The Mean (Part 1) : by Stephen Richter

Part 1

† Mercutio †

“This is she! This is she!”
“Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!
Thou talk'st of nothing.”

“What’s the matter with you, Marine?!” said the man from Naval Investigative Service. Dust blew
all around us. He snatched the goggles from my face. My left side went numb. I opened my mouth
to speak but no sound came out. There was only a sucking noise.

I fell to the street, just 500 meters from the gate of our compound at the edge of Mogadishu city. I
watched the sky roll by while men carried me. I heard the rotors of a CH-53 Sea Stallion. Someone
placed an oxygen mask over my face. Gunny had finally done it, he’d killed me.

****

I opened my eyes, gasping, punching with my fists. The Humvee was empty. I opened the door and
stepped out into the pre-dawn. I rubbed my hands over my face. It was zero dark-thirty. The beach
and the city behind me were quiet now.

A shot was fired near the fence-line, by 7th motor T. The air smelled of salt.
On the other side of the compound sat a beach-front country club. The USS Carl Vincent aircraft
carrier dropped anchor 1000 meters offshore. Colonel Reap and the admiral crested a hill of sand.
They walked to the first tee of the 9 hole golf course. Their silhouettes moved across the rising sun.

I straightened out my cammies.

I reached back into the Hummer for a clipboard, initialed a box at the bottom of one of the new duty
forms, and slung my M-16 over my shoulder. I walked onto the green.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” I said, saluting.

“Outstanding morning, devil dog,” said colonel Reap. “Excuse me admiral. Sergeant, our interpreter
is down there with the zodiac. Help him stow his gear then get him to the morning brief.”

“Aye, sir,” I said.

I saluted then walked down a decline of sand. A sport fishing yacht flying an American flag floated
offshore. Men in uniform moved about her deck. A dingy rested on the beach up ahead. A dark
green marine in desert cammies threw his seabag ashore.

“Welcome to Somalia, corporal,” I said.

“I was born here, sergeant,” he said. We shook hands. His were soft.

“Welcome home then, corporal,” I said. I looked at his name tag then grabbed his pack. “You drive,” I said, “I’ve been on duty all night. I’ll probably kill us.”
A cluster of gunfire erupted in the distance. Corporal Fahrad and I crossed the green to the dirt road
that led back to the compound and to reality. We put on flack jackets and kevlar helmets then
climbed into the Humvee, I checked the safety on my M-16
“Take the dirt road all the way to the beginning of the razorwire,” I said, “When it becomes paved,
take that road all the way to camp. There’s a command det. with colors flying out front. Park behind
any of the vehicles, then wake me.”

“Okay, sergeant,” said corporal Fahrad, “How long will it take to get there?”
“About two minutes,” I said.

“That’s it?”

“That’s all you’ll ever get around this place,” I said, “5 to 10 minute power-naps at various intervals
throughout the day and night. No one sleeps for any consecutive periods of time.”

“Are you serious?”

“Ask me that three nights from now,” I said.

We drove. I watched the Indian Ocean through Fahrad’s window. I didn’t want to look at the city
just yet. I nodded.

“Wake up Wagner!”

I opened my eyes. Gunnery sergeant Higgle thrust his head through my open side window. Corporal
Fahrad stood behind him at parade rest.

“And just like that you’re a dead man,” said Gunny Higgle. He opened my door. “Come on,
sergeant. Lock it on a bit for the corporal here. Don’t teach him how to get killed his first day in this
god-forsaken place.”

“He’s from here,” I said. I climbed from the vehicle then elevated the muzzle of my M-16.
“Well twist my balls in a bow,” said Gunny, “Ain’t that kind of a conflict of interest there,
corporal?”

“I don’t understand,” said Fahrad.

“He’s the interpreter,” I said.

“Fair enough,” said Gunny, “Not trying to offend, just situation awareness, devil dogs. Gotta keep
her tight before the money-shot. Follow me, boys, you’re late.”

We followed Gunny. It was 05:40 hrs. March 28th, 1994. We entered a tent full of officers and
enlisted men. Thousands of Marines from the 15th MEU (Marine Expeditionary Unit. Part of the Marine Air Ground Task Force from Camp Pendleton, California) hit the beaches back in December. Gunny and I’d been here since August. We’d lost 18 men and two Blackhawk helicopters in October. A
thirty thousand-man media circus called Operation Restore Hope didn’t do much to help matters. President Clinton ordered all U.S. Forces to withdraw from Somalia by the 31st of the month. Everyone was going home. Everyone except for us.

“Alright, listen up!” said a Major in desert cammies. “Eyeballs!” The tent fell silent. “Let’s just talk security for a moment,” said the major, “Since General Aidiz continues to defy the United Nations, even though we are pulling out, we will still utilize all necessary means-”

“Ooh-rah!” said a sergeant in sunglasses.

“Easy, hard-charger,” said the major, “all necessary means to ensure the protection of the relief
efforts. That includes this compound.” His eyes searched the faces of the men standing in the tent.
“Gunnery sergeant Higgle?”

“Sir,” said Gunny.

“I want security det. to commence building to building sweeps and disarm the local population
around the perimeter of the-”

“Country club?” said someone.

“Supply Det,” said the major, “And do not take this lightly, devil dogs. Just because you’re short
and ready to go home does not necessarily mean you will make it there. Plenty of marines in this
room have seen what kind of price there is to pay for those who fuck around.
We have snipers in the buildings behind 7th motor’s fence-line again. I want that shit suppressed
before the final convoys arrive.”

“Aye sir,” said Gunny.

We all looked to one another.

“That’s right, gentlemen,” said the major, “We’re meeting our final relief flights at the airport for
one last tango in Paris. We’ll run six 5-ton trucks loaded with supplies then a Humvee with a 50cal.
on its roof in escort. Another six trucks then a Hummer and so on. The convoy will travel past the
Bermuda Triangle and down the green line. That means crossing the territories of two warlords, four militant sub-factions, and the generally pissed-off local population. The route ends right here at
the Supply depot."
(Bermuda Triangle: A triangular area inhabited by General Aidiz's Abgaal rivals, in the middle of south Mogadishu. Vehicles go
in but seldom come out.)
(The Green Line: The demarcation line between north and south Mogadishu, between Aidiz's forces and Ali Mahli's.)

“Rules of engagement sir?” said a captain in the front.

“We come in peace, if you fuck us we will kill you,” said the major, “That’s pretty much the policy
for the moment. But remember, gentlemen, you will still be under the all seeing eye of the
Associated press, CNN, the BBC, and fucking Telemundo. The media is everywhere, Marines. Do not make me have to grab my ankles in front of the old man because you did something stupid on TV. Cause if I’m grabbing mine then you’re definitely grabbing yours, understand me?”

