Passes out. What? An update to this story?! I know, I know. A miracle and all that jazz ;) . As some people know I've had a very complex relationship with this story (to put it euphemistically) and for the longest time I've toyed with re-writing it or throwing it into the dust bin of history. It's taken me a long time to get back into this story and while it's my nature to never truly be happy with my writing, I'm glad I was able to get another chapter done. For new readers (hi!) and old friends here is some background info. Soda is in Vietnam, and though he's killed before he is particularly impacted by the killing of a young teen who had a grenade. If you have any other questions, please let me know. As always, thank you, especially for those who have been on this journey with me since the beginning, I appreciate you more than you'll know.

Standard warning: it's a war story with all that entails, including sexist, racist, homophobic talk and action.

STORY COMPLETE. :)

I get a lot of mail, from Darry and Pony, of course; but also from Steve, Two-Bit, Evie, Mrs. Mathews, even Two-Bit's kid sister dropped me a note. Even Mr. Randle sent a post. Don't get me wrong, I love receiving the letters, but I feel kinda guilty because there are some guys in my unit who hardly get any mail at all.

A few of them, I can kinda see why they don't receive much mail; they're the surly types on their best day. But still, I can't imagine what I would do if I was in the middle of a fuckin' war and no one wrote to me.

I think of Dallas Winston and if he didn't have the gang he'd be the type to receive nothing but a Dear John letter from Sylvia. Shit.

I thought about asking Pony to write to one or two of 'em, you know, just to cheer them up. I know he'd do it for me, but I ended up not asking him. I didn't want those guys to think I was nosing around in their business and treatin' them like a charity case.

Here' the thing about 'Nam, it's one weird ass place and everything's a bit topsy-turvy, including that military rations they force us to wolf down; but the Army has one hell of a mail system.

Cooper tell me that's the Army's way of tryin' to build up morale; you know, have enough letters from sweethearts and moms and all that and you won't be so homesick. At least that's the plan. But, with the number of 'Dear John' letters that come through here, the Army's morale booster has the opposite effect.

When a guy gets a 'Dear John' letter we usually get some beer, say a toast to his misery and call his girl a dirty whore, which of course she is.

That's another reason I'm glad Sandy dumped me before all this, I don't know how the fuck I'd handle being dumped while riskin' being blown to Kingdom Come every night.

Plus, I don't want anyone calling her a whore.

I stare at the blank page of Army issued stationary that's lying between my lap; trying to will something, anything, to come to mind. But my mind, like the page in front of me is as dark and blank as the night sky.

My pen cap is chewed through and I rub my index finger over my bite marks. That reminds me, I always hated the dentist. Have no fear of a doctor or a broken bone or nothing like that, but put me in a dentist office and I turn into biggest punk you'd ever seen.

Chewing does nothing for me.

So, I doodle. I doodle a woman with bit tits and an even bigger smile, so you know where my mind is.

Pony says that when he can't think of anything to write, he doodles and like magic, he knows what he wants to say. Half of his homework is filled with little doodles of horses or people or sometimes just random shapes on the margin.

But Pony is freakin' genius. He don't need to doodle to come up with an amazing story, it's all up there in his mind.

Me, not so much.

I'm real good at listening, but I hate writing. Got too many bad memories of the teacher forcing me to write with my right hand. Put a pen and piece of paper in front of me, and my left hand curls up, the way Johnny did after he got that beating by that Soc; my fingers are scared of their shadow.

And Mom, I loved her so much. "You're doing so good baby, just hold your hand like this. Soda, please, five more minutes. Hold the pencil like this. I'm not trying to hurt you, Soda, calm down! I'm so sorry baby, I know, I know."

She just wanted the best for me, best for all her kids.

I have all of these thoughts and ideas racing through my head, stories I want to tell my brothers; but when I get that piece of Army issued stationary in front of me, I can only feel the pull of my teacher's fingers forcing my hand around the pencil 'the right way.'

But, I promised my brother and so here I am, sitting cross legged on my bunk trying to think of something to say.

You know who doesn't have a problem writing? Two-Bit. He don't got Pony's gift, but his letters shocked me. When I read his letters I can hear Two-Bit talking, I can see his cocked eyebrow. I can hear the way he drawls out the word "glory!"

His letters are long, which shocked me even more. I mean, Two-Bit ain't really one to sit down and write, or sit down and do anything, to be honest. But he does, and reading his letters make me feel, at least for a few minutes, like I ain't in 'Nam but I'm back home.

Oh yeah, Two-Bit also swears up a storm in his letters.

"Your Mama see these letters Two-Bit? Man alive, you make me want to swallow an entire bar of soap after reading your letters. You don't touch Kathy with them dirty hands of yours do you?

Ha Ha,

Just screwing with you, buddy. You're letters are great, they keep me sane. Please continue to write Two-Bit. I mean it. You keep me sane.

From a shit hole in Vietnam:

Prvt. Soda Curtis.

I'm going insane.

They tell you that your first kill is the hardest and it gets easier from there. That's a bunch of a bullshit. Cause it don't matter how long you've been in country, one week or twelve months, you're gonna have that kill that will recoil through your brain long after your fingers traced the trigger.

