When Jacob was expelled from school for beating Chunder Maclin with a cafeteria chair, his father sat him down and explained to him the he was proud of him, but that Jacob had to contain his anger, keep it stored away and at bay.  He knew what was inside Jacob, what dwelled within him, what Jacob had the potential to become.  Jacob was gentle by nature, meek, quiet, shy, never confrontational.  His expulsion from school had shocked everyone.  Everyone expect his father.  Somehow he had known, as only a father might.   

Jacob’s sister, Aubrey Rose, was raped when she was only 16.  An academic prodigy who was accepted to Michigan State University when she was but 15 years old, she wasn’t ready for the realities of grown men.  The rapist was a resident assistant in her co-ed dormitory, a 22 year old graduate student who not only raped her, but threatened to have her kicked out of school if she didn’t frequent his room at night that first semester.  On home for Christmas break, she broke down one particular night and told then 19 year old Jacob what was happening to her.  As she poured her story out to him, he sat and listened, brushing her hair back from her sobbing face, holding her tight.  When she was finished, he kissed her on the cheek and left the house.  He drove four hours that night to Lansing.  By the next morning he was back, and the resident assistant was dead, wrapped in a tarp and buried under ten feet of dirt in Kensington National Forest.  Years later, a troop of boy scouts would find the body, and the Livingston County coroner would remark to all who would listen about the skeleton with fractured orbital sockets, missing the entire lower half of its jaw. 

What Jacob’s father knew was that there was a manic, unbridled power inside Jacob, a strength born of necessity, a frenzy found in the wild.  That day in the cafeteria with Chunder Maclin, and that night at Michigan State, the animal had awoken. It was a thing that Jacob had long repressed, a thing he thought no longer existed.  It was a purity of spirit, a beautiful realization of honesty that now began to stir….

It began as a detachment, an awareness that he was at once both within, and outside of, himself.   Sorry poured the gas onto the back porch, splashing it onto the concrete steps, the siding, the glass door, and into the living room.  Samuel stared outside, fingering the packet of matches in his hand, grunting as he stood, relieving the pressure on Jacob’s back.  Samuel barked something to Sorry in Japanese, smiling as Sorry answered back.  As Jacob rolled to his back, Samuel looked down and smiled as he stomped a heavy foot into Jacob’s stomach.

Jacob gave in to the animal, gave into his vital impetus.

When the resident assistant cracked open his door, Jacob kicked with every ounce of his strength.  All the students were home for Christmas break, and no-one heard the crunch of wood splintering from the metal hinges as the door flew inward, smashing into the resident assistant and sending him toppling backward…

Jacob rolled to his side, facing Samuel, and bit into Samuel’s knee.  Samuel howled in pain and surprise, leaning back and spinning away.  As soon as Samuel’s balance was off, Jacob sprung to his feet, bringing his knee hard into Samuel’s groin…

The RA wobbled to his feet, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses and muttering a surprised “What the f-.”  Before he could finish his question, Jacob was on him, smashing him in the face with his fists, each containing a roll of quarters wrapped in electric tape.  Shards from the RA’s glasses punctured his skin as he once again topped backwards.  This time he rolled onto his side, arms wrapped around his legs, crying and wailing as Jacob approached him, “No!  P-p-please s-stop!”

Samuel dropped to his knees, moaning loudly as he dropped the matches, hands instinctively going to his bruised manhood.  Sorry dropped the gas can, pulled a knife from his waistband and charged Jacob, mouth set in a grim line, eyes narrowed and focused…

 Jacob knelt, his knee on the RA’s chest as he reached for his face, hands intent on punishment.  “Pleeeeaaaaassssssse….”  The RA’s shrill scream faded into garbled whines, the wet sound of spilled life pooling around them both.  Jacob sat back, breathing heavily, his hands cut and bruised.  The RA moaned through his broken face, a bark that was half cry and half cough escaped his throat.  The animal within compelled Jacob to finish…

Jacob launched himself at Sorry, left hand knocking the knife out of Sorry’s hand, right hand finding purchase on Sorry’s throat.  Sorry punched Jacob with both hands, peppering him with blows to his stomach and ribs.  Jacob was beyond pain now, and he squeezed with renewed strength.  Sorry’s blows turned desperate and pushed hard into Jacob’s chest.  Jacob returned the push, and Sorry suddenly pulled.  Jacob continued pushing Sorry back until they both tripped over the dropped gas can.  His momentum carried him over Sorry, slamming the older man to the ground, and breaking the grip that Jacob had on his throat.  Jacob rolled to his feet but Sorry was already up and running off out of the house.  The older man recognized the threat that Jacob posed and fled into the woodline.  Jacob started out the porch door after Sorry then stopped as he heard the moan back in the house. 

Samuel was still there, slowly getting to his feet, doubled over and shuffling to the front of the house.  Jacob strode back into the back room, grabbed Samuel by the hair and dragged him out the back porch into the back yard.  Jacob was now fully immersed in his other self, his true self, and Samuel’s death was the only thing that mattered.  Samuel fell and Jacob spun him to the ground kicking him in the stomach as he fell.  Samuel feebly tried to fight back, and Jacob punched him in the throat, dropping the big man 10 yards behind the house.  He went back into the house and came out with the matches and the gas can.  No sound came from Samuel’s screams as he burned.

By Grin and Barrett

Doesn’t everyone read the Rhino Den?  In the annals of American literary accomplishments, we have Stephen Crane, Stephen King, Steven Pressfield (that’s a lot of Stephen’s), Mad Magazine, Reader’s Digest and ….the Rhino Den!  So I guess it is just a base assumption that I have that whatever is written on the Rhino Den, is read as well.  But you know what they say about assumptions, they make and ass out of you, and ….Ron Maclean.  Within that framework, I have to ask this question:  Mr. Maclean, didn’t I just write about this?!? In fact, I believe my exact words were…

“Listen, I have the utmost respect for athletes who put it all on the line, who approach every down like it is the game-winning play, contest every basket, run down every wide receiver, continue on after getting hacked, cross-checked, or forearmed.  I got it; they are studs, no doubt.  But they are not Soldiers.  They do not truly put their lives on the line, let alone in defense of home and country.  They do not leave weeping widows, orphans, parents who have to bury their children.  Their injuries are concussions, broken ankles, jammed fingers, ruined shoulders.  A Soldier’s injuries include loss of eyesight, missing limbs, chronic migraines and PTSD, horrific deformities and death.”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the opportunity to re-package something I’ve already written and re-publish to the masses, but do I really need to?

Lest I lose a faithful reader who is unaware of your transgressions, let me fill in the Ranger Den faithful first.

Ron Maclean, color commentator for the New York Rangers, recently made this absurd comment during the pre-game warm-ups for the Rangers game against the Washington Capitals:

“You can’t help but be struck by the players and the way they’ve played these games.  They are like police officers, they are like firefighters. You can’t fight fire with ego. The pain these men have faced, the price they keep on paying, the hearts they keep on lifting.”