“Yes sir!” we all said.

“Situation awareness, gentlemen,” said the major, “This general Aidiz is a real piece of shit,”

Corporal Fahrad swallowed.

“Anticipate and stay focused on the task at hand. If you get killed on my watch, marines, you will
be in a world of shit.” The major stood at attention.

“Atten-tion!” Said a first sergeant. We all complied. He saluted the Major.

“Carry out the plan of the day,” said the major. He saluted then left. We filed out of the tent behind
him, putting our helmets back on.

“You’ll need a weapon,” I told corporal Fahrad.

“Slow down, devil dog,” said Gunny. “He doesn’t need anything yet. Gather the troops behind the
command post. I’m gonna take a dump in the new porta-johns then meet you in five minutes.” He
walked off.

“Is he always like that?” said corporal Fahrad.

“Only if he’s had plenty of rest,” I said, “So you’re the only marine in the entire corps who speaks
Somali then.”

“Yes,” said Fahrad, “I never realized, I’m, well I’m a reservist.”

“and?”

“And I just do this stuff on the weekends, man.” His chest heaved. He looked around our perimeter.
“I was in my engineering class at Long Beach State,” said Fahrad, “Two marines showed up and
told me to follow them. We, no one told me I was going to be...” Fahrad’s eyes glistened.

“Come on, devil dog,” I said. “ Pull it together.”

Maybe I should have stayed in school after all, I thought. I envied corporal Fahrad for a moment,
then I didn’t envy him at all. “Could always be worse,” I said. “Let’s go, we’ve got about two
minutes to get squared away.”

“Two minutes?” said corporal Fahrad.

“Like I told you,” I said. My thumb clicked the safety on my M-16 to the fire position. “Ready...
Move!” We jogged down a row of cargo pallets stacked in columns. I watched the buildings on the
other side of the fence-line as we ran. Empty windows flashed in between the rows. I looked back at
corporal Fahrad. His eyes were wild, staring straight ahead.

Viva Las Vegas

By Stephen Richter | 2:02 a.m.
The birth of a Story: (naked verse: dialogue only)
Begin with only dialogue then move on to giving a sense of time and place in the world.

Part 1 – The voice

A: “I’m sorry, man. My battery’s dead. You wouldn’t know the score, would ya’?”
B:  “Seven – three, Patriots.”
A:  “Jesus.”
B:  “Yeah, I know. I don’t think New York’s gonna’ cover.”
A:  “You get down on the Jets, too?”
B:  “Huge.”
A:  “I feel you. We all unloaded on New York and the over.”
B:  “Who you working with?”
A:  “Vegas pipeline.”
B:  “No shit? Hank Russo still over there?”
A:  “Of course. It was his pick.”
B:  “I should have known. Where’s he getting his steam from?”
A:  “Stan Pastorini, he picks the games.”
B:  “Picks the games? Pastorini can’t even pick his ass.”
A:  “Well he did call last week’s Notre Dame lock-burial and-”
B:  “Hey, no offense, I’m just saying. I don’t think he puts that much thought into the process, that’s all.”
A:  “Well he sure had us all put enough dough into the process this weekend.”
B:  “Had you all unload, huh?”
A:  “Yeah, huge. He called it his burning bush play.”
B:  “Burning bush?”
A:  “Says it’s beyond inside information. It’s a divine pick.”
B:  “Real inside steam, huh?”
A:  “Supposedly.”
B:  “Didn’t Dr Vegas work over there with you guys?”
A:  “Yeah, until Sam Sharp shot him after the Super Bowl.”
B:  “I heard about that. Except I heard it was Tommy the Monster.”
A:  “No no, he was still with Billy the Hun and those guys at Black Book Sports back then.”
B:  “Well, it is a tough business.”
A:  “Fucking A. Yes!!! Yes!!!”
B:  “Yeah, baby! Get some!!!”
A:  “Ten – seven, baby!”
B: “Burning bush… Maybe Stan can pick his ass after all!”
A: “Whew, okay. Okay. We just need three more.”
B:  “Famous last words.”
A:  “Gotta’ love it though. Want one?”
B:  “Sure, why not. It’s better than drinking it out of the bottle.”
A:  “Yeah, plus Tums have calcium in them. So it’s harder for people to break your legs.”
B:  “You’re a funny guy. You’ll do good in this business.”
A:  “I try.”
B:  “That’s all a man can do.”
A:  “How long you been in sports?”
B:  “Since the Flintstones.”
A:  “No shit?”
B:  “1974, before your boss even played for the Oilers”
A:  “Wow.”
B:  “Big wow.”
A:  “So how do you deal with it? I mean, when they lose.”
B:  “I would’ve thought Hank taught you better, rookie.”
A:  “I know, I know. They’re all pieces of shit, degenerate gamblers that lie to everyone in their miserable lives…”
B:  “Come on, rookie, say it like you mean it.”

Part 2 – Place in the world

The guitar in front of the Hard Rock hotel casino flashed its neon strings. Limousines, taxis, and pedestrians gravitated toward the rotunda of the main entrance. Valets ran back and forth with a sense of intensity. Pockets bulged with tips and slips of paper for the patrons to reclaim their vehicles. A Country western singer wearing a cowboy hat gave the parking lot a “thumbs-up,” from the mammoth screens above Paradise road.

“Are you ready for some football?!!!” the flashing words read overhead.

Inside, Harley Davidson motorcycles lined the perimeter of slot machines that encircled the casino. Pit bosses counted chips at the craps tables. Patrons postured and flexed their financial feathers. Men tried to impress women with cash and coolness. Women sized up the men with caution, looking for signs of falsehood or feigned luxury. Football games played on every screen above every section of the casino.
At the center of the activity stood the World Bar.

Ice cubes jingled. People mingled and played. They smiled. The air smelled of liquor and AC. Here and there, among the happy, sat the serious ones. Their faces, set like stone, stared up at the screens. Some perspired, despite the air conditioning. Some chain-smoked. Some trembled when they lifted their glasses to their lips. Two men sat at the World Bar, pinned between the pushing and shoving customers who wanted to order drinks. One man was older. The other man was young. Both men drank bottled water. Both men held pocket notepads and pencils. Neither man spoke. The young man pulled a pager from his hip and looked at it. His expression darkened. He hit the pager against the palm of his other hand. He slammed it down on the bartop in front of him.

The Mean (Part 2) : by Stephen Richter

I looked back at corporal Fahrad. His eyes were wild, staring straight ahead.

Rounds impacted into a column of boxes. Wood splintered.

“Double-time, go!” I said. We passed through the gauntlet of the staging area then trotted to the safety of the sand bags. They surrounded three rows of tents on the beach. A guideon bearing a flag with the island of Okinawa, the Tori Gate, and the eagle globe and anchor, waved in the breeze.

