The Decision Part 2
The smoke lines entangled one another, dancing slowly up into the blood-soaked sky. I took another drag and slowly watched the crimson orange flares burn through the tobacco, making crackling noises like leaves under a heavy feet. As the smoke slowly filled my lungs, I closed my eyes and held my breath. A slight rush of dizziness to the head and I slowly let the smoke smear out. Then I blew out the last of the smoke and and with my thumb and middle finger flicked the smothering stick. Why am I still here in this God-forsaken desert? It's been over a year since my encounter with Uncle Mohammed. Never heard from him since then. Kind of glad in a way. Perhaps he died. Perhaps he's still alive, waiting for the right moment to strike back at me and take vengeance. I hoped for the later. I like it when my prey put up a little struggle. I tried to lift myself up but couldn't must up enough strength in my arms. Perhaps it was still the minor buzz from the cigarette. Perhaps it was the 80lb equipment strapped on my back. Or perhaps I just didn't care anymore. Whatever the reason, I remained in my position, one leg stretched out, the other tucked in, and with my back hunched against the wheels of an Abrahams tank. Then a shadow engulfed over me. I slowly tilted my head up and saw one of the noobies that headquarters just recently deployed. Despite the shade, the glare of the sun spiked off his shoulder and I had to shade my eyes with my hand. As I cupped my hand over my eyes, I inquired, "What do you want noob? Need your diaper changed again?" I didn't like him much.
It wouldn't have been so bad if he weren't such a stuck up prick. Not even that, as long as he hadn't been deployed here without having to go through the trainings and other noobie procedures just like the rest. No, not even that. I would have put up with all the crap he'd be giving me if only the worthless piece of trash wasn't my superior.
"That's Major Hanks. Address the rank, not the uniform Lieutenant." Oh, I hated this guy.
"Sorry major, figured if I were to show respect to someone, it'd best be to someone who doesn't need help wiping themselves after using the potty."
"Cute," The prick scoffed. A small smirk crawled up his left side. That never meant good.
"Speaking of potty, the outhouse in Division 2 and 3 seemed to be malfunctioning. Since you sound like you know so much about defecation and cleaning up after oneself, I thought you'd be the perfect man for the job. I expect them "potties" to be fully functioning by 1800--"
Before he could finish his sentence, my right hand had already firmed gripped his tacky uniform. I curled my arm and brought his face close enough to my own that our noses almost touched. I growled at him, "Listen, butt-munch. I don't care who you are, or who you think you are. I will not stand to be pushed around by some preppy, powder-faced, useless son-of-a-gun who mooches off of his parents, you got that?"
For a while he just stared at me. I think I recall seeing a mixture of fear and surprise. But whatever I recalled seeing, his eyes almost immediately turned cocky once more and he dared place his dirty hands on my fist. He tried to unfasten my fingers, but to no avail. He tried several times more, but once he got the idea of the vast difference between our strengths, a look of frustration veiled his face. He spoke to me with a voice that sounds only when someone realizes that he's dealing with another who won't take no crap from him, "If you know what's best for you Lieutenant, I'd suggest you let go off your dirty, inferior fingers right now, before I report you to someone a little higher up."
I couldn't stop the laughter from escaping. I had to let go of him in order to place my hands on my knees as I doubled over. After a few more chuckles, I finally recomposed myself and shed the last few laughs and replied, "Listen noob, I really don't give a two-piece's worth if you report me or not. In fact, do report me. Perhaps they'll finally let me get off this cursed sand box of a country." I took a step closer towards him as I continued, close enough that I could see his nostrils flare up slightly. "And I'd suggest, MAJOR, that if you know what's best for YOU, you might want to start packing up your lip gloss and make up and start for the next chopper out."
He didn't respond. He had the look of a hyena that just realized the prey he had been pursuing was in fact, a lion. His whole body was shaking and his fists remained clenched. But he merely turned away, but without speaking, "1800. Those darned outhouses better be cleaned or you will face the consequences!"
I let out a chuckle and shuffled around my breast pockets for a small, crumpled up cardboard box. Once I found it, I picked out a small, thing white stick from within. I clamped it between my teeth and ruffled around my jean pockets. After a momentary search, I finally took out my savior and held it gently near the end of the stick that was barely dangling off my lips. A slight click and off the crimson orange. Two more years. I inhaled. Two more years. I held in the smoke. Two more years. I let out with deep sigh. Two. More. Years. As the first ashes started to fall off the burning stick, the sirens went off. They caught me off guard and I accidentally let the stick slip between my fingers. I cursed both for the dropped stress-reliever and the siren. The siren rarely went off. It never meant good, even more so than the worthless trash's smirk.
