As the ebony darkness fell about us, I was ambivalent about the task that lay ahead. The cool night seemed to put the exclaimation mark on the statement and I was in the mood for bringing freedom, maybe even happiness, or something close to either.
Colonel Pooner stood in front of me, as I looked at him through my night vision goggles, he seemed somewhat lost in his thoughts. I could tell by the way he paced, studied his surroundings, and in the way he slowly unzipped his fly to urinate. He seemed calculated, nervous, and bold.
"Don't worry my old warrior friend, they'll do fine." I said to Colonel Pooner as he continued to empty his war weary bladder of yeaterday's wine. Funny, I thought, Colonel Pooner was green hued, as I looked through the goggles. Even his urine glowed in a green tint, to give the impression that Pooner was pissing green beer. "You look all green on this Saint Patty's Day." I remarked, as his stream of green urine flowed like piss pouring out of a boot.
"Morty, look....um..we might not make it back and I was...um.." Colonel Pooner tried to say, as he shook his tiny purple headed warrior of it's excess drippage. I knew what he wanted to say, for I longed to tell him the same.
"I know," I remarked, as tears began to hamper my view through my night vision goggles. I then pulled my wallet out of my hind pocket and began to gaze at photos of my family. The pictures of my wife and my 3 sons were before my night vision goggle clad eyes. Memories of the good times I spent with them came flowing back. I was becoming overwhelmed, overly emotional, and just a tad bit horny for my wife's loving. "I haven't made love to my wife in over 3 years," I remarked as I touched her photo.
"Look here," Colonel Pooner said as he too pulled out his wallet. I was amazed as photograph after photogragh unfolded from his wallet, until they numbered 27 pictures. Yes, nearly 30 kids that my friend, my fellow warrior, the zen to my yang, the Rasputin of rapartee, my comrade in arms, had fathered during the many wars that he and I had the pleasure of fighting. Even though the night vision goggles colored every picture a green tint, I could see that all his illegitimate kids were of different nationalities.
There were kids from: Vietnam, Laos, Korea, Albania, Germany, Kuwait, Israel, Africa, Yugoslavia, Panama, Peru, Grenada, Lebannon, Falklands Island, Chille, Thailand, Mexico, Cuba, England, Ireland, Scotland, France, Holland, India, Pakistan, Italy, Spain, Iraq, Dubai and Greece.
"It's funny - I don't really know any of them. I don't know their first names, their likes, dislikes; nor do I know much about them - but they all seem so close to me." Colonel Pooner said with a voice that began to choke with emotion. "I haven't been the best dad, but I have always tried to stay intouch with each one of the little bastards on their birtdays." He added as he lost all manly control and cried like a whipped pussy. Colonel Pooner had always been a proud Republican with morals and values, even though he had never married.
I tried to console him - in a manly fashion - by placing my arms around him and hugged him. "Nation building, my friend." I said. I felt a strange sensation come over me. I wanted to hold him closer, but something was sticking me in the stomach. I first thought it was Pooner's weapon, but upon futher examination
I realized Pooner had a hard-on.
The Iraq troops, that were under our command, looked at Pooner and I in a somewhat bewildered state of shock and awe. They were confused that their leaders were sharing a manly man moment. Or, perhaps they were confused because they were wearing night vision goggles too. Maybe, it was the combination of the two.
Finally, we all got onto the chopper and made our way to begin this critical mission: Operation Swarmer.
"I haven't made love to my wife in 3 years," I said loudly so as to be heard over the roar of the helicopter's blades.
"I knocked the bottom out of her the last time we were on R&R", Pooner said with a loud voice and a chuckle. I thought at first he was joking and I too laughed.
"
No, really I did, Morty. I banged her so hard, I thought I was going to pass-out." Pooner exclaimed as he adjusted his one nut codsack. (Pooner and I had both left a testicle on the battlefield many years ago.) Then, he told the Iraqis, in their own lanugage, of how he did my wife. "Me bangie, bangie, Morty's old lady when we were on R&R in Bangkok. Me, bangie - bangie his momma-san." He added as he rose to his old warrior feet and began to act out humping my wife. All the Iraqis began to laugh and I became enraged!
I don't know if the thought of Ponner doing my wife enraged me, or if it was the fact that Pooner had commanded the Iraqi language and now was using that to ridicule me. "Damn, Pooner always has been the Rasputin of repartee in any country's culture!" I said to myself in an angry tone. I was fightin' mad!
The more Pooner dry humped, the more the Iraqis laughed, and the angrier I became. I don't know what came over me, but I jumped up from my seat and I slammed Colonel Pooner in the head with my fist.
"YOU WHORE-HOPPING, BALD HEADED, OVER SEXED, RAT BASTARD!" I screamed as my fist connected with his head. Pooner, went down to the floor of the helicopter. The Iraqis gasped and then cheered. Pooner's helmet came loose
from the blow and rolled on the floor next to him, exposing his old, war-weary, bald, bulbous head. Seeing my chance, I began pounding him with the butt of my rifle. Soon, blood poured outward, spraying each Iraqi red. "BALD HEADED RAT BASTARD!" I yelled.
I then, heard the report of Pooner's sidearm, and I felt the stinging sensation in
my side. Yes, it felt good to have the hot lead piercing my flesh, but I soon realized Pooner had shot me.
"YOU OLD FAG!" Pooner screamed and fired his weapon 3 more times at me. It was then that our Iraqi troops joined in the fighting. "LIMP DICK FAG!" Pooner screamed as he pummeled me with his fist. As each of his blows found their
target I was becoming more and more disoriented. Some blows hit me in the head, some in my side, my chest, my stomach, and about 45 hit me in the groin. Yes, Pooner not only was a Rasputin of repartee, but he also was a master of hand to hand combat. I was impressed by my friend's fighting skills, but I new I had to reciprocate in like kind. So, I took out my knife and sliced off a piece of Pooner's left
ear.
"Now, me bangie - bangie you!" I said as I stood over my sliced friend. The Iraqis fought with one another. Yes, it was brother against brother, friend against friend, a mini civil war had broken out in that chopper.
"Oh yeah? Take this!" Pooner replied as he pull the ring from his grenade and flung it at me. Luckly, the grenade missed me but it rolled on the floor, for what seemed to be a lifetime.
"KABOOM!" was the sound it made when it exploded.
Call it fate, karma, or call it the laws of aerodynamics, but when that grenade exploded it sent our helicopter in a downward spiral to it's appointed place in the soft sandy ground below.
As I awoke, I saw smoke, fire, carnage, the broken blades, the shattered
glass, and the bloody, broken bodies of all that were in that helicopter. Yes, those blue fingered Iraqis were piled everywhere. I quickly began searching through the wreckage. "Pooner!" I screamed.
"Morty....." I heard him choke outward. I pulled his twisted, old, bloody body out to safety. I wiped the blood from his old bald, bulbous head and I kissed his old, smelly, wrinkled forehead.
"You know, Morty, the liberal press will make this out to be a sign that Iraq isn't coming together." He choaked out.
"I know, but the truth is... Iraq is coming together, but it takes time. Time to heal, time to repair, time to mend, time to make amends." I stated, as I too, was bleeding like a stuck monkey.
"The fog of war, my friend." Pooner remarked.
"The poet said it best: A time to plant, a time to gather, a time to rend, a time to sew, a time to love, and a time be one." I recalled.
"Yeah, or, Iraq had a steamboat, the steamboat had a bell. George W. had a submarine and blew it all to hell!" Pooner smiled as recited his own poem. Then, he farted 3 times and arose to his feet.
"Semper-Fi, my friend," I said.