“Japan,” said Fahrad. He placed his palms on his knees and breathed.

“Hei, so desu,” I said, “Okinawa kara kimashita.”

“You speak Japanese.”

“Yes,” I said.

I took Fahrad to meet the troops of 3rd Recon, or what was left of us. I passed on Gunny’s orders
then ran off to find Gunny myself. He wasn’t in the porta-johns. I knew that much. I jogged to a tent
with a red cross on its front then walked inside. Gunny turned around with a start.

“Fuck, Wagner,” said Gunny. He held a 12 ounce bottle of grape Robotussin in his hand. It
trembled. Corpsman Jackson stood behind Gunny. He shrugged his shoulders.

“Action Jackson,” I said.

“If you want action,” said the corpsman. “come see Jackson.”

“Ooh-rah,” said Gunny. He opened the bottle and drank its entire contents in three swallows. He
kissed Jackson on the forehead then threw the empty container in the trash.

“We have to go,” I said.

“Out-standing,” said Gunny. He inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes. He slapped himself across the face three times then rubbed his palms together. Gunny opened his eyes. He took a swing at me. I blocked the punch with my forearm. “Good shit, devil dog,” said Gunny, “Let’s do this.” He marched out of the tent. I followed him.

“Semper fly,” said Action Jackson.

“Good looking out, Jackson,” I said, over my shoulder.

“Always looking out,” said Action Jackson.

****

“You’re not going to believe this,” said lance corporal Bermúdez. Corporal Fahrad stared straight ahead. “I heard the brass talking behind the tent before the morning brief.” The troops sat with their backs against a wall made out of tractor tires. 7th Motor Transport had become the hottest spot on the depot. A city block of bullet-riddled buildings, with countless windows for snipers, loomed over the far corner of the fence-line. 7th Motor-T sat beneath the buildings on our side of the fence. Rounds impacted into the tires above our heads. Rounds impacted into the dirt beyond us. A round ricocheted off of a forklift loaded with relief supplies.

“How’s that for gratitude?” I said.

“That’s what I’m saying,” said Bermúdez. “A marine was sodomized last night.”

“That was just me,” I said, “when Gunny told me we were staying on as part of the security
liaison.”

“No,” said Bermúdez, “physically. Someone crept into corporal Richardson’s tent, knocked him out
with a rag full of ether, then ass-fucked him something awful.”

“Oh come on,” I said.

“For reals, sergeant,” said Bermúdez, “I even heard an officer laugh about the guy calling him the
Ether Bunny.”

“Shut your sucks!” said Gunny. He ran across the expanse of dirt between Motor-T and the tire
maze. Rounds peppered the earth behind him. He slid into our position with a cloud of dust. “You
want to give up your position?” said Gunny, crouching, “Do it when I’m not around. Okay, I’ve got
us a vehicle.”

“Vehicle?” I said.

“You heard me, Sergeant,” said Gunny. He reached into a duffle bag. “Here you go, Somalia. I
brought your weapon.” Gunny tossed corporal Fahrad a bullhorn.

****

“We come in peace. If you turn in your weapons we will give you food and medicine.”

The voice of Corporal Fahrad echoed down the street, speaking Somali. A lone Humvee cruised in front of the buildings, outside the fence-line. A woman Marine drove. Gunny and I peered over the rooftop of the third building, watching them, then pulled our heads back.  Bermúdez placed the bipod of his M-249 SAW on the brick ledge. PFC Thompson opened a second can of ammo, stretching the bandoleer of rounds within easy reach of their weapon.

“Building two has hall exits and a fire escape down its port side,” whispered Gunny, “That is your
only responsibility, Bermúdez. Do not fuck it up. Kill anyone who crosses this sector of fire,
understand?”

Bermúdez nodded. Gunny winked at me. I tightened my harness.  Gunny counted with his fingers: 

Three...
Two...
One...

Gunny and I stepped onto the ledge that surrounded the roof of the building. We dove, headfirst.
Rope trailed out behind me. I kept my M-16 trained on the ground with my left hand. I brought my
right in to my chest to initiate friction. We ran down the wall of the building in an Auzzie rappel. I
hit the pavement and took cover behind a barrel of trash, in the alleyway between the two buildings.

Gunny smiled at me. I nodded.

We ran, without making a sound, from hard cover to soft cover, leapfrogging each other’s positions without need for words nor hand signals. From the dumpster - to an abandoned car - to a rock pile - through a broken first floor window - down a hall - into the stairwell - 2nd floor - 3rd floor - 5th floor - we stopped with our backs against each side of the 5th floor doorframe. I nodded. Gunny opened it. I walked into the hall with my M-16 at the ready.

The second fire team, led by Corporal Donovan, trained their rifles on my head and torso. They recognized me then elevated their muzzles. Gunny walked into the hall. He pointed to various doors. We each took a position in front of one. Gunny looked at his watch.

“We come in peace. If you turn in your weapons we will give you food and medicine.” 

The Humvee was right outside the building now. Gunny walked to the end of the hallway and put
on his earpiece.

“Do not move unless we hear gunfire,” said Gunny’s voice in my earpiece, “Lance Corporal
Hargett, tell Somolia to step out of the vehicle please.” Gunny took aim on the door in front of him.
We all did the same. 

“We come in peace-”

Shots fired.


We kicked in the doors. I shot a sniper in the back. An antique M-1 rifle dropped to the floor. He fell. I shot him again in the back of the head. Blood pooled around him.


I turned to leave. Gunny had been watching me. He walked over to the dead man and crouched down, looking him over. Gunny touched the blood on the floor with his fingertips. He stood.

“Blood make the grass grow,” Gunny said. He ran his finger over my nose and chin, leaving a stain.

“Kill, kill, kill,” I replied. Gunny turned and left. I stood there, trembling. 

****

The Mean (Part 3) : by Stephen Richter

“Bullshit, marine,” said the man from Naval Investigative Service, “You really expected us to believe that?”

“Sir, we heard shots,” I said, “Gunny instructed us to investigate then we did what we had to do.”

Everyone was sweating, each for his own reasons. N.I.S. had interviewed all the members of our
group except for Gunny, Corporal Fahrad and Lance Corporal Hargett - the driver. Now it was my
turn. It felt strange being back in the same tent we had started in that morning. The three N.I.S.
officers wore suits. They seemed disappointed that there weren’t any lights to shine on me. The
youngest one kept trying to open the tent flap wide enough to let the sunlight hit my face. The
senior officer made him stop. The third officer shook his head.

“Look, marine,” said the senior. He straddled a chair in front of me. “I could really give a shit what
happened out there. But this place is still swarming with the news media. That means if someone in
Washington has to stand in front the camera and explain anything, anything at all, then my director
will be grabbing his ankles in front of that very same someone. That means I’m grabbing my ankles
in front of the director and you, my friend, will be grabbing yours in front of me.”

