A Flair for the Theatrical

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June 3rd, 2005

Chris walked up to the mountain of a man standing on the corner. The giant wore a long black trench coat, a black t-shirt, black cargo pants, and matching black military boots. His beard was thick and curly, but his hair was shaved close to his scalp.  Chris looked up into his dark eyes and said, “You realize that this isn’t the best corner to stand on, right?”

“It, in fact, is the ideal corner.  It is well marked, and in close proximity to our destination,” the man replied without acknowledging Chris’ presence.

“I know, but others will suspect that you are up to something.”

Ivan made a grand show of looking around, twisting his head, leaning over, straining to look up and down the streets. “I see no one, anywhere, of whose opinion I am the least bit concerned.” Ivan locked eyes with the smaller, thin, young man. He sized his escort up. Chris’ hair was high and tight. He wore a crisp pink polo shirt and blue jeans. He stood straight, like a man used to standing at attention. Ivan snorted in condescending amusement. “I assume you are my local expert?”

“Yes, sir. Name’s Chris,” Chris said extending his hand.

Ivan sighed and looked off into the sky. “Your name is unimportant. You won’t live long enough for it to be worth remembering, Gracanjo.” Ivan sniffed the air.

“I might surprise you,” Chris retorted with a smile.

Ivan sniffed the air. “You smell new.” He sniffed again. “And unwise. Where is your elder?”

“He said this wasn’t really his scene,” Chris said with a grin. “He’s got better things to do than be your errand boy.”

Ivan laughed. “But you do not, I see. Errand Boy it is then. Or just Boy. Yes, small and young Gracanjo. From now on, to the Rothman you are ‘Boy.’”

“Are you ready to go?” Chris said, rolling his eyes. Darryl, his partner, had warned him that Ivan Rothman was an ass.

“I have been waiting on you, boy,” Ivan corrected, accentuating Chris’ new nickname.

Chris rolled his eyes. “This way,” he said as he walked down the street with his hands  shoved his hands into his pockets.

Ivan spun on his heel, whipping his long black coat around behind him and moving into step behind Chris.

They walked away from the lights of the city, into an abandoned industrial area.  Tall vacant warehouses and steel mills created long sheer valleys of sheet metal siding, broken every so often by an empty loading dock or decrepit dumpster that served no purpose.

They turned right at the next corner and headed for a windowless door that was flush against the side of the building. The door was held shut by a large key padlock.

Chris knocked and then stepped back to wait.

They stared at the door together.

Ivan huffed with impatience.

“Be patient,” Chris said.

“You, boy, are supposed to be my local expert. You have one job. Only one. Escort me. Any you, boy, have escorted me to a closed door.”

“Just be patient,” Chris said, then he knocked again.

“The boy is a terrible escort,” Ivan said under his breath.

More minutes passed. There was no sound. The only light was a dim glow from a street lamp that repeated the same process every 30 seconds of warming to its maximum brightness and then shutting off completely.

Ivan shuffled his black leather boots on the sidewalk, looked down at Chris, then back up to the rusted metal door and said “Contrico tempore!”

Chris laughed. “I don’t know what you just said, but just wait, okay?”

“The Rothman hates to wait,” Ivan grumbled crossing his arms across his bulging chest. “We should break in.”

“Listen,” Chris said rubbing his hair with both hands, “I was told you knock and you wait. So we have knocked and now we are going to wait.”

“Boy? Are you saying that you have never been here before?”

“Of course I’ve never been here. I don’t hang out in places like this.”

“You, boy, are the worst escort I’ve ever had – and I’ve had a lot of escorts. Once a stupid Gracanjo got me lost in the catacombs of Calcutta for two years. I abandon him there to play alone with the rats.”

Chris stepped forward and pounded on the steel door a third time. He screamed, “Hey! Open up!”

“You are wasting my time, boy. You should not dare to waste my friend’s time like this. He will not be as kind as I am being right now, boy.”

“Where is your friend, anyway? I thought we were here for him,” Chris said.

“He likes to make an entrance,” Ivan replied coldly.

The door scraped open. Ivan laughed as he and Chris realized that the lock holding the door shut was a fake, held against the door by a simple magnet.  They could  have pulled it open at any time.

On the other side of the door was a bald tattooed man with sleepy eyes.  “Head to through the doors at the back into the next building,” he muttered looking back over his shoulder.

They walked in silence for more than a minute until coming to an open doorway. Above the door a hand scribbled sign said “All Comps MUST regester with Boomer B4 fitin”.

Ivan stopped and pronounced the words on the sign. “All comps must re-gester with Boomer, bah, roh, before fit-in?”

Chris corrected, “All competitors must register with Boomer before fighting. I assumed you could read, old man.”

“I can read. I can read twenty-seven languages. I can read languages you will never have the privilege of seeing. I read can read languages, boy, that are so old they are lost to history and only exist in my mind. But that gibberish,” Ivan said pointing angrily at the sign, “is not writing.”

“Follow me,” Chris said shaking his head as he stepped through the doorway into another massive building.

At the near end to the left was an open garage door wide enough for several trucks to drive through.  Across a space that seemed the size of a basketball court stood the far wall that stretched two stories tall. The rest of the building stretched out to the right in an open expanse at least twice the width of the old steel mill.

Chris and Ivan crossed a large portion of the empty space and proceeded toward the milling crowd. Chis stopped just short of the press of people and looked up in frustration. He turned to Ivan and said “Everyone here is huge. I can’t see anything through the crowd.”

Ivan looked out at the crowd. “Maybe you are just small, boy.” Ivan peered over the heads of the mass of men.  “I speculate that Boomer is that direction,” he said, pointing through the crowd.

Chris started weaving his way through a packed crowd of men and women, all sizes and builds.  No one seemed to mind as he reached his arm through small gaps of elbows and muscles to push open a path to where he hoped Boomer was.  Ivan followed as closely as possible, and from anyone looking on from above they would have seen a close cropped head of black hair part the crowd like a boat in the water. Where Chris had passed through the crowd almost unnoticed, Ivan was assaulted by sinister stares, as if they were estimating the price of a sow at the state fair before an auction.

Chris came to an abrupt halt to keep from bumping into the tattoo of the Punishers skull on the hair covered bare back of a man in front of him. The man towered above Chris. Chris looked up at the Punishers head, back at Ivan’s forehead where his hairline ended in a point, and back at the Punishers head. “Wow, he’s almost got you beat.  Must be six and a half?”

After 30 seconds, the beast of a man moved away to reveal a small table built of stacked plastic crates. Behind the table, stood a stocky short bald man. The bald man finished counting through twenty dollar bills, snapped a large rubber band around the roll, and yelled, “NEXT!”

Chris stepped forward.

“New guy.” he growled in frustration, “I ain’t got time.”

Chris looked the man in the eyes. “I assume you are Boomer?”

The man turned his massive forearm over to show the underneath side where a fire red tattoo in calligraphy font read BOOMER.

Chris tilted his head sideways, like a dog trying to identify a new sound. “We are supposed to see you if we want to pay to fight?”

“Yeah?” Boomer let his eyes slowly move from the top of Chris’ head to his feet and then back to meet his eyes. “Are you sure about this? People don’t like lame ducks wasting their time.”

“Oh, no, not for me. I am paying for someone else to fight.”

Boomer eyed Ivan and mumbled, “Not bad, what’s your name.”

Ivan stood straighter that he had been and his voice resonated, “I am the Rothman. You have never seen the likes of me.”

“Is he for real?” the bald man said to Chris.

Chris replied, “That’s not the guy. That’s the guy’s friend.”

“We are not friends,” Ivan said to himself.

“The guy is on his way,” Chris explained.

“Fine.  One hundred dollars in twenty dollar bills only and a name.”

Chris leaned sideways to reach into his pocket and extract a wad of cash, handing it to Boomer.

“Name?” Boomer said as he counted the cash.

“Ivan, what’s your friends name?” Chris asked.

“Lawson. Today it shall be Lawson,” Ivan said with authority.

“Spell it, ” Boomer demanded.

Ivan pronounced each letter as if it caused him pain. “L, a, w, s, o, n.”

Boomer looked up and said “Fine. Lawson.” Then looking past Ivan and Chris he yelled, “NEXT.”

Ivan, indignant with the lack of respect from Boomer, said, “Have you no interest in the capability of the man we will be presenting? He will non provocation patior.”

Boomer looked at Chris with question in his dull eyes, exasperated by the two men in front of him.

“Uh, what Ivan means to say is, don’t you want to know how good he is?”

“I mean to say what I said, boy,” Ivan snapped.

“What Ivan’s getting at is that Lawson will not be happy if he shows up to fight someone that is too easy.”

“Too easy?” Boomer asked surprised by the request. Most newbies wanted the easiest fight they could get.

“Death must be on the line,” Ivan said coldly.

Boomer closed his eyes and sighed. “Ok, fine, if you want to pay an extra one thousand dollars I can put Lawson at the end of the night. He’s fight the champ. Otherwise he fights his way through the ranks just like everyone else.”

Chris turned over his clump of twenty dollar bills and dropped them on the table.  Then he leaned to reach into the other pocket and pulled out another fistful of twenty dollar bills and dropped them on the table. “That should do it. What time is the fight?”

Boomer looked up at Chris with disbelief. “Are you for real? What is it with you two? Can’t you just sit down and wait your turn like everyone else.”

“The Rothman does not wait in line,” Ivan said dismissively.

“Shit. Fine,” Boomer said. “Each fight lasts no more than ten minutes, last fight starts promptly at two.” Then once again Boomer looked past them and screamed, “NEXT!”

They turned and pushed back through the crowd together. Chris looked up at Ivan and said, “This is going to be a long night.”

When they arrived at an open area, they stopped. Ivan surveyed the crowd again. “How many warriors will die tonight, boy?” he asked..

“No one dies. This is the MMA. Ultimate Fighting stuff..”

“Why are they allowed to call it ‘ultimate’ if no one dies? It can’t be ‘ultimate’ unless it is to the death.”

“It’s a league. This is where it starts. Then you work your way up to the championship.”

“This is dumb. You are a terrible escort, boy.”

“You said your friend, uh, Lawson, wanted a real challenge. This is the biggest human challenge there is in the States.”

Ivan snorted in retort, unimpressed. Chris looked around and was satisfied that he could see the doors and the crowd, as well as the raised section of the floor that served as a ring. He glanced toward the wide garage door at the far end of the space wondered how many shades would be coming in later to feed off of the hate and pain that this old steel mill would contain tonight. Chris leaned to a woman to his right and asked, “So, how does this work?”

She looked toward Chris and her arching eyebrows made the studs pierced through her forehead stand straight out. Her hair was dyed purple and braided into six strands that hung to her shoulder.

“First time, huh?”

“Yeah, this is new to me.”

“So, okay,” She lifted her arm to point toward Boomer, accenting the tattoo of a snake that wriggled its way from shoulder to palm. “At the beginning of every match, Boomer will announce the record for each fighter along with the shortest time that it has taken to beat each fighter. If it’s a first timer, he’s called a ‘gimme’ and he doesn’t have a time.  The amount of money each fighter wins is proportionate to how strong his record is and how fast the fight goes.”

“So, a first timer doesn’t have a time to beat to get a payout?”

“First timers don’t normally win, but if they do, they win the max payout for the fight.”

“Huh. And when does the timer start?”

“The timer starts when both fighters say they are ready.”

“What if things get out of hand?”

“Out of hand? It always gets out of hand.  But, the rules are pretty simple. Don’t bite or scratch. No weapons or anything like that. And if things get too ‘out of hand’, Boomer and his boys step in.  But it never goes that far. Once you have seen what his boys do, you don’t act out.”

Ivan leaned close to Chris.  “Go to a phone and put the number ‘2’ into Lawson’s little black messaging box.”

“It’s called a pager,” Chris mumbled as he turned and walked toward the exit to look for a pay phone.

“I don’t care, boy” Ivan said, watching the ring as the first fight began.

The night moved fairly quickly.  Fights lasted anywhere from less than ten seconds to the full ten minutes.  The fights that “lasted out” were judged by Boomers guys and they decided the winner.There was one fighter that clearly was the “One to Beat”.

“Boy, clarify something for me.?” Ivan said as Boomer’s boys dragged an unconscious man from the ring.

“Shoot..”

“The hairy beast that we were behind in line, he is the crowd’s chosen, right?”

“You mean the crowd favorite. Yes, he seems to be.”

“His name is ‘Razor’?”

“Yeah. You think Lawson can take him.”

Ivan laughed. Ignoring Chris’ question, he continued, “Why would a warrior name themselves after something so small?””

Chris clamped his eyes close in disbelief. “I, I don’t know” he stuttered with frustration. “It’s scary. Razor is a scary name.”

“This is stupid. I miss Rome,” Ivan said. “The Romans knew how to hold a fight.”

Chris looked at Ivan in confusion. “Who are you? And who is this Lawson? Why are we here? This all seems, uh, off mission. This is off mission.”

“Ha!” Ivan laughed, smacking his leg. “The Gracanjo speaks of mission. What does the boy know of mission? Ha, ha. You will not live long enough to understand mission. You are like a disposable rag.”

“I don’t have to take this shit,” Chris said angrily, standing to leave.

“Alright, please stay,” Ivan relented, still laughing. “Lawson and I, we have deep history. We have an arrangement. We do things for each other. This is a favor I can do for him, he likes to be challenged.  I also feel that the time has come to keep him proxime.”

Chris sat back down and sighed.

“But I fear this Razor will not be a challenge enough. Lawson may think of it as an insult.”

“But Razor is huge,” Chris said in disbelief. “And he’s fought twice tonight and no one’s even laid a hand on him.”

“Veritas,” Ivan replied.

“And you don’t think he’ll be a challenge?”

“This is what I said. Yes.” Ivan pointed to the digital clock hanging from a pole on the corner of the ring. It read 1:55. “We shall know soon.”

Chis began looking around excited to see this Lawson he’d waited all night for. “Maybe he’s here, and we just don’t see him yet?”

Ivan shook his head slowly.  “No, you will know when he arrives.. He has a certain theatrici.”

“Theatrici?”

“He is not known for discretion, he can be, um, theatrical.”

“Like how?” Chris said with a curious grin.

“As he becomes more acclimated to current culture, he takes inspiration from what he sees. I believe that your World Wrestling Federation has given him many ideas.  For a while he would rip a shirt off before a competition and walk around the ring waving his hands in the air for the crowd to cheer. Once he claimed to be the Ultimate Warrior, but he found that there was another competitor by that name. Before that, years ago when an actor named John Wayne was popular, Lawson liked to enter fights on a horse. He wor  leather and boots and a large cowboy hat. His most recent fascination has been with your Terminator movies.  He finds it difficult to separate veritas from falsum. He has requested me to find him Arnold Schwarzenegger because he believes the metal robot to be a fair challenge in single combat.” The clock turned 1:56. “He said he would even allow Arnold to bring two large guns to the battle field.”

Chris laughed in disbelief, “Well, if he doesn’t show, we will have a lot of angry people to deal with.”

They waited longer, watching the clock to tick another minute..

Boomer pressed through the crowd and appeared in front of Chris. “So, new guys, here’s how it works..  If your guy doesn’t show by two, one of you are going to stand in his place. And then, if you don’t last at least more than sixty seconds with Razor, I’m going to turn away and whatever happens, happens. This crowd doesn’t take kindly to waiting an entire night for some lame waste of skin an’ bones.” Boomer gazed up at Chris, eyes burning with anger.

Chris’ soft blue eyes showed humility as he leaned over to look close into Boomer’s face. “He will be here, or I will stand in his place.” Chris replied timidly.

The gentle eyes transformed into a deep dark blue, and Chris growled “And if I do, you won’t be disappointed.”

Ivan laughed and smacked Chris on the back in approval. “Look at the boy,” he said proudly to Boomer. “He has giant stones, no? I love it!” He squeezed Chris’ shoulder and said, “You are my favorite Gracanjo since Augusta of Carthage.” Then turning back to Boomer, Ivan added. “New deal. If my friend does not show, I will snap this Razor’s neck and then come for you.” Ivan’s smile filled his face. He drew close to the now unsure Boomer, “Because you do not threaten the Rothman and live. Are we clear?”

Boomer shook his head and held his hands up defensively.  “I just don’t want to disappoint the crowd, okay,” he said backing away. “These people are animals.”

The clock flipped to 1:59, and Boomer made his way to the center of the ring.

He held his hands up and the crowd grew silent.

“Now for our main event,” Boomer screamed. “In this corner I give you our champion, Razor!” The crowd responded with wild cheers.  “Forty seven fights and still undefeated.”

Cheers and applause erupted again until Boomer again held his hands up in the air.

The clock turned 2:00.

“Our second contestant, for the first time in our ring, is -.”

