemingly in charge orders us and the point guy behind the van. Larry is still doing his little bitch act, which I watch with amusement.
Five minutes later it’s all over, the ‘Fuegans’ have broken contact, and the Army finally gets around to searching our van.
We then drive off. As we exit stage left Larry shows me the canteen he stole from the Army point man while he was crawling all over him.
I almost die from laughter. As the army fades in the distance, and we move off to our next scenario, the ambush, Williams says: “Larry, you make a better Mexican than a black dude.”
Other things happened this weekend. It would take me a good twenty pages to go through all of them, I’m at ten already. I’m going to cut it off here and anyone who wants to know more should just ask me. Do know this: We had to move the ambush site twice so the Army could find us, and then the Army almost started a forest fire, which we then had to put out. Oh yeah, and we got into a car accident on the way back, and didn’t get home until about four hours after we were supposed to be. And it’s all the Army’s fault.
In conclusion. Fuck the Army.
That is all.
-Doug
“If Marines could get what they needed when they needed it we would be happy and wouldn't ready to kill people all of the time. The Marine Corps is like America's Pitbull. They beat us, mistreat us and every once in awhile, they let us out to attack someone.” –Cpl. Josh Ray Person, “Generation Kill”

Meghan: rather

Would you rather

Kill or create

Eat or be eaten

Live or die

Be

Blind or crippled

Beautiful or ugly

Rich or poor

Smart or stupid

It might not be what you first thought

What you first wanted

Can change

Because change is the one thing you can never

-M

That guy "I LIKE TO CALL IT LOST WAGES!!!!!!!!!!!!"

To call it day two for me would be a lie. It was, simply, a continuation of day one. This will be told from the view that I remember. Which I’m surprised is anything.

We pulled in from the strip, and after settling for a little while, Doug and the girls decide to crash. This is totally understandable, being that it’s about 2:30 in the morning. I make my way to my couch. I plug my headphones in, and the outside sounds disappear. But sleep is denied to me. A quarter gallon of Red Bull will do that to you. Eventually, about 2 hours later, I restart my sleepy-time playlist once more, and drift into nothing.

6:00 am
My subconscious rumbles as motion fills the room. I jolt awake, ready for anything. It’s just our host family starting more wedding preperations. This brings my total of sleep to 4.5 hours since before driving out. The groggy agony settles quickly. We have work to do.

I change from the casual clothes that I have to the super casual. It’s too early for me to function like this, so I slap shoes on my feet, and take off. It’s not even fully light outside yet, but it’s still hot. And I love it. I run for a while. It balances out. I’ve been sick for a while, but the elevation is lower. So I go uphill. It’s tasty. I run to the top of the hill, turn around, and turn into the wrong apartment complex. Luckily, I realize this before I get too far in there.

I make my way back to my couch, which has been conquered by the forces of weddings to come, so I snag a computer chair. Naturally, with a computer in front of me, I am bound to get on the internet. After making sure that everyone in the universe knows that I like to call it lost wages, and a few other random surfing things, the day must go on. I commit myself to helping out with the wedding, but I get distracted. I somehow have grown a tumor in the shape of a child. He insists on doing things. I find a basketball and head out to the court.

Now, I got pretty fucking good at basketball in Utah. I practiced almost every day, and just about everyone there was a million times better, so I picked up real quick. My goal was to come back and shit on Jarrod’s life in HORSE.

It turns out that not playing every day for a year, or at all for that matter, makes you kinda suck. Plus, the ball was flat. I set it on my plan list to get some ball needles later, because I had my bike pump in my backpack.

I went back inside, and ate the most adorable bowl of Cap’n Crump ever. By this time, Jasmine is up. Somehow, I’ve been designated chauffer for the everything. My mission now is to take people to the chapel. And then the mall. And then the apartment. And then the chapel. And then the mall. And then the chapel.

Or something. But it turns out that I forgot a step. And our hostess’ mother was left at the apartment. But it all worked out.

And so started my day.

I dropped the girls off at the mall to get hair done and such, and then went back to the chapel. Apparently, someone left a makeup bag there. When I arrive at the chapel, I am informed that Jason, our host, has already been informed, and has already left to take the makeup bag to the mall.