“We want to talk to you about Gunnery Sergeant Higgle,” said the junior officer.

“I have nothing to say,” I said.

“Then why don’t we talk about Kinville, in Japan.” said the senior.

****

I walked out of the tent. It was nearly sunset. Gunny made eye contact with me from a bench. I
nodded. Gunny stood. The junior officer called Gunny’s name. He walked past me into the tent. I
sat down on the bench next to corporal Fahrad.

“Why don’t you grab some sleep for a couple minutes,” I said, “Believe it or not it’ll do you some
good. I can wake you when they call.”

“Two minutes,” said Fahrad. He looked like hell.

“I need to talk to you,” said lance corporal Billy Joe Hargett. She sat down on the bench beside me.
She wore a t-shirt and cammies. Her hair was shaved tight.

“Why the hell were you driving today?” I whispered.

“Gunny said he wanted to keep an eye on me,” said Billy Joe. She looked me in the eye. Hers were
green. She looked to the porta-johns then back at me. I nodded. She stood then walked to them. I
waited until she went inside one, then stood and walked over myself.

****

“This is horrific, Gene,” said Billy Joe. Billy Joe is from Georgia.

“Considering they only installed these yesterday,” I said. I looked down the hole. Billy Joe slapped
me across the face.

“Wake up, Gene!” said Billy Joe, “Don’t you see what’s going on? That’s why we’re in this mess in
the first place. I need you serious for a second here.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m just tired. What happened?”

“I need to get my life back,” said Billy Joe, “that’s what happened. I want to get back to my
husband in Japan, Gene, you understand me?!” She grabbed my shirtfront.

“What the hell’s going on here!” said Gunny Higgle. The door to the porta-john flew open. Billy
Joe and I blinked. Corporal Fahrad stood at parade rest behind Gunny, smiling. The three N.I.S.
agents stood beside him. The junior one looked at his clipboard.

“Lance Corporal Hargett?” he said.

“Right here, sir,” said Billy Joe. She walked to the agents and followed them to the tent. Gunny’s
eyes burned into mine.

“Meet me at bivouac,” said Gunny. He turned and walked away. I stepped down from the porta-
john. Corporal Fahrad was laughing now.

“Well, you sure seem to be in better spirits there, hard-charger,” I said.

“You only get two minutes, marine,” said Fahrad, “Next time make it count.”

“I’ll do that,” I said.

I turned to follow Gunny. Shots rang out in the distance, small arms, rifles, then automatic weapons.
An alert siren went off. We all ran for the gate, weapons at the ready. There was a roar, like the
crowd in a soccer stadium. The convoy appeared up the road in the distance. A multitude of starving
people, thugs and militants ran alongside them, throwing rocks and bottles. There was a single shot.
The convoy stopped. There were screams then automatic weapons fire erupted from lead vehicle in
the convoy. The crowd scattered. The convoy peeled out, racing towards us. We cleared the center
and held the gates open for the vehicles to enter the compound. Marines were wounded. Action
Jackson preformed CPR. People screamed. Cameras flashed. The boys from N.I.S. ran towards me.
I turned around, towards the setting sun, and held my breath. They ran past me, into the fray.

I walked away.

For most of these marines, it was their last day in country. I figured I’d leave them to settle their
affairs. I had bigger fish to fry and a problem to deal with. If I didn’t do something about it I’d be
screwed. If I did anything though, I’d be screwed. What should one do when they’re about to be
screwed? I just wished there was something in between the two extremes. I worked my way through
the pallets of the staging area, back to the sandbags on the beach. I looked at our flag, on the
guideon, stabbed into the sand at my feet.

“Okinawa,” I said.

The last rays of sunlight vanished behind the city and Africa grew dark again. Bats flew. I stared at
the largest tent at the end of the first row for almost a minute. My heart pounded in my chest. I
tucked my 9mm. into the front of my trousers and covered it with my t-shirt. I reached into my
cargo pocket. It was there, a full bottle of grape Robotussin. Not the Chinese shit either, the German
shit. Gunny would be pleased. I swallowed hard then walked towards the tent.

“Bring your ass in here, Wagner,” said Gunny.

“Holy shit I think it’s Robo-Gunny...” I said. I poked my head through the opening of the tent.
Gunny’s expression brightened.

“And his sidekick, Sergeant Fury!” said Gunny, “bring that ass, devil dog.” He threw his arms
around me locking me into a bear-hug.

“Alright, devil dog that’s enough,” I said. I could barely breathe. Gunny squeezed harder. He leaned
back, lifting me off the ground.

“Robo and Fury!” said Gunny, “back in the saddle!”

“Gunny!” I said.

He released me. I handed him the bottle of Robotussin. “Nice work out there, killer,” I said, regaining my breath.

“A lovely work it was, devil dog,” said Gunny. He examined the label on the bottle. He smiled then
punched me in the arm.  “Big spender. I should’ve wore my fuck-me pumps. He roared with
laughter then stopped. “So what did you tell them?”

“Nothing, Gunny,” I said.

“Then that’s the longest forty-five minutes of nothing I never heard of,” said Gunny. He winked at
me, giggling. He got that way sometimes, Gunny Giggles, Robo-Gunny, those are some of the
names he’s been called over the years that I’d served with him. Gunny peeled the plastic from the
top of the bottle. They just never understood Gunny, that’s all. Gunny’s log book was open on top of
an ammo box. A black and white photograph of Gunny at Khe Sanh was taped to the inside cover.

“They asked me about Kinville,” I said.

Gunny’s expression darkened. His neck muscles flexed with anticipation. I should’ve caught that
but I didn’t. Gunny pinned me against the wall with a knife to my throat. It cut me. My hand went
to my trousers.

“Excuse me,” said Corporal Fahrad. He stepped into the tent. “Oh my, I’m sorry,” said Fahrad.
Gunny and I stepped away from each other. I walked to the exit.

“Hey!” said Gunny. I looked back. He pointed to his eyeballs then pointed at me. “What the hell do
you want now, Somalia, a foot massage?” I walked away. “Apparently you’ve forgotten some of
your basic Marine Corps practical knowledge haven’t you, son?”

I had to find Billy Joe.

I crossed the compound with caution. There was still plenty of activity around the convoy. I touched
my neck then looked at my fingertips. It wasn’t bad. I crept through Supply Company, past the
armory, behind headquarters, towards the main tent of the chow hall.

A shadowed figure slipped out of the tent then entered the maze of cargo boxes stacked behind it.
I stopped.

“What the hell?” I said. I walked back and peered into the tent. Moonlight cast my shadow onto the
floor boards. Lying on the floor, was an unconscious Marine. His trousers were around his knees.
“filthy Ether Bunny,” I said.

