CHAPTER 1
ANGELIC
"OTHER SIDE, BLOODY-TURD LEG," THE BLACK-HAT airborne instructor yells at the Lieutenant, "Take charge, nobody else does."
"Take charge, Schultz," the Lieutenant says to himself. Sumn done day-in, day-out, no matter the place or mess.
"Take charge! Make sure you keep on a side and get rid ... eye infect ..," he blinks at his clock with the on-going worry, that his troops gathered already, "5:16, you've gone more ... Days with nix sleep, leg."
she whispers into his ear while he drowses.
"Don't leg, all you do is make yourself worse. Get your cute leg ass down, and go after Beijing!," the settled consciousness vanishes, and gives room to a drum roll of horrid spirits, "So you think you got it bad, huh leg. You got it easy since you're a stick leader, and a high-class infantry offsir. I even seen you with a shotgun Hemingway book at the chow hall, before a few pushups. If you think he ends sad, you hadn't worked yet, come here Sergeant."
"Sergeant ... Sergeant?! Come look here," the black-hat instructor screams in delight, as he gets others to gather.
"See them? Kiss some more earth, leg," loudly drawls the black-hat, inches from the Lieutenant's face, once Schultz recovers from pushups.
"Wait ain't those air assault wings on your garb, Schultz?," the black-hat screams while he notes in humor, the hard earned badge on the Lieutenant's chest.
"And ain't it so cute, Sarnt? ... Precious on him. I noted that pop-top, on sweet's garb back in ground week," yet one more black-hat chimes in, to scream at the week old wing sight.
she erotically exclaims, to signal fruition.
"So because you're a offsir, who slides down ropes out of choppers, you're better, huh leg. All I can say is you ain't seen a damn thing yet, leg on a rope."
"You're sorry? All of us could have told you that, non-airborne turd," the black-hat states in eloquence, "It looks like you want to be down here, all damn day, huh dope on a rope."
"I didn't say you could get up yet," the black-hat screams, ready to make Schultz roll over to begin a leg-lift routine, "'Member that car wreck, hung out to dry leg?"
"Hurts doen't it? Good, if not you would swim somewhere too," the black-hat tries to show crux of sumn, other than a Parachute Landing Fall and pushups.
"I sure in hell won't be here six damn months, but I'll try more to put you in nuther li'l coma ... And I'll lean down to tell you this in your real cute speak. Damn, you gotta perty mouth."
"We'll be back just for your dear li'l roped dope ass," the black-hat whines.
"Wake-up, we're almost there," Carl leans over, as he keeps his eyes on the road to smell her fragrance.
she angelically murmurs in response to Carl's statement.
"Is this a trick question?," Carl responds in jest.
more awake than Carl realizes, she tests his faculty on this rural drive.
"Sh ... scuse me, I had to say that. I think the dern espresso crashes," Carl admits to be tired, since he just got back from his field duty, a few hours before.
she says, after the mere glance through the windshield.
"Prob ... heck, I'll stop here and knock it out," Carl answers, with the satirical delve into semantics.
she says sensuously, as she giggles a tone that challenges.
"Well, that depends on you, I guess," Carl says, as he thinks wholly that most depends on her, at this point.
she asks with a subject change, while she keeps a smile.
"We've got a few minutes before we pass the Tennessee line, about a hundred k. s, then forty or so after that," Carl says just as he realizes, that things should be in miles rather than kilometers.
she questions, as she puts him in a trance rather than proclaiming, that he is early.
"Je croit que c'est la guerre froide, but once you see and smell a sunrise on the mountains, I think you'll understand," he thinks that he talks of the cold war properly, in French.
she says, that causes him to stare at the pure magnificence.
Looking up with a smile, she peeks thru the shattered windshield again, which is now in the direction of road side, as a wailing German Polizei auto-sedan blips around the curve. While the rain fades, the police and hearse finally see remnants of a car and corpse in the woods. She flutters away, and leaves him to flounder in his chagrin.
