Part Three of the Opus. Do please check out the post that I slid in between these last two posts, of Newt Gingrich talking about the current threat...
I get many questions asked of me throughout the day, as people read this accounting of our actions last week. People ask: "Larry, where do you come up with this shit?"; "Aren't you hitting the sauce a bit hard?"; and "Would you please urinate in this bottle for me, sir?". To all of them I reply that the finest part of the journey is in the telling. For I create nothing out of whole cloth. When the truth is often too true and too fucked up to need any exaggeration, all I need to do is relate the events of those few days as I saw them. I imagine only what might have been had we not been as quick, as resourceful, as de-fucking-termined to make it back alive. Back to that oasis. To that spot in the sun that knows no time, no sin, only tragedy. Why we wanted to go back there is irrelevant now. What we expected to accomplish is pointless. What is important is that we did what most men dream of doing, we spent two nights and a day in Vegas on Government travel orders. God Bless this Great Land.
Men, I speak of
Fear and Loathing in Bridgeport
Part III: Bobble-headed dolls and Time travel
** Author's Note: The need to cover the occurances at the MPC has caused me to delay the release of the planned material. Patience men, I'll get it all down eventually**
0715 14 March, Mountain Warfare Training Center Chowhall
We awoke at 0300 when 25,000 Zulu tribesmen invaded the MWTC compound. It was that or the Mongol hordes riding through the squad bay. Then again, it could've been an NHL hockey game going on in the next bay. Actually, it was the Company in the bay next to us clearing billeting on their way back to Pendleton, but all explanations are just as likely. The din was incredible. NFL teams getting ready to play in the Kingdome practice in quieter venues. The fucking ground shook. Needless to say, nobody slept much after 0300.
I gave birth at 0500. It had the rough size and weight of a Cummins Turbo Diesel engine. I call it Fred. It beeped once and waved as I flushed. I would say that I'm somewhat relieved except for the fact that my colon now resembles duct work. That'll take at least a week to return to normal.
I have a new problem anyway, the fusion reaction in my crotch has caused me wood that has the density of Uranium. Worse, there's absolutely no flexibility to it so all I can do is put my hands in my pockets and try to play it off. It's like a fucking fencepost. I tried pouring cold water on it, but all it did was instantly turn to steam. Colonel Keenan from AWS gave me a withering look for having hands in my pockets as I walked by him at the coffee machine, but it was either that or have the guy in front of me in the chow line beat the shit out of me for poking him in the thigh. I almost passed out when Major V was slamming the door to the Expedition and the door caught the tip of it on the way by. It sounded like someone struck an anvil. The overweight civilian at the desk thinks I want to marry her because I took my hands out to pay for my chow.
Kirk eats like a fucking Great Dane. I don't know what's funnier, the slurping noises or the "mmph, mmmmmph" utterances. It appears that the act of taking in food actually causes him sexual arousal. I moved down the table quickly and as quietly as I could manage. He claims over and over and over again that the personnel running this place "ain't fucking around" and that the chow is better than anything he's ever put into that gob. I debate this for two reasons: 1) The eggs smell like sulfur; and 2) Kirk could suck down a decomposing sheepdog and not notice it until he coughed up a hunk of fur. I'll just have coffee.
Thank God the chairs are short and leave me clearance, if I rattle the tip of that thing again I may actually shed tears. In a new development, I have discovered that, since Fred's departure into the MWTC septic system, I have absolutely no control over flatulation. Fuck it, I'm going outside.
1300 14 March MWTC Conference Room
It's happened twice, and it's fucking humiliating. The old man comes in, somebody calls the room to attention, and I stand there with my trou pointing out the fucking window. Colonel Ledoux politely avoided comment, but I think my Revo comments just went in the shitter. That or they'll look great, but that brings up concerns that are best not raised in polite conversation.
As happened last night, the Regimental staff rolled in IAW SOP. "Hup, hup, hup, hup," all around the room until everyone was in front of a seat. Then they stopped very precisely, faced inboard, and sat as one person. Very impressive. I'll bet it took a week of rehearsals to get that one down cold. I'm thinking of adopting the practice with the Bossier staff. 1st Sgt Green'll dig it.
(AFTER ACTION POINT: Run all Mid-range Planning Conferences (MPCs) under the threat of an impending blizzard while the staff is assigned quarters in an open squad bay. You think the AOT MPC needed to take a week? Get a piss test Jack, THEY WERE ON CORONADO ISLAND, CALIFORNIA IN MARCH. They would've argued about the color of my boots to stay at the Coronado BOQ for another day.)