For me, it was the kid. That's what I call him, 'the kid.' I walk pass his body, an ear and portion of his head blown out. His mama screaming. The grenade in his hand. Or maybe his mama is in his hand and the grenade is screaming? I'm walking in a daze.

A light rain comes down, the kind that you don't even realize that you're in until you reach dry ground.

I walk and the ground is slowly spinning, and my gut, a shelf of ice, breaks open. The ground jumps with a start to kick me in the face.

I'm a ball, hyperventilating, clutching my stomach that pumps in and out and all around me is a stew of thick vomit of every C ration I've ever ate.

"Easy, easy," Philly says to me, his hand on my shoulder and for a second I'm transported back to a simpler time when I said those same words to my best buddy. Who woulda thought that the time after Dally and Johnny's death wouldn't be the worse in my life?

"It's so damn hard," I gasp for breath.

MyGodmyGodmyGod.

I've been here for more than a month, I ain't the fuckin' new guy, I've killed before and I'll kill again, but right now I can't stop shaking and weeping. My shoulders heave and snot runs from my nostrils, moistening dry lips as they make their way down my bandana. Everything in me is spewing out. It's as if every fucked up thing I've done since I gotten here has transformed into a particle of sickness and it finally got too much.

We all have breaking points, and this is mine. It's the whip of this kill that knocks me to my knees. To go from the joyful elation of saving a life to snuffing out one so young.

Every muscle claws with throbbing pain and through salt water eyes I try to look at Phil and his face, deep set with sorrow and compassion looks back at me. Don't look i wanna tell him as I dry heave out the last bit of Soda Curtis onto the ground.

There's sicknesses in this world and I'm a part of it. I thought I could do it, but I can't, I ain't made for it. But I'm stuck here, not just in Nam, but in this moment of brokenness.

I'm fallin apart man!

This is me. And my body gives another thrust of violence as it tries to escape from the man I am.

And it hurts, so fucking much, everything hurts and I can't stop, I can't stop pukin', I can't stop shaking and I can't stop crying. I'm weeping a deep guttural thrust that comes from the deepest part of my violent stomach. I'm weeping for the killing I've done, for the killing I'll do. I weep for the boy I was and the man I am. I weep for us all.

The rain, it don't stop.

When I got over here I'd knew I'd have to kill people. Didn't like thinking about it, liked doing it even less. But when it's your life vs. some other guy's life, you learn that scruples can kill you as easily as bullets.

But I got standards. I may touch Coop's prized collection, may even watch without blinking as he chops off a new ear or thumb, but I haven't done any cutting myself.

And women and kids.

I don't want to hurt 'em.

That's my line in the sand. I know that there are women fighting with the Vietcong, kids too, but the thought of hurting a kid makes me sick to my stomach.

Except here in Nam they don't have sand but the thickest jungle that ever exists on God's green earth and the only lines here are the fuckin' vines my mud and blood covered combat boots trip over.

I killed a kid.

"Your panties still tied up in knots about that boy?" Was how that buddin' voice of pastor in training Tate Parker tried to comfort me in the days afterwards.

That boy. The one I killed.

"Shit, no," I say without emotion or expression, my voice narrowed to fit in between the line of grey smoke emittin' from cancer stick balanced between my front teeth, a tight rope walker waiting to fall straight onto my shirtless chest.

My chest rises, a bug climbs onto my rib, bites me. I flick it off, a stream of sweat flows down my sternum and my stomach still feels the aftershock of puking my guts out three days ago.

My legs stretched out in front of me, I move my hands behind my head and can feel a dampness through my bandana that's wrapped around my neck. With my bandana around my neck and lazy stance I look like one of 'em old cowboys Mr. Kencaide use to hire; once they finished their errands they'd sit on a patch of grass, chew tobacco and bitched about us kids the whole day long.

Only thing I'm missing is my cowboy hat.

I'm older than they are now.

I have black sunglasses on and I'm glad T.P can't see my eyes because while I ain't crying, my eyes are so wide with frozen disbelief they feel like they're going to pop out of their sockets and explode like an M18 smoke grenade. The real dangerous color in Nam ain't black or red, it's violet; purple mountains majesty.

I run my hands through my hair. What's left of my hair.

I shrug, my face an impassive steel wall covering up a shitload of emotions and it's real strange. I feel just as much as I did three days ago, but my face is as empty as my stomach.

T.P. drones on, not looking at me. T.P liked to hear himself talk, he doesn't care if he had an audience or not.

"Christ, Curtis, you saw his body, he was a giant for kid, 'specially for a Gook."

Yeah, I saw the body.

"How old did he look, thirteen?" His voice picks up speed and when he turns and looks at me, he blinks before whipping away as fast as he can.

In my emptiness I'm a fuckin' pitiful sight. Here's the thing, some men are natural born soldiers, I ain't. I'm good, I get the job , if you wanna call it that, done, but I ain't no Green Beret in training.

He paces back and forth, like he's interrogating me. The heat makes me dizzy.

Thirteen? Fuck you T.P. I'm this close to jumping up and pounding the shit outta him.