Then, faced with criticism on all fronts, he “clarified” his remarks with this:

“We never know if we’ll have that spirit.  The bravery, the resilience.  As I made clear, the hockey games in no way compare.  However Sports has proven a worthy training ground in nurturing the qualities which beget that spirit.  To say he plays like a firefighter or a policeman would instantly conjure the traits an athlete most desires, especially in New York and Washington…”

Uh, yeah.  No duh Jackass!  But just because someone “conjures the traits” you so desire, the qualities of character you would wish to emulate, does not mean that you also posses them!  Yes, firefighters and police officers have many qualities to be emulated, admired, and praised.  That does not, however, give you the right to compare athletes with them.  I admire the writing style, research, and thoroughness of Steven Pressfield and Michael Crichton.  Two men that I think embody everything it is to be a successful writer.  Therefore, according to your logic, I can compare myself favorably with them?   Yeah, that’s awesome!  Right where I want to be…wait a minute, this isn’t too bad.  I kind of like this formulaic approach to self betterment.  Okay, I think that George Clooney and Daniel Craig are handsome and rugged.  Presto!  Let me look in the mirror….suspenseful interlude….Wow!  Look how handsome I am now!.  Okay, this is great!  Let’s see, Lionel Messi…check.  Usain Bolt…check.  Georges St-Pierre….check.

I can’t imagine the embarrassment that Maclean has caused for those Rangers and Capitals hockey players, innocent pawns in Maclean’s campaign of stupidity and doucheration.  His inability to grasp the basic truth of selfless service astounds me.  Comparing professional athletes with First Responders and Military personnel should be a common sense no-no, but it continues to prevail, continues to happen all the time.  Mr. Maclean, you blew it with your initial statement, then bungled it even further with your clarification.  Let your one way ticket to Douchebagistan serve as an example to all others in professional sports that the “sacrifice, pain, and price to pay” for a professional athlete is NOT the same as that of a police officer, firefighter, or American warrior.  Don’t compare it.  If you wish to mention the sacrifice of our heroes on 9/11, do it with reverence, do it with humility, do it with thanksgiving, and for the love of God, keep it out of your color commentary.

I have a particular routine I adhere to in my morning commute to work.  I start the day with a prayer for wisdom, grace and strength, and I thank God for the majesty of those beautiful Alaskan mountains I pass through on the way in.  After my moments of thanksgiving, and my morning ritual of counting moose on the Palmer flats, I get my morning fix of ESPN’s Mike and Mike in the morning.

Today, as I carried out this daily routine, I heard something that really troubled me.  Chris Carter, the studtastic wide receiver for the Vikings who torched NFC North defensive backs for so many years, spoke of his need to put “bounties” on opposing team’s defensive players that he felt threatened him and his well-being; that harbored him bad intentions.  Specifically, he mentioned the threat he felt from then Denver Bronco’s player Bill Romanowski, and his contention that Romanowski vowed to end Carter’s career.  Carter, in turn, put a bounty on Romanowski, offering team-mates an unspecified reward for keeping Romanowski in check.  The thing that bothered me with this whole situation isn’t the fact that Carter felt he needed to be protected, but the fact that Carter felt he needed to pay his teammates to have his back.

As a Soldier, this confuses me.  In an earlier post I wrote, “Grammatical Retirement – Going to War,” I wrote of my disdain for athletes who wax poetically about being a Soldier, going to war, and dying for their brothers/sisters.  The differences between a professional athlete and professional Soldier are both narrow and wide at the same time.  When it comes to going to war, that gulf could not be wider, and evidently this also applies to protecting our own.  Why on earth would Carter feel he needed to pay his teammates to do what every Soldier, Marine, Airmen and Sailor would do without even thinking about it?  Brothers and sisters in law enforcement and emergency services understand this as well.  What is that thing we do without thinking about it?  We protect our own!  I don’t go into a hostile situation with the promise of reward.  This, to me, isn’t even fathomable!

“Hey bro, we’re seriously hitting the shit today.”

“Yeah, I know man.”

“Well, brother, can I ask you something?”

“Sure man, anything.”

“If it all goes to shit, would you do me a favor and watch my back?”

“Weeeellllllll….”

“There’s a cool hundred dollar bill in it for you…”

“Ah, hell yeah then!  You got it bro!”

“And if some Taliban scumbag gets a bead on me, if you take him out, I’ll throw you another hundred.”

“Bet!  You got it man.”

Never seen that exchange?  Yeah, me neither.  Cause that’s not how we do things.  We automatically have each other’s backs.  I’d like to think we model our protective instincts on that of Sparta.  Spartan culture was one of protecting your brother before yourself.  When the Spartan mother told her son, “Come back with your shield, or on it,” it was because to lose your shield meant you exposed the man on your left to peril.  That same ideal of protecting your own is alive and well today in our military, seen every day in Afghanistan and other hot spots around the world.

We don’t offer rewards; No Rolex, no new SUV, no trip to Hawaii.   But what we do offer is so much more precious, so much better; the camaraderie of kindred spirits who would lay down their lives for each other, with no other reward than knowing that your brothers and sisters would do the same for you.  Carter and Romanowski can occupy the media with bounties and bad intentions, while we continue to keep watch over our brothers and sisters, and over you.

High time we retired another overused, under-thought phrase popular in today’s lexicon.  This time, however, the object of my grammatical frustration is not due to military abuse of the vernacular, but to that time honored tradition of wannabe-battle-tested “heroes” (see professional athlete) using militant language to describe sporting events.

The dictionary defines “war” as both an armed conflict between nation-states, and as active hostility or contention.  In and of itself, I have no serious beef with athletes referring to emotionally charged and significant athletic events as “going to war with the opponent.”  Just like I have no issue with corporate executives who paint a campaign of “going to war” with the competition.  Where exactly does this cross the line?  Where does the acceptable use of the phrase “going to war” begin to irritably grate on my skin?  When I hear phrases like these:

“We’re going into battle!  My teammates are my Soldiers, and we’re in a serious battle!”

No stud, they are not.  And neither are you.

“This game is going to be a war, nobody’s backing down, I’ll die for my teammates!”

Uh… sure.  Sure you will.

“This field (court) is our battlefield, we’re either going to survive or die out there today!”

Reaaaally?

“My teammates were my brothers/sisters, and we went into war, into battle together.”

No….you….did….not.

Listen, I have the utmost respect for athletes who put it all on the line, who approach every down like it is the game-winning play, contest every basket, run down every wide receiver, continue on after getting hacked, cross-checked, or forearmed.  I got it; they are studs, no doubt.  But they are not Soldiers.  They do not truly put their lives on the line, let alone in defense of home and country.  They do not leave weeping widows, orphans, parents who have to bury their children.  Their injuries are concussions, broken ankles, jammed fingers, ruined shoulders.  A Soldier’s injuries include loss of eyesight, missing limbs, chronic migraines and PTSD, horrific deformities and death.