I looked at the marine. I looked around the tent then off in the direction the shadowed figure had
fled. I looked at my watch.

“Sorry, devil dog,” I said.

****

The Mean (Part 4) : by Stephen Richter

Motor-T was quiet. I low-crawled up to a bullet-riddled porta-john. Gravel crunched beneath my
chest. Firelight emanated from the maze of tractor tires. I looked up at the apartment buildings.

Nothing.

I crept to the entrance of the maze then walked inside. Someone was playing Billy Holiday. I heard
laughter. I walked faster. I smiled. Where was it coming from?

The maze opened up to a center courtyard. Marines sat on pallets of food. They ate Twinkies,
caviar, olives stuffed with various things, SPAM, smoked oysters and corned beef hash. Someone
passed a bottle of Jack Daniels around. Some marines had beers. A small campfire burned in the
middle of the secret campsite and marines were actually making smores. The radio played, just loud
enough to be heard but not enough to get busted. Rome was burning and the boys were going home.
Billy Joe sat on a pallet of Tapatillo Hot Sauce. She took a sip from a bottle of Crown Royal
whiskey. She drew her knees to her chest and stared into the fire.

“Komban wa?,” I said, bowing.

“Nothing has been good about this evening, Gene,” Said Billy Joe. I climbed up next to her, on top
of all that hot sauce.

“I need to talk to you,” I said, “but I’m so tired I can’t even remember what it was anymore.” I took
a sip of her Crown Royal then closed my eyes.

“Why don’t you sleep for a couple of minutes,” said Billy Joe.

“Why don’t you sleep for a couple of minutes,” I said.

“I should,” said Billy Joe. She laid her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “we’ll figure it all out.” I blinked, trying to stay awake.

“Gene?” said Billy Joe.

“nan’ desu ka?”

“Do you think we’re being punished?”

“For what we did or what we didn’t do?” I said.

Billy Joe sat up. She looked into my eyes. “Both,” she said.

“It’s normal to have regrets,” I said, “but I don’t feel responsible, not for everything. We just need
to get out of here.”

“When, Gene?”

“I’m working on it. You know how delicate it is.”

“Promise me,” said Billy Joe, “I’m serious, I can’t take much more of this. Promise me we’ll make
it back to Japan. I have to believe it again, cause’ if I don’t...”

I looked up at the apartment buildings. I looked at my fellow marines, the faces around the
campfire.

“Gene?”

“I promise,” I said.

Billy Joe rested her head on my shoulder again. My eyes kept closing. My head kept nodding. Billy Holiday kept singing.

“Sergeant, Wagner!”

I opened my eyes.

“Sargent, Wagner, get him!” said corporal Fahrad.

Gunny hurdled the campfire. He danced, shirtless in dog-tags, skivvies and boots. Corporal
Donovan grabbed ahold of gunny’s wrist.

“Come on now, Gunny,” he said. Gunny reversed the hold and twisted corporal Donovan’s wrist over, flipping him onto the ground.

“No no no, papasan, I don’t think so,” said Gunny. He stepped away, giggling. He continued to
dance. Someone turned off the radio. Gunny’s eyes locked on the marine who had done it.
“Radio!” said Gunny. “Turn on the fucking radio, marine!!!”

A round impacted near the fire. We all looked back up at the apartment buildings.

“Cocksucker,” said Gunny, “would you look at that?” He turned around and scrutinized us. He
smiled. “Verry well,” he said. Gunny sprinted towards the fence-line.

“Wait” I said. I ran after him.

“Gunny!”

He was fast, almost three times my senior. Maybe the weight of my clothing prevented me from
catching him. Maybe I was afraid to catch him. Gunny rolled into a trench, slipped under the fence
then vanished into the darkness between buildings.

“Oh no,” whispered corporal Fahrad. Billy Joe ran up behind him.

“Oh, this is just stupid,” whispered Billy Joe, “If he wants to get killed we should let him then.”

“He’s a marine,” whispered Fahrad, “That part I still remember.”

“You know nothing,” I said. I peered into the darkness where Gunny had vanished. I pulled the
9mm from the front of my trousers and tucked it into the small of my back.

“Gene, don’t,” said Billy Joe, “Fahrad, where are you going with that bullhorn?”

“Gunny told me to guard it with both my shriveled balls.”

“Gene!”

I low-crawled on my stomach, slipped under the fence, then headed after Gunny. My heart pounded
in my ears. I approached the dumpster I had taken cover behind earlier. I crouched down with my
back to the wall and breathed. I closed my shooting eye to develop some quick and dirty night
vision. I counted to ten.

I retraced our steps - from the dumpster - to the abandoned car - to a rock pile - through a broken
first floor window- down a hall - into the stairwell - 2nd floor - 3rd floor - 5th floor - I stopped with
my back against the side of the 5th floor doorframe.

I entered the hallway.

The doors were still kicked open. I don’t know why I expected them to be otherwise. A giggling
sound emanated from a room at the end of the hall. I cross-stepped towards the room, pistol at the
ready. Inside, Gunny knelt on the floor cradling a young man’s head in his lap. It rested against Gunny’s
forearm, in a headlock. A mardouf of *khat and a rifle lay beside the young man’s arm on the floor.
Gunny rocked him back and forth. (*The leaves of an Arabian shrub, which are chewed (or drunk as an infusion) as a stimulant.)

“Had to be a cocksucker,” said Gunny. He was sobbing, “Had to make me kill him, Gene, had to
fuck it all up. Couldn’t just let us have a couple of minutes to relax, fucking people, man.” He
punched the deceased Somali in the face.

“Easy, hard-charger,” I whispered. I placed my hand on Gunny’s shoulder, “easy.”
“Gunny?” said corporal Fahrad. Gunny looked at Fahrad’s bullhorn then smiled. Gunny’s face
hardened. He snatched the pistol from my hand then pointed it at Fahrad.

He fired.

A man with a rifle fell backwards in the hall behind Fahrad. Gunny had saved his life.

“Let’s get out of here, devil dogs,” said Gunny. He sniffled, “shirt, please.” He looked to Fahrad.

“Aye, Gunny,” said Fahrad. He removed his t-shirt and threw it to Gunny. Gunny smiled. Fahrad
looked down at the dead men. His expression faded. He looked back at Gunny.

“Let’s go,” I said. We crept down the hall, pistol, rifles, and bullhorn at the ready.

****

The Mean (Part 5) : by Stephen Richter

“Wagner?”

I opened my eyes.

“Hey, Action Jackson,” I said, “What are you doing here?”

“Wagner, reveille reveille let’s go,” said Gunny. Jackson vanished. Gunny peeked his head into my
tent. “Eight minutes there, sleeping beauty. That’s more than generous. I need you now, devil dog,
move!”

