Chapter 5

Epic Soldier Time

The section of Springfield known as "Little Harlem" was home to a relatively prosperous African-American community, as the name would suggest. Jim Crow didn't visit much this far out in the Midwest, and so the black community was allowed to flourish "as long as they kept to themselves," to quote the chairman of City Hall.

There was one part of Little Harlem, though, that was safe for no man - white, black, or otherwise - and that part was known as the Downs, or more commonly, Skid Row. Only the poorest and most desperate people lived here, rubbing shoulders with the worst humanity had to offer on a daily basis. During the daytime, Skid Row was a ghost town – but at night, it turned into a wretched hive of vice. Only a madman would go willingly.

The postman of Little Harlem was perfectly sane, and hated the place. The denizens of the Downs mostly left him alone – he didn't carry any drugs or cash, and always came in broad daylight – but there was something so inherently unpleasant here, as if the amorality of the place had corrupted the very earth, and bleached the color out of the sky.

Most of the Downs didn't get mail – or couldn't even read, for that matter. But there was one man who seemed to have a subscription to every war-related magazine in the country, and it was at his door that the postman now stood, holding a letter in his sweaty palm, and waiting.

"Mista Doe? You in there?" asked the postman, knocking again tentatively. Wouldn't it be his luck if the bastard had died inside?

A sudden impact of hurled glass bottle against door made him flinch.

"GODDAMMIT!" screamed a voice from inside. "I PAID THE RENT ALREADY!"

"Easy, man! It's just the mail!" said the postman. "I got somethin' for ya!"

"Is it this month's Guns and Haircuts?" demanded the voice. "It can't be Mercenary Monthly, or Soldier of Fortune, as those came last week…unless it's this month's Playboy with the Starlets and Stripes special! Oooh! Give me my mail now, that's a direct order!"

The sound of combat boots on newspaper was heard, and the room's occupant could be heard opening the multitude of locks from the inside.

The postman tried to catch a brief glimpse of part of the room before Jane Doe's hulking frame blocked his view completely, and saw an eyeless, badly damaged mannequin, dressed to resemble the Statue of Liberty. At least, he thought it was a mannequin… but it was hard to tell, with only a naked 30-watt bulb for illumination, whether those dark stains were chipped paint or dried blood…

On second thought, perhaps he didn't want to see the rest of the room.

"That's no magazine!" raged Soldier, snatching the letter from the postman's hand. "What in the name of Abraham Lincoln's bearded aunt is this?" He tore open the envelope, and scanned the contents furiously.

"R.E.D., defense contractor for the United States Government… recruiting top mercenaries and veterans… special mission for someone with your experience and expertise… generous salary… report to the Teufort Complex immediately…"

"Postman!" he exclaimed with joy. "Do you realize what this means?"

"You were offered a job?"

"My country NEEDS ME," grinned the Soldier, and his eyes shone with crazed glee. Charles Manson himself would have turned and ran.

The postman was made of sterner stuff – a man can get used to anything, given enough exposure – and stood his ground. "Well, that's swell, brother. Ain't easy for a vet to find a job, 'specially these days. Nobody but kids an' fools want to go to 'Nam."

He stopped talking, as he realized the Soldier was not listening. In fact, he seemed to be cross-eyed, and drooling slightly. Time to get going while the going was good.

"Nice talkin' to ya, Sarge. Take care now," he said, and picked his way back down the stairs, dodging the missing step and carefully avoiding the junkie passed out just inside the entryway. Worst part of the day was over. Jesus, he'd seen nicer crack houses than that apartment.

As the postman made his escape, Soldier snapped back to reality from whatever planet he'd been visiting. His shifty eyes darted to his makeshift shrine, and he removed his helmet reverently and placed his hand over his heart.

"Oh, sweet Lady Liberty," he whispered, "I knew you'd call for me again one day."

The mannequin stared at him, unmoved. Soldier stared back, into its empty sockets, waiting for an affirmation that would never come.

The floorboards creaked, and the pile of empty soup cans and whiskey bottles in the corner clinked as they shifted slightly. A fetid breeze blew in the shattered window, carrying sickly warmth and the smell of decaying garbage.

Jane Doe slapped his helmet back on his head and saluted the flag hanging on the wall.

"TODAY IS A GOOD DAY!" he screamed, to the silent room, to the ruined building, to the angry street, to the lonely ghetto, and no one heard him but the rats in the walls, and the postman, already a block away.

He threw back his head to the sky and laughed without smiling, and it was a terrible laugh born of madness, and the joy of slaughter.