This isn’t a pissing contest between Soldiers and athletes, it’s a reality check.  The reality is that our brave men and women sacrifice more than most people can possibly imagine.  No matter how many Welcome Home banners stream, no matter how many folks shake our Soldier’s hands at the airport and thank them for what they have done, there is no way to accurately describe or convey the physical, emotional and mental fatigue that accompanies a Soldier’s deployment, and subsequent return home.  Going to war is a sacred act, an integral part of the warrior’s spirit, a life and death pact with brothers and sisters in arms.  It is the pinnacle of worth, achievement and purpose for a Soldier; one that cannot be processed, canned, and sold as a catchphrase.

Unfortunately, it is treated that way.

Flippant rambles about going to war, going to battle, and the ever popular I-am-a-Soldier, litter the athletic field of play like discarded groupies after a playoff victory bender.  Convenient one moment, forgotten the next.

Going forward, we Soldiers will stick with our intramural sports and leave the big leagues to you.  When it comes to matters of war and sacrifice, however, why don’t you leave it to the professionals?

By Grin and Barrett

Jacob threw up again.  Head pounding, Jacob grabbed a towel off the bathroom wall and wiped his mouth.  He had spent the last three hours struggling out of his bonds and limping back to his quarters.  No one, neither friend nor foe, had seen him limp his way to his temporary home, and as he struggled back he was angrily astonished that the Army has seen fit to lodge him so far from anyone else, in such a remote location.  As he washed blood and rope fibers from his wrists and forearms, another wave of nausea overcame him and he threw up again.  He gingerly wiped his swollen lips with the towel again and proceeded to wash his face.  Dried blood clung to his eyelids and cheeks like glue, and Jacob winced as he pulled scabs off of cuts and abrasions.  A large cut over his right eye reopened as he washed it, blood quickly stemmed by a strip of 100 mile an hour tape.  He observed his medical work in the mirror and frowned.  You look like an idiot.  Jacob finished cleansing his face and washed some of the blood from his hair, wincing again as his hands discovered several more small cuts on his scalp.  Jacob dried his face and hair and headed into the living room, changing his clothes before grabbing his running shoes and a clean pair of socks.   

Without a cell phone, which had been taken from him while in captivity, he would have to make the two mile walk to main post to report to the Provost Marshall’s office.  A winding road past dense trees and an abandoned school stood between him and medical help.  Jacob painfully laced his shoes up and stepped onto the front porch, squinting in the light of the fading day. 

Has it really been almost 24 hours already?

Jacob wasn’t sure what had happened to Matt, but first he needed to get to a doc and report what had happened to his chain of command and MPI.  A sound from the back of the house caught Jacob’s ear and before he let the front screen door slam, he looked past the living room to the back sliding door.  Shadows of two men crept into view and Jacob slowly closed the door, preventing it from slamming, and quietly crept around the outside of the house, behind the two who were casting the shadows.  Jacob heard low murmurs as he rounded the right side of the house, using the cherry blossom trees to shield him from sight.  As he approached the back of the house, he crouched and peeked around the corner.  Two men, one short and thin and one tall and thick, in overalls were standing under the back awning, peering into his living room through the glass door.  At their feet, a water jug with dirty water, a toolbox, and a wheelbarrow with a tarp over it.  Jacob recognized the shorter of the two.

“Sorry?”

Sorry spun around, a look of concern turning to relief as a big grin broke out on his face.

“Jacob!”

“What are you doing here?”

Sorry strode up to Jacob, extending his hand and shielding his eyes from the sun with the other. 

“I’m marking the houses back here for teardown, turning off the water, electricity, getting ready for them to level this whole area.  I thought I would stop by and say hello, but I saw…”

Sorry gestured back to the glass door, the look of concern returning to his face.

“…blood all over the living room floor.  Are you okay?”  Sorry pointed to the tape on Jacob’s face and grimaced.

“Long story.  Let’s just leave it at… you were right with your advice.”  Jacob looked at Sorry’s companion, a larger man with a dull expression on his face.  Vacant eyes stared back at Jacob, as the large man fidgeted back and forth on his feet.  “Who’s this?”

“Oh, this is my nephew Samuel.”

“Samuel?”

Sorry laughed, “Hah, yes, he is only half Japanese.  He had an American father who also was named Samuel.”  Sorry’s eyes darkened slightly, “He left my sister shortly after Samuel was born.  Left for the States, straight back to Cleveland, and he has never been back.  But, hey, that is not your issue, eh?”  Sorry smiled again and put his arm on Jacob’s shoulder, “Though he is not the most intelligent young man, he is very handy to have around.”

Samuel smiled and waved at Jacob.  “Hello.”

Jacob walked toward Samuel, “Hello Samuel, nice to meet you.”

Samuel bowed slightly, “And you as well Sir.”

A sudden through occurred to Jacob, “Sorry, how did you get here?  I need a ride to main post.  I’ve got to get my cut stitched up and I need to get to the Post PMO.”

Sorry shrugged his shoulders, “We walked.  Just like every day.”

“Damn.”

The wind shifted slightly and blew into Jacob’s face from the direction of the house.  The pungent and invasive smell of gasoline stung his nose.  Sorry noticed it too, and glanced quickly at Samuel.  Jacob saw the glance, saw Samuel’s hand slide into his pocket.

“Sorry…what’s in the jug?”

Sorry shrugged again and smiled.  “I thought you were still asleep Jacob.”

“What’s in the jug!”

Samuel stepped forward, vacant look replaced by something darker, as Sorry quickly stepped behind Jacob.  “I thought you were still asleep Jacob, that was so much the easier way.”  Samuel darted forward, his speed astonishing for such a big man, as his fist flew into Jacob’s solar plexus before he could react, knocking him to his knees as the big man pushed him down and pinned him to the ground. 

Sorry stepped around in front of Jacob, his hands behind his back, looking down with a mixture of pity, anger, and sorrow.  “I told you Jacob, I told you very seriously what not to do.  And you did it anyway.  This one…”  Sorry gestured to the wheelbarrow, and only then did Jacob realize it was a body under the tarp, “…he didn’t have that conversation with me, and so he did not have good counsel.  You?  You did!  I gave you very good counsel, but you still chose to ignore me.” 

Sorry took Samuel’s spot, placing his knee firmly in Jacob’s back, allowing Samuel to get up and remove the tarp.  Matt was there, dead or alive Jacob didn’t know.  Blood covered Matt’s face, his hands tied behind his back as well.  Samuel lifted Matt and took him into the living room, cut his binds, and left him there. 

“What the hell Sorry!  What the hell is going on?!?”

“You went to the wrong place, did the wrong thing.  You are still guests in the country Jacob, this is not your world.  You made a very big mistake with the wrong people.”

“I didn’t know Sorry!  I didn’t know any of that was going to happen.”