I’m in the clear. With nothing to do at the moment, and really no idea where I am, I head back to the one of two places I can navigate to from the chapel. The mall. My goal is to find an arcade and play some DDR, or shoot shit for a while, until I’m given orders again. I wander hopelessly until I find a map, and am not shown any kind of video amusement. Seriously. They have slot machines in their fucking toilets, but they can’t have an arcade in their mall. I consider my options. A sporting goods store sign catches my eye. I head over, because they have plenty of things to smash other things with, so I like those stores. During my wandering, I realize I could get myself those basketball needles while I’m in the store. So I do, and I leave. I plan to hit the food court next, so I examine the map again.

I realize, I’ve never seen people getting their hair done, so I check the map for hair places. There’s too many, so I just call Jasmine and ask where they are. It’s relatively on the track I was going, so I continue towards the salon, passing through the food court, but not really seeing anything until I come across a little place I love so much. As Brody said in Mallrats, “It’s an autonomous eating unit.”

Ben and Jerry’s rules. It’s delicious, air conditioned, and colorful. The one I stopped in also happened to be staffed by an attractive girl. Time to put Abe-mode into overdrive.


An hour later my phone starts buzzing. Apparently I forgot to take grandma to the chapel. The universe is now falling apart. The mood has been shattered. I take my leave, and meet up with Jason, who is in a PISS poor mood, because of our dear friend Jessica. Apparently, she’s a snobbish, up stuck prick, with delusions of grandeur, and an Elektra complex towards Margaret. Some very, VERY hurtful things were said. Jason vents to me for twenty minutes. The only thing that keeps me from walking into the hair salon and making Jess deepthroat a curling iron is the fact that I have suddenly been charged with keeping the world together. I now have grocery shopping to do. I now have other kinds of shopping to do. And I have to haul things from the mall, to the apartment, to the chapel, to the apartment, to the chapel, and sometime inbetween this find time to take a shower, clean up, and go to a wedding.

I become very familiar with Vegas in the next few hours. Luckily, everything gets taken care of until the last second. We need speakers to hook up to Margaret’s Ipod to play music for the wedding. One final trip with Doug at my side, and we charge through it.

And now it’s wedding time.


Everyone’s tensions are gone. It’s a fascinating feeling. Everyone’s been to a wedding before. But this was the first wedding where I’ve actually been intimate with someone who’s getting married. The service was small, short and beautiful. The after reception was also very pleasant. Low key. Everything went off without a hitch. Cleanup was long, but a decent change of pace, knowing that there was no time limit. Doug and I went on a laser mission for a balloon.

The sun started to fade as we finished. It was a beautiful spectacle. Eventually, we made our way back to the apartment. I was lead to believe the plan was to go see a movie or something. I decided to play a little ball, use the internet and just kick it in general. I took a shower too. Somewhere in there. About 10pm, I took a nap. A shitty, overheated nap. Total count, 5.5 hours of sleep. At 11, we piled into cars, and charged over to In-n-Out. Double-doubles for the win. They were delicious. And with that, we made our way back to the apartment one last time. I gathered my gear together, and departed.

You guys can have the last part. My drive back is going to be a separate entity.





HE COMES!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Vegas: Day 1

Let me state this first for the record. Clear memory eludes me on many of these events. However, I'm relatively sure that what I'm about to relate is true. Sit back and enjoy the ride.


Las Vegas: Where Intelligence Goes To Die.


The first thing I notice about Las Vegas is the air. You can sense the air in a place. Like when you walk into a mourgue, or a carnival, or a sweaty locker room, or a brothel. Las Vegas is a mixture of all. Not the scent. The scent is hot desert. Not like home, but recognizable to anyone who's spent any time in the southwest. No, Vegas has what I can only describe to be an atmosphere. Completely different from anything else I've ever expirienced, and not pleasant.


I'm here for Margaret's wedding. An excellent side benifit of this is that I get to see Meghan, Jasmine, and Abe, three of the people I like best in this world or any other. But I'm primarily here to watch Margaret bind herself to some random dude I've never met before. Nick Allen.


