by Michael Ryerson
So they’ve got a photograph of four Marines taking a leak on some dead guys? And this is news? I am shocked! Shocked! That there’s gambling going on in here! Oh, the humanity! So let me get this straight, just what the fuck do people think happens when you set these things in motion? When the tough talk is the applause line and looks so good in the paper, when sending someone else’s kid halfway around the world sounds like a good idea. Just what do people think are the natural consequences of an unthinking foreign policy that brandishes the lives of nineteen year olds like so many poker chips? Couple of guys get locked up, rolling around on the ground or trading gunshots or punches and one of them’s got to die. Just that simple. And if you’re lucky, you’ve got a couple of friends who’ll pitch in and help you kill this cocksucker, yeah, two or three against one, maybe four or five against one. This ain’t junior high school. There is no fair about it. The Marquis of Queensbury was a pussy. And when the sun comes up, if you’re still alive, you’ll find corpses with two, three hundred bullet holes in them and body parts and you’ll walk around collecting the bigger pieces, like some fucking jigsaw puzzle, and try to come up with a body count considering you’ve got damned few whole bodies. You’ll dig a pit and you’ll gather up the little pieces using your entrenching tool like a serving spoon, pieces of brain or muscle or snot, fingertips, a scalp maybe, and you’ll dump them in the pit so you won’t start getting sick in a week or so as the rot sets in. Yeah, you’ll do all these things and it’ll piss you off that you’re doing them and it’ll piss you off that some prick came in here to kill you and if you’ve got to take a leak, well, you’ll take it right on one of these guys and you don’t owe anybody a goddamned apology.