You are back in the Marines, and time, Pt 2

“Yeah, well. You’ll make beautiful [1.] children.”

I didn’t know if it was the rust fragmented light pouring into the 110 degree quadcon, or the shots at lunch. But a swarm of bees was migrating, and danger outside the quadcon hatch.

“Thank you,” Spanish speakers knocked ‘em out and the message was loud. And clear: watch your lady, Holmes. If you got more than a dollar in your pocket, put your hand up.

I’d fuck him.

“How was she?”

“She felt leathery. And absorbs toxins through her outer skin. So.”

“No. The cruise.”

“I’d fuck mapotother. His job is hard.”

“The hornblower!”

“Oh,” the queen was prom, through anthropoid of not short sight.

“Oh! Yes.”

We’d just started dating, and I got laid. Felt like ages of indifference both in timing, or solos. Shared with stowed covered, when underway in bees, in the likely case.

“It was nice! Saltwatery though.”

“No lillies.”

“Cargo pocket.”


A simple lack of panic, and backhanded jelly left one swarm deterred, the other quickly usurping the former, while eclipsing the fucking sun.

“This. Like Pitch Black,” I held my hand out for the M-67, “that movie.”

Looking through the crack with my eyebrow raised, I took to it like Hilary in Brackish.

The drone synchronized, reverberating and resulting in seriously, these bees, Hickman.


“Before chow,” I said, waving my hand at Michael Fatellah, “I have new serialized gear. Fatty!”

He was eating, fruit.

“You’ve got something.” I gestured.

The quarter banana hit the deck.
“Resolved. Billy Birdzells.”

The men, once a respectable trio of craigslist actors, now a disgraced quartet of barbershop vocalists, squeeky wheels with a VERY sound argument.

“Capability. Opportunity. Intent.”

“All things! Fatty. Your home is three rooms two of trash and a chairroom for babymama.

“Bitch don’t even cook.”

“Five bills!” I bid.

Hickman lowballed.

We ate chow. Then, missed the Spainish inquisition of accountability. Back at the club. Taking shots, getting naughty. No invitations, barracks room Private party.
Lance. Actually, no! I was a Corporal and one of the others having a head stroke. Both, maybe, and salty.


Home, sweet one no tent my gal’s her mom’s, Oceanside.

“You cooked!”

She had the kind of legs you could suck on for a week then spoil.

“Oi,” she croaked, “when are you going to have enough capital to buy an apartment with a chimney!”

I was planning, Rob. A train. No. Ride the coaster!

“Ribbit! I’m a proper sweeper, I am.”

“Help with soot!”

[1.] Hilary is literally a frogmonsterswampthing.