They met over WOW (World of Warcraft). I remember this fact as I step off the airplane and it brings a faint smile to my lips which almost immediately dies at the sight in front of me.


Mccairn International airport must be the antechamber of Hell. I'd been there before, but it was a transfer flight, and I'd never had to leave the terminal, a fact I'd been grateful for.


There are slot machines in the AIRPORT for Christ's sake. Not only are these electronic misery boxes programmed to take your money at an unprecedented rate, they are always adorned with some form of too bright, too loud, too irritating decorations. I only spare them a glance, but my brain still tries to interpret the flashing into some kind of data, and all I get out of the attention is a slight ache in my prefrontal cortex.


A vauge urge to do violence to anyone and everyone around me starts tickling at the back of my brain.


And there are SO MANY people. I've never seen an airport this crowded. Vegas seemingly only has two kinds of people. Overweight greaseballs that shockingly don't combust in the miserable heat, and too pretty, too perfect almost doll imitations of humanity, that stumble around on high heels, constantly vaugely inebriated.


It's early. I'm trying to maintain a neutral demeanor, but an increasingly large part of my subconcious is screaming at me to start setting fires and cleanse this place.


I am greeted at the baggage claim by my girls and not even the incessant slot machine flashing and press of humanity can dampen this moment. Meghan jumps me, forcing me to catch her and kiss her before I can get a good look at the new red hair. I had been dubious before, after she sent me a picture that made it look like she'd taken a bath in blood, but it's faded to the point where it looks good.


I set her down and Jas comes up behind her to kiss me as well. She gives me that look she always has when she hasn't seen me in a while. I can't read it, and I don't understand it, something between 'I can't belive I'm emotional about this' and 'kiss me now before I combust.'


I'll never understand women, but I'll always like them.


After greetings, we wait for half an hour while Vegas airport hides my bag and I have to go hunting for it. A very polite but harried looking airport worker produces it as if by magic and we make our way to our hosts place.


It is locked, and we get to stand out in the sun while Margaret drives over and unlocks it. It is the first time in about a year and a half that I've seen Margaret, and I greet her with a big hug. Unfortunately, accompanying her is Jessica Allen, future in-law and designated problem causer for the weekend. She eyes me with a combination of critical evaluation and hunger which makes me vaugely nervous. I make sure to kiss my girls in front of her.


Margaret is supposed to be at a batchlorette party, which I'm not invited to. Meghan and Jasmine head out with Margaret and Jess, promising to return soon. (they don't want to go, seeing as it's a Mormon party, and therefor not fun.)


I amuse myself by checking out Jason and Joleea's apartment. The place is a disaster area, with wedding shit and clothes strewn about with wild abandon. There are kids toys and tiny beds in one room. The beds are just materesses on the floor, and my heartstrings tug a little. Spider Man, Marvel Bumblebee and all kinds of other heroes adorn the wall. I can't help but form a preliminary, and probably biased opinion, that these people really can't afford to house us. The pictures scattered about the house are primarily wedding oriented, leading me to believe that the marraige between Joleea and Jason can't have happened too long ago.


Despite the decrepitness of the apartment, when I return to the front room I am dazzled by details that escaped me earlier. A large tv is set, recessed into an entertainment center, two large computers sit off to the left, in addtion to the computer I noticed on the way in. Why anyone would need this many computers in one small area escapes me, but in my bewilderment I also notice an Xbox 360 and Gamecube. All in all I'm looking at several thousand dollars worth of electronic equipment, most of it shiney new, that seems out of place with the disaster around me.

Pondering this, I realize that I've got the fever for some exercise. I immediately toss out the idea of a short run, having only brought combat boots and dress shoes. I would have run in the boots, except for the fact I also only brought jeans... and it was approaching one hundred degrees outside. I have a policy, never run in temperatures higher than normal body temperature.

So I glanced around the apartment, looking for a free patch of floor. This proved to be some feat, and I actually had to move some stuff so that I could lie down and do push ups. A sweaty thirty minutes later, I was bored, and tired. The plane ride had caught up with me. I moved the room Jasmine, Meghan and I were sleeping in, and hit the rack hard.