I followed him. The sky turned shades of purple.

A row of Humvees with roof-mounted 50 caliber machine guns idled in front of the command post.
Billy Joe stood beside one of them at parade rest. My stomach sank. She was standing at parade rest
beside the taxicab in Kinville that night. It was monsoon season.

“Wagner!” said Gunny, “Get to your vehicle, sergeant. Let’s go!” He climbed into the passenger’s
seat of Billy Joe’s Humvee. I walked over to mine. Corporal Fahrad was driving. He had a properly
fitting helmet, sunglasses and a shotgun beside him.

“Where’d you get all that?” I said.

“Gunny gave it to me,” said corporal Fahrad.

“Move out!” said Gunny. Vehicles roared to life. We sped through the gates and into the streets of
Mogadishu. I put my earpiece on.

Gunny led us down side streets and alleyways, keeping to the outskirts of the city. The dirt roads
kept us away from the danger of the Bermuda Triangle and the warring clans. We traveled off-road
most of the way to the airport. I looked at the city through our dust trail. The sun rose. Two C-130
aircraft banked over the Indian Ocean. A helicopter prepared to land up ahead. A group UN
peacekeepers opened the gates.

****

“Gene, what did you tell N.I.S.?” said Gunny.

We walked along a column of Trucks and Humvees idling on the flight deck of the Mogadishu
airport. The islamic call to prayer echoed over the city.

“Gunny, I would never betray you,” I said, “You know that.”

“That’s not an answer, devil dog,” said Gunny.

“I told them I had nothing to say.”

“Gene, do not fuck with me!” said Gunny in a whisper, “You know the truth, damnit. I swear I will
kill every last one of-”

“Aten-tion,” I said. Gunny and I stopped. We saluted Colonel Reap.

“Freddy, walk with me for a moment,” said the colonel. He led Gunny away by the shoulder. The
helocopter idled on the tarmak behind them. Billy Joe and Fahrad walked towards me.

“What’s going on?” said Fahrad.

“It doesn’t concern us,” I said. I looked into Billy Joe’s eyes. They questioned me. “We better just
focus on making it back to the compound, devil dogs.”

“Gene,” said Billy Joe, “he’s acting strange.”

“Just focus,” I said, “we’ve gotta keep-”

“I can’t.”

“You’re gonna have to,” I said.

“I can’t do this anymore!” said Billy Joe. I looked towards Gunny and the colonel.

“I’ll ride with you,” said Fahrad, “It’ll be better if Gunny has a translator in the vehicle anyway,”

“Thank you, Fahrad” I said.

“Mohammed,” said corporal Fahrad. Billy Joe and I looked at him.

“Thank you, Mohammed,” I said.

“Alright, ladies, let’s do this!” said Gunny. The colonel’s helocopter took off. “All bullshit aside,
hard-chargers, we now have only one mission in this life - to get everyone safely back to the depot.”

“Ooh-rah,” said Billy Joe.

“Let’s move out,” said Gunny.

Gunny marched to Billy Joe’s Vehicle then climbed into the passenger’s seat. I adjusted my goggles. Fahrad checked the safetey on his weapon. I patted him on the helmet. We walked towards the convoy.

“Be careful,” I said near Billy Joe’s ear.

We passed behind her Humvee. I grabbed her hand. She looked back. Her hand slipped through my fingertips. Billy Joe climbed into the driver’s seat of the
Hummer. I slapped the body of her vehicle twice then walked over to mine. Lcpl. Bermúdez sat
behind the wheel. Pfc. Thompson stood in the Gun turret.

“Stay on Gunny,” I said.

The column of trucks pulled out of the airport, heading into the city. It was nearly noon. Groups of
people gathered in front ruined buildings, chewing khat. Khat contains an alkaloid called cathinone,
an amphetamine-like stimulant that causes excitement, loss of appetite and euphoria - the perfect
high for a starving nation.

“We’re gonna have a whole city-full of gunnies on our hands,” said Lcpl. Bermúdez.

We rounded a corner. People’s cheeks bulged, exaggerated by the wads of khat leaves. Almost
everyone on the street had glazed over eyes. Bermúdez stepped on the gas.

“I doubt anyone sleeps in this country anymore,” I said. I watched the zombies blur by
outside,“Who would want to anyway?”

“I do,” said Bermúdez.

We passed a Roman Triumphal Arch with latin engravings. It must have been such a beautiful city
once. The road narrowed, funneling into a smaller street. Buildings walled each side of the convoy.

“Why are people so self-destructive?” I said.

“Human nature, Baby,” said Bermúdez.

We slowed. A crowd formed, growing all around us. A brick hit the body of our vehicle.

“Son of a bitch!” said Thompson. Urine dripped from his helmet and cammies. It poured into the
vehicle. “They’re dumping piss on us from the roof of the buildings!”

“We’re getting out of here!” said Gunny’s voice in my earpiece, “Make a hole!”

“Shit, follow them!” I said. Gunny’s vehicle lurched forward. They hit a woman then drove up onto
the sidewalk. The crowd roared. The Humvee ploughed its way to the intersection then peeled-out
up the next street. We followed.

We hit a pedestrian at the corner then fishtailed. Bermúdez corrected. We turned onto the same road
as Gunny. We raced up an adjacent street two blocks over, pushing to get in front of the convoy.
Glimpses of the trucks flashed between the intersections. The crowd on the street had doubled in
size around them. Shots rang out.

“Gunny!” I said. There was a bright light.

****

The Mean (Part 6) : by Stephen Richter

“Do not move,”

I opened my eyes.

My whole body hurt.

Billy Joe’s hand was clapped over my mouth. It was night. A fire burned somewhere. I smelled
smoke. We were in the city still. Billy Joe laid on top of me beneath a pile of trash. A spotlight
moved over our position. The wheels of an armoured vehicle passed by. The plastic trash bags that
were covering our heads blew off. Billy Joe’s heart pounded against my chest. Over her shoulder, I
saw a group of armed men cross the trash pile, right next to us. They followed the armoured vehicle
down the street. I exhaled.

“What happened?” I whispered. My vision blurred.

“Thompson’s dead,” whispered Billy Joe, “Bermúdez, lost some fingers. You were only scratched-
up and unconscious. You may have a concussion.”

“Where’s Gunny?” I said.

“Come on,” said Billy Joe. She slid off of my chest then low-crawled over the trash and rubble. I bit
down on my molars and followed her to the corner of a bullet-riddled building. Moonlight cast
shadows against the wall. Billy Joe low-crawled to the skeleton of a Fiat automobile. She returned

with an Alice pack, an M-16 A2, a radio, and a 9mm. pistol. I took the 9mm, put on an earpiece, then followed her into the bushes - over a ruined brick wall - along a fence - to a hillside with a view of a wrecking yard below. At the base of the hill sat a building with no roof. Moonlight shone
directly into the building’s interior.