A burst of sound interrupted the introduction. It seemed like rolling thunder moving down the street until entering the building at the far end. When it cleared the garage doors, the roar became a deafening rumble that rolled through the warehouse as an all-black Harley Davidson Iron 883 Sportster.  Closer to the crowd the bike slowed and gurgled its way to the edge of the audience.  Tires as wide as Razor’s arms slowly pressed their way into the edge of the crowd.

The rider on the black motorcycle was bald and dressed in a black t-shirt that stretched over lean muscles.  He wore black boots, faded jeans, and large mirrored sunglasses. He held one finger in the air.

Boomer looked over to Chris.

Chris looked at Ivan.

Ivan shook his head one time, yes.

Energized by the showmanship, Boomer screamed, “And facing Razor is the undefeated, the unknown, the unseen, Lawson!”

The crowd cheered wildly in response. Loving the attention, Lawson gunned the engine of his bike again. “To the death!” he screamed with joy.

“Not to the death,” Ivan screamed back.

Lawson turned to the stands, furious. “Not to the death?” he screamed at Ivan.

“No killing,” Ivan yelled, apologetically.

“Gamoti poutana sou!” Lawson screamed at Ivan, enraged.

“Ay gamisou!” Ivan screamed back, standing and throwing his hands into the air.

With the exchange over, Lawson faced forward once again and Ivan returned to his place.

“What did he say?” Chris asked, in awe of the size and power of Ivan’s friend.

“It translates in your language as something not said in front of women.”

Chris laughed. “What did you say back?”

“I told him to go and do the same,” Ivan said with a smile.

Lawson turned his attention to Razor. He deep voice boomed over the top of the crowd, “You who I am not allowed to kill, prepare yourself to face me!”

The crowd again cheered.

Lawson again yelled across the noise, “What has been the shortest time before you have been knocked down?”

Boomer yelled back smugly, “It took Gracie one minute fifty five seconds to knock him down with a kick to the face, and Razor still jumped back up and beat his ass. He’s UN DE FEATED! Now are you ready?”

Ivan whispered to Chris, “Ha, ha. Is Gracie his wife, and she kicked him and knocked him down?”

Chris shook his head, “No. Wow, you really are out of touch. Royce Gracie is the best – ah, forget it.”

Lawson reached down to change a setting on the dash of the bike and yelled “You say one five five?” and continued fidgeting.

“Then I am ready!” and he pressed play on the bikes radio.

“Bring it bitch!” Razor yelled in response.

The crowd responded again. They were frenzied with excitement. This was the kind of match they longed for.

“Ok. Start the clock!” Boomer yelled, stepping out of the ring. .

The digital clock switched to a timer that began spinning in hundredths of a second.

As the first second showed, speakers on the bike started to blare a high guitar solo repeating the same progression of notes in a rhythmic pattern.

The bike revved and started to slowly part its way through the crowd.

The sound system on the bike blared the same clear guitar, but now there were added vocals chanting in the background, “Ah ah aaa ah, uh aah aaah ah uh ah ah”.

The clock read 00:10:21.

The black bike reached the edge of the crowd and the motor cut off, but the song continued.

00:30:05

The entire crowd joined the music and at the end of the chant they yelled “Thunder!”

Lawson kicked the stand for the bike and slowly stood and swung his leg over the back fender. He stood to full height and towered above the surrounding spectators.

Over two hundred voices continued to chant, “Uh aah aaah ah, THUNDER!”

One by one, he pulled his fingers from the leather gloves of both hands and neatly placed them on the seat.

01:00:00

Two hands reached up to pull off dark sunglasses, and set them on top of the gloves.

Lawson turned to face Razor. Razor’s face was contorted with impatience and he paced back and forth.

01:05:05

The voice from the speaker screamed “I was caught, in the middle of a railroad track.”

The crowd chanted along “THUNDER!” while pumping their fists in the air.

“I looked around, and I knew there was no turning back.”

“THUNDER!”

01:20:85

Lawson stepped into the ring.

Razor ran forward like a bull running after a matador.

Lawson ducked and stepped aside.

Razor stopped and turned, and they faced each other, eye to eye.  Identical build. Hatred oozing from Razor’s face, teeth barred, eyes black. Lawson’s face showed only the slightest sense of amusement.

Chris looked up at Ivan, “That’s him, isn’t it. I mean, his name’s not really Lawson? Right?”

Ivan held up his hand, signaling for Chris to stop talking and watch.

Razor swung a great big right hook that flowed cleanly through open air as Lawson leaned backward.

“My mind raced, and I thought, what could I do?”

“THUNDER!

Razor followed his swing with running tackle, arms spread wide, aimed low at Lawson’s knees.

Lawson dove forward over Razor, landed and rolled back to a standing position.

Razor jumped up from his knees and spun to face Lawson.

“And I knew, there was no help, no help from you!”

“THUNDER!

The two warriors circled each other for what seemed like an eternity.  Then Razor seemed to lose all control.

Razor’s fists began to swing pointlessly on broad shoulders.

01:35:74

“Sound of the drums.”

Razor’s knees shot up and down, ineffectively trying to damage Lawson’s ribs.

“Beating of my heart.”

Lawson dropped down to the ground and rolled, and Razor’s feet stomped several times on the mat without ever connecting.

“The thunder of guns.”

Lawson jumped back up to his feet, arms curled in to protect his sides and face.

“Tore me apart.”

A growl erupted from Razor’s chest, and he stepped forward with a determined stride.  Hands outstretched, fists clenching in and out, muscles tense, almost as if he thought he could rip Lawson in two by laying hands on him.

The closer Razor got, the more Lawson crouched.  Knees bending, compressing leg muscles, arms tense, body angling sideways.

“You’ve been – ”

Lawson’s body shot upward as it unwound, his fist taking a perfectly vertical course along the front of Razor’s mid-section.  Five thickfingers curled into the shape of a sledge hammer connected with Razor’s chin.

“Thunderstruck!”

There was a sickening crack as teeth slammed against teeth.  His head jerked backward leading the way as his entire body fell backward and landed with a dull thud.

The clock stopped at 01:54:00

The crowd went berserk with joy.

Lawson stood for a brief moment and looked at the fallen Razor.  Then, seeming satisfied with his work, walked back to his bike. Methodically, he placed his sunglasses on his face and pulled gloves on each hand.

With a rumble, the Harley roared to life again.

Lawson pointed at Boomer. Rubbed his fingers together making the international sign for money.

Pointed directly at Ivan. Then he gave a slight nod to Ivan and  gunned the engine. He accelerated toward the open garage door of the warehouse.

“Went down the highway, broke the limit, we hit the -”.  The song faded into the distance as Lawson disappeared around the corner.

Ivan looked to Chris and with a smile said, “Yes, boy. His name is not Lawson. That was Clovis.”

The Alley

April 1, 2002, Baltimore, MD

He stumbled, his heavy dragging foot snagging a raised edge on the sidewalk. Catching himself with his hands against the pavement, soiled water splashed on his shirt joining the stains of coughed up whiskey and vomit. Chris stood and continued to wander aimlessly down the crowded sidewalk. He’d tried to rest, but sleep wouldn’t come when called. All that responded to his beckon were the ghosts of gun fire and the faces, face after face of those who had died by his hand.

His caked and cracked mouth cried out for water as he looked through window after window of the bars line the street.  Trendy ones like “My Blues Heaven”, where the patrons inebriate themselves while someone plays blues and jazz music in the background.  Or “Tequilaville” (and obvious copy from Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville”) with piñatas in the shape of animals hang from the ceiling.  A place that allows anyone to get a buzz with a Mexican flair.  Or “Ben’s Sport’s Bar”, a spot where testosterone filled college students and middle age men that wish they were college students can suck down long necks while various sports programs play on ten flat screen high definition televisions that line the walls. Chris watched them through the darkened glass, seeing only the drinks in their hands, wishing it were in his.

Chris flinched as a crowd of co-eds emerged from the bar behind him, their laughter and clanging about transformed in his mind to more sinister sounds from the past. He turned abruptly into an alley to avoid the haunted noise. Since leaving Force RECON, had struggled to remain calm around throngs of people.

There was another group at the other end of the alley. Three laughed and shoved one another while a fourth relieved himself on the wall. Feeling trapped, Chris sat down in the empty space between the buildings, resting his back against a brick wall. He closed his eyes and wished they would all go away. He longed to be left alone. He thought about the bar again and the glass mugs full of escape.

The shadowy outline of four tall figures stood looking narrow lane, all looking at a homeless man. And then something went wrong.

A familiar voice carried down the alley. “Hey man,” was all Bobby said. Chris glanced at his friend, laying askew on the pavement. His eyes were blood shot and his thick grey bread was frazzled. His Yankees hat had found a new smug of black since Chris had last seen him.  Chris hadn’t made many friends on the streets of Baltimore, but those he had, he cherished. He was happy to see Bobby still wearing the boots Chris had given him. A few months ago they had looked new. Chris remembered showing his friend how to lace up the nicely polished, military issue, shoes. He remembered Bobby’s giddy smile and the older man’s jog up and down the alley.

“It’s not a good idea,” Chris croaked to his friend. His throat burned. He tried to remember the last time he spoke.

Bobby didn’t hear. The old man was singular minded, in pursuit of cash to buy the one thing that might dull his thoughts. He stood and stumblingly approached the four men, his hand extend. “H-h-h-hey. Hey guys. E-exc-c-c-cuse me,” the old man muttered sheepishly. “H-h-hey, you got a few bucks. I just need a few b-bucks.”

Chris could feel in his gut the danger ahead. He pushed himself up, forcing his legs to support him. He squeezed his eyes tight, willing his mind to clear.

The fourth man turned and zipped up his jeans. They laughed and pointed at Bobby.

“P-p-p-please,” Bobby stuttered again, looking at the ground. “I. I. I just need a few bucks?”

“I. I. I j-j-just need a few bucks,” one of the men mocked.

“You smell like shit,” another said.

Chris moved closer.

“Listen,” Bobby said, stepping back. “I just need a few bucks.”

A jolt of hostility sparked in one of the young men. Shoving Bobby with one hand he yelled, “Why don’t you get a job you dumb piece of shit?” The rest of the pack laughed.

Chris stretched his neck to the left and then the right. The muscles ached and cracked as they loosened.

“You smell like shit you Old Fuck!” another said, escalating the situation by shoving Bobby with both hands.   The drunken twenty-something resembled the caveman in evolution posters, striving to walk upright.

“Hey old man, got any extra change?” the shortest one with the build of a bulldog yelled with a drunken slur. He pressed Bobby against the wall. The other three moved in, surrounding the old man.

“I. I don’t want any trouble,” Bobby said, looking at his boots.

“What a waste of air!” came the third comment. This one was perfect. Perfect hair, perfect voice, perfect clothes. Chris thought that he probably was the star quarterback of some local college. After a second glance, Chris identified the short “bulldog” as a wrestler.  Small and stocky but with no wasted muscle.  Not many soft spots. The only one of the group that gave Chris pause was the quiet menace lurking in the back. He wore loose fitting sweats and a black Raven’s hoody.  The dark figure’s stance was reserved. He was large and bulky, a head above the rest. Chris struggled to remember if this one had been with the others, or had he been in the alley already?

“I. I. I’ll just go,” Bobby said, easing forward. “I. I’ll j-just go.”

Chris and the big one exchanged glares. The hood nodded, acknowledging Chris’ presence. Chris thought that he saw a sadistic grin cross his face.

The bull dog moved into Bobby’s face. Looking up at the old man he barked, “Someone needs to teach you some manners you old piece of shit.” The others laughed. The bulldog gave Bobby a sharp jab to the ribs. The old man doubled over. The others laughed. The bulldog shoved Bobby to the ground and held his fists high in victory. The others laughed.

Chris appeared between the pack and his friend. His vision narrowed a bit as he welcomed the rage that flooded his system.

“Move out of the way!” said Neanderthal.  Thick, dark messy hair, sloping forehead, no visible neck.  His head was set on top of wide shoulders with dark hair down the neck.

Chris took a deep breath. The familiar chant stilled his mind, “I am focused. My balance is perfect.”  Time slowed to a crawl.

In a low monotone growl, Chris responded, “You should move on.”

“This doesn’t concern you, asshole,” added the shorter one.

“You should leave,” Chris muttered through gritted teeth.

The large one in the back remained still. He radiated a cold hate. No emotion was visible beneath the hood.

There was a pause as the oppressors didn’t seem to know what to do next.

The break in the action just fueled Chris’ anger. He realized that no matter what happened next, they would not walk away untouched. He took another deep breath, an attempt to control the outcome to something that he wouldn’t regret afterwards. He stood with feet spread evenly and gained a balance from which to act.

For the briefest of moments, Chris felt remorse. His military career had ended because of situations like this. Situations where Chris was the only one between the oppressor and the innocent victim.

“Listen, skinny”, the caveman says, “this isn’t about you, so move along and don’t look back. Just get the fuck out of here.”

They didn’t know. They had no clue how this would end, but Chris knew. Chris had it all worked out. Every step. Every thrust. Every move. It was all over in his mind. Everything decided, except for the giant in the back. Chris mourned their pride. He mourned the pride that caused those in wrong to push bad situations further.

Every one of his senses tingled in anticipation. The sound of their increasing heart rates and shallow breathing, panting like dogs waiting for a treat. Chris was aware of the car that passed by on the street. He knew that there was not enough air in the tires by the sound of the rubber hitting the pavement. He was completely aware of the gentle breeze that brushed across the back of his neck, carrying the stench of dumpsters and rotten beer down the alley. Through it, he could still smell the stench of body odor emitting from the wrestler.

His senses told him one piece of critical information. The only victim that is remotely aware of the danger he was in is the silent guy that now stands behind his left shoulder.  He wasn’t breathing at all.

Chris focused his eyes straight ahead, peripheral vision aware of the most minor micro expressions on the faces of his assailants.

In a voice no more than a whisper he urged them one more time, “Back down.” Not a request, not a plea, but a command.

They didn’t budge. Waiting for the reaction seemed like an eternity. Then he felt it.  The hint of movement from directly in front of him.  The motion started with the jock, who probably didn’t realize that he had moved while contemplating his first swing.

The chain reaction began.

Chris’ feet were steady and balanced.  Hands loose at his side, arms slightly bent, legs straight but knees not locked.  His breath slowly left his lungs.  His pent up anger and energy over the past few months had been conserved, waiting for discharge. His fingers and toes tingled with anticipation.

The jock stepped forward and planted his right foot while his right fist came rushing forward.

“Nice stance,” Chris thought to himself, “This guy has done this before.”

Nostrils flaring. Friends grinning.  They knew it would come to this. Something in them had wanted this all night.

Chris processed the movements that began in unison. The wrestler circling behind to the left, presumably to catch him after Jock hit him. The caveman hadn’t budged. The quiet watcher remained still tensed for action. All of this information was taken in and comprehend in less time than it took the swinging fist to move six inches.

Chris’ left hand began with an upward counter clockwise arc. His right hand dropped to his waist in a clockwise downward arc.  As the left reached the top of its swing and moved out and away, the right hand swept up to intersect the punch that was now is about eight inches from his face.  His palm turned outward to catch the back of the Jock’s wrist. His right hand locked onto Jock’s wrist, and continued the forward momentum pulling him across in front of Chris. The look of shock on the Jock’s face made Chris laugh. His left hand completed the circuit and landed on Jock’s back to push forward and sent him floating over Bobby’s still body to flop face down on the sidewalk between Wrestler’s feet.

Before the first victim had landed, Chris’ right foot shifted backward to absorb the motion. He kept the momentum moving along in the clockwise direction. His right hand swung in a level arc, his left arm continued its counter clockwise circle. His head swiveled to bring Caveman into view. Snapping his right hand out, Chris slammed a closed fist squarely into Caveman’s throat.

Chris processed the actions. His opponent may have seen it coming, but the young man’s wind pipe collapsed.  He would be concentrating too much on breathing to cause any more trouble. Chris realized he needed to be careful, or these men would die tonight.

The watcher crouched back, preparing to pounce. The giant extended an arm straight down, the movements combined were faster than Chris had seen anyone move before. Still deep in focus, Chris sensed the shift in air, the gentle rustle of clothing, the energy expended. He could see something in the watcher’s hand. A knife? A gun?

“He will aim for under my ribs,” Chris told himself. All of this ran through his mind in less time than it took for Watcher to change the direction of his hand to swipe.

Chris dropped down, bending at the knees, and reversed direction to spin back to the left, placing Watcher directly in front of him.  Then used the recoil motion to send his left hand swinging itself through an arc aimed for Watchers right hand at waist level.

But there wasn’t a hand. There were four extended claws, sweeping toward him. There was no way that an adjustment could be made to the current motion. The surprise sent Chris’ mind reeling, “What the hell is going on?!”

