01 June 2008

Fear and Loathing in Bridgeport, Part Two

Should any of you blush in contemplation of the sick and twisted tale which looms before you like a 284 lb. totally nude stripper, feel free to inform me and you will not be bothered with the retelling of this modern testament to the blatant lack of judgment on the part of the Secretary of the Navy in approving the necessary personnel moves that made all of this possible. If I were in your place, I'm not sure what I would do. It would be like passing a fatal car accident on the road without peeking at the carnage. You hate what you see, but you can't stand to look away.

Gentlemen, it's time for the next installment of:

Fear and Loathing in Bridgeport
Part II: Beatty to Bridgeport

On the road again, 2130 13 March. Hwy 6, Western Nevada.
I never thought I'd say this, but thank God we're in California. Kirk shot up another three state police vehicles before we gave 'em the slip. I'll venture a guess that these cops ain't that bright, because there's only one road through here, not many turns, not a single fucking town of any size, and nothing off road to get behind. Shit, Kirk probably blew away the entire motor pool of the Nevada State Police. We are probably responsible for opening up the entire western portion of Nevada to habitual speeders, drunks, and other stripes of filth and scum. Having just re-read that last sentence, I feel okay about it. I mean, for Christ's sake, Nevada wouldn't even exist if speeders, drunks, and those other stripes didn't exist in the first fucking place. Carson City? Reno? Vegas? Puhleeze. They wouldn't exist if there was any honest government (in the modern sense) to speak of. The whole state of Nevada feeds off of the existence of human greed and lust. The fact that greed and lust still has a hand in it all is a testament to the quality of the people that run the state: People too Drunk and Sexually Satiated to Run a Socialist System. Not exactly a shining endorsement for a state government that stays out of everyone's way, but I digress...

I'm on my third hour since the eight beers at the Burro in Beatty. While I'm not that pissed at the buzz-reduction, I am rather concerned about those centipedes that seem to be crawling out of the air conditioning vents in the rental SUV. That and the fact that I keep spitting in my lap because these shakes keep causing me to miss my spitter. Maj V just yelled at me again because I keep trying to crush the spiders on the back of his seat, and Kirk choked me out again thirty minutes ago because the voices urged me to urinate out the side window in the Expedition. I suspect that he was just jealous because the voices spoke to me first, and he didn't get to piss. The massive hock of cow that I consumed in four bites at the Burro is sitting on top of my large colon like a bowling ball on a garden hose. It's having some effect on my spinal cord, because I can barely feel my feet. Apparently, Wanda, the security guard at Shreveport Regional, had something important planned for 9:15 PM 'cause the goddamned alarm on her watch just went off and the only way to shut it off was for Kirk to punch me in the kidneys. I need a beer, a shot, some fibercon, and for the eye in the back of Maj V's head to stop staring at me.

2200, 13 March. Tonopah, Nevada.

Kirk has found some new take on Tao Buddhism. I'm not solid on the exact details of the sect, but I gather that it involves attempting to achieve balance and serenity by repeating "this place is a shit hole" until you stop believing it to be so. I plan on trying it out the second I get back to Shreveport. God knows that I could have used it those twenty-five years that I lived in Lubbock Fucking Texas. Chief keeps telling Kirk to "chut dee fuck up", in the same tone, frequency, and volume as Kirk. I'm thinking that Chief also has some sort of Tao working here, but I don't want to ask what it is exactly. All I know is this, if Kirk doesn't stop saying "God, this place is a shithole" and Chief doesn't stop immediately replying with "Chut dee fuck up" over and over again, I'm sucking some 00 buck outta the end of that fucking .8 gauge, I swear to God.

The DTs have apparently subsided. I haven't spotted any melting windshields since I discovered coffee at the lone Texaco in Tenopah. The clerk didn't speak enough English to explain how long the coffee had been on the burner, but the fact that I initiated a fusion reaction by spilling some of that shit on my crotch is an indication that it was brewed during the fucking Ford administration. I could move an Ohio Class sub with the heat emitting from my balls. It was like white phosphorous or napalm except the pain was so intense that I couldn't even scream. I think I'm in shock. The good news is that I think I can use this discovery to help the detox programs in hospitals across the nation. I see side applications in using that shit in strip mining operations too. With one swoop, I've discovered cold-fusion, an immediate remedy for alcohol withdrawal symptoms, and a cost efficient way to extract copper and iron from the earth by melting the surrounding rock and soil. I should get the fucking Nobel. My ma will be so proud. Please kill me.