"Fifteen, Fourteen, I guess." My voice is lazy and ambles through the air. I will my heart beat to slow down. Even when my voice is calm, my heartbeat betrays my real emotions. I pull the cigarette out of my mouth, putting the orange glow closer and closer to my thumb daring the edge of flame to break through skin, before pulling away at the last minute.

I don't know why I pulled away.

Even in the heat of June I can still feel the distinct warmth of the flame independent from all the other source of heat that engulfs me.

"Okay, that makes it even better. He wasn't a child, he was a man. You know as well as I do Curtis, they use little kids to throw grenades at us...hell there ain't no children here, Curtis. They grow up faster here. Hell, we're more kids than they are."

And his voice, parched from talking too much, rises up and squeaks like a twelve year old kid. No, thirteen. No, fourteen. Fourteen. On the edge of manhood. I dangle my finger on the edge of smoke.

Yeah, but he was someone's child. Some Mama's son. I heard his Mama scream, she sounded like a wounded elephant. She wailed as if her soul had cracked into a million particles of dust. I did that.

In a sick way I wish I woulda killed her instead, cause it's her scream, her unbearable agony that bulldozes through my mind.

I hear her.

And when I puked my guts out, when my puke forced my throat open, my mouth formed a perfect cast of her scream. Our mouths, snapped open by grief and sickness, one in the same.

I dangle the smoke close to my left ear drum, I don't wanna hear her no more. Please, please, please. Keep her quiet. I pull it away. Coward.

It's strange, T.P, in his own way is trying to comfort me, and I'm trying even harder to resist. I'd rather be good and miserable. I've always been a glutton for punishment.

I bring the light closer and closer to my thumb.

I put out my smoke.

T.P. is still shitting out a sermon only he listens to. Me? I shut my eyes, my lashes grow three feet and for a second I fly away on a severed elephant's ear. Covered in flesh and blood. Do screams have weight? Cause it's pulling me down. Her yell. His mama's yell. Yelling for her baby.

We saw Dumbo, when we were little kids. They played it in the movie theater, special kiddie matinee.

I hear voices in front of me, or behind me, or inside of me. I don't know.

"Shit, Curtis out?"

"Let him sleep"

"He's high, that boy is high. You can tell even when hides behind 'em cheap ass sunglasses, honky motherfucker."

"Nah, Curtis ain't high, he's a fuckin' Boy Scout…" (pause) "I hate Boy Scouts. Once my Uncle…"

"Ain't no one gives a shit 'bout your Uncle."

(a snort) "Least Okie knows how to fire a gun, shit."

"What the fuck is that suppose'sta mean? You got something to say? Be a ma…"

"Leave him alone guys, he's trying to sleep."

"Oh look, it's Tonto to the Lone Ranger's rescue."

I ain't high and I want to tell them all to shut the fuck up, but I can't even move my middle finger up. But my trigger finger, that I can move real well.

I wake up; Coop gets down so we're at eye level. "He was armed. You did what you had to do," he gives my shoulder a hard pat.

I stand up.

He opens his mouth and I can see the wheels turning in his head, and just like he did a few weeks ago when I killed that Gook, he comforts me. "Curtis, pull yourself together. Don't think about it, because if you have second thoughts about it, you'll never make it out of this place alive. Don't overthink it. You did good, I'm proud of you."

And those words are balm for my soul, like a drowning man I grab onto the life preserver with everything I have. That the preserver is being thrown by a man who collects body parts like Darry use to collect baseball cards is a moot point.

I had to do it, I had no choice. I'm, in the words of them social workers who dealt with Curly Shepard, and God bless any of 'em who had to deal with the dumbest Shepard, "I'm the victim of my environment."

It's the hardness of his eyes which hold me up and I realize that looking at a softer gaze, I'd only fall. And I know in my gut that the eyes which look back at him are a match.

The dirty itch of guilt still scratches through me, even after Coop's words. In my mind I know I did what I had to do, but my heart ain't there yet; my heart is still beating on some godforsakin' trail, oozing pink brain matter and a severed ear.

It's Phil who comes to my rescue. We're looking at the starless night. It's peaceful in its emptiness. It's the only peaceful thing about this place.

"You saved my life," his words are said with such kindness that my mouth opens and forms into a 'thank you', Mom always taught us to be grateful for any gift we received, and Phil right now, is giving me the biggest gift he can.

Instead, I shrug, like it's no big deal even though his words, even divorced from the look of awe and gratitude that he gives me means more to me than anything, even more than Coop's vote of pride and maybe someday, I'll believe him.

Maybe it's the result of being pumped full of Dexies by our medic, but I swear, he morphs into Ponyboy.

"I love you, kid." My voice is soft. I ain't never told no one, no guy at least, 'cept my brothers, that I love them. Course I do love Two-Bit and Steve, but shit, like I'm gonna say that, they'd think I was soft.

But I love him, in this moment and I don't know if I'm seeing Pony or Phil, if they're two people or one. But I love him. I love them all.

I avoid Dexedrine from then on. Not that I need it, shit like I could sleep here?!

I walk into the Can Can Club.

The place smells like beer and cigarette smoke laced with contraband pot, the kind Chavez was always barterin' for with them guys who set up little stands outside the base. War is a lucrative business.

