BAD LAND, He looked at his friend and rolled his eyes. “Man, so you just gonna sit up in here, chow down, smack ya’ thin lips, and aint even goin to try to offer me some? Are you crazy? Gimme me some of that pizza, Motherfucker.”
“Fuck you, Nigger. I aint given you shit.” He gave his friend a bite of the slice.

It was hot. But it was always hot. It was always hot in the desert-except at night.
They finished their pizza.
“Okay. Let’s do this.”
His blond friend had an attitude-he leaned back against the Hummer and enjoyed another bite of a fresh slice: “Us? We? Man, I had to do it last time. It’s your turn…Slacker.”
“Me? This-from The King of All Slackers…Man, if slackin’ was oil, you’d be one of the richest motherfuckers on the planet.”
“Well, you know, Homey, I do indeed do what I can.”
“Dude, look. There’s a fucking ton of them. Let’s just do it. Let’s… just… get it over with. If you’re sittin here on your happy ass eatin pizza, we’ll be here all fuckin day. Do you want that? In this heat?”

They discussed their task. Better off using the M-16s from a distance, as opposed to their sidearms. They were both experts. They were only 400 yards away from the objects: it was easy.

Ensuring the change from object to product was crucial.
Neither of them wanted to go home in a bag.
Head shots. Clean. It was tiresome.
But they had been trained for this.
They had to concentrate.
Three of the objects exploded, had been rigged. It had been wise to blow them away from a distance.

“Are you sure we got em all?”
“Yeah.”
“Roger Dodger. Let’s finish this.”

They walked into the still-flaming, smoldering hell that the fast-movers and the Apaches they called in had created.

They had to check for intelligence on all of the product. One by one. This sucked.
That’s why they had to make sure that all of the product was actually product. That’s why they had had to shoot them all. They couldn’t go back to the Colonel empty-handed. He would have been mad at them, both of them. He would be angry with them. They knew that He had to answer to The General, who was even worse-that’s why they always made sure to produce tangible evidence of their various expeditions.


They actually liked the Big Six, but He knew how to put the hammer down. And neither of the bright young men was in any way, shape, or form mistaken about their take on reality as they perceived it regarding their particular chain of command.

Results were required.

Dana and Chad had been friends since Basic, Defense Language Institute, Military Intelligence land, jump-school at Benning , Bragg-everything. They were brothers.

“Dog, you get anything?”
“Airborne. You?”
“Airborne.”
“Cool.”


The two boys looked at their sand and soot-covered bloody hands.
They situated themselves and their gear into the Hummer.
“Dude, do you still have some of that fly stuff your Ma sent you? These flies are fuckin killin me.”
“All kinds of it. No problem, Homey. Hey, do you still have some of that peanut butter your Mom sent you?”
“Tons. But I don’t know about the crackers.”
“I’ve got some, I think, or Murph has some.”
“Cool. Airborne.”

“Alright. Let’s get the fuck outta here and talk about chicks.”
“Airborne.”