CHAPTER 2BITTER GRUNT
IT'S NOT PLAIN, 'CAUSE I DO BUT DON'T WAKE IN TRACES and spots. All real weird, since all's changed. It might be slow, since it's a dream and not real. The drawl the nurses don't got's odd.
Where did these Deutsche types get all this English? I feel drunk, I could run, and why can't I speak? This pretty lady pushes my hand across a board. Oh, how I would like parlay with her.
Then past starts its form in blips. And with it now not passed, it brings hurts of loss. It's bad, 'cause only feelings of pain blip-in at times. Clicking and clinking on a rusty chain with sulfur stinks, chocolate tastes or coffee smells, and Mozart music. Still this pain won't leave all the way.
Recalls do and don't come back, but I still love my work, platoon, and satisfy of their work, twang steel smooth. Though I recall alot, I can't do it with no help. Both the hide and here pains keep their flash like they want sumn, but easy struggle to tie-up more. It hurts, since you think you got good recalls, but they won't come back without help. After the battle in my long sleep, I wake to a bigger battle, that might keep-on for the rest of my life.
Thus I rehab, and maybe liveth, while laid-upeth with the angel Gabriel job, of the watch for evil ones. But what's thus more real's this rain, and no sleep, smiteth they.
Once all the leaders foot look-sees are thru, the wet Lieutenant along with his group come back, so that Lieutenant can give his warrior god plan, or wherever below Hell it comes from. All I for sure catches, one of them foot operates. We'll see I guess.
Meaning my wet Squad Leader, and power hung team leader, are still gone from my hole right now. This a mite bad, 'cause I put crown stuff, that keeps hot steel and cold wet, from its fall in my fight hole. And his butt wants to move. It irks me, 'cause kill by foot's not what I got in the Army for. That man stuff's for them hide crap jumpers.
If we ease out on more foot patrols 'yond this, I'll upchuck. Mechanized was in my mind, when I came to the lord's aid. Heck, it's tons better to roll on fields with tanks, not the fret of Sirgay Newgwin's grenade hump, so nasty grin rail-up out of a mud hole. But it's Louie who nasty grins now, and says self-disciple's crap like, "if you square yourself to yonder, here'll be good to go."
He tells, that's why we do this Rambo crap. My soul tells I leave a worry, like that to ken and friends. Just like I leave the heavy gear tote croak, and no wash-off for weeks, to them real men.
'Cept for maybe caged-up in a tank, I ought got in the Calvary. Then I'll not bother on foot, all the time. It's near like the Louie thinks, that us real troops, ought to two-step and crap hide, all times we wear these hard hats. 'Sides the Calvary, I ought got in the Armor or Field Arty. Then once more I would roll in tanks, or sit still to boom kill-crash metal on the other side. Then I don't got the worry with the lug of Newgwin, and this squad automatic weapon. This god awful SAW's ole Louie's true love, if he doen't cream in his britches upon the site of M-Sixties, or Fifty-caliber M2 big guns.
CHAPTER 3
WHERE TIS NOT
ALL THINGS AREN'T A DREAM, AND I CAN'T MOVE GOOD. It's almost a nightmare, 'cause I gotta see a Tell Taler Poe tic-toc-tic-toc. I stare it at for long times on the wall across the room. It's gunna talk or sumn.
Its red time twig don't tic-tic-toc neither, it just hums and goes around and around smooth. Endless with no trace like a sunup, since it comes-on so slow and quiet.
I don't know it's there, until it's passed over already, and on the wait to come back.
Out there, life and no sunup brings long buzz light things, that limp out folks dressed in white. It snatches, drools, and laughs at fool parts, then spits-up. The hard spit drawl folks say they're nurses. Where did those sig hell folks, who got fewer blue eyes and blonde heads than folks think, go?
I feel drunk, I could run, and why can't I speak? This pretty lady pushes my hand across a board, and asks me preschool junk.