Despite scrubbing 'til my skin became raw and chapped, I can still sniff out the shit intoxicated swamp water I waded in earlier. Stood in is more like it, for what seemed like an eternity. Like quick sand, but full of shit.

"Just wait 'til you hit monsoon season," Coop said with a savage grin, a mosquito landed on his chin creating a pimple of black pus. I press my fingernail deep into my own scar, an old childhood wound. I still remember the way my head bounced back when my chin hit against the trough. The exhilaration I felt too deep, too warm, too captivating to even feel a splint of pain.

We humped up a rugged hill, a mountain if you ask me, so thick in vines and trees you could hardly see the man in front of you.

I rolled my eyes, truth be told the weather here ain't too bad, a bit dry and all, but it ain't the swelterin' heat that I'd expected. But the terrain of the Central Highlands the jungles, the mountains, more than makes up for the 'break' we get.

Coop fingers the ear he chopped off a Vietcong soldier after a particularly nasty firefight.

"You'll be up to your ears in water soon enough, Curtis," he says in a straight voice. I grin with my mouth and not my eyes.

Coop kinda reminds me of Darry, the whole chopping off thumbs and ears aside, both are natural leaders with a dry sense of humor.

The place is buzzin' tonight and for a place so dank it has a sorta electric charge that only comes from being stuffed in a box with a bunch of horny, testosterone pumped guys who are all facin' the same prospect of sudden death.

I'm always up for a game of poker. The cards are old, ratted and most of 'em are falling apart on the edges. You'd think that would make an honest game of poker hard to come by, but the good news is we're usually all so snookered up no one is able to remember which card has what distinct fold or bend.

I learned poker from Dad. The rare nights Mom went out to find herself some peace and quiet, usually said with a shout and slam of the door, or when she would leave for a day or two to visit her old girlfriends in Muskogee, Dad invited some of his guys from work to our house for a game of Texas Hold 'Em. The games got rowdy, and shit if I didn't learn a whole dictionary of cursing on those nights.

Dad tried to keep the language relatively tame, a few damns, a sprinkling of hells, you know, wholesome talk, but towards the end of the night, especially once Pony went to bed and he thought Darry and me were brushing our teeth, Mr. Brown, Mr. Toddson, Mr. Smith and Mr. Raymond all became sonsofbitches or motherfuckers, depending on how much beer Dad poured into his body and how much money he poured out of his checking account.

Most dads would bribe their sons stay out of their hair, but Dad always seemed to like havin' us around. He always called us his good luck charms, though by how well his gambling worked out for him, the only luck we bought was for his opponents.

Darry stayed in the living room, eyes fixated on the T.V. occasionally glancing in on us. Smiling when Dad won, furrowing his brow when Dad lost. His eyebrows sure got a hell lot of good exercise.

I'd quickly get bored and spent most of the game running back and forth between the kitchen and living room, trying hard as I could not to blurt out the other guy's hands to Dad, but pulled all the same by some heavy, invisible force to the den of smoke, beer and cussin' that was our motherless kitchen.

The only thing that still reminded me that there was a woman in the house was her soft yellow and white curtains and the cat clock that looked down at us with what I kinda thought were snooty eyes. Even her placemats, table cloth and coasters Dad had removed, neatly folding them in a pile on top of the washer for safe keeping.

Without mom's table cloth I realize just how jacked up our table, with its chipped surface and worn wood that looked so old Jesus probably built it, really was. Amazin' how good mom really was at keeping all our shit covered.

Dad changed too. My dad didn't have a cruel bone in his body, but when Mom left to find herself some peace, his temper cracked open like an August flash flood. But he was also rowdier on those days, meaner maybe, but funnier, he belched, which I thought was a riot, told us the type of stories he'd never tell in front of Mom. Dad was a great storyteller, only person I know who could give him a run for his money was Pone.

Though we'd half-complain that we were gettin' too old, he'd put us in a headlock, wrestle us to the ground and tickle us half to death, before tossing us one of top of the other on his and mom's bed.

"Pony! You still there?! Do I need to send an SOS?" He'd bellow out, cupping his hands around his mouth; and Pony, half laughing would wiggle a bare foot from under Darry's leg.

It was like seeing who your dad would have been if he never married Mom, and Dad, he was fun.

The only time I've ever seen him laugh more was when the three of us teamed up and wrestled him to the ground. The four of us chuckling and laughing so loud, Dad would through gasps of breath put his finger on top of his lips "shoot boys, we gotta keep it down, we keep it up we'll likely to get a noise complaint from the neighbors."

Darry shook his head, "aww, from the Cades? Hell they'd never call the police, remember what happened the last time…" Darry liked taking advantage of being able to swear in Mom's absence.

Dad cut Darry off with a quick movement of his hand, eyed Ponyboy and Darry nodded. Mom always called Pony her 'last baby' well, he was Dad's 'last baby too.'

It was a good time. Only Pone would glance at our mom's chair out on the porch, "do you think mom got in a car accident, Soda?" He'd ask, the worry in his face killing me.

"You got too big of an imagination," I'd put my arm around my brother, pulling him for the window, but my ears all perked up like a bat's listening for the awful sound of a wreck.