“Of course you didn’t know Jacob, they never know.  That’s why I warned you.”

“What are you going to do to me?”  Jacob was frantic, as much as he tried he couldn’t break free from Sorry’s grasp. 

“You have to die Jacob.”

“Why did you let me go then?  If you’re just going to kill me, then why did you let me go?”

Samuel hauled Jacob to his feet, pushing him roughly toward the back door.

Sorry held the door open as Samuel pushed Jacob through.  “I didn’t let you go Jacob, and I didn’t have you killed.  You died in the fire you set by using gasoline to light your grill.  You and your friend both died when the house caught fire.  You were passed out from being too drunk.”

Sorry grabbed the jug with the gasoline and followed Samuel and Jacob into the living room.  “Don’t worry, you will asphyxiate before you burn.”

Samuel smiled at that, the once dull expression replaced by a cold fury that Jacob had never seen before.  “Yes, before you buuuuurrrrnnnnnnn.”

Sorry put down the jug of gas, an odd smile on his face as he rolled up the sleeves to his denim shirt.  Tattoos covered his arms, no actual skin visible through the dark ink that decorated his forearms.  “Samuel will likely cry with joy when you burn, but not me.”  Sorry picked the jug back up.  “I truly liked you Jacob.  I truly like the U.S. Army.  You are very good for my business.”

“What business is that you backstabbing piece of shit?!!!”

“Anything that makes money my friend.  Anything at all.”

“Like prostituting little girls?”

Sorry’s smile vanished.  “Yes, as much as you cannot understand that, yes.  But you scold me in this little palaver, what is truly your death palaver, and you project moral outrage on me as if you are blameless.  Where, Jacob, did you go last night?  Why did you go there?  WHY DID YOU GO THERE!  You are not stupid!  You knew where you were going!  You knew what you would find there.  So do not play the witless fool now, the innocent man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.  You went there to find a whore and you did, and the world you entered was too strong and too real for you and your friend, a friend who now lays dead at your feet!  So please do not pass your moral judgment on me my friend, for it is your kind that keep me alive and in profit.” 

Sorry gestured to Samuel, who threw Jacob on the ground next to Matt.  With another nod of his head Samuel produced a book of matches from his pocket as Sorry uncapped the gas.  Sorry lifted the jug to Jacob in mock salute, “Cheers,” and began to pour.

By Grin and Barrett

Robert Heinlein wrote, “Anyone who clings to the historically untrue, and thoroughly immoral doctrine, that violence never solves anything I would advise to conjure up the ghosts of Napoleon Bonaparte and the Duke of Wellington and let them debate it. The ghost of Hitler would referee. Violence, naked force, has settled more issues in history than has any other factor; and the contrary opinion is wishful thinking at its worst. Breeds that forget this basic truth have always paid for it with their lives and their freedoms.” 

Normalcy is relative; there is no question about it.  As for questions of morality, though to me there is a definitive line of acceptable and unacceptable, right and wrong, ethical and unethical, I would put forth that morality too has a certain degree of relativity to it.  Today, questions of morality and normalcy bombard us, the media bathes in it, and the populace ponders it.  Though the question of morality is more clearly defined, in most minds anyway, it is the question of normalcy that truly confounds the average person.    

I was once told by an English Literature professor that I had no moral compass.  We were reading the book, “The Killer,” which was later turned into a movie entitled XXXXX.  In this story, a young man is killed by his girlfriend’s ex-husband, shot in the face.  Through legal defense machinations, the ex-husband is released and likely to avoid trial.  The father of the murdered young man takes matters into his own hands and…spoiler alert here…kills his son’s murderer.  When asking the class, through a mouthful of self-righteous disdain, whether anyone agreed with the father, I alone raised my hand.  I’ve never been one to shy away from being the lone voice of reason in the group, an oasis of truth in a desert of ridiculosity, and I had no problem voicing my opinion on this one.  The instructor, clearly taken aback and shocked I would have the audacity to counter her position, asked me if I understood her question.  “I asked if you AGREED with the father.” 

“Yes Ma’am, I do.”

Look of utter disgust by Professor Frilly Ass-Hattery, “You understand that this is vigilantism?  This act by the father makes him NO BETTER than his son’s killer!”

“I disagree.  I think the father was justified.”

“Why?”  More looks of absolute contempt and abject disdain.

“Because I’m a father Ma’am, and if someone murdered by son and got off on a technicality, I would be hard pressed not to kill him right there in the courtroom.”

“Well!  That’s not normal.”

“For you, maybe.”
“For anyone!!!!  You clearly have no moral compass!” 

And there it was.  I clearly had no moral compass because I had the “abnormal” reaction to a father avenging his son’s murder.  This particular class was my last resident course before I finally got my Bachelor’s degree, and as a night course, had a very diverse population of young students, older students, military, civilian, and professionals.  Every single head nodded in agreement with the instructor, timid souls afraid of looking “abnormal.”  This group-think reaction didn’t really surprise me, but didn’t deter me either. 

“I have a moral compass; mine tells me I’m the only honest person in this room.”  Head shaking and furrowed eyebrows met me with this one, students frowning at my lack of social acumen, the gall I had to call into question their integrity.  Of course, these frowns were sandwiched between furtive glances at the instructor, making sure her reaction to their negative vibe was positive, nothing like positive reinforcement for the group-think. 

For me, the father’s reaction was normal, it was human, and I can empathize.  Is it this character trail within me that drove me to be a Soldier?  In a previous post, A Mother’s Expectations, I wrote of a father’s responsibility to raise his boys in a manner consistent with genetic (and God instructed) programming.  Consistent with the qualities that make men and boys dangerous…but in a good way.  I can’t help but think that this desire for justice, this desire for a reckoning was one of the traits that led to me joining the military.  I would venture that this same trait exists within many of the men and women that serve in a similar capacity; military, police officers, firefighters, etc.  The desire to see justice prevail, the weak protected from the bully, and good triumph over the evil; the willingness to do violence on behalf of those who either cannot, or choose not, to.  And this is where the relativity of normal, and to a certain extent moral, comes into play.  What is normal to the average citizen may not be normal to the average Soldier.  Does that condone atrocity, mentally unstable behavior, and unnecessary violence?  Not at all.  But there is no doubt that the framework of normalcy is different for Soldiers than it is for non-Soldiers.  Soldiers tend to take extra risk, go the extra mile, bask in the suck, play hard, work hard, and have each other’s back.  “Just act normal,” is a phrase which many a parent has uttered to their child.  But this conflicts with the essence of who a Soldier is.  Don’t ask Soldiers to “just act normal,” because we aren’t normal.  We are the half percenters; the ones willing to leave our most cherished loved ones for years, live in abject suck for months on end, and waive the basic constitutional freedoms that many take for granted.  This is the myth of normalcy.  We aren’t normal, we were never meant to be so.  And in our fraternity, wherein exists that code of the warrior that only we can ever understand, that’s okay.     