The armored vehicle drove into the yard, followed by the same men who had just walked past Billy
Joe and I a few moments ago. Jeeps, Humvees, and civilian vehicles formed a semicircle. Their
headlights illuminated the building below us. Men with rifles took cover behind the vehicles.

Muzzle flashes erupted from the building.

I saw the people clearly now, crouching inside.

“Gunny,” I said. I held down my transmitter. Billy Joe flipped the rear sight over on her M-16 and
took aim.

“Glad you could make it, devil dog,” Gunny’s voice crackled in my earpiece, “We’re out of rounds
down here!”

“We could leave him, Gene,” said Billy Joe. She aimed at the vehicles then at the men taking cover
in the background. The side hatch of the armored vehicle opened. A man in uniform stepped out in
front of the headlights. He lifted a bullhorn to his lips.

“Wait,” I said.

The officer spoke into the bullhorn in Somali. Muhammed answered back in Somali. His bullhorn
squealed with feedback. The officer laughed.

“This I have to see with my own eyes,” said the officer in english.

He marched to the entrance of the building. His men followed him. Faces glowed with sweat
beneath the moon and headlights.

“I’m on the hill behind you,” I said. Gunny didn’t answer me. He left  his transmitter on.

“I guess you really are a marine then,” said the officer. His men filled the room, surrounding Gunny,
Bermúdez, and Mohammed.

“Prepare to shoot the officer,” I whispered. Billy Joe sat back onto the heel of her boot and exhaled.
Her muzzle moved in tiny figure eights.

“Watch out,” said Bermúdez, “careful with my hand, man, my fingers are missing!”

“Why do you have the face of my enemy, marine?” said the officer. He shined a flashlight on
Muhammed’s face, “just a younger face...” He stepped closer.

One of his men placed the muzzle of his rifle to the side of Bermúdez’s head. He pulled the trigger.
Bermúdez’s body fell to the floor.

Gunny drew his K-bar. He stepped to the assailant and sliced his stomach open. Entrails spilled.
“Cut, cut, stab!!!” said Gunny. He slit the Somali’s throat twice, then buried the knife under the
man’s chin, nailing him to the floor. He stood. Everyone was silent. They all took aim at Gunny
then started yelling.

“Wait!” said the officer, “Everyone stop. Take it easy.” He laughed and patted Gunny on the
shoulders, “You crazy Rambo-man!” He kept laughing and patting Gunny on the back.

“What?!” said Gunny. Muhammed looked away. “You want to kill me?!”

“Come,” said the officer, “this way.”

They marched Gunny and Muhammed out of the building at gunpoint.

“I have a shot,” said Billy Joe.

“Wait,” I said. I turned up the volume on my radio.

The officer barked orders to his men behind the vehicles. They opened the rear hatch of the armored
troop transport. They dragged a group of eight or ten prisoners out in front of the headlights. They
were all blindfolded. Gunny and Muhammed stood beside the officer.

“Rambo-man,” said the officer, “Show me how you did that with the knife. I want you to show me
again, on this man right here.” He pointed to the first blindfolded prisoner.

Gunny said nothing.

“Just this one man here,” said the officer, “Then I’ll try on that man.”

“It’s not happening,” said Gunny.

“Come, please,” said the officer, “show me. If you show, then I’ll let the rest of them go free.
Good?”

“No,” said Gunny.

“Gene...” said Billy Joe.

“Wait,” I said. I dug through the Alice pack and removed three M-1 fragmentation grenades. I
pulled  one of the pins.

“I’ll let you go,” said the officer, “Here, show me. I let your friend go too, Rambo-man. Yes! Just
show me.” He handed Gunny his knife back. Gunny looked at the officer. The officer nodded and
smiled.

Sweat stung my eyes.

“You don’t show me, I’ll kill them all, Rambo-man,” said the officer, “I was going to kill these men
tonight anyway. What is two more lives compared to the eight? Plus I’ll let you and your friend
leave this place alive.” Gunny and Muhammed looked at each other. “So what do you say, Rambo-
man?”

Gunny looked down at the K-bar in his hand.

“Ready...” I said.

Gunny looked back at the officer.

“I have the shot,” said Billy Joe.

“Kill him!!! Kill,” said some of the prisoners, “Let us live!”

I let the spoon of the grenade fall to the earth. I prepared to throw.

Gunny smiled. He giggled.

“No,” said Gunny.

Egyptian Lover

By Stephen Richter | 1:32 a.m.

 

During the summer of 1985 a fifteen year old boy went to Egypt and Israel, when he returned he was a man. I first laid my eyes on the Treasures of King Tutankhamen at the Ciaro museum with my father. The golden death-mask crowned with a cobra and a vulture had the countenance of a boy. We spent a month traveling from Cairo and Giza in the north to Luxor and Karnak in the south. I fell in love with a French girl on a midnight train. We crossed the Sahara desert beneath a full moon, to the Valley of the Kings. As that summer past, I learned more about the turmoil and challenges Tutankhamen faced being thrown into such an arena of giants. The clever and politically ambitious leaders of the military, the church, his advisors and family members all wanted to subvert his throne. When one is surrounded by people who truly wish you were dead and your name erased from history, one has to find a way to keep up appearances, to trudge through and keep going. Maybe bring people together, to do the best they can with their kingdom, that’s all Tutankhamen could do. Even at fifteen I could sympathize.

“May your Ka, your life force live. May you spend millions of years, oh you who love Thebes.” The inscription encircles the rim of a chalice that once belonged to King Tutankhamen. To fear things that have an end is human. As I stood in front of that same chalice at the De Young museum in San Francisco last Thursday, it was the humanity that struck me the most. In a dark treasure room full of gold and the people who had come to see it, I stopped and sat down. I sat on a bench with my wife in the corner, next to Tutankhamen’s chest plate. For a half hour we stayed there and the events of the years since Cairo washed over me. The good, the bad, the triumphs and tribulations, and I was grateful to be there, there with my wife at that instant on the timeline.

“It’s almost too personal for me,” said my wife, “I mean, you just know, you can tell he loved these things. They were precious to him.” We left with plenty of memorabilia, since I’d lost many of the things I’d brought back from Ciaro over the years. It’s been an amazing life. I’d hate to see it end and that’s human. The Egyptian Book of the Dead says, when we speak the names of the dead we make them live again. Leaving the city, I decided to take highway 1 back to Santa Cruz instead of the freeway.

“Tutankhamen,” I said.

 

We turned left at Half Moon Bay and headed south.

 

No You Can't (Featuring John Boehner)

God bless America and god bless our president. It's one hell of a job.