Dad is in the kitchen, playing poker…

"Restless tonight, Pepsi-Cola?" Dad asked with a wink. He was in a good mood that night cause he already won $20.00. He knew the answer to that as well as I did. He felt it too, cause while his upper body was still, betraying no information, his feet, like mine when I sat at the kitchen table, were wildly tapping and moving, wrapping around the legs of the chair like branches on a tree after a gustnado crashes through.

I knew those movements, he had good hand.

He tipped his chair back slightly, before scooting close to the table.

He had a great hand.

Pony stood behind each of the players, memorizing their steel cold expressions and their hands, analyzing the game like the brilliant fucker he always was. He squinted his eyes as if locking the cards to his memory, his lips would flutter slightly, but he didn't say nothing before moving to the next guy.

"Shit kid, don't ya have something better to do?" One of the big burly guys holding his cards extra tight to his chest asked in a full teethed snarl as Pony stood behind him.

Pony backed away, shook his head wordlessly and looked down at the floor, he's always been a real tough kid, but he freezes up a bit around adults he don't know, especially adults who are being assholes. He was a small kid for his age, and against the husky monster frames of my Dad and his buddies he withered into nothin' but a tiny ant in a green and blue striped pajamas.

Dad broke from his poker face, "my kid ain't doin' nothing wrong Brown. Now quit your bitchin'." He says the last word in a barely audible whisper. For Pony's sake, I think.

Brown tenses up and for a second it looks like Dad's words are riled up in him, edging him to fight. But, there's a larger part of Brown who doesn't give a shit, the part of him whose ass is already finding a comfy groove on my kitchen chair.

Brown quits his bitchin'.

"Sorry kid." He sounded exactly like we do when we reluctantly apologize for something we ain't really sorry for but ain't itchin' to face Dad's wrath or on occasions, his belt. With a few sparse words and a fierce look, Dad put him in his place.

It amazed me how a big guy like Brown has the same reaction as us kids to Dad. Our dad made a grown man surrender without even raising his fists.

It's like discovering your dad is Santa Claus.

With those words Pony visibly relaxed and he shot Dad a grin so big and grateful, it was like one 'em oversized novelty greeting cards come to life. His grin, childish and sincere was a stark contrast to the bitter smirks and wobbled drunken curves on everyone else's mouths.

"Come here, lucky charm," Dad slapped his lap, hard enough to probably leave a sting if he was a smaller man, and Pone climbed into his Daddy's lap. If I looked hard enough I could see Pony bouncing up and down atop of Dad's shaky knees. Lucky charm or not, Dad's luck had turned for the worse.

Seein' me, he'd put his arms out, "you too cowboy kid, the way these…" he'd gently cupped Pony's ears in his palms, "cocksuckers are playin' I need all the luck I can get."

The other guys didn't blink or even react.

He cracked a loud muffler of a chuckle that defuses whatever tension is in the air, and even Brown can't hide a smile, in his case hidden by a snort that causes Bud to foam out of his mouth and onto his chin.

Even Pony smiled.

My dad was like a band conductor getting the various sections to all play to his rhythm.

Even though I felt sorta weird sitting in my Dad's lap at that age, there was something about his grin that was real inviting. So with Pony movin' over to make room, I squeezed on my dad's lap, feeling the spicy warm scent of his tobacco against the back of my neck, his fingers gently combing down my back, before I felt his thumb rub a tiny circle near the tailbone, I learned how to give back rubs from Dad as well.

He called Mr. Toddson a 'pussy' for only layin' down a $2.00 bet.

Pony looked up at the cat clock.

"Shit Okie, you gonna deal?" T.P. narrows his eyes and the heat of too much drinkin' burns off him. Not that I ain't in much of a better frame of mind.

I scratch my head and chug more of cheap ass beer they supply us grunts with, "quit your bitchin' motherfucker, I'm dealin', I'm dealin'."

Coop, T.P., Neal, Philly and me are on our 400th game of poker and our 500th beer. Neal is escapin' from this hell hole and flying back home tomorrow. Man, I wish Tap was with us. But he's with Williamson and them, playin' their own game of poker.

Out in the field we're a fairly well-oiled machine, facin' the fear of sudden death gets everyone on the same page damn quick, but away from the field, when we're humpin' through the jungle or at base, those cracks in our division become fissures.

We ain't as bad as some units where they have fuckin' race riots once a week, but still it's kinda tense between the white guys and colored guys. Until Tap, I'd never really talked to a black guy, but truth be told, I feel more comfortable with Tap than I do with a whole bunch of the white guys here.

But I ain't here to start or get into trouble, least not that type of trouble, and I'd guess it'll be worse for Tap.

My only interaction with Tap that night is a quick nod. Then we go sit at our tables, not looking at each other the rest of the night.

It's better that way, but shit, does it make me feel lousy.

I'm wasted.

"Fuck," T.P. tells me, "this place is dank, you see the officer's club? That place is classy, got some real quality grade-A broads there too."

"How the fuck you've seen the officer's club?" Coop supplies us all with the celebratory liquor from his other secret stash and it burns down my esophagus until it reaches that sweet spot where it guzzles down like rain water in the desert.