Jacob’s eyes wouldn’t open.  It wasn’t that he felt some sort of numbness, a paralysis that refused to obey his mind’s will.  Rather it was a binding of some sort that held his eyes shut, he felt his eyelids straining against the binding, but he couldn’t break it.  He listened as he lay there (Or was he hanging?  He wasn’t sure, he was having a hard time concentrating and recognizing the stimulus input from his environment, whatever environment he was in) and fought to recognize sounds, smells and textures.  He felt bindings on his wrists, which were behind his back.  He felt the burn from shoulders which have been unnaturally bent too long behind the back, and with the fingers from his left hand, he felt small bits of dirt and grime which seemed to be on a ……wood grain floor.  Jacob tried to lift his head, felt his left cheek stick to the floor, and pulled.  With a rip, his cheek came off the floor and his eye opened.  His right eye was still stuck shut, but Jacob was able to see about the room with his left.  Matt lay on the floor next to him, propped up against a wooden dresser, laying on his right side.  Matt was unconscious still, his shallow breathing wheezing through blood that dripped from his mouth, pooling under his chin.

Jacob looked about the room he was currently held in.  Barrels lined the same wall that held Matt’s dresser, a wide double door to the right occupied that entire wall.  Opposite the door, to the right of the wall where Matt lay, shelves with numerous cartoon festooned boxes, wrapped in plastic wrap and marked with colorful numbers, starting with “1” at the top left and ending with “57” on the bottom right.  This Jacob took in within seconds, his mind whirling to absorb every detail of the room he could, process every bit of data he was able to while he was left alone with Matt.  Jacob tried to flip onto his right side to see the wall behind him, but the effort sent shards of pain through his ribs and hips.  He glanced back toward Matt and caught his reflection in a small oval mirror on the floor, leaning up against the wall next to the dresser, right behind Matt’s feet.  The face that greeted him startled him, and it took him a moment to realize it was his own, battered and unrecognizable.  His right eye was caked with blood, dried shut, and he could see the crack in the congealed and dried blood on his left, where the blood had broken from the dried blood on the floor.  Eh, so that was the binding, my own blood….  Jacob tried to turn again, the effort of which produced a blinding pain in his ribs and forced the air from his lungs.  He tried to draw a breathe, but the pain in his ribs wouldn’t allow it.  He coughed and wheezed as he tried to breathe, willing the muscles in his side to stop spasming, but before he could calm himself, he passed out again…..

Chunder Maclin was the closest thing to the physical manifestation of the Big Boy restaurant mascot that Jacob had ever seen, complete with bowl haircut, ill-fitting overalls, and shit-eating grin.  He stood just over 6’4” and tipped the scales at over 300 pounds.  Chunder was standing over Ralph (pronounced Ray….poor kid) Polstone, guffawing and slapping his knee as Ralph grabbed his glasses from his face to rub the red welt that suddenly appeared from the rubber band in Chunder’s hand.  Chunder laughed at one of his friends, pointing his finger at Ralph’s head and slapping his knee again.  Everyone at Anchor Point High School looked on, some in amusement, some in disgust, some with admiration, all with curiosity.  Jacob sat with his friends, wondering how long he could watch, wondering how long poor Ralph could hold out before crying in front of everyone.  Ralph was Jewish, the son of construction foreman Zeke Polstone, though none would ever guess by Ralph’s timid demeanor.  Where his father was strong of both character and body, Ralph was weak, and this weakness beckoned bullies like Chunder.  Chunder made a regular sport of hurting Ralph in some manner every day.  Sometimes it was minor, sometimes major enough that Ralph didn’t come in to school for a few days after.  Though Ralph denied it to school authorities, Chunder was the one that stapled “Faggot Polack” on Ralphs’s back with the T50 heavy duty construction stapler.  The punctures had gotten infected, and Ralph almost lost the top layer of skin on his back to the surgeon’s scalpel.  He had missed two weeks of school, but Chunder was right back on him the day he got back, hounding him with “Pussy-ass Polack,” and “faggot polack,” never mind the fact that Ralph wasn’t Polish, he was Jewish, but Chunder has convinced himself that the name Polstone somehow meant that Ralph was Polish, so Polack jokes it was.  Today was just another day in Ralph Polstone’s life, dealing with his bane.  Chunder pulled the rubber band back again, put the tip against Ralph’s upper lip and nodded his head to those sitting close by.  “Ladies and Geeeentlemen,” he whispered, “come one come all to see the fantabulous fat lip of that faggot Polack Raaaaaaaalph Polstone.”  Chunder released the back of the rubber band, covering his mouth and letting out a loud “OOOOhhhh, Holy Shit!” as the rubber band sliced Ralphs’ lip, blood splattering the cafeteria table, causing those sitting by to push their chairs back.  Chunder laughed again, slapping his knee and rubbing Ralph’s hair, “AAAAHHH, Hahahaha, you pussy Ralph!  You little Polack pussy!” 

Jacob didn’t remember leaving his seat in the cafeteria, getting up from his table, or walking over to where Chunder now stood over poor Ralph Polstone.  He didn’t remember picking up the cafeteria chair that stood empty at the table next to Ralph’s.  But he did remember tapping Chunder on the shoulder, “Chunder?”  Chunder turned, still laughing, “What do YOU want dickhead?”  Jacob answered with the chair, smashing it over Chunder’s head with every ounce of strength he had.  Chunder collapsed in an explosion of blood, his forehead splitting open just over his eye, spraying bright red blood all over the floor.  Jacob was expelled from the school by the end of the day.  Chunder Maclin returned to school after a night in the hospital, and never harmed another soul.

Jacob heard voices, and woke to see that Matt was gone.  There was a lawn chair where Matt had been, back of it flush to the wooden dresser that Matt had been propped up against.  Another of the young men in black suites sat there, only his suit top hung over the back of the chair, the sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up to reveal a sleeve of tattoos covering both forearms.  He was smoking a cigarette, eyeing Jacob with amusement, smiling when Jacob looked up at him,

“You fear vedy bad, yeah?  You prory fear vedy sheety.”  His English was raw, Jacob could barely make out his words, but he got the gist of what the young man was saying.  He nodded his head and croaked out the first words that came to his head, “Where is my friend?”

The young tough took another puff from his cigarette and stamped it out with his foot before standing up.  He gestured out the double doors, “He’s gone.”

“What do you want from me?  I’m an American citizen, I think there has been a big mistake.”

“Sorry man, you much biggah probrems now….” With that he walked out the room, leaving the door open.  Immediate rays of light flooded the room, and Jacob looked around in disbelief.  Had he really left him all alone with the door open?  What bigger problems was he talking about?  Jacob didn’t take the time to analyze his situation too much, he wriggled over to the dresser and inched his way to his feet using the dresser knobs.  Once on his feet, he hopped over to the double doors and peeked out.  Jacob stared in disbelief.  Morning light shone on his face, and with a start he realized that he recognized his surroundings.  The double doors opened into the condemned portion of housing, only a quarter mile from his quarters.  He was back on Camp Zama.

