“So, what do the people in this shithole ville do for a fun night out, raghead?” the thin one demands.

The raghead doesn’t answer.

“The special,” says the fat one. “They all come out at night for a big pot of that goddamn eggplant special.  Right, raghead?”

The raghead can’t answer.

“How ’bout this shit?” the fat one says. “Raghead here thinks he’s a smartass.  Is that what you think, raghead?  That you’re a bright boy?”

The raghead looks down and then at the other villagers gathered near him.

“Know what I think, raghead?”  the thin one says.  “I think you know where this Fahran is.  I think he’s not going to show with the heroin.  Is that right?  Bright boy?”

The raghead still doesn’t understand.

“Maybe this Fahran is a bright boy too.  Maybe he went to Sweden with the heroin.  Became a Swede.” The fat one spits.  The fat one is getting mean.  He wants to kill.  Someone, anyone.  All of them.

“Well, bright boy, raghead, whatever your name is,” goes the thin one, “guess this is your lucky day.  You and your whole raghead burg.  Come on, let’s go,” he says to the fat one.

“What?” says the fat one.  “We’re just gonna leave this shit?  That H is big money.  I’m pissed.  We need to finish up here.  I’ll bet the bright boy is a talker.  Knows why we want Fahran.  What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m just sick of killing ragheads, that’s all,” says the thin one.  “It isn’t fun anymore.  I’m all emptied out inside from it.”

“Well, hell” says the fat one, and turns his weapon on the group of villagers and empties his clip.  Four dead, including the bright boy raghead, and three wounded.  The rest run off.

“You just had to do that, didn’t you?” says the thin one.  “Couldn’t leave it alone.”

“That’s me all right,” answers the fat one.  “I leave things alone, some bright boy raghead will think he’s got the cojones to do me.  I ain’t getting paid enough for that.”

“Shit.  Let’s just go,” says the thin one.  And they do.

“You know,” the fat one says to the thin one as they head back to base camp, “I think you’re becoming a pussy.  I think you want to get a pussy medal.”

“You think too much.  You talk too much too,” says the thin one.

“Yeah,” says the fat one.  “I’m gonna write a book when I get back home.  Call it Afghanistan Ain’t For Pussies.  Make a million bucks.  What do ya think?”

“You do that,” the thin one replies.  And just then, the thin one steps on a small anti-personel mine.  He’s blown back on his back, stone dead.

“Sonofa!…” the fat one swears from a crouch.  “Fuckin’ ragheads!”  He does a three-sixty with his weapon.  “Nuthin’,” he spits.  He looks at the thin one’s body.  “And if you weren’t such a pussy there’d be none of them left to pull this shit.  Bastards!  Well, I’ll be back tomorrow, and I won’t bring any pussies with me.  Get all the bright boys.  And the bright bitches.  And that fuckin’ Swede, Fahran.”

The fat one roots through the thin one’s fatigues.  He takes the thin one’s cigarettes and watch and money and papers.  In the papers there is a photo of a beautiful young blonde woman.  He turns the photo over and reads: “Montpelier, Vermont.  Hmmm…Well, maybe you weren’t such a puss after all,” he says to the thin one’s body.  “Maybe I’ll look this little number up for you when I get home.  Vermont?  Hope she don’t turn dyke before I get there.  Well, there’s ways of fixin’ that.  Hope she likes war stories.  I’ve got plenty.”

And the fat one walks away toward the base camp, leaving the thin one’s body for the med team.  He’ll get the LT to send the Blackhawks to that village and go back the next day along with a full platoon to finish it up.  Make sure.

In Vermont, right this moment, the beautiful young blonde is finishing a letter to the thin one.  All about love and the fall colors and the plans she’s made for them.  She’ll mail it today.  And in a week or so, maybe less, the fat one will have it in his hands.

A couple of months from now, the fat one will get off a plane at the airport in Burlington, Vermont.  After that, it will just be another war story.  Hardly anyone will notice a thing.  What do ya think?

Peter Buknatski

Montpelier, Vt.

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