The smoke lines entangled one another, dancing slowly up into the blood-soaked sky. I took another drag and slowly watched the crimson orange flares burn through the tobacco, making crackling noises like leaves under a heavy feet. As the smoke slowly filled my lungs, I closed my eyes and held my breath. A slight rush of dizziness to the head and I slowly let the smoke smear out. Then I blew out the last of the smoke and and with my thumb and middle finger flicked the smothering stick. Why am I still here in this God-forsaken desert? It's been over a year since my encounter with Uncle Mohammed. Never heard from him since then. Kind of glad in a way. Perhaps he died. Perhaps he's still alive, waiting for the right moment to strike back at me and take vengeance. I hoped for the later. I like it when my prey put up a little struggle. I tried to lift myself up but couldn't must up enough strength in my arms. Perhaps it was still the minor buzz from the cigarette. Perhaps it was the 80lb equipment strapped on my back. Or perhaps I just didn't care anymore. Whatever the reason, I remained in my position, one leg stretched out, the other tucked in, and with my back hunched against the wheels of an Abrahams tank. Then a shadow engulfed over me. I slowly tilted my head up and saw one of the noobies that headquarters just recently deployed. Despite the shade, the glare of the sun spiked off his shoulder and I had to shade my eyes with my hand. As I cupped my hand over my eyes, I inquired, "What do you want noob? Need your diaper changed again?" I didn't like him much.
It wouldn't have been so bad if he weren't such a stuck up prick. Not even that, as long as he hadn't been deployed here without having to go through the trainings and other noobie procedures just like the rest. No, not even that. I would have put up with all the crap he'd be giving me if only the worthless piece of trash wasn't my superior.
"That's Major Hanks. Address the rank, not the uniform Lieutenant." Oh, I hated this guy.
"Sorry major, figured if I were to show respect to someone, it'd best be to someone who doesn't need help wiping themselves after using the potty."
"Cute," The prick scoffed. A small smirk crawled up his left side. That never meant good.
"Speaking of potty, the outhouse in Division 2 and 3 seemed to be malfunctioning. Since you sound like you know so much about defecation and cleaning up after oneself, I thought you'd be the perfect man for the job. I expect them "potties" to be fully functioning by 1800--"
Before he could finish his sentence, my right hand had already firmed gripped his tacky uniform. I curled my arm and brought his face close enough to my own that our noses almost touched. I growled at him, "Listen, butt-munch. I don't care who you are, or who you think you are. I will not stand to be pushed around by some preppy, powder-faced, useless son-of-a-gun who mooches off of his parents, you got that?"
For a while he just stared at me. I think I recall seeing a mixture of fear and surprise. But whatever I recalled seeing, his eyes almost immediately turned cocky once more and he dared place his dirty hands on my fist. He tried to unfasten my fingers, but to no avail. He tried several times more, but once he got the idea of the vast difference between our strengths, a look of frustration veiled his face. He spoke to me with a voice that sounds only when someone realizes that he's dealing with another who won't take no crap from him, "If you know what's best for you Lieutenant, I'd suggest you let go off your dirty, inferior fingers right now, before I report you to someone a little higher up."
I couldn't stop the laughter from escaping. I had to let go of him in order to place my hands on my knees as I doubled over. After a few more chuckles, I finally recomposed myself and shed the last few laughs and replied, "Listen noob, I really don't give a two-piece's worth if you report me or not. In fact, do report me. Perhaps they'll finally let me get off this cursed sand box of a country." I took a step closer towards him as I continued, close enough that I could see his nostrils flare up slightly. "And I'd suggest, MAJOR, that if you know what's best for YOU, you might want to start packing up your lip gloss and make up and start for the next chopper out."
He didn't respond. He had the look of a hyena that just realized the prey he had been pursuing was in fact, a lion. His whole body was shaking and his fists remained clenched. But he merely turned away, but without speaking, "1800. Those darned outhouses better be cleaned or you will face the consequences!"
I let out a chuckle and shuffled around my breast pockets for a small, crumpled up cardboard box. Once I found it, I picked out a small, thing white stick from within. I clamped it between my teeth and ruffled around my jean pockets. After a momentary search, I finally took out my savior and held it gently near the end of the stick that was barely dangling off my lips. A slight click and off the crimson orange. Two more years. I inhaled. Two more years. I held in the smoke. Two more years. I let out with deep sigh. Two. More. Years. As the first ashes started to fall off the burning stick, the sirens went off. They caught me off guard and I accidentally let the stick slip between my fingers. I cursed both for the dropped stress-reliever and the siren. The siren rarely went off. It never meant good, even more so than the worthless trash's smirk.
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