It turns out that Top vaporized the S-4 last night in the squad bay, so this conference hasn't taken that long. That, plus the fact that all the staff wants to do is get home, has turned this into a Teutonic fucking display of logic and order. It's like nothing I've ever seen. Unlike 99.999% of these things, nobody on the staff is arguing about anything. They just nod maniacally any time someone suggests something. Major V asked for a blow job, but I coughed and kicked him under the table so I don't think anybody heard him. It is sick though. It's like it's bobble-head Regimental staff night at the ball park. I just got approval for the use of tactical nuclear warheads in a force-on-force company exercise. The MWTC staff shrugged and left twenty minutes ago after they got all their suggestions approved.
Whatever the cause, we're outta here a full day earlier than we expected. Bonus: Maj V couldn't get the flight changed. Apparently, it's Spring Break in the majority of the world and everything is booked solid. I could hear laughter coming from the handset after Visted asked about flight availability right before the line went dead. That's cool, if we get there by 2200 tonight, that gives Gunny and I thirty-two hours to drink and gamble. I feel like we're in the sixth fucking grade and just got a snow day. Top is giddy. I've never seen Chief this happy. Kirk is pissed that he won't get another meal out of the chow hall. I reassured him that we might break down en-route, and he might need to live off of our lifeless corpses. That seemed to perk him up some.
1430 14 March, The Eternal Fucking Road, Eastern California.
I think that at some point in the last sixteen miles, we actually shifted into another dimension. Top's got this thing moving so fast that he doesn't actually move the wheel to negotiate turns, the road just conforms to our direction of travel. I haven't been able to blink since Top put it in cruise control just before we left the Camp CP. I'm sure the scenery is breathtaking, but at this speed, picking up details is impossible. You can only pick out definite items by looking straight ahead, but by the time you identify what it is you're looking at, it's past you. I think we're getting younger. Chief looks thirty years old. No wonder Top chose to ally himself with the Morningstar. This would be pretty cool if I didn't have to piss so goddamn bad.
1322 8 March 1943, Eastern California
The fact that my eyes have gone without moisture since 59 years from now is causing me a little discomfort. This is as weird as those DTs, but somehow a little more real. Gunny B looks pretty snazzy in the pin stripe zoot suit. Major V's sporting a double breasted pin stripe and a monocle. The radio is playing big-band and boogy-woogie. Top is still without a shirt. I'm still in a tee-shirt and a pair of jeans, (some things never change, regardless of inter-dimensional travel. E=MC squared, Top will not be in uniform, and Adams looks like shit, whatcanItellya).
1445 14 March 2002, Somewhere in Western Nevada
Kirk and I were, again, in a state of near mutiny. We talked and figured out that it has been roughly 118 years since we've pissed last. My bladder was as bloated as a possum on the side of the road. Satan's Right Hand apparently didn't want to lose any time. Only when Kirk summoned the presence of the holy spirit did he stop. Of course, everyone got out and pissed. No one will say shit when Baal gets moving, but then everyone immediately throws in with us once Kirk calls upon the Hosts. Bastards.
I actually engraved my name in the living rock with the urine that projected from my rigid tool. I'm scared to go home. I mean, how in the hell am I gonna explain to Laura how I'm able to vaporize the porcelain in the back bathroom. I dare not even consider the implications this has for the bedroom.
1500 14 March, Tonopah, Nevada
This could be a problem...
We rolled past this guy on a motorcycle going 130 in the left hand lane five miles out of town. I gave him the finger. (I mean, come on, get your pokey ass out of the passing lane, jackass.) Well, we were sitting in the MacDonald's at the far end of Tonopah when we see some cop follow this guy into the parking lot and give him a ticket. It's nineteen fucking degrees out there and this guy is riding a motorcycle. He's probably getting a ticket for violating some evolutionary tenet. Punishment is immediate sterilization. Anyway, he takes his medicine from the trooper and comes inside. He got hit for going fifty in a thirty-five. (I guess the cop didn't get us for going 124 over because he didn't actually see us. Inter-dimensional travel does have a few benefits) Well, we talk to the guy, find out that this walking absence of common sense has driven from San Fran on his crotch rocket, we have a laugh at his expense and inhale our food. I got up to go to the bathroom, banged my rod against the door on the way in and grayed out there for a sec. When I came back in, the motorcycle idiot was lying in pieces and the rest of the guys were running for the truck. I jumped in through an open window as Top paused to shift from Reverse into hyper-drive, set the cruise at Mach 2 and rolled outta there like the fucking Starship Enterprise. Come to find out, this guy asked Guns if we were military, and then started telling stories of when he was in the Army. As it was related to me, Guns actually put his fist through this guy's head. I always miss the cool shit.
Tomorrow, barring spinal injury:
-Murphy strikes the travellers.
-Kirk conducts reconnaissance.
-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 Four