The postman heard the laugh too, and felt a sudden chill, though the temperature was easily above 90 degrees. He shouldered his mailbag, and walked a little faster.

Freshly shaved (and still bleeding from the many cuts he'd inflicted on his neck with the straight razor,) Sergeant Jane Doe marched down the street in his best (and only) uniform, stepping high over the piles of garbage that spilled onto the cracked sidewalk. He was looking for a military surplus store, but was having trouble finding one. To make matters worse, all the tattoo parlors, strip joints, dive bars, and crack houses were closed at this hour. There wasn't much else in the Downs.

"Dammit!" muttered Soldier to himself. He was on the verge of heading to Smokey Ray's to console himself with a rack of ribs, when, as luck would have it, he spotted a pimp lounging on a nearby streetcorner. Relieved, he hurried toward him, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. To the casual observer, he looked like an addict about to get his fix.

"Quartermaster!" he barked. "I require all available weaponry, provisions, and supplies for a top-secret mission of utmost importance! And I will also need a vehicle!"

"Sure thing, my man," said the "quartermaster," feeling for his switchblade. "What 'choo need?"

"I have been authorized by the United States Government to pay whatever is necessary to obtain these supplies! Name your goods and your price!" The Soldier brandished a badly forged passport and a fistful of hundred-dollar bills.

"Well, s'cool, brotha, just relax. Don't be gettin' all twitchy on me, now. I got stuff for ya, sho'nuff." This was the first junkie he'd seen in a while that actually had some scratch on him. Zero let down his guard just a bit.

"See, now, for that cheese you got there, I can get you everythin' you want. I got some fine Cuban cee-gars, some reefer, and special powders of all kinds, you dig?"

"Powders!" exclaimed Soldier. "Do you mean vitamins! Chock-full of 100% American goodness, bringing pep and vigor to the wimpiest of men?"

"Yeah, sure, 'vitamins,' I got you, I got you. How much you want?"

"All of it!" proclaimed Soldier. "I will take every vitamin you possess, for I have a hot date with Lady Liberty tonight! And twelve of your cigars!"

"Alright, my man! Makin' time! Didn't think a cat like you was the ladies' type." Zero handed him several bags of white powdery substance, and a box of cigars, which he produced from the back of his car, a deep purple Chevrolet convertible with tailfins.

"How much for this civilian transport?" asked Soldier, eyeing the chrome bumpers.

"You crazy, honky," Zero said disgustedly. "The ride ain't fo sale, dig?"

"How much?" insisted the Soldier.

"Maan, I tole' you! Scram!"

"If you do not allow me to purchase this vehicle, you will be committing an act of treason against the United States of America!" proclaimed the Soldier, gesturing dramatically. "And as a representative of said authority-"

"You ain't no general! You ain't even no soldier. Just some raggedy ol' fool out of his damn mind. Ain't never been in no damn army. Now get outa here 'fore I cut your stupid ass."

He pulled out his keys and turned to open the car door. Soldier looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.

"You… you… dare… I earned every one of those medals I made! Lifetime… of service…you… you mutant maggot magnet…"

"And I bet yo girl's an ugly old bitch with the clap."

Those were the last words Zero ever said.

Half an hour later, Soldier pulled up in front of his apartment in his fine-looking new ride. A curiously head-sized cardboard box occupied the seat next to him, leaking a suspicious fluid all over the white leather upholstery.

Hurrying inside, he reappeared shortly carrying several military-looking steamer trunks, which were deposited unceremoniously in the rear seats. He took a moment to make sure he was fully packed, and then hopped back into the driver's seat. "Locked and loaded, men! Let's go!"

Soldier had no idea where he was headed, save for that Teufort was in Arizona. And Arizona was… out west, somewhere? He'd find it eventually. And no way did he need a map – maps were for sissies. With America on his side, how could he lose?

The rest of the day went by in a blur. Soldier couldn't read while driving, but he could daydream, and he spent a good portion of the day trying to decide whether a .50 caliber Browning machine gun was superior to a rocket launcher. Sure, the joy of mowing down hordes of bloodthirsty Communists with bullets the size of a finger was exhilarating, but there was just something so satisfying about watching the enemy explode, and his body parts rain down into the smoking crater where he'd been standing.

Then, just as the sun sank below the horizon completely, he had a fantastic idea. What if someone created a machine gun that fired rockets? It would be a two-in-one deal, and nothing could stand against it, not even alien spacecraft. He could picture the explosions now, lighting up the road like Fourth of July fireworks.

