Mr Giggles

The Best Place

WE ALL GOT SOMETHING TO HIDE

The kid spoke with a Southern accent - bit of a pretty boy, ya ask me, but nobody ever did. Gilly, they'd say, you rustle us up some fresh meat, you get em to sign on the dotted line an then you train em ta kill. Put a rifle in their hand, see em on the plane and tell em ta go kill some gooks.

Sure, I'd say. You're my Uncle Sam and I hate them commie sum bitches. You can rely on me, but don't call me Gilly. It's Master Sergeant P.T. McGillray, and though I am in your service and will reign down hell upon the enemies of our nation, you will show me the respect due to my rank and my willingness to do for you, what I have endeavored to get done.

So I have seem em - I've seen plenty. Punk kids, Ivy leaguers, scum, filth, farmboys and three time losers. Some are a mix of the above, but what I look for is that glint in their eye. If there's something there already ... maybe they're fleeing the law, could well be though I don't give a damn. They are fit to serve my purpose and that is all that matters to ol P.T. If they cross me they will wish they had never been dragged out of the safety of their mama's bellies, yes sir. That is a fact. But should these individuals not wash out, not break, not show they are anything other than the machines I mold em into, then, sir, my duty is done and I do not give one hairy rat's ass what they were before.

Farm boys come in two shapes to my eyes - corn raised cotton headed boy scouts, whose nature I have sworn to crush and reshape until I gaze into the cold hard eyes of a killer. The second type ... most of em are already halfway there. No stranger to slitting the throat of a sheep or decapitating a chicken or putting down a pest. These are boys I can use - if they can kill without blinking, an animal, then I will surely show to them that there are humans ... commies ... gooks, who are less than animals and must be cut down as such.

Hard to tell from the accent and the demeanor - this boy might have been a farm boy, a slaughterhouse worker or could be he killed some men, and the law was surely searching for him for the chair. It don't matter - chair is a waste. If P.T. McGillray had his druthers we'd empty the prisons of all but the uncontrollable psychopaths and use this fine natural resource of this god given land. Send em all to Vietnam and some will survive and others will die for our country, but let em do some good and send the commies to hell on their own way.

'Why do you wanna join the army, son?'

He snaps to attention, like he's already in - hair a bit long on top. Soon sort that, but for posture, damnnation if he ain't got it down.

'To kill commies, Sir!' Good answer.

'You love your country, son? Do you sweat red, white and mother fucking blue?'

'Sir, I am a true blue American and if you train me, I will use the gifts you give me to slaughter our nation's enemies wherever my Uncle Sam sees fit to place me in front of them.'

Good attitude. So far I'm liking what I hear.

'You ever discharge a fire-arm, son? You a man whose daddy showed him how to hunt and camp, and respect the lands god gave America, and all the manly traditions of our forefathers? Or are you some kinda hippy pussy boy, don't hold with such notions?'

He's still standing stiff. 'I am all those things, Master Sergeant, but not the latter, no sir.'

'So if I was to put a rifle in your hands and say, soldier you show me what you can do ...'

'I would check and clean and cock my weapon, Sarge. I would then point it at any target you order me to, and I would fire on command.'

I like this kid.

'And If I were to say, that there communist agitator on a college campus is a clear and present threat and you, soldier, you fire straight at his heart?'