My castle for the night.

I often image (not really, just good for the dramatic effect here) what it would be like to climb back into the womb (wow, now that I’ve actually written it, trust me, I DO NOT ever imagine this), what a weird freaking thing to write.  Oh well, it is for an analogy, so I’m going to keep it in).  As I’m sure there is nothing that could ever replicate this event (and why would I want to replicate it?!?  I’m so pissed that I wrote that earlier!), if there was one thing that could even come close, it’s climbing into an arctic shelter.  Arctic shelters are the epitome of, “all you need to do is survive, not be comfortable.”  They will keep you alive, that I’m at least pretty sure of, but damn if those bastards aren’t cold as…well, cold as an arctic shelter, that’s what. 

I shivered a few moments outside my new “home” for the night, a two man arctic shelter, in which we (and by “we” of course I mean “they,” as in the “they” that always makes you do something you hate and or abhor) were shoving three grown men.  I couldn’t wait to get inside, feel the blast of warmth that would be waiting for me (haha, you idiot), and get some good sleep.  You see warmth was at a high premium during this particular training cycle, one that was seeing record lows in temperature.  Average temperature for our stay was -25, with a wind chill that brought it down to somewhere between -35 and -40.  That’s the kind of snow that makes you wonder what kind of a dumb ass you must have been to be excited about cold weather training.  . 

Typically, an arctic shelter is made by, and sleeps within, two individuals.  Being that this little adventure was sponsored by the Army, the mantra of an exception to every rule was heavily in play, and being that there was an odd man out, and that these three particular officers were junior to everyone else in our group, we were going to stuff three where only two should fit.  After five hours of painstakingly roping logs together, bracing our foundation, covering our logs with sticks, covering those sticks with a parachute, and then covering said parachute with mountains of snow, we were finally ready to bed down for the night.  Amidst bumps on heads and a circus of jostling, my two roomies made it in.  Of course this was while I waited outside, shivering like an idiot, freezing my butt off in the -40 degree night.  A plethora of my many made up words came into mind as I stood there, waiting to climb in; redonkulous, ridiculosity, ridiculatious.  All valid emotions that I felt as I stood there pondering how on earth I was going to slide into that thing.  After careful deliberation with my roommates, I decided that the only way to get it was to strip down to my silk-weights, throw my clothes into the shelter, slide into my sleeping bag like a caterpillar, and wriggle my way down.  So that’s exactly what I did.  I stripped down as quick as I could, immediately feeling the cold shrivel my manly essentials into next to nothing, and threw the other guys my clothes.  Next, standing there and shaking uncontrollably, I pulled my sleeping bag up around me.  Realizing that the hole into my shelter was about 16 inches off the ground, I did what any normal person would do.  I attempted do drop kick myself through the hole while in my sleeping bag.  Word of warning…doesn’t work so well.  After 10 minutes of grunting, huffing and puffing my way into the shelter, the first realization I came to was that the enormous “fort” we had built wasn’t so enormous.  Barely squeezing in between my two roommates, Gary and Stephen, I realized with much concern that not only was this shelter still biting ass cold, but none of the three of us could move an inch in any direction.  Ah, Army life is good.  Get some good shut-eye gents.   Best line ever?  When Gary told us the next morning that he slept with wood in his back all night long….priceless.

But artic shelter building, complete with “you suck, worst shelter ever, tear it down and start again” isn’t the pinnacle of awesomeness at CWOC (Cold Weather Orientation Course).  No, the best part has to be that maniacal, sadistic, straight from the devil contraption known as the Akio sled.  The Akio sled is a 200+ pound sled you strap all your crap into and haul around with you wherever you need to go.  Four unlucky bastards (and yes, I was one of them) have to clip it on to their waist and pull it to your training evolutions.  And so…yes….there I was, strapped into an Akio sled, freezing my butt off, pulling the damn torture device up a freaking ski hell…er…hill in snowshoes, gasping for breath, trying to breathe out of my balaclava, but unable to do so due to the mask of snot and breathe that had frozen into an impenetrable barrier, denying me the sweet oxygen I so desperately needed.  I slipped the bali down over my nose for just a second, just one moment of pure air, “Pull that Bali back up over your nose or you will get frostbite!” yells my instructor.  “You suck!”  I yell back, meaning it, not joking.  He does suck!  I can’t breathe out here, I’m literally seeing stars….and then we crest the top.  Ah, finally.  I feel great joy as I confidently step forward, turn the corner and see another hill……Mother @#$%^&!!!!!!!  

Though my wussitude was clearly in display while I shivered, whined, and sobbed uncontrollably at night, I wouldn’t trade the experience in at all.  Kudos to the studs who instruct at the Northern Warfare Training Center.  You guys rock…but you guys SUCK!

Any good stories from Cold Weather, Jungle, or Desert Training?  Give them up, don’t hoard all the good ones, share them with your friends here at Ranger Up!

BY Grin and Barrett

Jacob heard the girl’s cries once he walked another 30 yards or so, soft sobs that hung about the edges of the dark hallway, sliding off the walls with a mourn that Jacob felt in his stomach.   The men had taken another turn after the initial T, and the hallway here was even darker than before, no traces of the boisterous sounds from the slots or remnants from the flashing neon lights.  This certainly isn’t for Joe Tourist, Jacob thought.  Yoshi and Matt walked up front, with Jacob just behind.  The soft crying came from up ahead on his right, and Jacob hissed a quick “pssst” as Matt walked past the open door, the privacy of which was only provided by a thin curtain.  Matt continued on, laughing at something Yoshi had just said as Jacob slowed to a stop.  He was now just outside the curtained room, and though his mind screamed at him to mind his own business, continue on, his feet refused to budge.  Jacob was startled by a muffled curse, a thump, and sharp cry.  Matt and Yoshi were 20 feet ahead of Jacob when he called out.

 “Matt!”

 Matt turned, affable grin on his face, still laughing at Yoshi’s last remarks, “Jake.  Come on man, what are you doing holding up the parade?”

 Jacob looked at the curtain and placed his hand on the edge.  He looked again at Matt, but it was Yoshi’s face that caught his attention.  Yoshi’s happy-go-lucky visage had changed, his face was a stony mask, eyes dark and humorless.  “Don’t touch that curtain.”  Yoshi’s posture had changed, he reminded Jacob of a Jack-in-the-box, wound tight and ready to spring.  Yoshi, you prick, you’re not what you seem are you? 