Some hours later, I wake up to another presence moving just behind me. Groggily, I recognize Jasmine, it's then that I hear the loud, shrill voice, not quite yelling, but almost.

Joleea is apparently what happens to a dancer after thier thyroid gland goes on the fritz. Large is a generous way to describe her. She's also really nice, and greets me with a smile and a handshake. Whatever else she flips out on this weekend, the wedding, Margaret, the Allen family, she is always the best of hostesses to us. She's currently flipping a shit over the wedding decorations and food. I immidiately volunteer myself as heavy labor, and glare at Meghan and Jasmine until Meghan offers her car as a vehicle. This significantly increases everyone's options, and various errands are run until about six in the evening.

Pre wedding dinner at The Cheesecake Factory. Abe arrives just before we shove off and we bear hug. Damage and Control are together again. Everyone's mental soundtrack starts playing "The Boys are Back in Town". We all roll out to the Cheesecake Factory. Abe and I bond in his shiney new van that his parents gave to him for his birthday. I glance at the odometer. Something like 90 thousand miles glare back at me, massive numbers with bleeding eyes. I wait for the radio to blast death metal and for an unearthly voice to scream 'ZALGO!!!!'. I am slightly disappointed when it doesn't happen.

At the resturaunt, Abe and I introduce ourself to our Host, Jason. It is the only introduction done the entire night. Margaret is wearing a "Bride to be" ribbon and a harassed look, and just sort of yanks Nick over and when we ask to meet him. The ENTIRE Allen family is there, and any married female capable of reproduction is either holding a baby in her hands or swelled with the lump of pregnancy. I want to tell Margaret that I've seen her future, but decide against it for no logical reason.

The Non-Allens, namely Jason, Joleea, Abe, Jas, Meghan, and Myself, all react differently to the animals that are the disapproving Mormons. Jasone and Joleea try to insinuate themselves into the pack, but the Allens huddle like wildebeasts circling up. Abe and I try that for a total of ten seconds. After that we both agree that these people are not worth knowing and go back to talking shit about anything and everything that pops into our heads. Meghan and Jasmine join us after a few minutes of conversation with Margaret, who seems to be atomically bonded with Nick. I vaugely wonder if the ring on her finger will kill her if she gets outside of a mile radius.

That would be kind of cool.

Margaret eventually does find her way over to the bench that we're sitting on, sans Nick, who I think is intimidated by Abe and I, who are both taller, better looking, and cooler than he is. Never mind the fact that he's 23, he looks like he's sixteen, the age of Margaret's last boyfriend. That's a funny story for another time. Ha. Firecrotch.

She's immediately inundated with hugs, cheers, and the occasional grope. ( Margaret has fantastic boobs, the way you think of free money as awesome) We love Margaret, we wouldn't be here if we didn't. She's bombarded with questions, some rather personal in nature, until Jess Allen walks up and jabs me in the ribs.

I know Jess from high school, she was okay back then. The years have turned her into a flaming sociopath the likes of which I have rarely seen before. Jess, probably because she's 20, single, and Mormon, flirts with anything with a penis and a pulse, the pulse probably isn't all that necessary. She must be have been catching shit from her prophet for not getting married and pumping out babies already, because she was working it as hard as she could. I am apparently her target for the night, and this would be funny if it wasn't so tragic.

Jess, either of my girls is worth a million of you. You never had a chance.

Nevertheless, she continued to try and get my attention over the course of the evening, her pokes and jabs getting more and more violent the more and more I ignored her.

Dinner was super boring, and kind of awkward. We were seated across from Nick's brother, who's supposed to be in the Army, but he was really quiet. Too bad, I was looking forward to talking shop.

After dinner was The Strip. After recieving some suggestions from Jason, we headed out with no plan, no knowledge, and no idea what we were doing. Parking is a bitch. The MGM Grand has a massive parking complex which we somehow found. We then made our way into the casino proper.