Does, besides dids, are fluffy feels with spikes hid in their white puffs. They roll with stickers on them, or swim like a sharp tooth eels, and come here in blips and blurs. For sure the spike eels keep up, with the brings of loss, turn into oily gooey hurt, that helps it slip and slide into all cracks and breaks, and feels to make pain.
Try's all I can do, when I look to stuff, that takes me here all at once. Then you hear different, as some folks say they're just folks, who dodge so miss, so damn smart, make it easy on their own-selves, and act like you're a re'tard. 'Cause you can't talk right anymore, and other folks who won't see how much, it takes to stay live. They say, that they feel a river flows in you. How did facts get covered up, by how somebody feels.
"I say, that I know some creeks flow around here for the most part. The bigger Sawashee goes near. The Chunky river don't count, 'cause I know that, and they ought to know where it's at, or where tis. It ain't de damn Nile, since nobody but the Choctaws or Sawashee Creeks live around here back then.
They never built no damn bone stone houses, with spring spike trap teepees. No slime green likes, with bad breath, or turd brown glowy see-thru treasures, with echo babe moans. But these smart-ass brain folks still say, that the Nile stays in me. If I be outright about my pain, it's gonna hurt worse. Just realize it's there. Recall that we don't live in Lower Lousiana, Lower Alabama, or France. It's the Nile, not De Nile.
Recalls do and don't come back, but I still love my work, my troops, and the fulfill by our work twang steel smooth. Now I want to do alot, but I can't get good feels by myself, since something put my brain on the rifle shoot range. Not to be shot at, with the usual ready on the right, ready on the left, ready downrange. I wish to be zeroed to know where things at, so you can be more accurate adjusting the sights. I'll shoot straighter when I live-shoot, which is all the time.
The zero don't get rid the hide and here pain, and they still keep their flash, like they want something. Then they squirm to tie-up themselves, and give hurt thinks. I don't think feel, just spike feel, when my eyes aren't shut. But the recalls won't come back with no help, so it's a all out war, that started slow, and might keep-on for good.
Now I try to get good and maybe live more, like the real shoot angel Gabe, who's got ready in all ranges, and watches for evil ones. What's thus more real is this damn rain, and no sleep, smite they. When all the leaders foot look-sees are done, they come-on back, so that L.T. can give his warrior god plan, or wherever its comes from. All I for sure catch is a damn foot operate, so we'll see I guess. But my wet Squad Leader, and sweet ass power hung team leader, who always tells me, that all the stuff is still gone from my hole right now.
This' a mite bad, 'cause I put stuff like a rooftop over my head, that keeps more rain and stuff, from its fall in my fight hole, and his butt wants to move. If we don't move, he tells us to dig dig dig that irks me, 'cause it's a time waste. And to kill as we walk near our A.P.C.'s, not what I got in the army for, since metal can stop bullets and crap, more than dirt. That ditch digging stuff's for them hide crap jumpers, singing gory gory whata helluva way to die, while their guts hang from their troop suits and jock straps or risers or something. That just tells moi, if we ease out on more foot patrols yond this, I'll upchuck.
Ought to get some of that mister roboto tusk coffee sirup from the medic, since it puts sum of us good troops on a cloud. But watch it, since one grunt tried too much at once not too long ago, and all he got was a huffaw out of Ptoon Sarnt and Squad Leader. Before he blows chow all places, 'cause he does sit-ups and leg-lifts and pushups after force fed karo sirup, that Ptoon Sarnt brung by some damn fortune telling hoodoo, in his track. Now upchucker come off that doped-up robo, and is on top his A.P.C. in the snow, and can't get in it for a doze til we get back to post. All 'cause his Squad Leader got all scared, that upchuckist mite blow chow all over the damn place, in it.
What's funny is what'll go on, when we put all our tracks and stuff, back on the train. Hell, Ptoon Sarnt might make his ass ride, outside with the tracks, not even with the cargo.