He knew that Watcher had registered the movement and realized that it had extended himself beyond what he can recover to defend.

The back of Chris’ left hand struck with enough force to knock the wrist sideways. There was a sickening ‘CRAK’ as the wrist and arm loosened from the breaking bones.

Chris continued and pushed up with his legs, building strength for his right hand as it streaked toward Watchers head.

At this speed and force –

A closed fist would shatter his jaw, knock out several teeth and leave him in the hospital from a concussion.

An open palm strike to his face would break his nose and leave him with permanent eye damage.

The added speed of an elbow across the face would break every bone on the left side of his face and cause possible hearing loss in his left ear.

By the way he is gritting his pointy teeth, whatever this thing is, he knows all of this.  And realizes that there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

Chris scanned the face of his victim, searching any sign of remorse.  It wasn’t there.  All he could see was a hope of survival, a possible chance for revenge, and dark eyes with no pupils.

With rage and satisfaction, Chris finished the movement, choosing the elbow to strike the victim.

Upon contact, he felt bones crumble and watched as life left the swirling eyes of the watcher.

The body dropped limp to the ground.

Shock settled in. Energy dissipated. With no new movement from attackers, the encounter had finished as quickly as it had started. Chris looked to Bobby to check his condition. He seemed fine. No pain that was out of the normal. Chris looked to the Jock, who was just turning to look at Chris from his prone position between the wrestler’s feet. With a quick nod, Chris indicated that they should collect themselves and continue the way they had been going before the violence.

Without a word, Jock stood, and with the wrestler, collected the wheezing caveman and walked back into the street. They didn’t look back.

Bobby looked up at Chris. “Hey Blur, got any spare change on ya?”

Chris helped the old man to his feet and said, “What did you just call me?” Quickly realizing that the question would never be answered by drunk Bobby, he quickly continued, “You need to be more careful.”

Chris let out a long sigh. The dryness of his mouth and soreness of his throat crept back. He forced a smile and stumbled away, his feet returning to their heavy, drag.

“Oh, Shit,” mumbled the raspy voice as he watched Chris walk away. “Oh, shit,” the same voice mumbled as sirens echoed through the street. The grey haired man hurried into the alley, and tossed Bobby a ten dollar bill. “Keep quiet, say nothing about any of this.”

“Whatever you say Carl,” Bobby slurred.

With ease, Carl lifted the body of the hooded stranger, threw the dead thing over his back, and walked back down the alley, away from the police car that had just entered from the other end.

Several blocks away, Carl popped open the cramped trunk of his old Honda Accord and grumbled, “Man do I miss the Ninety-Eight,” as he dropped the body in and slammed it shut.

Mental Disturbance

“Thank you for coming, Ivan.”

Crossing the Veil was always disheartening for Ivan. It churned his stomach. It wasn’t the leap. That was as instantaneous as stepping through a doorway. It was the perspective that rattled him, like looking through a telescope lens through the wrong end.

Across the threshold, everything grew and became a ghost of itself. Tall trees became monstrous, transparent towers. Buildings grew to three times their size and lost their substance. Most unsettling was the people. The people who had been flesh and blood around him became giant hollow specters. They loamed over him and move passed him as if he were an invisible toddler.

If Ivan were honest with himself, a practice he did not enjoy, and therefore did not practice often, being small and unseen by his world was the most unsettling. In Reality he was a mountain. In Midian, he felt like a child. The ghostly mountains of men in Reality stood above him, unaware he could see their specters. He hated being ignored.

“Bashi insulted me,” Ivan grunted. “The Rothman doesn’t like being insulted. I should leave you here to handle your problems on your own. The Rothman owes you nothing.” Ivan could feel his blood burn with energy. He closed his eyes and soaked in the charge of power running through his veins. This was the only bonus of Midian. Here, he was twice as fast, twice as strong, and almost indestructible. Here he was a warrior of epic legend. Here he was close to a god.

Hyoi shot a disapproving eye at Bashi. “Not today, Bashi. For Ignors sake, not today.”

Bashi grinned in reply. The tall, slender, conculos’ crystal eyes beamed with playful mischief. Bashi nodded an apology to his commanding officer, bowed to Rothman, and produced from his grey tunic, two forearm length black rods with metal tips. He spun them in the air and then handed them to Rothman.

Rothman accepted the weapons and concealed them beneath his black robe.

“I tried to ask him to help us nicely,” Bashi said. His voice was high and piercing, an odd and surprising contrast to his powerful frame. “But he said he wasn’t in the mood to play with me today. So I took his toys and ran. I knew he would follow. This one loves his toys more than anything.”

Rothman watched a giant smoke like leaf fall from a transparent tree and land on the ground to his left. The raw energy throbbing in his body tempted him toward rage. He looked to the sky, hoping it would ground him, but the unmoving clouds of Midian hung like grey cotton balls tacked to a white wall. A chill shot up his spine. “I hate this cursed placed. Why have you brought the Rothman across the Veil?”

“I can imagine how disorienting it must be,” Hyoi said. His voice was smooth and soothing, like a mother’s lullaby. Despite the purple crystal of his eyes, he would pass for a pale human. He was tall and lean, like a twenty-something blue jean model who’d spent a long winter hiding indoors from the cold.  “We wouldn’t have asked you here if it wasn’t important,” Hyoi continued apologetically. “What we need you for is, um, delicate? If my commanding officers were to discover it. Well,” Hyoi paused to laugh to himself. “Well, Bashi and I would be banished to live with the Tinker. Please know, we have not brought you across lightly.”

“Explain. What do you shinny-eyed demons need? And what does the Rothman get in return?”

“Our commanding officer will be here within the hour,” Hyoi explained with grave seriousness. “He has assigned Bashi and I to a mission we, um. Well, let’s just say, we do not believe should be allowable.”

“Good God man,” Ivan said with impatient disgust. “Get on with it.’

“Our squad has been assigned to interfere in your realm. They are afraid of one of yours, a potentially powerful Gracanjo. They plan to cross into Reality to assassinate him before his gifts are fully revealed.”

“Sicutinfernum!” Rothman interjected.

There was a distant shout. Hyoi turned toward a small hill. He felt anxiety run from his feet to his fingers. The fear filled his voice and words rushed from his mouth in urgent rambling. “That’s our squad now. We must meet them. If we don’t meet them, they will be suspicious. I’ve already spoken out to much against the action. I can’t miss the jump. That is why Bashi and I need you to intervene. Do you understand? We need you to intervene when the time is right. Before the Gracanjo is executed. You must intercede before he is killed. If they are successful, there will be no stopping them.” Hyoi turned back to Rothman. He looked the large man in the eye. “Our team will cross together. It will be best if you stop us before we jump through the Veil. You will not be capable of contending with us on your side. It must be here. You must catch us here.”

Rothman grunted.

“We’ve set up a trap on the other side to mask our actions here. Do you understand? We will distract the Gracanjo on your side and then, execute him. You must put a stop to this. If we succeed today, there will be no end to it in the future. They will hunt every potential. Once a precedent is broken, it need not be restored. They will hunt every one. This is why you must attack before the jump. Before we jump. Instill fear. Teach us that we are not to meddle. Create a new precedent. The precedent of the Rothman, as is the precedent of Clovis. You will be legend. Your name will be in our nightmares. The Rothman who knows when we break precedent. The Rothman who will come. But you must attack on this side. If you come too late, every potential Gracanjo will be hunted and ambushed. Do you understand?”

Rothman grunted in affirmation. “Mighty big of you to break rank for a Gracanjo. Not like you Hyoi.”

Hyoi hung his head. “This is not something I do lightly, Ivan. Know that I break rank with deep despair.  But precedent must be maintained. The way of things must be protected. If not, then are we any better than the Tinker?”

The distant shout repeated. Hyoi sighed. “We must go now. When the fighting begins, we will not claim you. We will not assist you. We will stand with our team. This is why, Ivan, you must attack before we jump. Remember, before we jump or all is lost. Precedent will be broken and never restored.”

———–

Sharn looked over his command. The twelve warriors stood in loosely gathered clumps by race. They fidgeted quietly, restless with anticipation.

Sharn was muscular for a conculos. The muscles of his arms and legs were pushed against his grey skin. Like most of his race, his face was sharp and symmetrical. He was a perfectly chiseled rock, with no visible body fat. Except for the long scar across his cheek (a gash left by the horn of a rather nasty Egrat during the fourth raid on the Tinker’s fortification that would not leave him even in rebirth), he was perfectly crafted. With his hands grasped tightly behind his back, he surveyed his men with his crystal eyes. “The evidence planted in Reality,” he said with harsh command. “Has it been removed?”

“Yes sir,” replied a slink named Esh. His tail flicked back and forth with nervous energy.

“This is a critical moment,” Sharn said. “We’ve bled together. We’ve died together. But nothing we’ve done before is more important than what we are about to do now.”

As was their routine, the squad replied with a sharp ‘Huh!”

“We put down Azo’s forces at the battle of Vermanth.”

“Huh!”

“We were there at the battles of Rome, and Antigua, and Miami.”

“Huh!”

“We stormed the Tinker’s gates and reformed together in the Cavositas of Nativitate.”

“Huh!

“But now we do something that is yet to be done. Now we shape the course of our world. Now, we take things into our own hands. Now, we start a new day. Today, men. Today is the day that we write the history. They will add our names to the Book of Malacandra for what we do today. Because today, today we stomp out a threat before it arises. Today we prevent tragedy. Today, we strike first. Today we end the threat before it begins. Today is our day, gentlemen. Today, is our day.”

The squad replied with a celebratory cheer.

“We must cross today, gentlemen. Do not take it lightly. We will jump the Veil and return. No one lingers. More than a moment or two and you will burn out, your soul returned to home. Andregrunt,” Sharn said, pointing to the first creature in line. “You crossed at Miami. How long were you over?”

Andregrunt, a strong Mardock, head and shoulders above most other, licked his sharp teeth at the memory. “I was there for no more than a ten breaths, Sir,” he barked. “I passed out on breath ten and was pulled back through.”

“Zachariat?” Sharn pointed at the second man in line, another Mardock with giant shoulders that consumed his neck.

“I crossed in Rome,” he replied. His voice was scratchy and soft. “I was there until the Gra-, until we were forced back. Several hours in Reality, Sir. Several hours.”

A second slink, new to Sharn’s command, unwisely offered his thoughts without prompting, “I crossed in Rome too, Sir. Under the command of Genteria? I was not in combat though. We watched the perimeter. We jumped over in five minute rotations.”

Sharm moved silently to stand in front of the new recruit. “Did I ask you to recount you endeavors?”

The slink looked to his feet, shaking in silent with fear.

“Oh. Now when I address you, you decide not to speak.” Fluidly, Sharn slid his right foot and thrust his right fist into the slink. He struck the creature in its pointed nose, causing the slink’s black blood to flow from his snout. The new recruit crumpled to the ground. Sharn applied his foot to the soldier’s neck. “When I want to know your thoughts, I will ask for your thoughts. Until then, you have no thoughts. Until I ask you to say something, you only have ‘Yes, Sir.’ Is that clear?”

The veterans sneered with amusement. The two other new recruits shook with fear. “Yes, sir,” all eleven chimed in unison.

Sharn looked down at the bleeding slink, “Stay down there for the remainder of the battle or I will expedite your next rebirth. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” the slink replied, embarrassed and defeated.

Sharn looked to the end of the line where two other conculous stood. “Hyoi, you requested this mission. Have you jumped before?”

“Yes, sir,” Hyoi snapped, looking forward. “I was in Miami with a different unit, sir. I’ve also jumped often during my time in the Selinda, sir.”

Sharn walked slowly down the line until he was standing directly in front of Hyoi. He looked the conculous up and down, measuring his worth. Hyoi looked forward, unflinching. “I’ve heard the exploits of you Selinda. Sneaking around, whispering to one another. There will be no secret sharing on this mission, do you understand? We need warriors, not story tellers.”

“Yes, sir,” Hyoi said, firmly.

Sharn drew close. Hyoi could taste the commander’s breath. “If you disappointment me,” Sharn whispered with malice. “I’ll break both your legs and leave you on the other side for the humans to dissect. Don’t fail me. I won’t tolerate failure.”

“I won’t fail you, sir,” Bashi said with a smile.

“The sidekick speaks,” Sharn said, tilting his head in curiosity. “I’ve heard you aren’t right in the head? That you follow this one around like a dog?”

Bashi grinned. “Better a dog to a great leader than a lieutenant to a fool, sir. That’s what Andregrunt said last night anyway.”

Sharn’s eyes flared with rage. Channeling his fury, he struck at Bashi’s chest with his right fist To Sharn’s shock, unlike the slink before him, in harmony with Sharn’s hammer, Bashi stepped to the side, avoiding the punch complete. Then as Sharn’s strike recoiled, Bashi swiftly returned to his original stance.

Sharn bore his teeth. “You’re games are not amusing.”

“I am sorry, sir,” Bashi replied, his eyes fixed forward. “They say that I am not right in the head, and thus, must be forgiven for my foolish ways.”

Sharn spun on his heal and called to the group, “I will jump first. Zachariat after me. Then you three. The rest will guard our point of reentry. I will indicated the target. Stay focused on him. Keep interaction with the other humans to a minimum. Is that understood?”

The group again responded with a strong, “Huh!”

———–

“Alright, listen up gents.” Captain Deely commanded the attention of his Marines. “This is your briefing for today’s mission.”

The dimple on his pronounced chin was framed with a defined jaw line, which encased his infectious smile. He had short dirty blonde hair and the confidence that Marines admired. His education at the Virginia Military Institute had paid off. He was well versed in combat tactics and warfare.

The Marines of 2nd Platoon were sitting on metal folding chairs on top of a plywood floor inside a large coyote tan canvas tent, awaiting their mission briefing. It was 0800hours (8am) and bitter cold.

Captain Deely played with a computer remote, smacking it on his hand. “Why does this shit never work the way it’s supposed to?  Can somebody work the computer for me?”

Lance Corporal Jefferson from the intelligence platoon stood up and walked towards the laptop computer that was connected to a projector. “I’ll get it sir.”

“Thank you… Let’s get started. I think we’ve all been here long enough to realize that we aren’t being used for typical recon missions, so here’s what we’ve got today.” Captain Deely pointed the remote control at the computer, pressing the buttons sarcastically as it refused to cooperate. “Next slide, Lance Corporal. …there we are.

“I will be the convoy commander for this mission. Take a note of what vehicle’s you’re assigned to and your role in that vehicle. I will be in vehicle five. We’ll step off at 0900hrs. Lance Corporal, next. …thank you.

“This map shows the route we will take; down MSR Michigan, into town, where our objective will be to search this warehouse for weapon caches. Large ones.” He used the red laser pointer on the remote to circle around a structure on the map. “Our goal is to confirm or disprove this warehouse as a weapons storage location. We have intel that says this building is storing the big ones, as of three weeks ago.”

The captain pointed to Second Squad. “You guys are going to use the rooftop of the warehouse to provide a strong, elevated support position while we are inside.”

Pointing at Third Squad. “You gents will secure the entrances and windows on the first floor.”

“First and Fourth Squads will be with me, conducting the search. Vehicle gunners will remain in their turrets to secure the vehicles, machine guns, and radios. Our usual call sign will be ‘Snake Eyes’ and headquarters is still ‘Dark Horse’.” Captain Deely looked around at his Marines. “Are there any questions?”

Sargent Chris Parker stood up. “Sir, is the building that we are searching already secured, or are we clearing it when we get there?”

“Good question sergeant. The building has not been secured. Upon our arrival, Second squad will clear it on the way up to the roof and ensure that it’s safe for the rest of us.”

Corporal Faulk spoke up. “Sir, are we ever gonna get a real god-damn mission? We all put in a lot of effort and training to come to this shit hole and fuck shit up and all we’ve done so far are these bullshit hide and seek missions.”

“Look, I know this is boring shit gentlemen. But we’ve been tasked with it, so we’re gonna get it done. I’m sure at some point we’ll get tasked with something a little more up our alley. Until then, I want all of you to keep your head on a swivel and remember, complacency kills.”

Captain Deely tossed the remote to Lance Corporal Jefferson. “If there aren’t any more questions, let’s mount up and be ready to roll at 0900.”

The Marines filed out of the tent, into the bright sun and walked across the dirt lot to finish preparing their vehicles and equipment for the mission. Smalls picked up his pace to a slight joh to catch up to Chris. “Jose,” Smalls yelled after his friend.

Chris turned to face Smalls, but continued to walk backwards so as not to slow his pace. “Hose B?” Chris chuckled in response.

“You’re a jerk,” Smalls laughed. “That’s what we decided on. We’re naming our boy Jose.”