 Jacob didn’t have the chance to comply with Yoshi’s direction, however, as a short pudgy man angrily threw the curtain aside and stormed out of the room, his shirt front hanging wide open, shoes dangling from his left hand.  Impatiently he shoved his way past Jacob and headed farther into the dark receding hallway, shouting a curse at Yoshi as he passed, gesturing angrily back at the room he just left.  Yoshi muttered something to the man but kept his eyes on Jacob, whose eyes were now fixed inside the room.  The curtain had stuck on the door-frame, giving Jacob full view of the interior.  The orderly flow of the room surprised Jacob, immaculate in neatness and cleanliness.  A wicker screen cut the room in two sections, a large chair on the right, covered in colorful cushions, and a low white futon on the left, straw mat beside it with a pair of tiny sandals.  A young girl sat on the edge of the futon, wrapped in a white sheet and crying.  Holy shit, she can’t be more than 11 or 12.  She looked up at Jacob with fearful eyes, one which was quickly swelling shut.  Bruises marked her shoulders and neck, blood escaped a cut on the side of her mouth.  Jacob looked up at Matt and Yoshi.  “Matt, brother, this is bad.”

 Matt walked back to where Jacob stood, pushing  back the curtain with his hand and peering inside.  “Oh my God Jake… she’s just a kid.”  Jacob looked back at Yoshi, where any semblance of hospitality had been replaced by outright hostility.

 Yoshi shoved Matt and Jacob away from the door, “You go now.”

 Matt pushed Yoshi back, “Go my ass!  Someone just beat the shit out of that little girl, I’m not going anywhere!”

Yoshi postured up on Matt and Jacob, sticking his chest out and pushing Matt violently into the hallway wall, “YOU GO NOW!  You go now or it gets very bad here for you!”

Matt grabbed Yoshi’s lapel and attempted to fling him away, but Yoshi grabbed Matt’s hands in his own, turned to his right, and hip tossed him into the wall.  Matt hit the wall with a crunch and landed in a heap at Jacob’s feet.  Jacob turned to his friend, “Matt!”  But before Jacob reached Matt, Yoshi had his hands at Jacob’s throat, hands overlapped in a cross-collar choke as he slammed Jacob up against the wall.  Yoshi brought his leg back and aimed his knee for Jacob’s crotch, bringing it forward with a loud grunt.  Jacob turned his hip at the last moment, and Yoshi’s knee slammed painfully into the left side of his leg.  Yoshi brought his knee back again, and Jacob stuck out his left leg, planting his foot on the top of Yoshi’s quad, preventing him from brining his knee forward.  Jacob put his left arm over the top of Yoshi’s hands, grabbing his own right collar in his left fist as he brought his right arm back.  You picked the wrong dude.   Jacob swung his right arm forward, bringing his fist to the left of his own face as his right elbow exploded Yoshi’s nose.  Yoshi’s grip immediately went slack and Jacob brought his left fist upward under Yoshi’s extended arms, catching him on the chin and dropping him like a sack of manure.  As Yoshi fell, Jacob caught his falling head with a right kick, cracking his head back and leaving him with mess of blood and bone where his nose had been.  Yoshi dropped and twitched violently then went still, his eyes half open gazing at the wall. 

 Oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God

Jacob stood for a moment, rational thought momentarily fleeing him as he fought to grasp his options.  He heard Matt groan and he turned thoughts to his injured friend, still lying at the base of the wall.  Jacob crouched and checked Matt’s head for blood, “Matt, are you okay bud?”  Matt groaned again, wincing as Jacob traced the back of his head checking for injury, “Ow!  Shit dude!  What are you doing?”  Matt sat with a start, knocking Jacob backward into Yoshi’s lifeless body.  He stared at Jacob and Yoshi, mouth open in a disbelief.  Jacob grabbed his friend and lifted him to his feet, “We gotta get out of here Matt, we gotta get out know.” 

Jacob and Matt turned back the way they had come and began jogging down the hallway when Jacob suddenly grabbed Matt’s shoulder, “Wait brother, we gotta get the girl.”

Matt just stared at Jacob, realization slowly dawning amidst the emotional trauma, “The girl?  Shit….yeah, you’re right.  Okay, let’s go get her.”

Jacob and Matt ran to the room and looked in.  The girl sat there, wide-eyed, shivering, and mumbling under her breath.  Matt looked at Jacob, “What are we supposed to do with her?  Waltz out of here, covered in blood, shuffling a half-naked little girl in between us?”

“I don’t know Matt, but that dude on the floor is dead, and any minute somebody’s gonna’ stumble over here and find him like this.  If we’re still here, we’re either dead or in prison, though I gotta’ think it’s gonna’ be dead and I…..I’m not leaving that little girl here.”

Matt looked from Jacob to the girl, “Ah hell.  Let’s see what happens.  We’ll take her out the way we came.  Time to Ranger the fuck up.”

Jacob entered the room first while Matt dragged Yoshi’s body in, hiding it behind the wicker screen.  Matt went back to the door and watched the hallway while Jacob approached the girl.  Jacob dropped to one knee, reaching his hand out to the little girl, “It’s okay sweetie, it’s okay.  We have to go now, okay?” He pointed to himself and then to Matt, “Me, him, we take you out.  Okay?”  Matt reached his hand toward her, but she cowered and shifted back on the bed.

 “Jake, dude, somebody’s coming!”

 “Please baby, it’s okay, we’re going to take you someplace safe.  Do you understand me?”

 “Jake, hurry man, just grab her so we can get the hell out of here!”

 Jacob turned back to the girl, reaching out and grabbing her by her tiny bruised shoulders.  She opened her mouth and screamed, clawing at Jacob’s face as he stumbled off balance, falling against the bed.  Part of his mind registered Matt cursing and shoving someone, the sounds of blows on body and the curtain ripping.  The girl was on top of him now, pummeling him with her tiny hands, screaming in Japanese.  Jacob flung her off and stumbled to his feet, turning to Matt as a wooden club smashed into his face.  As Jacob fell, he saw the girl run screaming from the room, white sheet trailing like a wind-blown cape.  Stars danced before his eyes like droplets of black water and he felt, more than heard, a deep exhale as he passed out.

Matt grabbed a Sushi plate off the revolving Sushi bar conveyor and sat it down with a clank in front of him, stuffing the tuna seared rice roll into his mouth before the wobbly plate settled, belching and then offering a hearty “Hell yeah!” as he grabbed another plate.  Jacob sat next to him, sipping hot tea, frowning at the surroundings.

“Matt, dude, this place sucks.”

“Well Jake, I think ‘sucks’ is a pretty relative term.  Sucks compared to what?  Sitting in a TOC all day, playing powerpoint ranger?  Now, that sucks.  You haven’t even tried the Sushi yet bro!  You don’t know what you’re missing.”

“Yeah I do.  I’m missing tacky rice, stinky-ass ocean lettuce and half cooked fished slathered in mayonnaise.  You can eat it, but I’m good….actually, I’m not good.  What I’m really missing are the girls you promised.  In fact, I think your exact words were, ‘Dude, Major Inoue told me about a place with hot girls and gambling’….no…scratch that, it was ‘smokin hot biscuit’ girls and brother, I don’t see no girls.”  Jacob leaned back in his chair and looked around, “In fact, there are only four people in here right now, and we’re two of em.”