The MGM Grand is exactly what I expected out of a casino. Close, claustraphobic corridoors, flashing lights that give you a headache, small entrances and exits... I feel dirty just being in here. The girls and Abe seem fascinated by the flashing lights and signs and sounds. Abe keeps muttering "lost wages" under his breath, which I find vaugely appropriate. Meghan and Jasmine keep touching each other, either for support, or just because they like it. i want to join in, but also want keep on my guard. I don't trust this city.

Since we can't gamble, I assume we're just here for the sights, but somone mentions a strip club, and all hell breaks loose. I've done my homework on this particular topic, guessing that it would come up. Nevada state law is retarded. Apparently, any establishment that serves alcohol can only admit people 21 and over. Also, according to state law, any establishment that serves alcohol cannot be a fully nude club. Therefore, if you want to get drunk and look at naked women, you have to settle for only boobies. Conversely, if you're too young to drink, but old enough to go to a titty bar, you get treated to the fully nude show.

Insanity.

I don't try all that hard to discourage my erstwhile companions, but nor am I particularly enthusiastic about the idea. I don't need to pay for the company of beautiful women, and I find the concept of doing so to be counterproductive. No stripper will ever love you.

Still, my companions seem determined. Abe asks information people while Jasmine and Meghan try an oxygen bar. The oxygen bar seems to be a waste of money, but the device introduced by the sketchy looking salesman is fascinating. It is a pair of pads that runs what I can only guess is an electric current through the muscles in your body, simulating a massage. It was a great distraction for a few minutes. We wandered up and then back down the strip, dazzled by the lights and sounds. Abe took a picture with an Elvis impersonator, and I resisted the urge to shout in his face "I AM THE KING!!!"

We were going to that strip club. But after taking a quick tour of the Bellagio we all decided we were too beat to do shit. We made our way back our hosts, and crashed almost immediately. Tomorrow was the wedding.

"I LIKE TO CALL IT LOST WAGES!!!!"

Abe, upon arrival to the strip.

This is part one. Someone else should take this weekend and tell the next day.

Jasmine: Issa's in town

We were lying on his bed when the news came. His hand traced a line from the edge of my eyebrow to the tip of my chin. He tipped my chin up and pressed his lips against mine. I reached a hand up to grasp the hair at the base of his neck and pulled him down for a deeper kiss. He rolled me underneath him, hands sliding down my body caressing the bare skin where my shirt had lifted up from my pants. His lips pulled away from my mouth as he made his way to that strip of skin. Almost there his nostrils flared a second later she knocked.

He opened the door on one of the more beautiful people I have ever seen. She stood just under six feet, a little shorter than Daniel, but tall enough to look him in the eye. There was the barest swelling of hips and breasts that left her figure long and elegantly thin. Muscle twitched nervously beneath soft flawless tanned skin, it was the same all over brown that Daniel was covered with. She had the same dark brown hair that he had, only longer, it fell to her waist flowing in waves like a thing alive. There was an overall familiarly wild quality to her presence and I knew in an instant that she was like Daniel, that she was a wolf.

She strode forward through the doorway without invitation, embracing him and placing her lips against his cheek. His arms went around her holding her tightly. A wave of jealousy like fire began to spread from my eyes filling my head and my entire body with its heat. This woman, this gorgeous woman and Daniel. Who was she and why was she here? As they held each other there in the doorway my jealousy rose to fury. What had come over me? Why was I so possessive? He could hug another girl, even if she was immortally beautiful and also probably his ex of some kind. They were probably destined to mate for life or something.

“Brother.”

“Sister.”

Maybe not. I do over react...occasionally.

They broke apart and no longer blinded by a noxious cloud of stupidity, sometimes known as jealousy, I could see some of the anxious worry on her face.

“Carrie this is my sister Issa. Issa this is my girlfriend Carrie.”

I almost stood up to shake her hand or hug my lover’s sister, but Issa’s eyes narrowed a little at me. And I stayed where I was. It was a little disappointing that the first family member of his I met seemed so hostile towards me. But since I was plotting how to best maneuver a werewolf out a third story window only moments before I could cut the girl a break. But I won’t pretend that her gaze didn’t hurt. It was as if she was trying to figure out what it was that Daniel saw in a mere mortal. I shrugged at her. I didn’t know either.