False epiphanies

By Stephen Richter | 2:06 a.m.

Martín looked at the screen smiling. She’d left her email open. Yahoo España was written in the upper corner of the browser. Martín didn’t notice. His lips moved, mouthing a word again and again.

“Positíva...” he finally whispered.

He smiled. He frowned. He smiled again. He sat back in the chair and made a steeple with his fingertips. He nodded his head.

“¡Bueno!” he said. He slapped the desktop with the palm of his hand. He stood, took the checkbook and his overcoat and headed for the door. He left his briefcase sitting on the floor.

8:30 p.m.

Martín walked into the apartment. It was dark now. He turned on the light with his elbow.  Martín’s arms were full of shopping bags with bows and ribbons and colored tissue.

Angelica stood in the kitchen. She smoked a cigarette. A suitcase sat beside the kitchen door. It was ajar.

“¿Que te pasa?” said Martín. He put the bags on the table. “What’s wrong?”

She told him the truth.

The sun shone through the living room window. Martín slept in his suit on the couch. Bags, baby clothes and toys cluttered the floor. He looked at the kitchen door. It was closed now. She was gone. The alarm went off.

7:30 a.m.

Time to go to work.

The Guild

Project in Santa Cruz

Stormwatch

By Stephen Richter | 1:30 a.m.

I crossed the railroad tracks by the soccer field in the rain. I avoided the tunnel and walked up the hill towards west cliff instead. I had an urge to put my hands in my pockets but didn’t. I haven’t done that since before the Corps. I continued up the coast. White water boiled. It rolled into the bay. I bent my head to the rain and walked to the lighthouse. This place is sacred to me, at least for what it represents. The sea lions were gone. They’ve been gone for a while now. There were only three people disbursed along the guard rail, in the mist, at the edge of North America. They stared out at the sea. They watched her churn and smack against the cliffside. I did the same, for a while. I felt a bit silly, standing there with my wetsuit on beneath my jeans and jacket. I had walked down to see the waves. I wasn’t going to surf. I don’t even know why I had suited up in the first place. I took off my jacket. A woman watched me hop the guard rail. I walked to the edge of the cliff and stared out at the swell and the sea birds. I looked down.

“Come on,” I said, “It’s not a big deal.”

I held my hands in front of my face. I closed them into fists then opened them again. I looked at the lines, life lines, love lines and fingerprints.

“Hello, excuse me,” said the woman at the rail behind me.

I assumed it was her. I slid my hands into my pockets. I savored a pure and undisciplined moment for a moment then jumped off the cliff, into a patch of kelp and the Pacific Ocean. I back-stroked and got swallowed in the wash. The current drove me into the bay. I swam towards the pier, then once free, I swam towards the monument and the stairs beneath it. I climbed from the sea, clean, cold and winded. I smiled. I walked back for my jacket. The woman was gone. I headed down west cliff, over the railroad tracks, across the lagoon, to my home beneath the willow tree, beside the brook.

Unload!

 

From Mexico City to Las Vegas, Nevada, two men make a hypnotic journey into the dark heart of the sports gambling industry. They race against the clock to get the girl, the cash, and get the hell out of Dodge, as the streets of Sin City erupt with blood and mayhem.

By Stephen Richter

http://www.amazon.com/Unload-Stephen-Richter/dp/1450576060/ref=pd_rhf_p_img_2

Hawaiian Ice

Cultures collide when a group of recession-weary refugees from the mainland try to forget their pasts and begin a new life beneath the volcanic slopes of Mona Loa. In one night of confusion, the Big Island of Hawaii erupts with revenge, redemption, and delusion.

By Stephen Richter

http://www.amazon.com/Hawaiian-Ice-Stephen-E-Richter/dp/1449929753/ref=pd_rhf_p_img_1

Doing this for my health

By Stephen Richter | 2:52 a.m.

I watched our commander in chief struggle upstream to the top of Capitol Hill, in the name of our good health. I couldn’t help but think of Staff Sergeant Strong and his opinion on our nation’s health care system.

“Listen up Devil Dogs. If you somehow manage to injure yourselves or get yourselves sick, your lives will no longer be in my capable hands. It will be in the clutches of some miserable fat-body, in a white coat, with nothing better to offer you than a finger up the keister. And that’s about all the good you’re gonna get out of sickbay or some hospital. So until ordered otherwise, you are going to have to stay alive and healthy, and take responsibility for your own nasty little bodies, you understand me?!”

"Yes sir!"

“That means drink water, wash your hands, eat healthy - you know what to do so don’t bullshit me or yourself. Keep your hair short, all you hair short, so you don’t attract critters. Take your vitamins, PT every day, and stay away from whores, whiskey, and Robitussin. You do that, and you’ll live as long as Chesty Puller, and he had bullet holes and bayonet wounds in his body. If you don’t, and I find out you went and died on me, you will be in a world of shit, Marines, understand me?!!”

"Yes sir!"

"Carry on!"

Maybe it’s the Pavlov, maybe it’s the passion, but staff sergeant’s words have always made sense to me. One can never rely on someone or something outside oneself to provide them with “health care.” Big Pharma doesn't care about our health. It starts within, by taking good care of ourselves and by taking responsibility for maintaining a lifestyle that supports good health. My mother was the only one out of ten brothers and sisters that didn’t end up with diabetes, cancer, hypertension, and the long list of maladies her siblings have dealt with over the years. There are only three of them alive now, and she can attest it to one thing:

An ounce of prevention beats a pound of cure.

It’s a good place to start.

So regardless of the future of our nation’s healthcare system,

Take care of yourself, really take care of yourself.

Semper Fi,

Stephen Richter

¡El Paniquiádo!: panicked

The 15th of September, Independence Night, Mexico City: A salesman, a politician, a traficante, his scorned wife, a DJ, a federal agent, a poor little rich girl, a methamphetamine cook, and a sixteen year-old prostitute try to escape a city-gone-mad. There is only one night, one opportunity, and one way out of the land where no good deed goes unpunished.

By Stephen Richter

 

http://www.amazon.com/%C2%A1El-Paniqui%C3%A1do-panicked-Stephen-Richter/dp/1448684943/ref=pd_rhf_p_img_1

The Expatriate by Stephen Richter

The Expatriate is the story of Sidney, a man who discovers he is dying then drops everything in his life. He disappears to Mexico to face his final days alone. Planning for the inevitable, he's thrown into a world of dark secrets, double lives, escapists, predators, hunters and the hunted. Love, life, death, fear, friendship, music, betrayal, forgiveness and obsession thrive in the Baja, at the end of the world. Sometimes, when one is closest to death they start living, really living for the first time in their lives.

By Stephen Richter

http://www.amazon.com/Expatriate-Stephen-Richter/dp/1448653126/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_3