Matt grinned, it was a grin Jacob was beginning to understood meant Listen you dumb-ass simpleton, whilst I show you the way of the world.  “While in Rome brother, while in Rome.  How many times have you been to Japan?”

“This is my first.”

“Yeah, and you’re trashing the national cuisine as stinky-ass ocean lettuce.  You know how jacked up that is?”

“Sorry dude, but this shit sucks.”  Jacob picked up a plate from the conveyor belt and held it out in front of him.  A small bed of rice with lone shrimp on it and a slice of carrot.  “You know what this is Matt?”  Matt grinned through a mouth full of rice and salmon eggs and shrugged his shoulders, “Yeah bro, it’s heaven.”

“No man, it’s not.  Sushi is the culinary Kevin Smith.”

“If you mean that sushi is genius comedy and classic movies, then I don’t follow.”

“No, that’s just it.  Everyone wants to come across as being ‘in the know.’  Nobody wants to say Kevin Smith sucks, just like nobody wants to say Sushi sucks.  You know why?”

Matt crossed his fingers under his chin, stuck out his lips like a pouty teenage girl and mocked an inquisitive, serious pose.  “No mister better-than-me, I don’t.  Enlighten me.”

“Because nobody wants to stand out in the crowd, nobody wants to have their own opinion.  If everyone says that Sushi rocks, then by-gawd it sure does!  If everyone talks about how amazing Kevin Smith is, how awesome Clerks was, how genius Dogma is, then it must be so.  Heaven forbid someone stands up and says, ‘Uh, actually, clerks was a bunch of 11 year old bullshit, and dogma was a pretentious piece of pseudo-intellectualism ass-hattery.’  No, nobody does that, because people don’t have the cojones to own their own thoughts, everyone’s always looking for someone else to tell them how to feel and what to think.  If the world tells me that dog shit tastes like a fudge brownie, then I’m going to eat it with grin on my idiotic face and go to my grave praising the wonderful chocolatey goodness of dog shit.  Why?  Because the emperor’s invisible clothes are just beautiful!  They’re the most beautiful garments I’ve ever seen!  But you know what Matt?  The emperor isn’t wearing any clothes!  He’s a friggen’ idiot, and everyone who tells him how gorgeous his clothes are is a friggen idiot.  And you know what else?  Sushi tastes like shit!”

Matt gestured to the middle aged Japanese woman creating and replacing the sushi on the conveyor belt.  She was eyeing Matt and Jacob with suspicion and a frown, “Don’t let her hear you say that.”

“What is she going to do?  Refuse me service?”  Jacob watched her as she wiped a finger across her nose and grabbed another ball of rice, “She actually may be doing me a favor.”

Matt laughed, “You’re an asshole Jake, and seriously misguided on both cuisine and cinema.  Clerks rocked.  As for the Sushi?  Well, that’s all they have on the menu here bro, so eat up or go hungry.”

“I’d rather just jet man, this place is dead.”

Matt followed Jacob’s gaze around the poorly lit restaurant, grunting as wiped his mouth with the pink colored cloth napkin.  “Yeah bro I know, but I’m meeting someone here first.  I got a surprise for you.”  He smiled as he tapped Jacob’s shoulder, pointing with his other hand to the restaurant’s entrance, “And here he is now.”  Matt got up from the table, set some yen down where his stack of multi-colored sushi plates sat, and walked to the doorway.  At the door, a young Japanese man with a thin mustache eyed Matt as he approached.  The man was short and stout, thicker than most of the Japanese men Jacob had seen since he had arrived in country, but no taller than most.  He greeted Matt with a terse handshake and slight bow, then spoke a few words before Matt nodded his head and gestured toward Jacob.  As he spoke some more, the stout local smiled and clapped Matt on the shoulder as he walked out the door.  Matt waved Jacob over and walked out the door as well.  Jacob got up from his chair, left a few yen for the tea, and followed, “I guess we’re finally done here…”

Yoshi, as Jacob would learn was the stout one’s name, led Matt and Jacob down the street into a brightly lit establishment, bare chested young men outside on bullhorns yelling what sounded to Jacob like incoherent babble into the surrounding and constant street noise.  Neon cartoon characters lined the walls of the building they walked into and the sound of slot machines and music blared and thrummed.  Yoshi kept looking over his shoulder and beckoning the men on, even though they followed only a few feet behind him.  Every time he turned around he smiled at Jacob, nodding his head giving him the “follow me, follow me” wave.  Seriously dude, Jacob thought, what the hell do you think I’m doing?   At the back of the slot machines, Yoshi stopped and crossed the room.  On the other side, the lights stopped and another hallway receded farther back into the building.  This hallway was dark, and split off into a T twenty feet down.  At the head of the hallway, on a gray folding chair, another young Japanese man sat, this one wearing a black suit and dark sunglasses.  This young man, however, was different from Yoshi, Jacob knew that right away.  This one held an air of smug cockiness that Yoshi did not possess, an undisguised look of contempt on this one’s face left Jacob ill at ease and he stopped, grabbing Matt’s shoulder as he did so.  “Hey brother, this doesn’t look like a situation I really want to place myself in.”

Matt slowed, looking back and forth from the young man in black in the folding chair to Jacob, now standing behind him.  “Serious bro?  Have you learned nothing?  While in Rome brother!”  Matt gestured back the way they had come, sweeping his arm across the entire room, “That’s not the Japan I want to see man!  Tourist bullshit and old men and women playing slots.  That’s for some other goofy rat bastards, not us brother.  I told you I had a surprise, trust me, you’re going to have the greatest night of your life tonight.”

“I don’t know man.”

Matt shrugged his shoulders at Yoshi, who held his smile but also held a look of confused annoyance at this brief parlay.

“Listen Jake, if you want to go back to the sushi bar, eat some of that sushi that you claim to hate, and then go get a happy ending from some 50-year old grandmother masseuse, that’s fine with me.  But I’m staying here.  I’m gonna have a drunken, epic, oh-wasn’t-that-an-awesome-night-oh-I-forgot-you-weren’t-there-cause-you’re-a-big-pansy-douchebag night with or without you.

Jacob looked at the young tough, he was standing now, leaning back against the entrance to the hallway, a look of indifference on his face.  But there was something else there, something that bothered Jacob.  Almost as if he was feigning that indifference.  He suddenly had the feeling that things were going to go south if he turned around, that the young man with the sunglasses would get aggressive real quick.  His thoughts were broken by the sounds of women’s laughter coming from down the hallway, sweet female laughter that beckoned.  Matt said something, and Jacob looked from the hallway to his friend, “What?”

Matt laughed, “I said ‘Let’s go!’  Do you not hear the muse singing to us from down the hall?  Come on man, he who hesitates…masturbates!”  Matt turned and walked toward the dark hallway while Yoshi continued to smile and beckon Jacob.  Ah hell, Jacob thought as he followed Matt, while in Rome.