"As soon as I'm finished with this mission," he thought to himself, "I'll draw up some blueprints and get it patented. Or get some egghead to build it."

That was an even better idea. Get some scientists to science up something, take all the credit, and impress Lady Liberty something fierce. She'd want to meet him, and they'd have an evening out on the town together, have dinner with the President, and then they'd go back to his apartment to watch Patton, and he would make sweet, sweet love to her-

The engine sputtered and coughed, and Soldier snapped out of his reverie just in time to witness the little red light marked E come on next to the fuel gauge.

"NO!" he shouted. "No, no. no!" The car slowed to a crawl, engine cycling down as it went. "Don't you dare die on me, Lieutenant! Don't you dare!"

The vehicle rolled to a stop, the engine still puttering, barely.

"Hang in there, kid! You're gonna be ok!" shouted Soldier, his voice cracking in desperation as he pounded on the steering wheel. "Medic! MEDIC!"

The last drop of gasoline finally consumed, the engine choked, and died. The headlights dimmed, and went out.

"NOOOOOOO!" screamed Soldier dramatically, clutching the bloodsoaked cardboard box sitting next to him and pressing it against his chest. "WHY, GOD? WHY HIM? WHY?"

And then he saw it, and all thoughts of melodramatic war death scenes fled from his mind.

Rising above the desert like an electric moon, a brilliant neon sign displayed the words "THE FLANK STEAK - EATS – LIQUOR – GIRLS!" A scantily dressed cowgirl leaned against the words, holding a platter of barbequed pork ribs.

Soldier was awestruck.

"Dear God," said the psychopath, as he wiped a single tear from the corner of his eye, "I love America."

The curious gray light that heralds the coming of the dawn illuminated the parking lot as a disheveled Soldier staggered outside, wearing a pair of black lacy panties over top of his helmet. He was also sporting a black eye, several scratchmarks, a vicious hangover, and a considerably lighter wallet.

"And STAY OUT, ya horn-doggin' Mongloid brute!" howled an ugly old crone, hurling an empty whiskey bottle at the back of his head. It fell short, and shattered at his heels. He turned around slowly. "Ya scairt mah girls half to death!"

"Joke's on you, HAG!" yelled Soldier, wincing at the volume of his own voice. "I got my hangover cure after all!" Pulling the underwear off his head, he balled it up and threw it on the ground in defiance.

"GIT!" she shrieked. "Nex' time ah see ya, shoot ya dead, varmint!"

As the door slammed shut, Soldier sat down, and after a bit of thought, stuffed the underwear back into one of his pockets. He then rummaged in his coat until he had assembled a ménage of ingredients: a raw egg, coffee grounds, Tabasco sauce, some cloves, salt, and a sliver of bar soap. Mixing it all together in a whiskey tumbler with just a few drops left in it, he eyed the mess reluctantly, and then swallowed it all in a single gulp.

Forcing himself not to puke, he stood back up to a chorus of derisive laughter. Three Army men – young men, really – stood nearby leaning against the front of an open-top jeep, smoking cigarettes and regarding him with amusement.

"Ha," laughed the one. "This dude's crazy as hell, man. You see that face? Priceless."

"Man, I'm surprised they even let him in," said the second. "Took four bouncers to take him down when he tried to get after the girls on stage. Didn't they ever tell you look but don't touch, moron?"

"And then he snuck back in, didn't he? After closing… greatest generation my ass."

Soldier felt a surge of rage, or maybe it was just nausea. Either way, he wasn't going to let these slovenly mistakes of nature make a fool out of him. He shoved the tumbler back into one of his many pockets, and straightened his helmet.

"You WILL show respect in the presence of a superior officer, MAGGOTS!" he snapped. Ah, now he could feel the cure starting to work…

"Oooh, I'm soo scared!" taunted the first, who appeared to be the ringleader. "Don't hurt me, you stupid drunk!"

"Yeah, what are you gonna do, puke on us?" said the second. "Come on, General Asshole. Go home to the VA or somethin'."

"Fag," said the third, dismissively.

Jane Doe's face turned crimson. "Your mouth has just written a check that your butt will find un-cashable, pal!" He stumbled towards his car, and the soldiers watched him go.

"What's he doing?"

"Probably going to give us KP or something," sniggered the first.

Soldier pulled something out of the back of the vehicle, and as he returned, they saw it was a short-handled, collapsible shovel.

"You see this?" asked Soldier. "See this shovel?"