2300 13 March, Somewhere on some road in Eastern California

So this is the afterlife. We are all in hell. Apparently, we had a wreck at some point in the last hundred miles and it is our punishment to drive in Eastern California for eternity. No variation in the passing scenery. Always needing to piss. Never, ever stopping to do so. No radio stations, no chow. I think Top is somehow allied with the King of the Damned. I always wondered why everybody casually referred to him as Baal. His Service Record Book probably notes that he was assigned at some point to be "Marine Liaison, Hell", but nobody ever bothered to fucking ask him about it.

We're on this two lane road that has these hundred-meter long inclines. We go screaming up to the top without knowing if it drops into the center of the fucking planet on the other side. Only at the crest will Top grunt and slam on the brakes. There's like six of these every fucking mile. It's like being on a rollercoaster at night without knowing whether the track will end over the next hill. The good news is this, if we do wreck or break down, we can always use my balls to cook food and heat whatever shelter we find.

Kirk and I completely gave up any attempt at sleep after Top scared the living shit out of us for the third time. We keep having the same conversation over and over and over again. He talks about deploying with the MEU to the Mediterranean, I talk about my experiences in Okinawa, and then the Major throws in about the time that he destroyed the Berlin Wall and caused the downfall of the Soviet Communist Party while he was a General's Aide. I had no idea that Aides were allowed that much latitude in making policy decisions. I should've known it though; I'll bet Ollie North was an aide.

Chief must have been spared eternal damnation, he's been asleep since Tonopah. Guns hasn't uttered a word since we left the Burro. He just stares into the back of Top's seat while clenching and unclenching his fists.

Speaking of unclenching, I think Wanda's watch is being squeezed out the end of my colon by the beef bowling ball that I swallowed back in Beatty. The hourly beep just went off and it sounded a little louder. It's kinda like having someone jam a small sonar transponder up your ass. If we end up afoot, we'll just navigate around in the dark by turning me backwards and having Kirk wop me in the kidneys with the tire iron to make the watch beep. We gotta get this little trick entered into the Ranger handbook. My bleeding ass, while tragic, will probably save lives.

0001 14 March. MWTC, Bridgeport CA.
Thankfully, the drive is at an end. I'm tempted to make some reference to our having spent time in purgatory, but this sure as shit ain't heaven. I think we just descended into a lower circle of hell. It's ten fucking degrees outside and Maj V just dropped the little tidbit on us that he "hopes we brought some sleeping gear, 'cause there ain't no bed linen," just before he rolled up in his ranger roll, giggled, and started snoring. This news comes less than twenty-four hours after this same man told me not to worry about bringing a lot of shit, just some polypro, maybe some Gore-tex, and a set of cammies. I told Guns the same thing, so he doesn't have anything either. I'm more than a little concerned about that fucking plot twist; I've seen what he does to old ladies who ask him stupid questions, I can imagine what he does to people that make him sleep on a mattress that has absorbed fifty years worth of snot, slobber, and other things I'd rather not think about, but that are at the forefront of Gunny's mind right now. Oh well, it ain't like we gotta sleep outside. Kirk actually looks sad. I think he really wanted to break down out there in the big empty and live off of the flesh of his fellow men until help arrived. Then he could talk shit after he survived it by cutting Chief open and crawling inside him after he made jerky out of me, two SNCOs, and a Major using the heat generated by the engine block and my sack.

Regiment showed up about twenty minutes ago. They came in the squad bay like a SWAT team from The Blues Brothers ("hup, hup, hup, hup"). They milled about the squad bay like that until Top, AKA Satan's Senior Enlisted Advisor, rolled over in his rack and melted some Major with lightning bolt from his eyes, and fireballs from his ass. The Major in charge of those guys stopped "hup-hupping" abruptly, mumbled something about the base conference room and 0700 and hit the showers. I rolled up in my Gore-Tex and my genital fusion reactor kicked in. It's pretty comfortable, but I'm trying to figure out a way to add enough fuel to the reactor core to last until morning. I would snap one out, but I'm afraid that I might start a chain reaction that would result in some sort of China Syndrome. Chernobyl in Eastern California brought about by one guy punching the clown. While the whole concept engenders a feeling of massive power, (one shot, one kill?) I give up when It seems necessary to fill out an ORM sheet on that particular activity. I think I understand how Oppenheimer must have felt...

Coming to a theater near you:
-Regimental Staff efficiency brought on by the desire to go home for the weekend.
-The trip down the mountain.
-Murphy strikes the travellers.
-Kirk conducts reconnaissance.
-Guns inadvertantly kills another inquisitor.
-Kirk takes pictures of every man, woman, and child in Western Nevada.
-Adams talks to the entire population of Lubbock, TX in the MGM Grand.
-Major Visted makes a surprising "life choice".

Immundus saecula saeculorum,

Fear and Loathing in Bridgeport, Part Three

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