“Not bad. It’s a classic. Can’t go wrong with a solid, classic like that. I mean, it’s no ‘Chris.’ But it’s alright.”

“Yeah, asshole. Like I’d name a kid after desert trash like you. It was her dad’s name, so it has some sentimental value and stuff.”

The two friends separated and proceeded to their respective trucks. The trucks were lined up in the order of their assignment for the convoy. The six, boxy, four wheel drive, high mobility, multipurpose, giant wheeled monsters, or “Humvees” for short, looked ready for action. The Humvees were stout trucks with high clearance above the ground, but a large amount of interior space. They came primarily in two colors. Standard olive and tan. These were all coyote tan to match the desert environment.

Chris bent low as he walked to see below the massive tires of his vehicle. “So, are you going to stay in the middle of nowhere,” he yelled, “or are you going to raise the kid someplace normal?”

“Normal? Normal like Philly or Baltimore? You mean that kind of normal?” Smalls laughed as he made final equipment checks on his vehicle.

“True,” Chris laughed. “I just mean, a place where they teach things other than growing corn and country music.”

“Well, we’ve been thinking about it. Al has some relatives in Baltimore.”

“See there. That was easy. You didn’t need to give me all that lip. You could have just said, ‘Yes Chris, we are going to raise the kid in your hometown because no other place would be good enough for him.’”

“Yeah, but its Baltimore. Murder capital, unemployment, blue flashing lights on the street corners.”

Chris rolled under his Humvee and walked over to stand in front of Smalls. “Is that really all you know about my town?”

“Look,” Smalls said, not turning away from his equipment. “We need to focus. I don’t feel like having this conversation right now. Talking about my wife and kids doesn’t blend will with driving through shit filled, desert canyons looking for things that don’t exist.”

Chris nodded his head in understanding. They separated again to finish the vehicle preparation. Chris loaded into his Humvee. The engine roared. Standing on his seat to see over the cab, he yelled one more comment to his friend. “Jose. Can’t wait to meet that little guy!”

Smalls nodded his head and screamed back, “Me too, man. Me too.” Then he loaded into his truck.

Each Humvee was occupied by five Marines; a driver, the vehicle commander in the front passenger seat, a passenger on both sides in the rear. In the very center, one man would stand in a turret mounted to the frame of the Humvee. The Humvees were traditional military issue. They lacked armor and only donned either a canvas top or a fiberglass roof. They were incredible off road machines, but the need for additional armor wouldn’t be fully realized for several more years.

Vehicles one, two, five, and six had 240G turret mounted machine guns. They fired fifteen bullets a second, each about the size of standard crayon.

Vehicle three had an M2 fifty caliber turret mounted machine gun. Each of its bullets were the size of a man’s index finger. The gun has the capability to send out ten bullets every second. There are not many walls, vehicles, or structures that this beast would not penetrate.

The fourth vehicle’s turret carried an MK19 grenade launcher. It weighed over 70 lbs. and launched grenades over one half mile, raining down a relentless barrage of explosions.

The fifth and sixth vehicles also carried 240G turret mounted machine guns.

In a standard convoy, the first and last vehicles (in this case, vehicle one and six) included an AT4, a shoulder fired rocket launcher. AT stood for anti-tank, and would only be used in dire circumstances. The AT4 had a sling for carrying purposes that marines used to hang the weapon on the outside of the turret until it was needed.

Captain Deely’s voice crackled over the radio. “Attention on the net. This is Snake Eyes Actual. Begin radio checks, over.”

“Snake Eyes Actual, this is Snake Eyes One. I read you lima charlie, over.” Corporal Barnum responded over the radio.

Corporal Faulk in vehicle two looked at his driver, Lance Corporal Proach. “Shit, Barnum is vic one commander. Nobody can understand his retarded accent on the damn radio!” Keying up his radio, Corporal Faulk replied to the radio check.  “This is Snake Eyes Two, lima charlie, over.” Looking back at his driver, “seriously, does anybody know what the hell he just said?”

Chris keyed up his radio. “Snake Eyes Actual, this is Snake Eyes Three. Lima charlie, over.”

“This is Snake Eyes Four, I read you lima charlie, over.” Smalls replied to the radio check, then announced to the occupants of his vehicle. “I’ve got five bucks that says Faulk curses on the radio at least once at some point today.” The other marines in vehicle four laughed.

Corporal Vandertrip responded. “This is Snake Eyes Six, lima charlie, over.”

“All vics, this is Snake Eyes Actual. That’s a solid copy from all vics. Prepare to go oscar mike, over.” Captain Deely looked at his driver, but asked all of the marines in his vehicle “you guys good to go?”

The marines all gave a unanimous “yes sir!”

“All vics, all vics, this is Snake Eyes Actual, we are oscar mike.”

With the command given, the six Humvees rolled out of the camp and down the dirt road in a single file, kicking up a trail of dust behind them.

———–

Esh ran to Sharn, the slink’s tail dragging the ground, leaving a light trail in the sand in behind him. “Commander,” he reported breathlessly. “It’s time.”

Sharn grinned and looked around. There was nothing but sand, hills, and the massive ghostly clouds of the world the world they were about to enter. Sharn gave careful attention to the massive, foggy structure before him. He’d watched it for days, trying to understand what he would encounter on the other side. It was never what he expected. The commander had grown accustom to the unknown.

“Soldiers, form a circle around me and Zacharias. Mish will open a jump site with the Lamina. Timing will be critical and sensitive. Do your jobs, and we will all feast and laugh together tonight, warm in front of the fires of Malacandra.”

“Huh!” the troops replied with nervous energy.

“Mish, please validate our entry point once more, and place the coin where we need to enter.”

———–

The morning drive through the wasteland passed quickly. Clearing the final hill, they continued through a ravine that ended as the first buildings in a small village. The rough buildings of the village stood between them and the warehouse building.

“Snake Eyes Actual, this is Snake Eyes One, over.”

“This is Snake Eyes Actual, send it, over.”

“Where are all the people? This place is a ghost town, over.”

“Just keep pushing through and stay vigilant, over.”

The pot holes and narrow roads slowed the convoy as they reached the entrance to the village. Brick and mortar structures lined each side of the street. The back of each house almost touched the hills that rose behind them, to create a natural valley that channeled the road toward the warehouse.

Corporal Faulk scanned the area with his eyes, “This place is fuckin creepy.”

“Hey, there’s a guy up there, eleven o’clock.” Lance Corporal Proach said, pointing to the first rooftop on the left side of the road.

The dirty brown, two story building had a flat roof with a small parapet surrounding the frame. One lone figure could be seen moving toward the front corner of the roof.

Corporal Faulk keyed up his radio, “Snake Eyes One, this is Snake Eyes Two, there’s a military aged male on the rooftop to your ten-o’clock. Keep your eyes…”

———–

Rothman squinted toward the ghostly the town. He crouched behind a collection rocks, atop the hill that separated him from the Malacandrian soldiers. He could barely make out the foggy shape of a figure moving along a roof of the first building in Reality. The man picked up a long barrel shape, held it to his shoulder, and jerked backwards as a plume of smoke erupted from the back of the barrel.

“It’s beginning,” he said to himself, as he gripped tightly with each hands the murderous bars, his weapons of choice. He crouched, preparing to pounce.

Sharn shouted. “Prepare yourselves.” His mouth watered in anticipation. He stood directly in front of a small silver disc lying on the ground. The disk cast a shimmer above it that looked like heat waves radiating from sun baked asphalt. He drew long straight sword from a sheath on his back and held it in front of him at the ready.

The disk began to spin, kicking up a small cloud of dust around it.

“Hold! Hold!” Sharn commanded.

It spun faster and faster. The air was pierced by a blinding light shooting in a beam from the disc.

Through the shimmering air, there was a blinding burst of light.

“Hold! Hold!” Sharn yelled again.

———–

Corporal Faulk keyed up his radio, “Snake Eyes One, this is Snake Eyes Two, there’s a military aged male on the rooftop to your ten-o’clock. Keep your eyes.” Faulk’s voice stopped mid-sentence. He was rendered silent as his mind fought to comprehend the rapidly changing environment around him.

A large ball of flame is erupting from under vehicle one. It soared into the air doing a backflip. There was an explosion. Pieces of the Humvee shredded off and flew in all directions.

Lance Corporal Johnson shot out of the gun turret like a ball from a canon.

Debris flipped end over end, coming toward the front of Faulk’s vehicle.

“I need to turn away. I need to turn away,” his mind raced.

A shockwave just sent him sideways.

Debris slammed into the front of our vehicle.

“We won’t be able to move. We won’t be able to move,” Faulk’s mind screamed. The world slowed around him. It felt that minutes passed before he could comprehend that his vehicle had also been hit with an explosive and they were under attack.

Men seemed to have appeared from nowhere on all sides of the convoy. Some fired the standard wooden stocked, machine gun of the terrorists. Their AK47 let out a steady “thump thump thump” as shells leaving the gun smacked against the sides of the vehicles they were tearing to ribbons. Others men stood erect with the long tube shaped RPGs. These took careful aim before pulling their triggers. Trails of smoke burst from behind the tubes as the explosive tips rocketed toward the Humvees.

The air filled with violent sounds of destruction, the snapping of bullets, and the whiz of projectiles in the air. Explosions filled the small village. Screams from injured men sent chills down the spines of the living.

———–

Rothman breathed in sharply at the wavy images of war and death below.  The wispy trail of the projectile sent from the tube hit the ground under the first metal wheeled carriage, an explosion sending it skyward. “Unnecessary violence. Killing without purpose. Is this all the efforts of Sharn?” he mumbled to himself.

A beam of life shot through the sky and Rothman knew it was time.

———–

Regaining his composure, Corporal Faulk continued with his radio transmission, “…all vics, all vics, Snake Eyes One is down. Shit! Repeat. Snake Eyes One is down and blocking the roadway. We are taking RPG and small arms fire. It’s a fucking ambush, over! A fucking ambush!”

“This is Snake Eyes Actual. All vics, back up and…” Captain Deely was interrupted as an invisible wave of sound rattled his teeth.

Lance Corporal Krinler shouted down to Captain Deely from the machine gun turret, in between bursts of his 240G, “vehicle six is down, sir! We’re blocked in!”

“Fuck!” Captain Deely screamed. He knew the kill zone had been set. He needed to get out. They needed to escape the blockade or they’d all be dead. He looked left and right, searching for a hole in the chaos, a place to exit the trap. Then he saw it, a home, the second building on the left. It appeared sturdy. He snatched the radio and transmitted, “All vics dismount! I say again, dismount and regroup in the brown building at the convoy’s nine-o’clock!”

Lance Corporal Krinler dropped from the turret onto the floor of the Humvee. “Krinler, let’s g…” Captain Deely stopped shouting when he saw the bullet hole just below Krinler’s left eye. “Move out!” Deely continued shouting as he jumped out of the Humvee and began running towards the brown building.

He was fifteen feet from the entrance when his body shook in a spasm and he collapsed to the ground in confusion. “Why’d I stop? Why won’t my legs move?” his mind raced.

The marines from vehicle three had dismounted and began making their way towards the brown building. They crouched low, scuttling between points of cover. Chris watched Captain Deely run to the door. A pink mist puffed out of his lower abdomen and he collapsed to the ground. Chris’ view was interrupted as Smalls jumped out of his vehicle and ran to the captain, bent down to a knee and used his brute strength to left the Captain from the ground.

The other four marines from Smalls vehicle stacked up at the front door of the brown building, preparing to make entry. The first marine drew back his knee and thrust it forward, shattering the door.

A ball of fire erupted, consuming the pieces of his body as they flew into the street. The three other marines were hit with enough force that their lives ended before they could register that they were in danger.

Chris crouched behind his Humvee and scanned the buildings for movement. An Iraqi man on the roof of the building behind Smalls was taking aim. Probably the same man that had shot Deely. The gun steadied in a direct line with Smalls back.

“Smalls, behind you!” Chris screamed.

Smalls was weighed down by Captain Deely and could not maneuver to free up his rifle. Chris saw the man on the roof take aim. Chris moved, leaving cover, running toward the building, screaming. Chris took aim and fired at the building, but he had no angle. His bullets pelted the wall meaninglessly.

The moment would live in Chris’ mind forever: Smalls’ body jerking uncontrollably as bullets tore through him, the expression of recognition and terror on his face, the red mist bursting from his body.

Chris screamed in agony. His eyes burned with tears. He reached helplessly for his friend as he ran.

Smalls fell to his knees. The bullets continued to riddle him. The massive man fell backward on top of the Captain. Then it was still. The bullets turned toward another victim. Smalls lay in the blood soaked dirt, peaceful and unmoving despite the horrors still going on around him.

Chris pressed his back against the building. He looked at his fallen friend. Tears mixed with sweat burned his eyes. He felt a sudden need to be present. He needed to break from the pain. He needed to gain control of the chaos around him. He took a deep breath, pushed his sorrow down, and calmed his nerves. A cold rage filled his heart. He gripped his weapon and assessed the scene. His senses came alive as they never had before. He dropped to one knee, raised his riffle to his shoulder, exhaled slowly, placed his finger on the trigger, and whispered to himself a single word, “Smalls.”

———–

Sharn stood still, focused on the actions in the large ghostly town around him. More specifically, he watched one man in the town.

The shimmering air that normally indicated the existence of the veil had completely disappeared around one individual. Sharn moved closer to look through the foggy wall, through the house, until he was even with the smoky front wall. He watched Chris intently. Sharn saw the human drop to a knee, the human’s shoulders even with Sharn’s eyes. The commander ran his hand through the side of the man he intended to kill, his hand pushing through the fog but touching nothing. “This is him. This is the one. Everyone take a good look. He is the one who must not live.”

“Huh!” replied the circle of men.

Sharn moved back to the coin. He crouched, preparing to leap into the light. “On my mark we prepare to jump. Steady men. Steady.”

And then, with a guttural roar, and the whiz of steal weapons piercing the air, the clarity that surrounded the Malacandrians dissipated.

———–

Captain Deely watched in awe at the rapid movement of his sergeant. Chris was targeting, firing, and then targeting again before the previous victim had hit the ground. In seconds, the soldier cleared ten combatants without hesitation.

Deely’s legs throbbed. The shock was passing and his body was experiencing the pain of his injuries for the first time. He breathed deeply, sucking back the agony. Bracing his shoulders against the ground, he pushed up hard. The body of Sergeant Smalls rolled from on top of him. To his shock, Sergeant Parker was already there. In a solid motion, Chris swept down, threw Deely over his shoulder, and backed toward the house, all while continuing to drop terrorists. Deely had never seen anything like it. The Sergeant’s speed and power were inhuman.

Chris backed the two of them toward the door of the house. In the seven steps it took to get to the safety of the shattered door, Deely thought he heard Chris drop eight more enemies.

Pausing at the door of the building, Chris barked orders to the four marines from vehicle three, “Clear this building!”

The four marines snapped into action. They entered the building with riffles raised. The sound of gunfire echoed out of the doorway.

Seconds later a voice came from the roof top, “Sergeant, the building is clear!” Deely looked up to see the marine’s torso spin as bullets from separate angles pierced his body, launching his body off the roof.

Chris didn’t pause at the site of the man. He stepped into the building and propped Captain Deely in a corner. The Sergeant retrieved his side arm and handed it to the Captain.

Deely was still in shock at the efficiency of his soldier. He breathed and took in the room. The feeling of safety was quickly washed away by the feeling of sorrow, as Deely saw the other three marines from vehicle three lying dead on the steps to the second floor. The safety of the building had been bought with a bloody shootout and more men had been lost.

Deely looked to his legs. Both ankles were twisted in odd directions. A piece of Humvee protruded from the left one.

More Marines entered the room. “Keep it together,” Deely whispered to himself. He swallowed back his pain, fighting to stay conscious. He saw Sergeant Parker in the doorway, again firing one round per target with terrifying precision. “You three,” Deely yelled with all his might to the three who were catching their breath. “Secure the roof. Provide elevated fire.”

“Yes, sir!” the three remaining Lance Corporals from vehicle five acknowledged.

“…and keep a low profile!” Deely warned.

Two more Marines entered the house, provided safety by Sergeant Parker’s cover fire. “Who are we missing? I need a sitrep,” Captain Deely said with a painful groan. “Everyone from vehicle six was KIA.”

A young man stood in front of the Captain. Deely’s vision was fading. He couldn’t make out the man’s face. He couldn’t place it. His mind was blacking out. He forced himself back to the present.

“Vehicle one looked like it was hit pretty hard, sir,” the young soldier reported. “And probably all KIA, but I couldn’t see it very well past vehicle two.”

“Okay, we can’t lose focus,” Captain Deely said. “As far as we know, they were diverted and found a different building for cover.” He retrieved a map and a handheld radio from the pouch on his side, he switched radio channels and began to transmit, “Dark Horse, Dark Horse, this is Snake Eyes, over.”