"Yeah…"

Soldier swung it as hard as he could, and smashed the second in the face with a resounding CLANG. As he staggered backward, Soldier hit him a second time, and a third. Blood spattered all over the jeep's front as he crumpled to the ground, stunned. His two companions stared in shock.

"Got anything FUNNY to say about THAT, FUNNYMAN?" Soldier bellowed at the first.

"You fuck-" managed the first before he was cut off by Soldier's fist in his solar plexus. Unable to breathe, he was finished off with a jaw-breaking uppercut and knocked cold.

The third ran for his life, but Soldier wasn't finished yet.

"COME BACK HERE, YOU SPINELESS WORM!" screamed Soldier, chasing after him. "I WILL STRANGLE YOU WITH YOUR OWN FRILLY TRAINING BRA!"

But youth and sheer terror were on his quarry's side, and Soldier could not keep up. After a few laps around the parking lot, he decided to change tactics.

Without breaking stride, he hurled his whiskey glass at his target. The tumbler flew true, and whistled through the air to strike the young man in the back of his head with a sickening crunch. He collapsed to the ground, and did not move.

"BOO-YAH!" shouted Soldier, as he came to a halt. Whew. That little bastard sure could run. Either they were getting faster, or he was getting slower. He looked around to see if anyone had witnessed his glorious triumph. No one? Well, he'd celebrate his own way, then.

Soldier beat his chest and let loose a bloodcurdling war cry in tribute to his victory. Then he lit a cigar and took a satisfied puff.

"You've done me proud, boys!" he said to Shovel. "The corps needs more men like you!"

Shovel dripped blood in agreement.

Private Wally was a lightweight when it came to drinking, so when he and his buddies had borrowed a jeep to make a trip to the Flank Steak, he was out cold by the time the floor show started. Pals always looked out for one another, so his friends had dutifully dragged him back outside and left him in the jeep to sleep it off.

Now he was having a very strange dream. He was playing with his dog back home in Illinois. But it wasn't his dog. It looked like his dog, but wasn't his dog, and the not-dog was licking his face, and he wished it would stop…

He opened his eyes, and found himself face-to-face with the severed head of an African-American man, tongue lolling out grotesquely.

Wally shrieked in horror, and instinctively punched the head. It bounced off the windshield and tumbled off the jeep, disappearing into the side of the road.

"Wakey wakey, lazybones!" crowed a voice next to him. "You're in the Army now, sleep when you're dead!"

Wally looked around frantically. "Jim! Robby! Donnie? Where are you guys? What's going on? Oh, God!" he exclaimed, seeing Soldier. "Who are you? Where are my friends? What did you do to them?" he added, eyes widening in horror as he noticed the bloodstains on Soldier and the jeep. "Oh my God! This can't be happening! Oh God!"

"Calm down, son! I know it's not everyday you get to meet a great war hero like me, but keep your shirt on! And you will address me as sir!"

"My friends, my friends! Where are they?"

"You mean those disrespectful AWOL mouth-breathers whose jeep you are in? Probably dead," said Soldier, indifferently. "I beat some sense into them. Oh, yes I did," and he shook his head as though recalling a fond memory, and chuckled nastily.

The color drained out of Wally's face.

"P-p-please don't kill me!" he cried.

"Why the hell would I do that?" shouted Jane Doe. "The objective is not to die for your country, but to make the other bastard die for his! Ha! Ha! Ha!" He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, now coated with a white powdery substance.

"Can't you just let me go home, then?"

"No sir! You have just been requisitioned for my top-secret mission of paramount national importance! Duty calls, private, duty calls!"

The recruit thought quickly. "Well, I really need to take a leak, sir. Pull off to the side of the road for just a sec."

"We can't stop here!" yelled the Soldier, flailing wildly in the air with one hand as he gripped the steering wheel with the other.

"W-why not, sir?"

"This is BAT COUNTRY!" he shouted, cigar stub nearly falling out of his mouth. He grabbed the bag of drugs from his pocket and brandished them in poor Private Wally's face. "Take some vitamins! They'll make you feel GREAT!"

"Oh my god," moaned Wally to himself, "he's insane, he's insane, he's completely insane…" He curled up in a fetal position and began to rock back and forth.

"Snap out of it, maggot!" roared the Soldier above the engine. He spat out his cigar stub, and slapped Wally in the face several times. "The General Patton face-slap! Tried and tested method for restoring morale! We've got a war to fight, soldier!"

He took another large snort from the bag, and his nose began to bleed. Some of it trickled down onto his lips, and he licked it absentmindedly.