Since we got cargo here in he woods, I just wait on the day as the L.T. and Ptoon Sarnt smile. Us Mechanized troops will get stuck, with the hump of all our cargo on our backs, for miles and miles. Just to show us that it's tons better, when we roll on fields with tanks. With no fret of Sirgay Newgwin's haul and nasty grin rail-up, out a mud hole. But it's L.T. who nasty grins now, and says self-disciples crap like, if you square way to yonder here's good to go.
He tells, that's why we do this Rambo crap, but my soul tells I leave, that worry to ken and friends. Just like I leave the big gear tote croak, and no wash-off for weeks, to them real men. 'Cept for caged-up in a tank, I ought got in the Calvary, then I won't bother on foot all the time. For it's near like L.T. thinks, us real troops ought to two-step and crap hide, all times that we wear these hard hats.
"'Sides the Calvary, I ought got in the Armor or Field Arty, then once more I roll in tanks, or sit still to boom kill-crash metal, on the other side. So I'll not get the Newgwin mind bother, 'long with his R.P.G., spike holes, and this squad automatic weapon, that's L.T.'s true love, if he don't cream in his britches, on the site of M-Sixties or Fifty-caliber big guns.
CHAPTER 4
ELVIS LIVES
QUICK AND DRUG LIKE WITH A DEEP DRUM BEAT, THE delusions Franz Kaufman and his amazon rat pal Micky, try to save the day. Not keeping this fancy show sexist, just Freudian, a lady in drawn-up britches and Chucky high-tops, comes up. She starts a hippie two-step, like she's got alot of on lookers.
While she shudder skips and whirls like somebody in fits, F.K. and house rat blip to catch the time of the babe. Along with the help of blinding blink lights somewhere passed the sky, they vanish but return at nearly the same time, and start a rap sliding backwards disco flashing.
When they finish their night fever stuff, trying to confuse the Lieutenant more, in a flash they return with a slip backwards together again. At the same time the Chucky-britches Babe, starts them make belief fits on the mushy ground in front. When Micky sees this, he slows to beat his eyes at the babe.
"What cult'ahh," Micky says with his pretty, high class Boston drawl. After he holy proclaims he goes up to F.K., as he raps.
"Okay Micky save the day!," yells Franz as a bigger drum beat begins. The Lieutenant feels as if in an Amazon rain forest, rather than somewhere near Bad Tolz, Alabama. Along with the near Indian drum beat, and fingernail on the chalkboard scratching, Franz starts his aria song, while Micky flails his arms about.
"M.B.'s so horny and plenty," Franz starts hard lyrics. The line's come after's the cute horny-frog-speak, "wacky wacky," of Sady Anne the Chucky Babe who's now somewhere in back of Micky.
". ... With some M.D. twenty-twenty"
"Wacky wacky"
". ... Loins he do want to be fed"
"Wacky wacky"
". ... So he just better bang his head!," Franz rhymes, as he jumps into his al goreycal carrot pose.
"Wacky wacky"
". ... Woe don't you do that you're brain injured there brother," a quaalude phrase asserts from far out.
". ... That's right!," moans another voice whimpering from beyond.
"Hush the heck up!," whispers Micky looking-up to hush the Dante style yungen up.
On a second figure, that hush's one of them officer feint moves, so Micky can ease in with his rap words. Suddenly He's seen and goes out with lady screaming, and the trash truck whine from alot of folks. Micky bends down smiling, thinking the crushing He whine's for him.
Not seeing that He's again in back of him, Micky starts his great long waited for rap spirt.
". ... Hairy crystal hairy crystal," Micky tunes in his come in at being solo, without the voice help lowing down his pitch for the next line.
". ... Woe yeah munchies woe yeah munchies"
". ... See she do have armpits and all"
". ... Like two of those and one of those"
". ... That alone makes me lie and crawl"
". ... Yeah real munchies yeah real munchies"
". ... Me thinks it's all from femme fay tol"
". ... And all that she really do know"
". ... The beauty with the perfume's gone," lines Micky, as he starts to feel the peer pressure break into fine screaming.