"Man, Curtis, I got my ways," his voice is lobbed with annoyance, but with T.P. 'bout half of the things he says you reckon are nothing more than a load of bull, the other half, you know is load of bull.

The Buddhas and posters of John Wayne they got in this place always throw me for a loop. But hell, it's no worse than Buck's. Besides, to me it don't really matter if a place steaming with rat shit and smellin' like piss, as long as I got some buddies with me, I'm okay.

And these guys, these crazy ass fuckers, they're my buddies. Sharing a fuckin' foxhole does that to ya.

We play for Monopoly money, that's what we call the colorful military payment certificates the issue as currency. I got quite a lot of loot. Shit, would just be my luck that the war would end and all my money would be useless.

Some gal sings Ruby Tuesday, least I think she's tryin' to sing Ruby Tuesday, it's sorta hard to hear over all the noise and smoke. Not that I'm complaining. This sweat drenched club is the only place that reminds me of the world.

I don't know; I 'm sorta lit right now. Not drunk enough that I'm slurring my words and making a damn fool outta myself, don't worry Curtis, that'll come soon enough, but drunk enough that even the old toothless Mama San they got sweeping the floor looks hot. Christ.

"Hey Irish, isn't that your chick?" T.P. says cruelly drawing the bottom of the beer bottle along his forearm.

"No,"Phil says, his eyes cold, but his cheeks are flushed.

"Leave him alone, asswipe," I wave the back of my hand to T.P., "his gal is Van, she's a sweetheart," I say to Irish.

"She's not my girl, I don't own her," Phil says under his breath at me.

"You pop her cherry yet?" T.P. ignores my hand. "I mean, you ain't all fruity are you?"

"Course he ain't," my voice firm "Christ al'fuckin'mighty, just deal."

When I try, I'm a good poker player cause I can read people. I can see the slight flicker in the eyes, the way the mouth draws down that marks a winning hand from a losing hand. My dad taught me well.

Neal, he tries to keep a poker face, and he does a decent job, but if his nostrils rise, even a little bit, that means that he has a good hand.

Phil, love that kid, but he's more exposed than a candy ass ARVN soldier. When he gets a bad hand, his shoulders will hunch up and he sighs. Get that? The kid actually sighs!

Holy titties on a longhorn! Good thing Phil don't act all dopey like that out in the field. Would get us all fucked up the ass.

Coop's been playin' sloppy and loose. It's odd, cause out in the field, he's the best one, he's the one I'd follow blindfolded anywhere, he's a bit screwed up, but he's good. Real good. I like him, more than that I respect the hell outta him. Maybe there's a part of me tryin' to gain his acceptance and favor more than anything.

I guess he really is Darry.

"You know who I'd like to fuck?" T.P. ask unprompted.

I don't know and could care less, but I shrug, "your cousin?" I wink and smirk at him, and T.P. smiles and gives me the finger.

"Nah, Okie, but I'd fuck your cousin, your sister" I start to chuckle and for the first time since I killed that Dink my laughter comes naturally; but T.P. goes on, "your mom…"

He doesn't even finish his sentence. Grabbing him by shirt collar, twistin' it, I pull him out of his chair and push him against the wall, hearing the hard smack as his back hits the dirty wall. My heart doesn't beat, but growls like a starved beast. The room is a drum snared inside my rage. I can't see no one's face, they're a red blur. But I can feel my anger and it's scorching and I feel everyone's temperature rise in perfect rhythm with mine. Like my dad I set the tone for the night; and like Dad I ain't one to take shit from no one.

"You get my mom's name outta your mouth…"My voice is low, soft even, but the heated breath of alcohol that emits from my tightened throat does all my speaking for me.

My words strangle the air.

T.P.'s nose crinkles and his face turns raged red, lookin' like he just wants to rip my ass to pieces. A part of me sorta wishes he would, it's been a sorta dull night, would be nice to have some action. Not that he could take me. Shiiiiiiit, I'd have him flat on the floor in less than a minute.

Damn, all these fuckers, cept maybe Tap, I could take blindfolded. Even Tap I could take if I'm raging, cause when I'm angry, when I ain't got nothing to lose, I fight dirty. That asshole who kicked Pony, shit, y'all, he better be on his fuckin' knees thankin' GOD that Darry pulled me off him, cause I would have turned that fuckin' turd inside out, he'd be shittin' outta his mouth and pukin' outta his asshole when I was done with him.

I'd fuckin' destroy anyone who fucks with my brothers.

Shoulders tensed up, eyes narrowed til I can see through my m43a is the kill shot in the middle of T.P.'s forehead.

But it's Coop, drowning another beer who settles the tension, "shoot, you can beat each other up on your own time, but I'm playin' poker."

When Coop speaks, we listen.

I snap outta it.

I let go of T.P's collar and cheerfully smack my hand on the table.

And like that, I ain't angry anymore. It's scary, my rage just a few minutes ago tangible and as real as my ear, now it's gone.

Though the veins in his neck are still bulging, T.P. gives us a cagey grin. "They got this woman running this place. New gal." He leans towards us, and takes another swig of beer. "Hottest fucking Dink on the planet. Hell, Okie if she wasn't a Dink she could be Miss. Universe. You bring her into a mortuary and the corpses are gonna get woodies. "

I smile, showing him that I ain't mad anymore, though I doubt this chick is anywhere as hot as T.P. says.