"Think of the glory! The medals! The ticker-tape parades! Ladies love a man in uniform!"

"They do?" asked Wally, incredulously. He had seen the draft-card burnings, the hippie chicks, and their chants of "Girls say yes to boys who say no!"

"Oh, yes yes yes!" cackled Jane Doe. "You shall return home, weary with battle, and the lovely Lady Liberty shall greet you at the door! Her hair, falling past her shoulders like amber waves of grain, her full, red lips parted with passion, her generous, heaving bosoms bared for you and you only, her alabaster thighs slick with desire for your American manhood-"

"Okay, I get it, I get it! Gee whiz!"

"Damn straight!" cheered the Soldier, and lit another cigar.

A few minutes went by, and Jane began to become irritated with his silent passenger. New recruits were supposed to be rowdy, hungry for the glory of battle, and eager to prove themselves! Not pale-faced, tired, and shaking with fear! What was Private Twinkletoes' problem, anyway?

Well, by God, he had a solution. And if that didn't work, he'd pull out his little dog-eared copy of The Art of War and find ANOTHER solution. Sun Tzu had never let him down yet.

"Let's have some music, boys! Something for the soul!" He turned on the radio, and the soulful crooning of Etta James met their ears.

At last,

My love has come along,

My lonely days are over,

And life is like a song!

A memory came back to Jane, one he'd thought almost forgotten.

He'd just turned eighteen, and he'd been walking for hours: hungry, wet, and cold. Nowhere to go, no place to stay, no direction at all, and the gray rain poured down.

Strange thoughts and whisperings filled his mind. Most of them, he could ignore. Some spoke of sleep for all eternity, others nearly incoherent with fury, urging him to unspeakable acts. Still others babbled endless strings of numbers and images, nonsensical and alien. And now they grew louder and more insistent, and he began to listen.

Then he'd come out of the alleyway, into the warm glow of a streetlamp, and there she was, the woman who had changed his life forever.

Oohh, yeah, at last!

The skies above are blue,

And my heart was wrapped up in clover,

The night I looked at you,

She stood there with her arm outstretched, beseeching him for help. A beautiful woman, feminine yet strong, a Valkyrie holding a sword with one hand, but still in need of aid, calling her allies to battle. Below her, the words were written: "Lady Liberty needs your help to beat the Axis! Don't let her down, boys – strike a blow for democracy! Enlist Today!" And as the man who would become Soldier stared in wonder, he heard a great rushing of the voices in his head, and then, miraculously, silence. No sound but his own breathing, and the endless rain.

I found a dream that I could speak to,

A dream that I could call my own,

I found a thrill to press my cheek to,

A thrill that I had never known!

There were others, too. Brave men, heroically charging the enemy in strange and distant lands – "See the World Today! Join the Marines!" Mighty tanks rumbling over the battlefield – "Right Makes Might – U.S. Armored Cavalry." Titanic battleships dominating the seas – "U.S. Navy – Keeping the Seas Safe." And "Be Patriotic – Buy War Bonds," and "I Want You for the U.S. Army," and an endless plethora of posters covering the wall next to the recruiting office. But it was her he kept getting drawn back to, and he realized he'd fight the forces of Hell itself for her sake.

All night he waited at the recruiting office, and when the retired drill sergeant came to open up the place at exactly 0700 hours, he was waiting with a grin on his face.

You smiled, oh, you smiled,

Oh, and then the spell was cast

And here we are in heaven,

For you are mine…. at last!

Dawn spread over the desert, casting its rosy pink tinges across the landscape. The jeep sped south, to untold glory and adventure, and the promise of things yet to come.

"A-MERRR-ica, a-MERRR-ica, bloodshed in praise of thee,

And SENNNND Hitler's HEAD, now THAAAT he's DEAD,

In a BOX for ALL to SEEEEEE!"

Private Wally lay slumped in his seat, the very picture of despair. He had been listening to his captor mangle patriotic songs in his off-key, gravelly voice for hours now, and had given up all hope of escape for the time being.

He watched as the loony grabbed another handful of white powder, shoveled it into his mouth, and chuckled maniacally to himself. Not only was the freak a nutter, but a drug addict too? And probably a sexual deviant… He clenched his sphincter instinctively, and shuddered.

"Sing along if you know the words, men! Jingle Bells, Hitler smells, Stalin laid an egg-"

"Hey, mister-"

"YOU WILL ADDRESS ME AS SIR MAGGOT IS THAT CLEAR!" screamed Soldier in a sudden rage. Wally caught a glimpse of furrowed brow and bloodshot, crazed eyes. If he wanted to live, he realized, he'd have to play along.

