The Battle of Hopper's Yard

Carl's parents owned a house set far back from the farm road, a rustic affair built to look old and western. It was surrounded by little rolling hills covered with mowed grass. Beyond the grass line on two sides were woods, thick and not well cleared. The third side was fenced off. A small herd of cattle roamed there. The front yard, of course, was exceptionally manicured and garden-like with little fountains, art work, and walkways filling up the space from one side to the other.

Carl was indifferent to all his mother had placed in the yard for a nice view and waste of money. Through the years he'd raised plenty of fun-loving hell blasting through those little knolls, slamming down behind one or another statue, weeding out various aliens, members of The Dark Side, maybe even an Indian or two, depending upon the era of warfare he'd been binging on. No longer.

Carl was past all that stuff now, he just saw the waste in time and money, like his dad did, when he walked up the ridiculously curved driveway from the mailbox. "Mail," he thought, "lugging a handful of sale ads and a couple of white envelopes with bills. When are we going to finally get into the 21st century and get rid of that box?"

"Hey, Carl, lovely stack of junk there," Mack Hopper, Carl's dad, said good naturedly.

Carl handed the junk over to his dad. "Yeah, so last century," he said. "Just bullshit and junk."

Mack nodded, stuck the mail under his arm, turned towards the house. "Yeah, well, guess the bills maybe."

"Right, Dad, I see you toss them unopened after you pay online."

Mack let out a little laugh. "Nothing hidden from you."

"Not much."

Carl fell in behind his dad as they stepped through the front door. To his surprise there stood a man of about 30, thin, tanned, wearing jeans and a Marine t-shirt. He wore regulation boots though not as neat and tidy as they once had been. The man's hair was regulation too, red as a tomato, the color reinforced by the sunburned skin beneath the short cut. The man's face was weathered, scarred, and looked older than the man actually was.

"Holy shit," the man said, "where the hell is your son and who is this old man?"

"Right," Carl said. "It's been a long time, Uncle Joe!" Carl dove at his uncle and tossed his arms around him. They looked surprisingly similar but Carl didn't show wear like his uncle did.

"I don't know, little brother, this kid showed up one day from school and claimed to be Carl. Damn strange."

Carl let his uncle go and stepped back. "You two are too damn funny. Too damn!"

"Hey, Mack, it says naughty words, too. Wow!" Joe looked askance at his nephew. "How old are you, kid?"

"Seventeen, like you didn't know," Carl said.

"Say, that's right, only a few months and you can sign the line, buddy boy, Few and the Proud!"

"Oh hell no," Carl said, "It's going to be me and ol' Stephen F.. Don't want to go out and shoot anyone quite yet."

"Oh no, Carl, you might like it." Joe looked at Carl with a grin that gave father and son the chills. "OOOoooohhh yeah..." Joe said, slipping into a make-believe harness, tightening up the gun, sighting in. "Pap... pap... pap...." For a split second fire flew from Joe's eyes and then he tossed his hands up in the air and threw out a loud laugh. "Ha, like I ever have fun like that fucking around with those damn Hummers I have to keep running."

"Hummers? Thought those got replaced."

"Hell, brother, you know Uncle Sam."

"Yeah." Mack knew Uncle Sam. He also knew Joe hadn't been near a Hummer or a Marine post in years, much less hands tight with a weapon.