"There's no such thing," Neal breaks out, but T.P. ignores him.

"Suck my BALLS hot, Okie." And just in case I didn't get the point, he continued, "she's one hot mama."

He shakes his head, "didn't even think they made Dinks that hot."

"They don't," Neal retorted.

I look at my thumb, it's red. My other thumb and forefinger are squeezing hard.

"Deal Curtis, you'd think that was Jayne Mansfield cunt between your fingers the way you're taking your sweet time," Neal cackles.

"Probably has a bunch of VDs," Coop says wisely and with his sigh, I have a feeling that he's speaking from experience.

Neal shakes his head and pokes his finger through the air, "oh, I think I know who you're talkin' about, she's a total fucking bitch. I mean it, I ain't never met a whore with such an icy pussy."

Neal is better educated and speaks better than most, but when he's hammered he could be my twin with his cussing and bad English.

"You eat her?" The envy in T.P's voice is louder than the sounds of dozens of drunk soldiers.

Neal shrugs, "I got my girl back home."

A shit eating grin forms on T.P's mouth, "nice to see even the cunts here got standards."

"She hot?" I ask Neal. Not that I'm jonesing for nothing.

"Not bad, but man, whatta bitch!"Drunk and in the spirit of male bonding, we laugh.

"So, get this boys," T.P. huddles closer to us, you heard about that one soldier who's dick fell off?"

"Chop, chop, boys," T.P. makes a timber motion with his hand and moves his fingers like he's sprinkling salt on steak.

"That's an old wives tale," Coop breaks out, and I have to admit, T.P.s story and thinking of all the girls I fucked is kinda scaring me. The last thing I need is some gonorrhea, what's mom going to say when she finds out. Then I remember, she's dead.

A deep belly laugh, half hysterical half bitter thunders out of me.

"Hey, what's so funny, Soda?" Phil asks.

I shake my head, "nothing."

But it's all real funny, don't ya think?

They got good dancers here in 'Nam, I ain't talking about their chicks, but their men. Let me tell ya about how good their men dance. Most of the time you kill people here it ain't up close and personal, it's under the fog of jungle and you can't see shit. But sometimes, you can see and feel and feel everything, the up close rush of adrenaline that comes with snuffing out a life. There was one guy, the way my bullets twisted up into him shaking his legs and his arms, he danced. He danced for me. Like Elvis, but better. Shit, I've never seen nobody dance like that before, I'm telling you, he was on fire. Moved to a jungle beat all his own, it was beautiful and savage and I was captivated by it.

Blood sprays out and so does pink flesh, apiece hits me. Sandy use to wear a pink ribbon the same shade around her hair.

Sandy always got real turned on when I touched her ears.

Start at the top, brush the outline with my forefinger, stop at the lobe and gently squeeze it and wiggle it. Like my dancer, the way his flesh is wiggling away from his body. Wiggle, Wiggle, Wiggle.

She would let out her Minnie Mouse laugh, high pitched and curled like she's in a library or somethin' and just wants to cut loose, but can't cause the dowdy old librarian is glaring at her. She would lean into me, "Soda, Soda, Soda" she'd say in her sweet, playful voice, her perfectly coifed hair just underneath my nose.

She could make even Head and Shoulder's smell like Prell mixed with roses.

Mom was a Prell gal.

Mesmerized, I wanted pull him through my pupils and shut my eyes tight, to never forget him, to see him dancing inside the reddened squishy flesh of my eyes. For me.

I can't stop looking.

No foolin', there are bullets whizzing by, and I can't stop looking at my dancer. I'm as dumb founded and shit grinned as the FNG from Maryland who just joined us and God knows the way he acts, ain't gonna be long for this world.

I should probably get the name of his family. If I died I'd want someone to write to Darry and Pony, tell 'em about me, make me out to be a hero, you know, lie.

I think of Dally dancing under the glow of the street light. He was a dancer too. A lot of boys from my neighborhood, they'll grow up to be dancers. But no one ever danced under the starless night like my man. No one ever will.

And the road of my throat is constructed with tears, because this man, this dying, bleeding man is the most beautiful and most horrific thing I'll ever see in my entire life. I've always been a bit different, and in that moment my whole body, every particle of stomach acid, every scar, my mind, heart, soul, everything, knows that I'm caught up by the horror as much as the perverse beauty of his dying dance. And in that second, I can't tell the difference between the two.

The way the sun is coming down, his body is outlined in a gold aura.

And then it's over. Nothing good stays.

That night I find myself moving in an impossible rhythm, dancing harder, angrier than I'd ever danced before, sandbags swirling around me.

Even though I'm fully clothed, even got my combat boots on, I'm naked, ever single piece of skin, including the nasty bug bite I got on my chest exposed to the open sky. It's raining, thunderous rain, powerful and loud. I love it.

"Shout out boys," T.P. calls out, "looks like we got Elvis Presley and his wandering hips joining us tonight."

I crack a laugh, loud and maddening.

It ain't Elvis I'm aping.

Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.

I'm changing. Though he don't realize it, it's Phil's words he uttered three days after I killed that I cannot get outta my head.

A horrible realization snakes through me, in order to survive, in order to make it back to my brothers, I'm gonna have to stuff that part of me that broke down on that trail away. To stop seeing the world in shades of grey, but black and white. Alive or dead.

"I had to do it," I tell myself, "I saved Phil's life" and then I feel it. And the faded memory of that killing don't haunt me and I feel my mouth open, slowly. But this time it's not to vomit, it's to smile.

I look at the reflection in the mirror, and the man who is starring back at me is smiling, his eyes, I try to avoid him, but I see his lips curl upwards, a small bubble of air escapes from the space between his lips.

They talk a lot about 'clean kills.' That's the lingo they use when 'em high ups are here trying to 'boost morale.' Shit, wanna boost morale? Send Ann Margaret's hot little ass over here, that will boost my morale and my dick. A two-fer.

But this is Vietfuckin'Nam there ain't a lot of clean kills here.

It's an oxymoron.

I know, shit. I can't spell to save my life, read like a demented hobo, but I remembered oxymoron all the way from Sophomore English. Course I'm gonna remember a word with moron in it.

Sophomore Year. The last full year I attended.

It's the last thing I remember being taught.

The last useless thing at least. Cause here, I learn a whole lot.

There ain't a lot of pictures you can send home. The picture of me riding the elephant was probably the extent of it. Hey, I wonder if Pony submits it to Life maybe we'll make a fortune? Put Darry and Pone through college, maybe even Steve too? That would just be the shit, I'd become a fuckin' millionaire and probably get blown into a million little pieces by some little Dink before I can even spend it.

My shirt, my pants, my combat boots are caked in blood.

We don't take a lot of showers out in the field. Don't have time. Besides, ain't like water can wash it off. It's already seeping inside of me.

It's a part of me, I can't tell the difference between my dried blood and their dried blood. Maybe I too am a motherfuckin' Dink?

Some of 'em are real good fighters. Not like 'em candy ass RVA troops we gotta train.

But that kill? That was as clean as a whistle. Clean as my mouth after mom scrubbed it with soap when I cursed. I killed a boy and it was a beautiful shot.

A clean kill means more than just no mess. A clean kill is a release. True release that soaks into every pore of my body. True release, not just because that Gook had a fucking grenade and was gonna fuck my buddies, but because I felt for the briefest of seconds this surge of electricity race through me. A power. For a second I was my own light source.

Yeah, I know I sound like I'm fuckin' doped up right now, but I ain't. This is just me talking. Oh, maybe I smoked some weed this morning, but that's it.

When Sandy told me she got knocked up and it wasn't my kid for a few seconds I felt genuine grief because I really want to have a kid. I may not have created life, but I've taken it.

I am a creator, in reverse.

I go out into the field, feel ants crawl on the back of my neck, the sting of mosquitoes, I'm drenched in so much sweat that even my drawers can't keep my pubes from twisting together. My feet hurt like a fucker.

And I love it. The dirt, the sweat, cause it's real. There ain't nothing phony 'bout this place. The blood, the bugs, the screams, they're all a part of me. That kid, that shot through the head he opened up a whole world for me.

A world where I am both a life saver and destroyer.

Me Soda Curtis and nothing I ever do in my life, even if I live 'til 100 will ever match the wonderful awfulness of this place. This warped heaven and gentle hell that I create.

And now I can't write to my buddies back home for an entirely different reason. It's not the curl of my fingers in retreat from the wrath of a vindictive teacher that stops me from writing; but the curl of my trigger finger.

They wouldn't understand. Even Darry and Pony who I love more than anybody, don't get shit about this place, they can't. They're good and normal.

But Darry wrote to me and I gotta write to him or else he'll get nervous. You'd wouldn't know it, but he gets more wound up than Pony, he just does a lot better job of keeping it to himself.

I hold my pen on the edge of my trigger finger, trying to think of what to say when we are living in two different worlds.

The guilt I've humped on my back like a dead elephant for smokin' that kid? Its done. Its over. It's has burned into the most beautiful bonfire and even in the rain it keeps me warm.

Each memory of the shot crackles and sparkles against the darkness of heavy eyelids, just like 'em stars Pony's always trying to get me and Darry to look at.

I start my letter,

"Hey Dar,

Tell Pony there our stars here…"

They're called bullets. And though I don't know shit about constellations, Big Dipper, Little Dipper, here I create whole galaxies.

S.E. Hinton owns.

And that's a wrap. This part of Soda's journey has come to an end.

I've had an intense love-hate relationship with this story. I'll be honest, it hasn't always worked out the way I wanted it. But for all the mistakes I've made with this piece (and there are plenty!) It has also included some of my favorite writing I've done. Its been an at times stressful, learning experience for me every step of the way; but the best learning experiences often are... :) Im incredibly grateful for everyone who has read, favored, followed, reviewed; who have indulged me and picked me up and supported me when I've gone through the doldrums with this story. The good parts of this story, where they exist, is all due to you and your encouragement, you kept me going. I am truly grateful and from the bottom of my heart...

Thank you. :-)