"Sir, permission to speak, sir!"

"Permission to speak granted, Private!" snapped Soldier. "Keep it short!"

"We may require additional supplies for our mission, sir! Food, water, ammunition, and the vehicle is running low on fuel! I would recommend stopping at a gas station in order to optimize chances of success, sir!"

Soldier thought for a moment, took some more white powder, and thought some more. Then he laughed with glee.

"By George Washington's dentures! You've read the great Sun Tzu's works as well! Excellent! You deserve a medal, boy! We shall commandeer supplies at the very next opportunity!"

"Fueling station ahead, sir!" said Wally with fake zeal, pointing ahead on the horizon to a Gas-N-Go.

"Good work, Private!" cried Soldier.

"May I say what an honor it has been serving with you, sir," added Wally, and then wished he hadn't. Don't overdo it, man, don't overdo it…

But Jane Doe beamed with pride, and puffed up his chest. "That's the spirit! Extra K-rations for you tonight!"

The jeep pulled off the highway into the gas station parking lot, and Soldier stopped it next to the pump before leaping out. "Refuel this vehicle, private, on the double! I shall pay inside, and honor the all-American institution of small business by purchasing sundry items and consumables!"

And without further ado, he clicked his boot heels together, saluted the American flag hanging from the awning, and paraded into the little store. The front was mostly plate glass, so Wally could see the Soldier marching through the aisles as though reviewing new recruits. His heart sank. There was no way he'd be able to run away – the Soldier would spot him, and where would he go without a vehicle? The loony had the keys in his pocket, damn him.

He stepped out of the jeep slowly, and began to refill the tank, listening to the tick-tick-tick of the meter. 35¢ a gallon? Gee whiz, that was expensive – oh come on! Here he was, kidnapped by some sort of nutter, and worrying about the price of gas? Think! Think!

As he racked his brains, a van with a large peace symbol painted on the side pulled into the lot and parked a few yards away. Several men got out, in various states of undress. They appeared to be policemen who were in the process of disguising themselves as hippies.

"Hey!" said Wally, trying to get their attention without being too loud. "Hey! Cops! Over here!"

"Shhh!" said one, who was wearing a tie-dye bandanna on his head. "You'll blow our cover!"

"You're not even in cover yet!" hissed Wally. "I need your help! I've been kidnapped by a crazy guy who thinks he's an Army officer or something! He's completely bonkers!"

"I've heard this story before," said the officer. "I'm not going to take you from your sergeant just so I can get chewed out by some base commander. Not happening again, no way."

Wally gave a quick glance at the storefront window. Soldier was still inside, now screaming at the attendant, something about how he wasn't going to pay a goddamned cent for anything not made in America, and demanding an apology from the terrified man.

"C'mon fellas, please! This isn't a joke, honest! This guy's not my sergeant! He's some sort of mental patient!" He began walking towards them. "Look on the front of the jeep! That's blood! Look at him in the store! Does that look like normal to you?"

"B-b-but sir," stammered the attendant, "all my goods are American-made, except for the sombrero – it wouldn't be authentic if it wasn't Mexican-"

"I DON'T CARE!" bellowed the Soldier, spraying him with spittle. "One bad apple is all it takes to spoil the whole barrel! Just! One! Apple!" He paused for breath, and to wipe his lips.

"Please, mister," quavered the attendant, mopping his brow furiously with a handkerchief, "just – just go. Take whatever you want, just – leave, please."

Jane Doe tilted his head back to make eye contact, and the attendant could almost feel the madness and fury radiating from his eyes.

"I'll let you off with a warning, civilian," growled the Soldier, "but remember." He began to slowly back out the door, in a creepy, puppet-like fashion, while continuing to stare.

"One-" his hand grasped the door handle, "-bad-" the door jerked open, "-apple-" and he was gone.

"Goodness," breathed the attendant, dabbing at his face with the hankerchief. "Oh goodness, I'd better call the police, he's a madman-"

WHUMP.

The attendant shrieked, as Soldier had pressed his hands and face against the outside of the glass, smearing traces of blood across the window. He mouthed the words "I'm watching you," grinned horribly, and disappeared once more.

Satisfied, Soldier walked back to the jeep and dumped several cans of pork and beans, a copy of Playboy's Starlets and Stripes Spectacular, and a fifth of Jack Daniels into the back of the vehicle, completely failing to notice the hippie van parked less than 15 yards away.

