sssssssssssssssss.......
The young man charges into his room and slams the door. His father follows closely behind.
"And you can't come out of your room until stop listening to that rock and roll! It's the Devil's work!"
"It's not..."
The blow knocks the young man off his feet.
"Don't you talk back to me, boy!"
The young man whips the blood off his upper lip.
"I'm not a boy. I'm eighteen fucking years old."
"Don't you use that language with me, boy! That's right, why can't you be more like Bobby? He's a Corporal in Vietnam."
"I am not Bobby, damn it. I'm Jim."
"You're damn right you're not. You're going to Military school and that is that. Maybe then you will forget about this Rock and Roll and those rejects you call friends. And get a damn haircut. You look like a disgrace."
hhhhhhaaaaaaaa.........
sssssssssssssss..........
The young man's mother is banging on the barricaded door. The young man is packing up what little clothes he owns.
"Jim, Jim, Jimmy! Open the door. Please Jim, your father doesn’t mean it!"
"Fuck you!"
"Jimmy!"
"You never cared about me! Dad never cared about me! All he wanted was another Bobby!"
"That's not true!"
"Fuck you!"
The young man opens up his window and runs to his beat up car. He backs out of the driveway, running over several trashcans. He peels out as his mother runs in vain to catch up.
hhhhhhaaaaaaa.........
sssssssssssssssssss.....
Led Zeppelin is blaring in the background. The same young man is with some friends, shooting up. The drugs are taking their effect. He stretches out on the shag carpet of the van. There is a mirror on the ceiling. He stares at the ceiling. The floor and the rest of the gang fade away into blackness. The only thing that remains is his reflection. The reflection darkens and begins to change. The dark form begins to take shape into Jim’s father. "Get a damn hair cut." He takes out his pocketknife and begins to shave his head.
hhhhhhaaaaaaaaa........
ssssssssssssssss.......
It’s raining. Jim wonders were he is at. Helicopters? He gets up out of his bunk. Bunk? Jim begins panicking. He checks himself. Runs his hand through his hair. Most of it is gone. Around his chest area. Two small cold bars. He picks them up and reads them. Corporal Jim McNally. He looks down, boots, green pants. No! He analyzes the room, 3 more bunks. Sand bag walls, wood ceiling. The sound of a helicopter still persists.
hhhhhhaaaaaa....*cough* *cough*
sssssssssssssssss..........
Jim runs out of the room. Up the stairs and into the Demilitarized Zone. A chopper is on the landing area off loading boxes and soldiers. Several artillery pieces are in the middle of the firebase, various towers with machine guns and sentries. Jim runs to the sandbag outer walls. He peers into the jungle. NO! NO! NO! He screams clutching his short hair. A private on the sentry tower calls out to Jim. Jim hears him but does not respond. Time slows as Jim’s mind races to try and comprehend how he got into Vietnam. Jim turns to acknowledge the sound in the distance, which is the sentry. His eye picks up a single flash in the depths of the forest. Reality hits Jim just as the scattered skull fragments of the former private’s head. SNIPER! The other sentry in the tower pours shells into the trees beyond. Jim cowers behind the wall as the 50 caliber rattles away.
hhhhhhhhaaaaaa........
sssssssssssssssss..........
Search and Destroy, that's what they called this mission. Basically a platoon goes into the jungle and walks around till something shoots. Jim has been on three of these since he "woke up." He earned them after going hysterical on his CO. This will be his third mission. Jim holds his weapon so tight he needs to pry his fingers off it after the mission. Private Bill Welsh and Jim have become buddies since the awakening. Bill is a newbie recruit and is basically in the same spot as Jim. Jim found out that before he awoke he was a different person, almost a loner, following orders to the letter, the perfect soldier. His other self didn’t have any friends among the other men in the firebase. He had a reputation as a "by the book bastard." The sniper attacks have been happening on and off for a few weeks. Jim begins to wonder if the North Vietnamese are even out here in the jungle. Jim looks across yet another rice patty, like the last kilometer, and the kilometer before that. Damn bugs, Jim crushes the life out of another bug. Lieutenant Dave Smiting points to Jim to relieve Bill of point duty. Jim speeds up his pace to take position in front of Bill.
hhhhaaaaaaaaa........
sssssssssssssssssssssss..........
The whole jungle seems to open fire on Jim’s platoon. Lieutenant Dave dies instantly, his heart pulverized by a bullet. The rest of the platoon tries to find cover behind anything. A supple thump in the distance, mortars! Someone yells. Less then a second later one lands in front of Jim’s position. Mud and water splash down on him. He thrusts his gun toward the trees and just pulls the trigger. Click. The safety is on. Shit. He clicks the safety off, not remembering how he knew what to do, and sprays the tree line. With in ten seconds the clip is empty. He slams home another clip and sprays the trees again. Jim checks his platoon, as he is now the ranking member. There are a few bodies laying lifeless on the dirt road. Some scream as Private McDougal attends to their wounds. Private Rodriquez is calling in air support. HQ responds with a string of code that Jim can’t make out. Mortars fall all around Jim’s platoon’s position.
hhhhhaaaaaaaa..........
sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss.............
The entire platoon is pouring fire into the tree line. The jungle looks like a bunch of fireflies from all the AK-47s. In the background the soft thump of mortars being launched. Tracers cross to and from the tree line. Private Rodriquez smiles, and begins to yell to Jim. Fwap, the 45 caliber shell bores into Rodriquez’s helmet. The bullet blasts out of the bottom of Rodriquez jaw. His eyes are frozen just staring at Jim. Jim can almost make out his reflection in the growing pool of blood. The shape forms into his father. "Get a damn haircut." Jim’s eyes glaze over. He draws his knife, takes off his helmet and begins to shave his head.
hhhhaaaaaaaaaaaa...............
ssssssssssssssssssssss............