Sergeant Parker’s firing went silent. The blond haired man stayed on alert, ready to attack again at the sight of a combatant. The room waited for a long eight seconds, then the radio began crackling with a reply, “Snake Eyes, this is Dark Horse. Send it, over.”

The three marines exchanged gunfire on the rooftop and their voices echoed down the stairwell, “Contact from the tan building, nine-o’clock!  …reloading!”

“Dark Horse, we need QRF to our pos for a platoon sized hostile force with small arms and RPG’s, break-, – and casevac for approximately 12 packs. Prepare for coordinates, over.”

“Ready to copy, Snake Eyes. Send it.”

“Our pos is 33.405, 43.917. How copy, over?”

“That’s a solid copy Snake Eyes. QRF has a fifteen mike ETA and casevac will stand by until a non-hostile LZ is established, over.”

“Roger, Snake Eyes out.” Captain Deely looked up at Chris. “We need to make contact with somebody from vehicle two,” the Captain called. “Check for other survivors, and prepare to evacuate the area.” Switching his radio back to their channel, he keyed up the microphone once more, “Snake Eyes Two, this is Snake Eyes Actual, come in, over.”

The radio stayed frustratingly silent. The snap of gunfire continued to echo from building to building. Sergeant Parker fired off more deliberate rounds.

Another marine knelt in front of the Captain. “Sir, we need to get you patched up,” he said as he bent down and began opening the captain’s first aid kit.

Deely could feel himself losing consciousness again. He pushed the marine’s hands away. “No. No,” he said. “Take Sergeant Parker and find the others.”

“Captain, we can’t just leave you,” the marine said.

“That’s an order!” Captain Deely barked.

Chris stopped what he was doing, stood up, and took a few steps back. “Marines, we’re moving out!” he commanded. “No one gets left behind. Let’s go.”

The two marines complied and, following Chris’ lead, low-crawled to the front door.

“We’re gonna go find the rest of our guys and get the hell out of here. Check your ammo and prepare to move out.” Chris instructed.

One of the three Lance Corporals began to speak, “I’m running low on ammo, does -.”

A small thump on the dirt floor interrupted the marine. Before Chris could look down to see what it was, Captain Deely screamed, “Grenade!” Chris wrapped his arms around the two marines, and with all the power he could muster, he picked them up, and with unbelievable speed, launched himself and them up the stairway, knowing he would catch the blast, but they would be saved.

———–

Sharn was on his back. The human had leapt into the center of their circle and put the commander on his but with a powerful kick. Sharn screamed in furry, “Now! Now! Now! The Gracanjo dies now!”

But his troops could not respond. They were caught in a whirl wind of metal and pain, entangled in battle with the large human at the center of the circle. The man brought his steal rod down on the head of a lunging Mardock, crumpling its skull. Before the Mardock hit the ground and liquefied, the human swung low and took the legs from under a slink. As the slink fell to his back, and the warrior monk in all black rammed a steal rod through his forehead.

Sharn screamed in rage as his troops liquefied before him. Another Mardock died as the human jammed the steel rod in his left hand through the Mardock’s chin. The rod burst through the back of the Mardocks head and then slid back and found its way to the slinks jaw.

Sharn rose to one knee. He looked up and mumbled with recognition, “The Rothman? Why is the Rothman here?” Two more of his troops melted into black sludge, their spirts returning to be reborn. Half his force gone in the blink of an eye.

Sharn watched Zachariat ran forward, but Rothman didn’t move his feet. His right hand swept forward. With a shimmer of black steal, Zacharias’ head snapped sideways, his body following in a twirl, his eyes closing in immediate ending to his existence in Midian.

Sharn pressed himself up off the ground. “Rothman!” he screamed. “Face me!”

Rothman locked eyes with Sharn and smiled. The thick, black life of the fallen was splattered across his face. His dark eyes were wide and wild. “It will be like it was in Pompeii, Anzac Cove, and Berlin. I have sent you to rebirth many times, Sharn, and I shall do it again today, and one day you might learn to run when the Rothman arrives.”

Sharn hesitated for one second, “That was you?”

“Indeed.”

Sharn drew his long sword, gripping the hilt with both hands. “It is a shame you humans only live once. I would enjoy killing you over and over. Today is your final day! Leave now and I will permit you to live.”

Rothman laughed. “I never grow tired of your bravado. Good. Good for you. Let us finish this.” He spun his rods in his hands, and with a shake of his arms, double edged blades extended from each of the smooth black rods.

The remaining four soldiers stepped back to give the warriors room.

Sharn lunged forward, swiping down with his blade. Rothman dodged to the left, spun his body, and stopped to face Sharn head on. He pushed forward with his left and right legs, jumping forward toward Sharn. Sharn jumped backwards into a roll and landed outside the circle of men surrounding Rothman.

———–

Both Bashi and Hyoi saw Rothman’s assault on Sharn, but they were not focused on battle in Midian. Instead they watched the large, foggy figures in reality. They saw a breaded man approach the door. The man pulled a round object from his jacket. They both recognized the smoky grenade as itbounced across the floor.

Bashi knew he had to act quickly. He took two strides and leaped feet first into the beam of light extending from the coin. The sound of Hyoi screaming, “No!” faded behind him.

Hyoi and Andregrunt, the giant Mardock, made eye contact. They raced to the light together, both hoping to stop the other from crossing the Veil. Hyoi moved as quickly as he could, but Andregrunt’s long strides won out. The Mardock leaped into the light behind Bashi. Hyoi pulled up short of the light, unsure where he would be most useful, deciding to wait and see what transpired.

———-

The grenade should have exploded. It should have torn Sergeant Parker and Captain Deely to shreds. It should have destroyed everything in the room, but instead of the deafening blast, the air was sucked from the room with a deep inhaling sound.

Deely watched in horror as a grey circle of light appeared in the middle of the room. From the circle came a beautiful, pale man with purple eyes. He was like a person, but seemed more than a person. Later, in interviews that would result in Captain Deely being declared unfit for duty, Deely would describe the figure as a beautiful angel who’d descended from Heaven to save them from the grenade.

The purple eyed man grabbed the grenade and tossed it, underhand, through the grey, shinning circle in the ceiling. He then turned to Sergeant Parker and smiled.

He paused to smile. Why did he pause to smile? At Sergeant Parker? The question would haunt Deely for the rest of his life. A small mystery that relentlessly bore itself into his brain. Maybe, if the angel hadn’t of paused to smile, he would have seen the monster behind him. Maybe.

Behind the angel came a demon. A massive, muscular, sharp toothed, man like, demon with grey, colorless skin, and black swirling pools for eyes. Deely watched in terror as the demon grabbed the angel from behind by the head, and, with one hand, flung the beautiful purple eyed creature back through the glowing circle of light in the ceiling.

Deely screamed in horror. He watched, helpless, as the giant beast took two long steps toward the stairs, grabbed Sergeant Parker under the arms as if the Sergeant were a small child, and moved back toward the circle of light in the ceiling. Deely scrambled for the firearm Sergeant Parker had given him. He raised it toward the monster, his hand shaking with fear. He pulled back on the trigger. Shot after shot after shot rang out, but he was to unsteady. His bullets went wide, breaking holes through the wall around the beast.

The monster crouched and then jumped toward the light, with Sergeant Parker still under his arm.

———–

Chris waited on the stairs, every muscle tense, shielding his men. He waited for the blast of the grenade, for the explosion to shatter his ears and pierce his flesh, but the blast didn’t come. In its place, Chris found himself floating backwards. He watched the captain fire his pistol from his seated position in the corner. He saw the looks of utter horror on his men’s faces. He saw the powerful, rippled, muscular arm around his chest. He felt warm, acid breath on the back of his neck.

He squirmed and fought to escape, but it was useless. He couldn’t break his captors grasp. He strained to turn and look his captor in the face. What he saw sent him limp with fear. Two rows of jagged, sharp, white teeth in the mouth of a man. A dark, black, unending pit of swirling tar when the creature’s eye should have been. A horrible, proud, smile of victory.

Then he was moving up. Up with rapid speed, toward the ceiling. But where the ceiling should have been was ground. Chris emerged from a hole in the dirt. Like an elevator traveling up with open doors, he saw the threshold of dirt pass before his eyes. Strange bodies lay all around. A pair of black boots and powerful, tan legs were in front of him.

Everything looked strange. More than the black robed warrior. The sunlight cast a strange glow that illuminated the rocks, the dirt, and everything else. Clouds stirred in violent sweeping spirals directly above him.

He counted the bodies that fell at the mad warrior’s feet. Six, eight, ten. Ten men lying still, two struggling to stand up, and one with a vice grip around his body. The carnage was incredible, the smell of explosives hung in the air.

The creature that was holding Chris was now crawling, dragging the rest of Chris’ body through the portal. Chris thrashed, frantic to be released. Panic filled his chest and vomit filled his mouth. He fought and kicked.

Then there was a voice and strange words. The dark monk spoke in a deep, distinct voice, directly to the beast that was trying to drag him through the portal, “Quos ego faciamhinc.”

———–

Hyoi watched the grenade transform from mist to solid material as it passed through the Veil portal.

Rothman pivoted on his right foot to move out of the path of a powerful downward thrust from Sharn.  The grenade rolled between the two warriors. Neither noticed the small black ball.

Knowing there couldn’t be more than a second left before the ball exploded, Hyoi sprung into action. In one fluid motion, Hyoi grabbed Rothman by shoulders and yanked the giant man back, and he kicked the grenade in the air toward Sharn.

Reflexively, the commander caught and cradled the strange object against his chest in celebration. “I now have a relic from Reali-.” His sentence was cut short by the massive blast. Heat and shock knocked Hyoi backward, but he managed to land in a crouch.

Hyoi had only regained his footing for a moment when Bashi flew through the portal in the ground, and collided into his friend.

Rothman burst into heavy, think laughter at the two conculus entangled on the ground, but the warrior’s laughter was cut short by the sight of Andregrunt’s vicious, pale face grinning, dragging the Gracanjo through the portal in the ground. With snapping reflexes, Rothman caught the Mardock by the neck before the beast’s body emerged into Midian.

Squeezing tight on Andregrunt’s neck, Rothman leaned close to the Mardock’s ear. The stench of death and suffering on the monster’s breath made Rothman want to vomit. Rothman whispered to his prey, “Quos ego faciamhinc” as he choked the life from the beast.

———–

The monster’s grip loosened after he heard the monk speak to the beast. Chris began to fall. The strange land rose quickly out of view. He passed through the ceiling and landed on his butt in the middle of the room. Above him came a rush of air as a circle of light spiraled to a close. Chris looked around the room. He saw Captain Deely fighting to remain conscious in the corner. The two remaining Marines on the stairs, raced toward the door and fell just as quickly to enemy fire.

Deely held the pistol with a white knuckled grip and sent rounds through the doorway of the house as militants attempted to run through the entrance.

Crumbled bodies were piling up at the entrance of the room, then Chris heard the bleak click of an empty ammunition magazine as the Captain continued to pull the trigger without result.

This is it, Chris thought to himself. This is where we die. He rose to his feet, preparing to face what ever came through the door.

A brief glance into the street showed another group of men running towards the building. Chris glance back at his Captain in the corner. Chris’ vision blurred with grief as he saw Captain Deely’s hand drop his weapon into the crimson pool of blood in the dirt growing larger as he helplessly bled out from his wound.

———–

Hyoi stood still, looking down at Bashi. “Did any escape?”

“No, sir,” Bashi replied, still laying in the dirt.

“Where’s the Lamina?”

“Rothman took it. He is gone.” Bashi pointed toward the rocks. “He went that way.”

Hyoi brushed the dirt off his clothes. “Let him have it,” he said. “He needs to get home somehow.”

“Hyoi, look at this,” Bashi said, his finger pointed at the giant, smokey figure of Chris.

———–

Sorrow and frustration slowly transformed into determination. Chris inhaled a long breath. Calmness passed over him in a warm wave. Time slowed. Every movement seemed to hang in the air. Motes of dust slowly drifted through the open window. Enemy soldiers took slow steps across the threshold.

Chris crouched and launched toward the intruders with his arms thrust forward. He became a blur of motion. His fists collided with the insurgents chests. They flew backward with the same force of the initial explosion that had opened the doorway. Their lives ended before they hit the street behind them.

———–

As Chris landed on his feet outside the doorway, Captain Deely’s eyes opened enough for him to watch Chris move away into a mirage like shifting wave of motion.

Deely pressed a hand to his side and pulled it away covered in blood. He saw the men piled upon men in the doorway. He used his good arm to pull himself up to the window sill, and he scanned the town for signs of Chris.

Across the street, where the shots had originated that had ripped his men apart, he found Sergeant Parker.

———–

An arm sweep across the neck of the sniper and broke the vertebrae. Instead of releasing his arm from the neck, he used his momentum to turn his body into a horizontal scythe. His boot made contact with the second sniper on the roof, the man’s body collapsed in a heap.

Chris landed, planting his feet on the roof top, never releasing the insurgent’s neck. He located four insurgents creeping down the street to search the empty Humvees. With his feet anchored, he snapped the dead body over his head, releasing it at the apex, sending it flying down the street. He ran forward and jumped from the rooftop, toward the Humvees. Overhead, the limp body still drifted in a lazy arc toward the vehicles. Chris ran at the group, his legs pumping furiously. He was in the center of the gang before the were aware of his approach.  The moment of recognition barely had a chance to register on their faces before their fate was sealed.

———–

Deely drew his knees under him to support his weight as he watched through the open window.

Chris stopped moving in the center of the soldiers just in time to catch the falling body by the feet. Using the momentum of the corpse, Chris caught the body by the feet and spun in a circle. The four attackers were bashed with the corp’s head. The men went flying in four directions. Two bodies slammed against the burning hulk of a Humvee. Another became airborne, soaring in a flopping tangle and landing in a barren tree, branches piercing the body in five places. The fourth body slammed into the smoldering doorway, tearing in half, the waist and legs to stop at the captain’s feet.

With precision and efficiency, Deely watched the blur of Sergeant Parker continue to from house to house, leaving bodies in a trail of gore and death behind him, until finally, there was no movement in the village.

———–

Chris stood alone next to the line of abandon Humvees searching for survivors. His racing heart pounded with pain in his chest. His arms and legs cried in pain. The world was still around him. He closed his burning eyes tight, held them for a moment, and then opened them again. He looked down at his hands. They were soaked in the blood of countless combatants. The horrors he’d committed over the past five minutes were a haze in his foggy mind. He felt as through the world had grown centuries older.

He walked back toward Smalls. He looked down at his friend. His eyes stung and filled with tears. He sat in the dust, collapsing to the ground like an exhausted child.  He wrapped his arms around his friend’s motionless body and cradled Small’s head to his chest. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He wept softly and freely. Exhaustion and grief began to overtake him. The flow of tears grew heavy and uncontrolled. His chest heaved with spasms as he tried to catch a breath. Moans began to escape his lips. They rolled from him in waves of pain.

He began to fade. His lids grew heavy. As he drifted into the sleep from over exertion, he caught a glimpse of two dusty small men watching him to his left. They were knee high ghosts. He recognized them. He stared for a moment, trying to comprehend, but his exhaustion overtook him

———–

Hyoi and Bashi watched in frozen awe as Chris wept.

“I still don’t understand the depth of loss that they experience,” Bashi said.

“In Reality, life without rebirth. Life with an end, a terminal point. It does add passion to living.”

“Where do we go with this next?”

“I’m not sure. Others will wonder what happened here. Who knows how much Sharn and his crew will retain when they return.”

“Hopefully very little.”

“Either way, we will have to give account to Mikael.”

———–

The sounds of marines filtered into the room from outside. “Vehicle clear! The area is all clear!”

A young marine approached the entrance to the brown building and saw Sergeant Parker collapsed, paths of tear smudged dirt drying on his face. Smalls’ body limp beside him. He quickly turned around and shouted “I found one! I found a survivor!”

Seconds later, a group of marines approached Chris and began shaking him, trying to ask questions to no avail.

“Are you injured?”

“Is there anybody else?”

“Where is the rest of your team?”

“Can you walk?”

The questions kept flowing and Chris couldn’t answer.

From inside the bullet riddled house, Captain Deely was attempting to answer, but everything he responded with seemed ridiculous. “There was an angel with purple eyes! Then a demon with pointy teeth! The demon took Sergeant Parker through a hole in the ceiling, but only half way. And then Sergeant Parker flung a body from a roof and used it as a weapon!”

Eventually, still shrouded in silence, Chris stood up and stumbled to follow the marines back to their Humvee for evacuation.