"Hey, up and at 'em, boys! Your beloved Sergeant has brought something back for you worthless grunts – no one here? Well, more for me, then!" He poured the contents of the bottle into his canteen, looked up, and saw Private Wally talking with some men crowded around a van.

"Private, I did not give you permission to leave the vehicle – OH MY GOD! HIPPIES!" screamed the Soldier. He grabbed his shovel from the back of the jeep and charged towards the officers. "ATTAAAAAACK!"

The policemen saw a brute hurtling toward them; psychotic features caked with blood and suspicious white powder, clutching a gore-spattered entrenching tool, and screaming bloody murder.

They reacted quite naturally: that is to say, they whipped out their revolvers and began blazing away.

"HOLY SHIT!" yelled the Soldier, and he turned around so fast he nearly lost his helmet. "RETREAT! RETREAT!" He scrambled pell-mell for the safety of the jeep.

A .38 Special magnum round whistled past his neck so close he felt the heat from it. Another tore through his coat pocket, spilling the "vitamins" all over the asphalt. A third ripped through his shoulder, but he felt no pain, and reaching the vehicle, he dove into the driver's seat headfirst. Slug after slug ripped through the jeep's frame, cracking the windshield, puncturing the metal sides. One of the tires popped, torn to shreds by the fusillade. A hole appeared in Soldier's canteen, and whiskey soaked the seat of his pants.

"DRIVE! DRIVE!" howled Soldier, forgetting he was the only occupant of the vehicle. He fumbled for the ignition, and, miraculously, the jeep started instantly. Soldier floored the accelerator, and the trusty made-in-America automobile tore out of the gas station like a bat out of hell, leaving behind one scared private and six angry cops.

"What," said the one with the tie-dye bandana, "the hell, was that?"

The merciless desert sun had passed its zenith, but its scorching gaze continued to burn all it fell upon. The air over the asphalt shimmered and waved, as a lone jeep made its way along the road, swerving between the lanes.

Soldier's helmet was now too hot to touch. Sweat poured down his face, leaving tracks in the mingled smears of grease, blood, dirt, and cocaine. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his trenchcoat, and managed to get most of the filth off. Dark stains of sweat were already spreading across his chest and back.

"Hippies with guns," growled Soldier in disbelief. "Hippies with guns! Those scum-sucking fruitbasket traitors! What will they think of next? Artillery? I must report this to the President at once!"

He fumbled with his coat pocket, and found the ragged remnants of the bag of "vitamins."

"Dammit!" he swore bitterly. "Out of rations!" He stuck his hand in the bag in a vain attempt to find any last bits, and withdrew it drenched in blood.

"Huh?" he asked, confused, and then realized he'd been shot in the shoulder.

"OWWWIEE!" he screamed, and slammed on the brakes. The jeep came to a screeching halt in the middle of the roadway.

"Pain is weakness leaving the- ow! Jesus Joseph Mary Mother of God, that hurts! I do not have time to bleed!"

Rummaging in the back of the jeep, he found his first aid kit, and shook the contents out. A syringe of morphine and a roll of bandages bounced into his seat.

Soldier slipped off his trenchcoat, grabbed the syringe and injected its contents into his neck without hesitation. "Aaah, morphine! Best medicine in the world – and made in the good ol' USA!" He began wrapping his injured shoulder in bandages, and once finished, pinned them in place with the used needle. "Good as new!"

He slipped his filthy, ragged trenchcoat back over his sweat-soaked body, and licked his cracked lips pensively. "Sure hope the boys have some whiskey and ice water waiting for me back at camp…"

Somewhere in the distance behind him, the faint sound of sirens could be heard.

"Those BASTARDS," gasped Soldier, in horror and outrage. "They stole a police car!"

The moon's silvery light was the first thing Soldier noticed. The second thing he realized was that he was upside-down. In a jeep. This would not do. Jeeps were not supposed to be upside down!

He struggled out from underneath the vehicle, and felt something wet trickle down his face. Warm and salty. Was it barbeque sauce? Had the hippies tried to eat him? He couldn't remember – he'd heard sirens, and then, nothing…

Well, if it WAS barbeque sauce, the goddamn hippies sucked at cooking. Why, if he didn't know better, he'd say it tasted like blood! Hippies truly were the lousiest foe in the rogue's gallery that threatened America. They didn't even have delicious beer and hotdogs, like the Nazis did.