PULL BACK TO HILL 114! Jim wakes up screaming orders that he would have issued. His realizes very quickly he is not still in that rice patty. A hospital bed, white sheets. Jim tries to get up, a pain in his left shoulder jerks him back down. He looks to his right, a man there has no left arm anymore. Panic begins to grip Jim as he wonders if he doesn’t have a left arm anymore. He raises his right arm, he says a short prayer, then closes his eyes and raises what he thinks is his left arm. Jim opens his eyes two arms, two hands, ten fingers. He looks down, both legs, both feet. Then the most important appendage. "Ahh.....Our hero has awakened." Jim looks at the man in dress uniform at the foot of his bed. Jim asks why the man is here. The General, as Jim soon finds out, is here to review his acts of heroism under fire. Come to find out he saved the life of seven of the men in his platoon.
hhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaa.............
ssssssssssssss......*cough* *cough*
Thank you Mr. President. That’s all Jim could say. The reporters have been hounding him ever since he got back to the states. Today was the big day. The Congressional Metal of Honor was to be presented to him by President Ford. It’s 1974, two years Jim spent in South Vietnam. He doesn’t remember half of it. But still he can some times hear the sound of the firefight, the distant boom of artillery, and the earth rumpling from an infamous B-52 strike sixty miles away. As the president pins the metal on, the VC open fire on Jim's position. Jim can see the muzzle flashes in the dark of the jungle. They are so close he can hear their God forsaken tongue. Jim ducks behind the nearest cover, they are so close he can see the white of their tiny eyes. They’re staring right at him. Jim draws his survival knife. He uses his free hand to pop a grenade off his flak vest. He pulls the pin with his teeth and holds the grenade tight. If he is going down, so is that filthy gook. The VC points his AK at Jim. Jim bursts forward, tackling the VC before he can fire. The VC’s squad mates rip Jim off the VC. A stunned Gerald Ford looks at Jim in horror as Secret Service men restrain him.
hhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaa...............
sssssssssssssss.........
How long have I been in here? Seems like years. They keep shaving my head, why? I can’t feel my arms. The floor, it’s cold. Concrete, where am I? Light, where is it coming from? A small window. Jim’s eyes slowly adjust to the dim light. A cell, where was he? Straightjacket? He remembers being escorted to the hospital, the shiny X-ray machine and, Dad? A burly man peers through the window without warning. Many locks unhinge. Jim asks the burly man in a white uniform questions about, what time is it, and where is he going. All the way down the hallway, Jim knew what kind of place he was in. A sanitarium. The custodian shoved Jim through a door at the end of the long hallway. There is a seat under a light bulb. Jim sits in it. He looks around the room, its dark. His eyes can’t see past the light. Jim’s eyes adjust to the light slowly. He sees the shapes of a table with four people sitting at it. One by one they began to ask me questions. Jim answers as carefully as possible.
hhhhhhhaaaaaaa...................
sssssssssssssss..........
So these are the papers proving me clinically sane. A rather plane sheet of paper with an ugly red stamp on it. Jim folded them up and put them into his wallet. The rehab program set Jim up with a job working security a club. Jim’s military training made up for his lack of physical size. Hard to believe twenty-five years have gone by, a quarter of a century. Jim looked down at his hands, beaten and callous. He realizes he is becoming an old man, the aches and pains have began to creep up on him. This shitty ass club is about to go belly up anyway. This punk ass band of nobodies, Satan’s Handbag. What the hell kind of loser name is that? Shit! The crowd is getting restless. There might be a brawl here shortly. Yup, there goes a bottle. Man, they haven’t even started playing yet. They look like a bunch of freaks.
hhhhhhaaaaaaa.............
sssssssssss...*cough* *cough*
The crowd hasn’t stopped throwing shit yet. Satan’s Handbag begins to play. They aren’t that bad. Not bad at all, time to quell the masses. The crowd of thirty or so punks throws King Beer bottles at the chicken wire cage protecting the band from the projectiles. Apparently the crowd really thinks they suck, but I don’t mind the music. It is actually kind of nice. Time to get them out of here before things get out of hand. They stop their music soon after I tell them to pack up. Some of their crew comes out, one picks up equipment and stereos peace meal. He doesn’t look that strong. I help out too.
haaaaa... Shit! It's gone, what else you got? ... Man, I thought you didn’t have any of that left? *A snap of rubber tubing is heard* Ok, Hit me.
"Man, why did those kids hate you so much, from what I heard you all are not bad, not bad at all." The entire band of Satan’s Handbag looks at Jim like he is crazy. Jim asks if he said something funny. They laugh at him and then the roadie that was stronger than he looked passed Jim a joint. Jim has been clean for 15 years. Oh well, one joint won’t hurt.
Jim stares at the side of the semi. The patters of shadow and light play around. Jim can’t tell if he is making it do that or it is just an illusion. A juice bag crashes through the window of the "The Stall". Must be Devyn again, Jim thinks to himself. J.D. rushes into the building, Atlas sighs and injects himself with the syringe. Jim, Hercules to his Pack, feels the beast rise as the many cuts on the man spill his precious life fluids on the pavement. Hercules walks over, the world turning into an ocean of motion. The man is regaining consciousness as Hercules nears. With a mighty stomp, Jim crushes the man’s throat. He picks up the corpse with ease and takes it into a nearby ally. He uses his Survival knife coupled with his immense strength to sever the head from the body. Jim clamps down on what is left of the human’s neck and then proceeds to chug the blood, just like a beer bong. Jim drinks his fill and throws the meat into a dumpster. He cleans himself off best he can and then retrieves the band's equipment and put it into the back of trailer.
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