Before they departed the small town, Chris had a glimmer of hope and shouted to the vehicle commander. “Did you guys find corporal Faulk and his fire-team? Are they okay?”

Deely shook his head. A brief silence filled the inside of the Humvee and only the diesel engine was heard.

The vehicle commander responded with a somber tone. “Yeah, we found them.” After another brief pause he continued. “It wasn’t good.”

Chris’ slipped back into silence.

The ride back to base seemed to last an eternity and Chris remembered the horrific incident over and over in his head. He wondered what had happened towards the end. Why was I pulled away?  If I didn’t get pulled away, would it have mattered? Who pulled me away? Why did I get to live? I wish the grenade had taken me from this sorrow. He was tormented by his own questions and doubts.

After arriving at the base, Captain Deely and Seargant Parker went through the debriefing at the headquarters building. They attempted to answer all of the questions that were asked. From majors to generals, they all believed the story of the ambush. They had to listen without comment when hearing about Deely’s demon and Chris’ “out of body experience.” They chalked that up to post traumatic stress, until-.

———–

Captain Deely lay in the hospital bed as men pummeled him with questions.

He answered them all with precise accuracy. The soldiers asking questions often would exchange glances, usually at the most unbelievable parts.

Deely held up his hand. “Stop. I’ve have had enough of this. Have you talked to Chris?”

“Yes,” one officer answered.

“And I am going to guess that our stories matched up, perfectly.” He paused. “No, you don’t even have to tell me, I know that answer, because I know what I saw, and I know Chris.

“So here is what you are going to do. You are going to confirm each casualty on that battle field, and you will verify that the enemies’ dead were in fact killed in action, exactly the way I have described. Only someone moving at the speed of a blur could have cause the carnage that you will find.

“Then, and only then, will I answer any more of your questions.”

———–

When the debriefing was finished Chris walked back to the barracks, where he approached the door to his room. He slowly opened the door, proceeded to his bottom bunk and sat down.

His eyes wondered around the room and things started to sink in, one observation at a time. He looked at the other three empty beds. Faulk, Barnum, and Smalls were gone and they would never lay in these beds again.

Scanning the room with his eyes, he looked at each marine’s personal space. They had been adorned with pictures of loved ones and items sent with love in the mail.

Faulk had a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs on his desk that his girlfriend had sent him. Barnum had several stuffed animals on his bed from his wife. Smalls had a picture of Alessandra and a sonogram photo on the wall by his bed.

“Jose” Chris said quietly and the uncontrollable weeping continued.

A Friendly Reunion

August, 1999 – Camp Lejeune, NC

 

The maturing BMW twisted and turned through the jersey barriers. The concrete, triangular barriers created a serpentine path on the roadway that guided the BMW to a forced stop at the guard shack. The lance corporal military police officer waved the vehicle on after observing the red, enlisted sticker on the windshield. Chris pressed the accelerator, continuing down the straight and lengthy two lane roadway, through a corridor of luscious trees.

Approaching the busier portion of the base, red brick buildings dominated the landscape. Large steam pipes ran along the ground and jumped up at the edge of the roads to span across, allowing vehicles to pass beneath. Steam spewed out of sporadic joints, giving an industrial feel to the base, nestled in the middle of vast forests and nature. It was a hot, humid, sunny day.

Chris crept passed a platoon of Marines wearing olive drab shorts and shirts. They ran in formation while shouting cadence. Turning right, into a parking lot near a small brick building, he heard the brakes squeal lightly as his car eased into a parking space. Exiting his vehicle, Chris put his cover on and walked towards the bright red painted door.

He entered the building, took his cover off, and walked through the hallway that led straight into the heart of the mostly vacant section of the structure. The only sound in the hall was the clicking of Chris’ shoe on the tile floor. At the end of the hallway he arrived at an old, grey metal desk. Behind the desk was a Marine sipping coffee and reading the Marine Corps Times. Chris stopped and stood silently in front of the desk. Without moving his head or changing his body position, the Marine acknowledged Chris’ presence.

Once he reached the end of his article the Marine began to fold up his paper. “Good morning,” he said, focusing on folding the paper exactly. “What can I do for you?” His voice was monotone, as if he’d been saying the same thing to Marines every day for the last decade.  Like a skipping record player that needed to be bumped, he wasn’t thrilled to be there and had long before grown tired of the repetition.

“Good morning staff sergeant,” Chris said crisply as he fiddled with his cover behind his back “I’m here to check into 2nd Recon Battalion.”

“Very well then. I can help you get settled in. I’m Staff Sergeant Richards. Welcome to Camp Lejeune.” The Staff Sergeant stood up, held his hand out and lifted his head to see who he was speaking to. “You look familiar.” His curiosity was on the rise.

Chris shook his hand firmly. “I get that sometimes.”

“No, I think I remember your face from something. Or from somewhere.”

Chris didn’t want it to be brought up, so he forced his eyes to wander around the room and changed the subject. “So, uh…will I be billeted with other guys from two-two?

“Oh, right. Yeah.” SSgt Richards began to doubt his own memory and resumed his regular chit chat. “You just get finished with the Basic Recon Course?”

“Yeah, kinda. I finished BRC a few months ago, then graduated from scout sniper school last week.”

“How was it?”

“Brutal. It was awesome training, but freakin’ brutal.” Chris cracked a smile, showing signs of his proud accomplishments.

“That’s what I’ve heard.” SSgt Richards turned around and opened a small metal lock box that was mounted on the wall behind the desk. He scanned through the keys with his fingers, then picked one up. “Alright sergeant, here’s your key. You’ll be in building 3029, room 212, with a few other Marines.” He handed Chris the key. “I’ll get the paperwork submitted for your meal card. But in the mean time you can sign in at the front of the chow hall on the ‘temporary assignment’ sheet.”

“Thanks staff sergeant. I appreciate your help.”

“It’s no problem sergeant. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I will.” Chris slid the key into his pocket and walked down the hallway of the decrepit brick building, exiting through the bright red door.

A short drive later, Chris arrived at a large, three story, red brick building bearing the numbers “3029”. He stepped out of his car, walked around to the back, and put his key in the trunk’s keyhole. He shook the key gently, applying a slight twisting pressure. “It should be right about…there.” He softly spoke to himself, willing the stubborn lock to comply. With more gentle jiggling the trunk popped open. He pulled his olive drab sea bag out and slung it over his left shoulder, then he spun around and walked up the concrete stairs to the second floor. Chris continued down the concrete balcony, until he arrived at room 212. Hesitating for a minute, he prepared himself to meet his new roommates. With the key in his hand, he raised it up to the doorknob.

“Put that shit away man! That’s fucking gross!” voices muffled through the door.

A different voice with a broken French accent replied, “Dude that smells like your mom’s…” The door to the room swung open and a short Marine came storming out, bumping into Chris.

“Oh shit, sorry sergeant,” the short Marine said with surprise. The Marine’s name was Corporal Barnum.  Born and raised in Trinidad, he was five feet six inches tall, and weighed 165 pounds. He had dark black skin, spoke with a thick accent, and wore his woodland digital camouflage uniform like almost everybody else in Camp Lejeune.

Chris looked down at the Marine. “Don’t worry about it corporal.” He nodded his head towards the door. “You live here?”

“Yes sergeant.”

“I guess that makes us roommates then.”

“Ah, man.” Corporal Barnum felt like he had ruined his only shot at a first good impression. He reached for the door.  “Here, let me get that for… Wait… You’re the guy from Camp Pendleton, right? You were awarded the Navy and Marine Corps medal for saving the lives of like fifteen Marines?”

“It was only eleven. And it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“It wasn’t a big deal? Sergeant, you were awarded the second highest non-combat medal possible and given a meritorious promotion for saving the lives of eleven Marines. I’d say that’s a big deal. The Marine Corps Times said you moved so fast that you looked like a blur. The title of the article was ‘Marine Saves Men in a Blur’.”

“Adrenaline helps men accomplish amazing things.” Chris pointed to the door with his right thumb. “Hey, you mind if I head in. This bag is getting heavy.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Chris said as he walked through the door and took his cover off. He paused for a second to let his eyes adjust to the poorly lit room, after being outside in the bright sun.

“Son of a bitch!  What the hell are you doing here?”

Chris could barely make out the shape walking towards him. He could tell it was a man with a large stature.  “I’ve been assigned to this room,” Chris said, wondering who he was addressing, hoping it wasn’t going to be the third person this morning that was going to recognize him from the incident.

The large man wrapped his arms around Chris briefly hugging him, then let go and backed up a few steps. “It’s me man.”

Chris’ eyes lit up as his vision adjusted and he realized who he was talking to. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my room, man,” Smalls replied with a smile. “I live here.”

“No way. That’s crazy. What are the odds of that?”

“Welcome to our humble abode.” Smalls pointed behind Chris with his right index finger. “That dumbass there is Corporal Barnum.”  He used the thumb of his left hand to point behind himself. “The guy dropping a deuce in the head is Corporal Faulk, and of course you know who I am.” He finished his sentence, smacking himself on the chest with both hands. Smalls hit Corporal Bagley’s left bicep with the back of his hand. “Dude, this is my best friend, Chris. I went to boot camp with this guy.”

“So you’re joining 2-2?” Corporal Barnum asked hopefully.

“I’m here.”

“You’re just in time for all the fun then. We’re deploying in a few months.”

Chris looked at Smalls curiously. “Is he serious?”

“Yeah man, we’re slated to go to Iraq and kill some shit.”

“Awesome. I can finally put this training to good use,” Chris said reflectively.

“We’ve still got some time left here though, so make yourself comfortable.”  Smalls walked over to a bunk bed and smacked the mattress on the top.  “This one is all yours.  Unless you want to pull rank and take the bottom bunk from Corporal Faulk.”

The room was a little bit smaller than Chris’ old “studio” apartment back in Baltimore. It had two bunk beds and one bathroom. The walls were made of cinder blocks and painted a light beige color. The carpet was hard and didn’t have any padding to soften the concrete floor underneath. It was a standard Marine Corps barracks room.

“I won’t be a dick. I’ll take the top bunk.”

“Always the nice guy,” Smalls laughed as he walked over and sat on his bottom bunk. “I saw your name on the roster, said that you were checking in tomorrow.”

“That was the original plan, but I didn’t have anything better to do, so I figured I’d get it over with today.”

“Ah, I gotcha.”

Chris sat on Corporal Faulk’s bed. “How’s Alessandra and the family? Feels like it’s been a while since I’ve seen them.”

“Everybody is doing good. It’s been, what? About seven, eight months? We all hung out around New Years?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Hey, how have you been holding up since the Pendleton thing?” He was concerned for Chris and didn’t want him being unnecessarily hard on himself. “We don’t have to talk about it. I just want you to know I’m here for ya, man.”

“I’m doin’ okay.” He said nodding his head. “Maybe we can talk more about it later.”

A muffled voice came from the bathroom, interrupting their conversation. “Aaarrgghh!” The toilet flushed. Corporal Faulk opened the bathroom door and stood still for a few seconds in the doorway. He was wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. Everybody in the room looked at him curiously.

“Everything come out okay?” Corporal Bagley asked with a look of concern on his face.

“Fuck yeah, bro!”

Corporal Faulk was a crude individual. It was rare that anything came out of his mouth without a curse word shortly behind it.  He was born and raised in a small farm town in Delaware.  His arms, chest, and parts of his legs were covered with tattoos.  Most of the tattoos were black and white and depicted an intricate biomechanical skeleton that appeared to be beneath his skin.  He was an average height of five feet, nine inches tall, weighing in at two hundred pounds of solid muscle and brawn.  He was constantly taking nutritional supplements to supply his body with added fuel for his workout routine.  Full of energy and enthusiasm, time spent with Corporal Faulk was always entertaining.

“That was possibly the best shit I’ve ever took without eating an MRE. I think I just gave birth to a god-damn telephone pole.” Corporal Faulk strolled over to the sink and began mixing his protein shake. “Maybe next time I won’t flush and let you check it out, Barnum.”

Only in the Marine Corps. You gotta love it.  Chris thought to himself, looking at Smalls as he chuckled.

Smalls knew exactly what he was thinking and began laughing. “Don’t ask man. He’s in a world of his own.”

Corporal Faulk chugged his protein shake, dropped down to the floor, and began doing pushups.

Corporal Barnum was still standing near the door. “Yeah, maybe next time Faulk.” He grasped the doorknob. “Hey, I’m starving guys. I’m gonna get some chow. Anybody coming?”

“Sixty Eight more push…uugh…ups and I’ll meet you down…argh…there, fuck face.” The response came from Corporal Faulk without a glance, as he continued to push the floor.

“Corporal Smalls? Sergeant? Either one of you coming?”

Chris waved his hand dismissively. “I’m gonna unpack the rest of my stuff, then I’ll head over.”

“We’ll catch up to ya, man.” Smalls said reluctantly.

“Okay, I’ll see you guys down there.” Corporal Barnum walked out of the door and shut it as he left.

Smalls turned back to Chris. “Hey, speaking of holidays, are we still good for Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Smalls’ cell phone rang. “I’ll be right back. It’s the wife.” He stood up off of his bed and walked out to the balcony, “Hey babe…” The door shut behind him.

“Hi baby. How’s your morning?” Alessandra’s soft Latin voice replied.

“It just got a little better. Guess who showed up early?”

“Chris? He’s always full of surprises. You didn’t tell him, did you?”

Smalls rubbed the temples of his head with the middle finger and thumb of his left hand. “No, I didn’t. This is hard for me.”

“I know, baby.”

“…hey, I’ll try to call you a little later, okay? We’re gonna go get some chow.”

“Alright, I love you baby. Bye. Oh, tell Chris I said ‘hi’.”

“Alright, I will. Love you too. Bye babe.”

Smalls slid his cell phone back into his pocket and walked back into their room. “You guys ready for chow, or what?”

Chris stood up. “Yeah, I can finish unpacking later.”

Smalls turned to Corporal Faulk, who was now doing sit-ups. “What about you, crazy? Ready?”

“Hell yeah corporal. I was just waiting for your intimate little conversation with your new boyfriend to be over.”

“Ha ha, shut up Faulker. Let’s go.”

A Pupil of Life Reaping

February, 2003

“Today we’re gonna give you some more ammunition for your body. You are training to be the most effective weapon in the world, but you can always improve on what you’ve already learned. Rifle’s and machine guns have bullets, but marines have MCMAP. I’m Sergeant Collins, and I’m going to teach you future warriors how to kill the son of a bitch, who’s trying to kill you. Are you ready?”

Over a hundred marine recruits shouted in response, “Sir, yes sir!”

Sergeant Collins was a black belt in the Marine Corps Martial Arts Program (MCMAP), assigned to the Marine Recruit Depot in Paris Island, South Carolina. Although he was only five feet, eight inches tall, and a hundred-seventy pounds, he was an intimidating man, who had perfected the art of hand to hand combat. Like a wolverine, he may have been small in stature, but he was well versed in the tools that constructed monuments of pain and death.

MCMAP was the Frankenstein’s monster of Martial Arts. Experts in the various arts had collaborated, taking the most effective and lethal techniques from the different forms to create MCMAP. Its sole purpose was to end the fight quickly by seriously wounding or by killing the enemy. There was no scoring of points, no graceful maneuvers, and no stopping until the fight was finished. There are no elegant swords, no throwing stars, and no meditating. This hand to hand combat program incorporated the use and defense of assault rifles with bayonets, knives, and handguns. It was realistic and brutal.

“After I explain and demonstrate each maneuver, several other instructors, and myself will walk around and help you practice. Are you ready to kill?” the Sergeant barked.

The recruits responded again with excitement. “Kill!”

The recruits all looked the same: shaved heads, olive drab sweatshirts, woodland camouflage pants, and black boots. The pavilion they were training in was called Leatherneck Square. It’s about half the size of a football field. The floor was covered with a thick layer of sawdust and wood shavings. The roof of the pavilion provided shelter from the elements. It stood approximately twenty feet tall. At the front of the pavilion was a five-foot tall platform. The platform allowed the instructors to stand at an elevated position, so they could be seen by all of the recruits as they taught.

It was almost February and the weather was bitter cold. The instructor’s breath emitted a small cloud of vapor as he spoke.

“The first thing we’re gonna cover today is similar to a hip toss. I’ll walk you through it and explain it step by step. Sergeant Fitzpatrick, will you be my meat puppet?”

Sergeant Fitzpatrick ran up the stairs to the instructional platform. “Roger that, Sergeant Collins.”

“Sergeant Fitzpatrick, assume the fighting position.”

Stepping forward with his left foot, bending both knees, and raising both hands into fists on either side of his face, he announced with confidence, “Ready!”

Sergeant Collins assumed the same position directly in front of Sergeant Fitzpatrick and demanded the attention of the recruits.