He turned and saw a police car, its front end wrapped around a massive saguaro, radiator fluid and gasoline puddled around its tires. Hmm. How did that get there?

As his eyes adjusted to the muted light, he could see two figures slumped in their seats. They could have both been slumbering peacefully, if not for their bloodsmeared faces, shiny as the badges clipped to their chests. Police officers? Why were there two police officers-

And then it all came back to him.

The escape from the hippie ambush through the noble sacrifice of Private Twinkletoes, then sirens wailing, a breakneck chase across the desert. The van, no doubt planted by enemy agents, ramming him off the side of the road. The hippies had known he was injured, and had intended to finish him off with their newfound knowledge of guns, but they had underestimated the fighting spirit of the American man!

Those police officers weren't really policemen at all, he realized. They were shape-shifting hippies disguised as police officers! No defender of public safety would ever try to stop a hero like him from completing his mission!

But then how had he flipped his jeep? There was only one thing that could flip a jeep and make a man forget how he did it – a confusion ray. And only one enemy of liberty had such technology -

"GODDAMN ALIENS!" Soldier screamed, shaking his fist at the moon. "TEAMING UP WITH HIPPIES! BASTARDS! WHEN I CATCH YOU, I'LL STICK MY BOOT SO FAR UP YOUR ASS YOU'LL TASTE SHOE POLISH!"

The moon said nothing, and Soldier's voice was lost in the vastness of the desert sky.

"Hrmmph," said Soldier, after a moment's pause. "Cowards."

He stood up, and grimaced. Yes, that was definitely a broken rib or three. And something was wrong with his ankle. With his mobility compromised, he needed a gun.

His eyes caught the glimmer of gunmetal behind the shattered windshield of the police car. It appeared one of the hippies had smashed the windshield with his head, judging by all the blood. Why, there was enough blood to start a blood bank! He could get rich!

But the mission came first, he reminded himself. Duty called. Lady Liberty was depending on him, and he needed that shotgun more than those dead hippies did.

At least, he hoped they were dead.

Soldier reached into the police car cautiously. Normally, hippies were weak and ineffective fighters, but when cornered they could give a nasty bite. Even worse, if a hippie bit you, you'd turn into one of them…

His fingers grasped the butt of the shotgun, and he quickly unclipped it from the dash and pulled it out. The police radio suddenly squawked, startling him, and he nearly dropped the gun.

"Dispatch to 5-0, confirm your location, over."

Soldier froze.

"Dispatch to 5-0, please respond. Backup will arrive shortly at last known location. Over."

He stared at the two officers intently, and backed away. Time to get going, before more showed up. Hippies could be dangerous in large enough numbers. He checked to see if the shotgun was loaded. It was.

In the distance, lights shone from a large complex. A fort, perhaps! Excellent! He could recover, resupply –

Then a horrible thought occurred to him. What if it was a hippie fort? There were all kinds of weird things out here in the desert: burning men, communes, spiders that did cartwheels… It was bat country, after all.

He'd have to be cautious. Inspect the perimeter, determine if the occupants were allies, and act accordingly. Reconnaissance wasn't his strong suit, but if wheelchair-bound old FDR could be a cyborg ninja assassin in his spare time, then so could he.

He smiled grimly, and began limping along towards the base.

Scout sat on the toilet, and pulled his backpack open. Glancing at the door once more to reassure himself that it was locked, he giggled to himself in anticipation, and pulled out a battered, dog-eared copy of Playboy magazine. Finally, he could spend some quality time with a bevy of babes. No more freakin' interruptions from Ma bangin' on the door askin' if he was sick, no more brothers busting in to try to catch him, no more - wowee, look at the legs on that chick!

He pulled out the centerfold to get a better look at lovely Miss March 1964, and that was when the bathroom window shattered.

Shards of frosted glass flew everywhere, followed by a nightmare that forced itself through the opening. A hulking brute, clad in the filthy, tattered remains of a trenchcoat, with his oversized helmet tilted back to reveal sunken, bloodshot eyes and a maniacal leer, picked himself up off the tile. The creature held a gore-spattered shotgun, and, as it pumped a new shell into the chamber, gave a terrifying laugh that sounded more like escaping steam than merriment.

Scout's mouth fell open, and he stared at the horrible figure before him, which was now pointing the shotgun directly at his head.

"AAAAAH!" screamed Scout.

"AAAAAAH!" screamed Soldier, right back at him. "DO NOT LOOK AT ME! I DID NOT ASK YOU A QUESTION!"

Pandemonium ensued.