“Issa, what’s the matter? Why have you come?” Daniel ignored her behavior as if it were normal. Maybe it was.

Issa was now pacing back and forth in the small dorm room. Daniel moved back to the bed with me to give her an extra couple square feet to angrily stomp on. Dorms really are small.

“I never understood why you wanted to go to college much less why you wanted to live on campus. Mom wanted you to stay home and when you said no they offered to get you an apartment near here. But you turned that down too.” She was stalling for something. But what?

“Issa, we try to live apart from humans, but it’s not possible to keep doing so. We need to learn as a group how to assimilate ourselves into their world. But you did not come here just to restart an old argument. Issa why are you here?”

Suddenly her full attention was on me. The full weight of a wolf’s stare was on my frail human body. She’d been staring at me ever since he’d used the word human. I was getting the feeling that he hadn’t told his family that I knew anything about them. I wondered if they knew anything about me. Like the fact that I existed at all.

“Issa you in there?” Daniel stood up walking closer to his sister.

Her head snapped up to face him and there was a surprised shock mingled with a little horror and disgust. I thought that was a bit much. Sure I was human. But I wasn’t all that disgusting.

“Issa what?”

“It’s forbidden.” Of course it was. Daniel and I were going to have a serious talk when she got out of here.

“It’s stupid.” That’s my boy.

“The elders will flay you for this.”

Daniel’s hands convulsed unconsciously, and he backed up against his desk letting her words drive him to the side of the room. “Issa why are you here?”

She shook herself as if trying to reorient her thoughts. Her face became very sad and then very angry at something. “Joseph has made his move.”

Daniel struggled for air and the hand gripping his desk left indentations in the wood. “He’s gone isn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s gone.” she was silent for a moment. “The girl will hurt your claim.” She said quietly.

“I have no claim, and neither does Joseph. All I have to do is beat him. I can beat him.”

“He’s a lot stronger now than when you were boys.”

“I can beat him.”

Meghan: Doll

“This one.”

“Ah, excellent choice sir, this is one of the newer models, extremely realistic appearance and life-simulations, you’ll be very pleased.”

“Yes she is very lifelike.”

A hand twirls silky blonde strands

“Even the hair, you can feel, is exactly the same.”

“Not exactly.”

A little defensive, “Well, no of course not, but it’s very close.”

Rubbing a hand across his face, “When can I take it home?”

“We can deliver her to your house later today if you wish..”

He picks up a hat from the table scattered with recently signed documents, “Then please drop her off later.”

A little caught up by the abruptness of the other’s manner, “Sir, surely you’d like to meet her first.”

Mouth twists, “Meet her?”

“Yes, turn her on?”

Glancing briefly from his purchase to the door, his need to flee can almost be tasted in the air, “No, I’d rather not. She’s for my wife, I have nothing to do with the thing.” Grinding, clearing of his throat, “Just bring it, and send me the bill.”

Hurriedly, practically running, he jams on his hat and strides out the door.

He sighed almost as heavily as the man who had run out of the room and stroked the cheek of what he had sold.

“You will help him, won’t you darling?” he whispered in her ear

She, of course, said nothing. Long eyelashes painted fans on her cheeks and her mouth was smooth and stern in unconsciousness.

He smoothed a lock of hair behind one of her ears and tugged a bit of lace from her dress into place. His fingers slipped down her back to stroke a switch that lay in the middle of her spine, barely touchable through the fabric.

Lips against her hair, fingers hovering; for a second he thought he heard her heart flutter against his chest. Whispered, “You have no idea how much I wish I could.” He withdrew his tempted digits, “But you can’t be mine, at least not yet.”

Her thoughts

Fell

Like drops of water

Rain

on a parched desert in hell

but every once in a while, they rushed

ran, like a river

overflowing, swelling her streams until

pools became oceans, and thoughts became thinking

she had to get out, out of this prison that was her mind

swimming through the dark until some great teethed thing came to swallow her

until she would do anything

to get out

-Meghan