“Alright, listen up. From the fighting stance, the first thing we need to do is deliver a softening blow.” He demonstrated a punch to Sergeant Fitzpatrick’s face, stopping inches from his nose. “Doing this will limit the ability of your opponent to react to the hell you’re about to rain down on him.”

“After distracting the enemy, we need to step to the outside of his left foot, with our left foot. Like this. With every step, we want to cause some damage. So on the way into this step, you need to punish him. I don’t care how you do it. Use some imagination. Grab his balls as hard as you can with your left hand and crush his adam’s apple using a hammer fist with your right hand. I don’t give a shit what you do. But do something that makes him regret crossing your path.” He stopped for a second to allow the recruits time to mentally digest the information.

“Now that we’re up close and personal, it’s time to put this son of a bitch on the deck, right? You’re gonna sweep your right foot clockwise, making a semicircle with your right foot.”

Sergeant Fitzpatrick was now off balance, with his back arched backwards, and some of his lower body leaning on Sgt Collins’ left thigh.

“With some speed and intensity, I’m gonna introduce this poor bastard’s back to the deck. I’m gonna do this by using his own body weight and the momentum of my spin to throw him as hard as I can onto the deck.”

Sergeant Collins completed the final throw, causing Sergeant Fitzpatrick’s back to slam on the ground.

“You guys have been doing this for several weeks now, so what needs to happen next?”

The recruits voices roared inside the pavilion. “Kill!”

With a smile that was filled with pride and a twisted sense of pleasure, Sergeant Collins scanned the crowd of recruits with his eyes.

“That’s fuckin’ right. A finishing touch to end this shit-bags life. And I think that crushing his grape is the perfect ending.”

He raised his right knee almost to his chest, then drove the heel of his right boot down with all he could muster into the ground, inches from Sergeant Fitzpatrick’s head, simulating the stomping of his opponent’s head. “Kill!”

Chris absorbed these classes like a dry sponge thrown into a swimming pool. The techniques came naturally to him. He was learning fast and liked feeling successful.

Sergeant Collins turned toward the recruits. “Remember, we’re not here to hurt or kill each other. I want to see you move with speed and intensity, but save the ball grabbing and throat smashing for the real thing. Understand that?”

The crowd shouted in response, “Sir, yes sir!”

All of the recruits partnered up with each other and began practicing the newly learned maneuver on each other. Today, Chris’ partner was Recruit Smalls, who, ironically wasn’t small at all. He was six feet, four inches tall, and weighed two-hundred-ten pounds. In high school Smalls had been a state champion wrestler. Like many big fish who were raised in small ponds, Smalls’ cup overflowed with self-confidence and arrogance.

Recruit Smalls smirked at Chris. “Psshh, You can go first.”

They both assumed the fighting position and Chris began to prepare himself mentally. His thoughts began to race and he fought to control them. He slowed his breathing. He reminded himself to concentrate on balancing. He could visualize every movement, feel the resistance of his opponent’s body mass, and anticipate the reaction of his body trying to stay upright.

Chris stepped forward with his left foot, placing it just outside of Smalls’ left foot, and placing his hands flat on Smalls’ chest simultaneously. He swept his right foot around in a clockwise semicircle and applied force to Smalls’ chest with his hands. Smalls’ back slammed on the sawdust and pushed the air out of his lungs. Chris followed up with the foot stomp next to Smalls’ head. “Kill!”

The hip toss was performed flawlessly. Chris’ movements flowed together seamlessly and without loss of momentum.

Smalls eyes were wide open in shock and he was moaning on the ground as he gasped for air.

Chris held his hand out, gesturing to Smalls that he was helping him to stand up.

“God damn! Collins, did you see that?” Sergeant Fitzpatrick looked at Sergeant Collins in surprise.

Sergeant Collins was intrigued. He watched Chris help Smalls back up to his feet. “I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen a recruit handle himself like that before.”

“I’m tellin you right now, I haven’t”

Sergeant Collins looked at Sergeant Fitzpatrick and nodded his head towards Chris. “Let’s go talk to him.”

Smalls glanced over and saw the instructors walking towards them. “This recruit wasn’t ready for that! Try it again.” He raised his voice, hoping that the instructors would hear believing he could re-establish his dominance the second time around.

Sergeant Collins approached Smalls. “You in a rush to get man handled again, recruit Smalls?”

“Sir, no sir. This recruit wasn’t ready, sir.”

“Oh, so your partner sucks donkey dick, possesses no talent whatsoever, and you tripped over a piece of sawdust. Is that it? You let a tiny piece of wood kick your pansy ass like a little bitch? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Sir, uhhh…yea…well no…sir, no sir!”

“Shut your mouth Smalls! Let me know when you’re ready, because he’s gonna try it again and I don’t want any excuses coming out of your pathetic little mouth! Are we clear?”

“Sir, yes sir!”

Smalls faced Chris and stood in the fighting position. He is determined not to be humiliated again and is doing his best to plant himself to the ground, as if he had roots coming out of his feet, burrowing into the ground to stabilize his body.

Sgt Collins looked at Chris. “How about you recruit? Are you ready?”

Chris looked back at him with confidence. “Sir, yes sir!”

“Go ahead recruit. Take him to the deck.”

WHAM! With the speed of a hummingbird’s wing, Chris performed a perfect hip toss again. “Kill!” he screamed as his boot slammed into the floor inches from Small’s head.

Sergeant Collins turned around and looked at Sergeant Fitzpatrick in amazement. Sergeant Fitzpatrick mouthed the words “Holy shit”.

Keeping his composure and straight face, Sergeant Collins looked down at Smalls, where he laid on the ground, gasping for air.

“Let me guess. You tripped over your ego again? Maybe you should learn to compliment your fellow recruits, instead of making excuses, trying to make yourself sound better.”

Sergeant Collin’s maintained his focus on Smalls, but held his left arm out and pointed at Chris.

“How many times have you practiced this move?”

Chris responded with uncertainty, “Sir, including the one Sergeant Collins just observed. Two, sir.”

Sergeant Collins turned and looked at Chris, while still pointing at him. “And you’ve never done this before?”

“Sir, no sir.”

“Then explain to me how the hell you just put this pussy on his ass, twice. Because you moved so fast and smooth, I would put money down that you’ve had prior training.”

Chris tried to think of an explanation, but he didn’t really even know the answer himself.

“Sir, uh…balance sir.”

“No shit. Smalls, the clutz down there doesn’t have any. I’m talking about you.”

“Sir, no sir. I meant it’s this recruit’s balance. …like Tai Chi, sir.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Like that shit crazy old ladies do to stretch and relax?”

Chris knew that as a recruit he couldn’t talk freely to the instructor and would never be able to fully explain the true art of Tai Chi, so he decided to cut his losses.

“Sir, yes, it’s something like that sir.”

“You hear this shit Sergeant Fitzpatrick? This recruit fights like an old lady and still kicked Smalls’ ass.”

Sergeant Collins waved his hand at Chris. “You know what. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Whatever you’re doin’, keep it up.

“Sir, yes sir.”

Later that night, Chris’ entire platoon was sitting on their wooden foot lockers Their foot lockers were all aligned with the foot of their beds, with the main aisle dividing them into two sides. The recruits were allowed to talk quietly, as long as they didn’t get carried away. Most of the recruits were writing letters to their families.

Smalls glared at Chris with vindictive eyes from across the aisle. “What the fuck do you think you were doing today?”

Chris didn’t want conflict so he chose to ignore the question.

“I’m talking to you, jackass,” Smalls demanded.

Chris looked up at Smalls with curiosity. “This recruit is wondering why recruit Smalls is referring to himself in the first person. Recruit Smalls should know that he could get this whole platoon in the sand pit for shit like that.”

“Oh, okay.” Smalls said angrily as he sat up straight and pressed his fists firmly into the footlocker he was sitting on. “Being a smart ass isn’t gonna get you out of this.” Smalls took up a mocking tone. “This recruit is pretty sure that we’re training with pugil sticks tomorrow and this recruit is gonna see to it that that sorry ass recruit is put on his ass.”

Shaking his head, Chris responded. “This recruit doesn’t understand recruit Smalls’ anger. All of these recruits are on the same team and should be helping each other. This recruit was only trying to do his best today. It wasn’t meant to be personal.”

“Stop trying to get out of it, shit for brains. These recruits will see who’s better tomorrow.”

The next day came earlier than the day before, as was the case in the Corps.

“Good morning recruits!” Sergeant Collins shouted.

The recruits sat in a semicircle around their instructor. “Sir, good morning sir!” They shouted back.

“Today we’re gonna give you a chance to kill each other with a bayonet. However, this bayonet is a pugil stick. The red pad at the end of the stick simulates the bayonet on the end of your rifle. The black pad at the other end will be the buttstock of your rifle. A strike to the torso or head with the bayonet is a kill. The only way to get a kill with the buttstock, is a strike to the head. If a recruit falls off the bridge, they are dead. Are there any questions?”

One of the recruits raised his hand. The others around him moaned and grumbled. The recruit with his hand up was wearing thick framed military issued glasses and the lenses looked like they were half an inch thick. Every day this same recruit had questions. Every question served only to piss the instructors off. Pissed off instructors made life harder for the other recruits.

Sergeant Collins looked at the recruit who had his hand raised, wondering what he could possibly have to ask. “Yes, recruit. What’s your question?”

The recruit stood up to address the instructor. “Sir, this recruit was wondering if these recruits have to like hop on one leg if they get hit on the leg with a bayonet, or something? Like it was cut off or something, sir?”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Sergeant Collins’ facial expression was a mix between intense fury and bewilder.  Sergeant Collins stood in absolute silence, as if waiting for the recruit to know better. Beads of sweat ran down the recruit’s face as he realized how stupid his question actually was.

After what felt like an eternity, Sergeant Collins pointed at the recruit and yelled, “Sit the fuck down, before I kill you.”

The recruit sat down with the speed of a viper, letting out a breath of air that he didn’t even know that he had been holding in his lungs.

“Let me clarify.” Sergeant Collins said as he looked back and forth across the crowd of sitting recruits. “You will not jump around on one leg. You will not put your hand behind your back if it gets hit by the bayonet. All you will do is try to kill the scumbag in front of you, until one of you is dead. You will know if someone dies, because I will blow this dag-gone whistle! Do you understand?”

The roar of the future warriors sounded off. “Sir, yes sir.”

“That’s more like it! Form a column of two’s.”

The recruits moved like a school of fish, until they had formed two columns, leading to the fighting bridge. The fighting bridge was four feet wide, twenty feet long, and stood two feet off of the ground. It was sturdy, built similar to a residential deck. Below the bridge were several inches of mulch, which would break the fall of an unfortunate recruit who’d lost his battle.

Smalls locked his eyes on Chris. He skillfully moved through the crowd, cutting in line while counting heads. He was determined to ensure he was in line to oppose his new nemesis.

Each group of two recruits would enter onto the bridge and simulate a fight to the death. Some fights were long, but most were very short. As Chris watched a sad reality struck him. He saw that a real fight to the death wasn’t a long drawn out duel like Hollywood portrays. There was no glorious struggle. There was no heroic death lock. There was no witty banter. The whole encounter only lasted a few seconds. That was all he would have – a few seconds to ensure he lived and some other poor sap died. Another battle on the bridge began, and Chris’ thoughts turned to Smalls. He didn’t want to make things worse by defeating him again, but he also didn’t want to throw the fight and let Smalls win. Chris began playing out different versions of the fight in his head. A realization pricked his heart. Walking through each scene he realized he could do his absolute best, but still loose.

There were only a few recruits in front of Chris now. Smalls began to hum the song Another One Bites the Dust. Chris decided. The right thing to do was give the battle all he had and let the cards fall as they may.

The recruits in front of them were next and began to put on helmets and groin protectors.

The battle on the bridge ended quickly. Chris began putting on his protective gear. He looked up and watched as Smalls did the same.

The whistle blew.

“Next two.” Sergeant Collins yelled as he waved them onto the bridge.

Smalls leaped in with arrogance. He jogged to the far end of the bridge, then turned and returned to the center, shaking his head left, then right to crack his neck. Chris briskly walked in, calming himself, and preparing for the imminent brawl. Face to face, with their pugil sticks held up, they waited for the whistle.

“Ready for this? ‘Cause I’m about to kick your ass,” Smalls said, with a smirk on his face.

The whistle blew.

Smalls charged Chris, pushing his pugil stick forward with both hands. Chris anticipated an aggressive kill strike, not a forceful push. It took him off guard. He absorbed the full force of the push, and fell backwards, stumbling, then falling onto his back. Chris was impressed by the strength of his opponent.

Smalls advanced towards Chris’ right side, thrusting his bayonet towards Chris’ chest. Chris’ veins surged with adrenaline. His thoughts sped to a mile per minute. He used the buttstock end of his pugil stick to deflect Smalls’ bayonet, while kicking his right leg into Small’s back calves. Smalls fell on his butt and Chris completed a full circle with the buttstock, bringing it in alignment for a strike to Smalls’ head.

“Balance. Continue the momentum until it’s no longer needed,” Chris thought to himself as he thrust the buttstock towards Smalls’ head. Smalls leaned forward, dodging the attack. Chris’ buttstock missed, just to the left of his head. “Momentum,” Chris thought as he continued pushing the pugil stick forward, pulling his body with it, up to his knees, behind Smalls.

Chris’ movements were fast and fluid. Smalls almost lost track of Chris’ location and began to turn towards him, rolling to his right, onto his knees, placing the pugil stick with his fists on the ground to steady himself. Chris locked his sight onto Smalls’ head out of the corner of his left eye, and as he turned his body to the left, the bayonet turned with it, like the turret of a tank. He lunged forward, thrusting his bayonet towards Smalls’ head. Smalls looked up to reacquire his sight of Chris. He found his opponent just in time to see the tip of Chris’ bayonet accelerating towards his face, inches away. The end of the pugil stick smashed into Smalls’ helmet, snapping his head backwards, and sending him back to the ground.

Sergeant Collins opened his mouth just enough to let the whistle fall out and drop to his chest, where the lanyard caught it. “Good fight, recruits. Well done. Now get off my bridge. Next two!”

Chris stepped over to Smalls and extended his hand, offering to help him up. Smalls reluctantly accepted and pulled himself up. They both made eye contact for a moment before Smalls walked away. Chris didn’t know what to say. He wondered if this rivalry would continue until their graduation.

Most of the recruits looked forward to Sunday. The anticipation had nothing to do with religion or wanting to go to church, even though most of them attended the services. Church was the only place where drill instructors weren’t haunting their every move. In fact, drill instructors didn’t step foot in the building. It was like being free for two hours, without stress, and the worry of doing something wrong.

Chris’ platoon had just finished marching to the church from their barracks, and dismissed from formation. Each recruit filed through the main entrance, taking off their covers as they crossed the threshold of the building.

The church auditorium was large and elaborate for a modern building. It had stained glass windows around the outside that depicted famous Marine battles through history. One of the main windows pictured two Marines in their dress blues guarding the gates of heaven, with a crowd of soldiers, sailors, and airmen lined up to enter. The tall ceilings had wooden beams sprawling out from the center of the room towards the outside, similar to a spider web without the smaller cross members.

Church was also a way to see the progression of the different battalions. The recruits could tell how far along each other were in their training. They were small, subtle things that most people wouldn’t pick up on. During the first couple weeks, the recruits wore tennis shoes, instead of boots. After that, they wore boots, but didn’t blouse their trousers around them. Then they bloused their trousers around their boots. In the last couple weeks, recruits stop getting their entire head shaved, and their hair started to get cut with the almost trademark “jarhead” style. The recruits with the jarhead haircuts were respected. They were almost finished with boot camp. They were close to earning the title of “Marine”.

Filing into the church pew, Chris heard some loud whispering.

“By your leave recruit. Excuse this recruit. Thanks.”

He turned around to see what was happening and saw that Smalls was working his way past the other recruits, towards him. Chris arrived at his seat on the pew and sat down, wondering what Smalls was up to.

Smalls squeezed past a couple more recruits. “Excuse this recruit. Do you mind if this recruit sits here?” He said to another recruit, as he was pointing to a space just big enough for him to sit , between the recruit and Chris.

Chris inched over as much as he could to give Smalls a little more room to sit.

The navy chaplain walked up to the pulpit, wearing his dress blue uniform. The Marines don’t have chaplains. They don’t have their own medics either. But, being a department of the navy allowed them to work together, utilizing the navy’s chaplains and corpsmen (the navy’s version of a medic). “Let’s stand and sing praise to our Lord.”

The soft sounds of wooden pews creaked across the auditorium as hundreds of recruits stood up.

“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved…” The recruits voices filled the room as they sang together in unison.

Smalls leaned slightly towards Chris and began to speak just loud enough for Chris to hear. “I was the undefeated state wrestling champion in my senior year of high school. Un-de-feat-ed. I’ve never been beat the way you beat me with the pugil stick.” Smalls paused for a second and shook his head. “I just can’t figure it out. I’m bigger than you. I’m stronger than you. But, you still beat me. I don’t know man. I just can’t figure out how you did it.” Smalls leaned back over, standing upright with his hands firmly planted on the pew in front of him.

Chris leaned towards Smalls. “Strength and size isn’t everything in a fight.” Chris stopped to think about what he should say. “Your strength is impressive man. When you pushed me after that whistle blew, I thought you had me. You caught me and had me on my back. It was close.”

“I thought I had you too.” Smalls looked at Chris and couldn’t help but smile. “Look, I’ve been thinking about how shit has been between us, and I was thinking about what you said. The bottom line is that I would rather have you fighting next to me when the shit hits the fan, than most of these other nutbags.”

“Same here, man. I’d fight next to you any day of the week. You’re a tough dude.”

The song ended and cut off their conversation. The chaplain spoke for a few minutes about the struggles of life, relating it to the struggles of boot camp, then started another song.

“Our God is an awesome God he reigns…”

Smalls leaned over again. “So we’re cool then?”

“Yeah man. Don’t worry about it. We’re good,” Chris said with relief. He was happy the conflict was over and looked forward to training with Smalls in the future. Smalls was motivated and strong. He was determined, aggressive, and had grit. Chris liked that and thought it was a good contrast to his own temperament and skills.

It was graduation day. Four platoons stood in formation on the parade deck. They were each perfectly aligned and standing like statues, donning their dress Alpha uniforms. The dress Alpha uniform consists of glossy black shoes, a circular dark green dress cover, dark green trousers, and a dark green coat, with a long sleeved collared khaki shirt and tie underneath. All of the new Marines were proud of their accomplishments. They could hardly wait to meet with their families again after twelve weeks of intense training.

The new Marines’ families were sitting in the sun covered, aluminum bleachers, admiring the discipline and structure of their young warriors. The sand fleas were out in full force, subjecting the families to their itchy bites. Bug spray was hardly deterring the tiny pests. As the Marines awaited their last command from their senior drill instructor to dismiss them, they scanned the bleachers for their loved ones. They were also being eaten alive by the little flying menaces, but their training and discipline was paying off, and they ignored the nagging itch that begged to be scratched. It was how much they had actually changed, as they watched the crowd in the bleachers uncontrollably itching and smacking themselves to eliminate the irritating bugs.

The First Sergeant yelled out a command to the senior drill instructors. “Senior drill instructors, dismiss your platoons!”

Simultaneously, each senior drill instructor responded. “Aye First Sergeant” Then they did an about face in unison, turning 180 degrees, and were now facing their respective platoons. “Marines, dismissed!”

“Aye, senior drill instructor! Oohrah!” The platoons took one step backwards, then about faced. They were finished with bootcamp.

The new Marines shook each others hands and congratulated each other on their accomplishments. The families stormed the parade deck, homing in on their beloved ones, fighting through the crowds they had inadvertently created themselves. Families were crying and hugging their newly disciplined Marines in amazement at how different they were.

“Recruit… I mean Chris. Come here, I want you to meet my family.” Smalls was waving towards himself, hoping to get Chris’ attention amongst the crowd.

It had been a while since Chris was in a family environment. He walked over to Smalls with a smile on his face, feeling a little nervous.

“Chris, this is my mom, Sarah and my dad, Henry. …and this beautiful thing here is my girlfriend, Alessandra. Everybody, this is Chris”

Chris extended his arm and shook Henry’s hand, immediately taking notice of his firm, calloused hand. “It’s good to meet you, sir.” Swinging his arm towards Sarah’s hand and gently shaking her soft, caring hand. “Ma’am.” He said, nodding his head slightly. Turning slightly to the right and holding his hand out to shake Alessandra’s hand. She shook it delicately, saying “I’ve heard quite a bit about you”.

“Like how I beat him with the pugil sticks?” Chris said, with a big smile.

Smalls chuckled. “How about we not talk about that, ever” He pushed Chris’ shoulder, as he laughed a little more.

Henry patted Smalls’ back and held his hand there. “Well, I hate to be the party pooper, but we need to get scootin’ son. Our flight leaves in a few hours.”

After the completion of boot camp, the new Marines were given ten days of leave, before having to report to combat training, or the school of infantry.

Chris and Smalls shook hands, then pulled each other in for a manly hug.

“I’ll see ya man. Maybe at SOI?” Smalls said as they separated from the hug.

“Yeah, that’s definitely possible. See ya bud.” Chris shook everybody’s hand once more. “It was nice to meet all of you.”

“It was nice to meet you too. Take care.” Henry said, before turning around and walking away, holding Sarah’s hand.

Smalls put his arm around Alessandra and waved with his hand on the other side of her head as they turned and walked away.

“Hey, don’t forget about balancing!” Chris said loudly to Smalls as he was walking further away.Smalls didn’t turn around, but held his left hand up and waved backwards to Chris. “Ha ha. Yeah, yeah.”

Chris watched Smalls’ family as they walked away, until they all piled in their Buick and drove off.  He stood there for a few minutes relishing the time he had just spent with them, until he came to the realization that it was time to go.  He walked over to the roadway and sat on a bench, patiently awaiting the next bus off of the island.

Pay Dirt

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October, 2002

The apartment consisted of one room; two if you count the bathroom. If it had been located in an up-and-coming neighborhood, or over a popular bar, or dressed up with hardwood floors and fancy appliances, people might have called it a “studio.” But it was far from being a hip, or cool, or modern bachelor pad that might warrant such a fancy name. Rather, Chris’ apartment was a small dry-walled cube decorated only with left over take out containers.

A normal sized person could barely fit in the bathroom, and the kitchen could only be described as an eye sore that destroyed all ambiance in the living room, or was it the bedroom? There were no any pictures hung, no lamps, no flowers, no knickknacks, no decorations of any kind. All four walls were painted flat white. There was a futon, a coffee table, and an old television on top of a cardboard box. The television antenna was made of tin foil and pieces of old clothes hangers. But Chris didn’t care. He didn’t mind the small size. The apartment was home. Besides, it’s all he could afford, and he wouldn’t be there long. His days in the place were numbered.

At 3:50am the clock screamed “BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP.” Chris was not a morning person. He cracked his eyes open and wondered how many times he’d already smacked the snooze button. Deciding the contraption had not had enough punishment yet, Chris reached his arm out and pounded on it once more.

The clock screamed again. Chris rolled over and squinted at the bright red digital numbers to check the time. “Shit”, he shouted, as he realized how long he’d overslept. This was Chris’ routine: pound on the alarm, oversleep, curse himself for getting up late. He jumped out of bed and darted to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

“Son-of-a,” he yelled as he kicked the coffee table with his right foot, jamming the leg of the table between his two smallest toes.

Five minutes was all Chris needed to get out of the apartment door and start driving to the park-and-ride. His boss, Willy was use to Chris’ routine. But that didn’t make Chris feel any better about it. Especially since Chris’ time with the big man was running out. He’d hoped to impress his boss before he was taken away.

Chris’ clothes were old and sloppy. It was difficult to find a spot unstained with dried paint, caulk, PVC glue, green pipe sealant, or remnants of a past lunch. His boots were the cheapest ones he could find at Walmart. They hurt his feet. His jeans were faded and the bottoms of them were frayed. He wore multiple layers to keep warm during the winter. He couldn’t care less about how he looked.

Driving in the vicinity of Chris was never boring. He cursed loudly out the window at slow drivers. He yelled pointlessly at traffic lights. He leaned on his horn if someone, even an old lady with a walker, tried to cross the street in front of him. It was a miracle he made it to the park-and-ride without killing someone.

Willy was always there, waiting in the far corner of the parking lot. Chris jerked his second hand BMW to a halt in the spot next to where Willy was standing. Willy stuck his head out of the driver’s window of his car and yelled, “It’s about damn time!” The greeting made Chris smile. He was going to miss it.

Willy was a tall, burly man in his mid-thirties. His look was as unchanging as the face of a mountain: a five o’clock shadow, short dark hair, strong chin and broad shoulders. Willy’s hands were huge, each finger was as thick as two average sized fingers. He wasn’t fit, but he was freakishly strong and had an ungodly high tolerance for pain. Chris had seen the brute injure himself on multiple occasions, but then continue working as if nothing had happened. These attributes combined with his heavy forehead made Willy a shoe-in for a role on television as a caveman.

Chris hopped out of his car, and grabbed his tools from the back seat. In his hurry, he flung his hammer under the car next to him. “Ugh” he mumbled to himself, as he laid down on the asphalt to retrieve it.

Willy stuck his head out of the window again. “This is no time for a nap. You can sleep in the car. Get up off the ground. And don’t forget that we’re doing groundwork today. You forgetting something?”

Chris turned around and walked back to his car. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys. He knew exactly what Willy wanted him to have. He struggled to get his trunk unlocked. The key had to go in just right or the car would refuse to open. In frustration, Chris whacked the lid with both hands and yelled, “Damn this car!”

“Take a breath and slow down,” Willy called. “But hurry your ass up. We’ve got to go.”

Chris breathed. Then he tried the key again. He felt it click into place. The trunk swung open and maneuvered the shovel out of the car. With the tool in hand, he walked back to Willy’s truck and threw everything into the bed. Climbing into the cab Chris asked, “Why do I need to bring a shovel, if you already have three in the bed of your truck?”

Willy put the truck in gear and began to drive out of the parking lot. “Because those are my shovels. Not your shovels. Every good construction worker should have his own tools.”

Chris should have known. He had heard Willy’s rants before about how a construction worker should buy at least one tool per paycheck until he had everything that he needed.

The only thing Willy talked about more than tools was the Marines. Willy had hoped to spend his life in the Corps, but he had been discharged after a year for a back injury. Chris thought at that moment about telling Willy what his plans were. He glanced over at the big man and felt a pain of sorrow.

Chris didn’t know if Willy understood, but the man was more than Chris’ boss. He was the first adult who’d given Chris a real chance. Chris started to speak, but Willy turned up the talk radio so he could catch up on his daily dose of politics. Chris sighed and decided he’d tell Willy everything during lunch. “Lunch was a better time to talk,” he thought. Rolling over in his seat, he pulled his sweatshirt hood over his head, leaned against the door, and began his napping routine.

Today’s job site was two hours away. They would be installing the waste line for a new military recruiting office. It was a big project that would take seven months to finish. As he drifted off Chris wondered who Willy would find to take his place.

At five-minutes-to-six Willy punched Chris in the arm. “Wake up!” he yelled in Chris’ ear, causing Chris to lurch in a panic. This sent Willy into an uproar of laughter.

Chris zipped up his jacket and forced himself out of the warm truck and into the cold, crisp air. It was December and still dark outside. A voice came from the trench in the ground they had dug out yesterday, “Hey there feller.”

Chris walked around the corner of the truck and saw Carl’s head poking out of the ditch. No one knew how old Carl was, but they all assumed he was old. His back was hunched, his teeth were all yellowish-grey, and his hair was mostly white. He smoked three packs of unfiltered cigarettes per day and could barely finish a sentence without coughing. He was also an alcoholic and was infamous for disappearing for long periods of time. Willy kept him on the crew because Carl knew everything there was about plumbing. He was their go to guy for pipe work.

“The wind ain’t as bad down here,” Carl said with a laugh and a cough.

Walking down the slope, into the ditch, Chris saw the old man was right. “You weren’t kidding, old-timer,” Chris said.

“Enough chit-chat,” Willy called from the top of the ditch. He tossed the four shovels in and descended into the ditch next to his guys. “Let’s get to digging.”

They worked in silence for the rest of the morning. Twelve-thirty found the three men sitting in a small circle on cinder blocks, as they took their lunch break. Carl magically ate a sandwich and calmly smoked a cigarette at the same time.

In contrast, Willy ate like it was the first meal he’d had in a month. He shoved mounds of chips and bites of sandwiches down his throat. It was like watching trash go down a disposal.

Chris smiled at the two men. “This is a good time,” he thought. “I should tell them now.”

He’d said the same thing to himself every day for the past three weeks. This time he was sure it was going to work. He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come. It was going to be hard to leave them. They were the closest thing he had to family.

“Good afternoon gentlemen,” a strong voice said from behind Chris. Chris turned around and saw the Marine from the recruitment office. He looked commanding in his dress blue uniform. The Marine wore a white circular dress cap with the short, shiny black bill. His khaki shirt was tucked in tight. Even the creases on his shirt had been meticulously ironed. His blue dress pants were the same. They had red stripes that ran vertically down the outside, center of the pants. The cuffs sat perfectly on the top of his impeccably shiny black shoes. His belt buckle was aligned with the zipper of the pants and the center buttoned flap of his shirt. The belt buckle, the insignia on the front of his cap, and his medals were all spotlessly shined and glistened in the sunlight. He wasn’t the most muscular guy, but he was definitely in shape, with very little body fat. To Chris, the recruiter seemed perfect. Nothing was out of place. He was like a superhero.

“Hey, gunny! Semper Fi!” Willy said loudly and with pride, as he stood up, saluted the recruiter.

“I’m Gunnery Sergeant O’Neil,” the recruiter said, shaking Willy’s hand. I know you guys just started the job, but I wanted to stop by, see how things were going. We appreciate the work you’re doing.”

The Marine was a mystery to Chris. He was confused by how someone could look so intense but relaxed, confident but nice, busy but pristine – all at once. It struck Chris why Sergeant O’Neil had come. Chris cursed himself under his breath for procrastinating.

“Somebody’s gotta do it,” Willy said, with his goofy laugh.

“That’s a fancy uniform you’ve got there,” Carl said, as he hacked. “Sure beats the shit you’re wearing,” the old man said whacking Chris in the leg. Turning back to the Marine Carl added with a hack, “How much did all those fancy medals cost ya?” Chris was confused.

“I thought the government gave those to him?” Chris said. “You’ve got to buy that stuff yourself?”

Carl, Willy, and the Marine laughed. Willy lovingly rubbed the teen’s head. “No, no, no,” Carl started, but was interrupted by a coughing fit. Willy picked up where Carl left off. “He didn’t buy them. He earned them.”

“Those things can be expensive,” Carl said, recovering. He took a long drag of his cigarette and continued. “My brother was in Nam. Came back with a whole bunch of those shiny metals, but left his mind and soul overseas.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” the marine recruiter said sadly. With a smile he did exactly what Chris hoped he wouldn’t. “Mine didn’t cost that much,” he said. Then nodding to Chris he added, “I have no doubt you’ll earn a set just like this one. You ready to ship out?”

Willy and Carl looked at Chris in shock. “What’s he talking about?” Willy said.

“You know how when we started the job I went in to the bathroom,” Chris said staring at his feet. “Yep,” Carl said puffing on his cigarette.

“You were gone for an hour. Willy and I thought you were in there jerking off or something.”

“I was enlisting,” Chris said, choking back tears, afraid they’d be angry, they’d yell at him, they’d feel abandon, they’d tell him it was a big mistake.

“You were what?” Willy said astounded.

The words poured from Chris in a rapid fire of emotion. “I wanted to tell you but I was nervous you’d be upset and all since you gave me this great job. It’s not that I don’t like it. I love working for you and everything, but you’re always talking about your time in the Corps and stuff and so I thought, I need something like that too, you know? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love working with you and everything and I’m really thankful, it’s just, it feels right you know.” The dam burst and tears leaked from his eyes. He waited, looking at the ground, sad he hurt this man who’d given him so much.

“How long do we have until you ship out?” Willy said.

“Two days,” the recruiter replied for Chris.

“Well what in the hell are we doing in this hole,” Willy yelled, smacking Chris on the back. “We should be celebrating! Let’s go get a real lunch. Beer’s on me!”

“Beer!” Carl cheered, jumping up from his seat.

“None for you,” Willy said pointing at the old man.

“Well shit,” Carl said, sitting back down.

Willy wrapped his massive arms around the teen and lifted him up off the ground in a huge hug. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered in Chris’ ear. A wave of acceptance and joy came over Chris. Willy put Chris down on the ground and looked up at the marine. “You’re more than welcome to join us Gunny,” the big man said.

“Thank you, sir. But I’ll have to say no. I’ve still got work to do today,” Sergeant O’Neil said with a smile. Then nodding to Chris again he said, “I’ll see you in two days. Don’t be late.”

“Oh he won’t be,” Willy said, smacking Chris on the back again. “Now let’s get out of here. We’ve got partying to get to. Our little Chris is joining the Corps.”

Climbing into the truck Chris said, “Hey Willy, you know I’m only nineteen right?”

“Yep,” Willy said as he started the truck. “But don’t tell the waitress that or no beer for you either.”