Below The Belt

Copyright© 2023 by Rottweiler

Description: Following the romance and intrigue surrounding a 38 year-old ex-Marine who is retired for medical conditions and suffers from chronic degenerative spinal injuries. Fancying himself a writer, he stumbled upon an agent who not only loves his no-nonsense recollection of life in combat-but agrees to help him publish it. Throw in two rascally rottweilers, a single widowed mother of twin girls, as well as her extended Filipino family, and you have enough intrigue to unsettle the most hardened Jarhead.

Tags: Some Sex, Ma/Fa, Consensual, NonConsensual, Romantic, Heterosexual, Fiction, Military, Rags To Riches, Interracial, White Male, Oriental Female, Massage, Oral Sex, Slow, Transformation, Violence

Published: 2023-10-11

Updated: 2023-12-17

Size: 103,924 Words

Chapter 1: OohRah!

“Ya gotta hold still if we’re gonna get this done Sergeant,” the metallic voice chimed through my headphones.

‘I’d like to grind your spine to dust and see you hold still fucker!’ I thought as I gritted my teeth inside the loud tube. It’s not like they tried to make you comfortable for the hour-long scan — nope, just lay on this hard-as-fuck bed and hold still. Never mind the pinched nerves and muscle spasms.

A loud popping and clicking began banging around my head as the MRI machine once more began its monotonous droning. ‘Just deal with it, Bishop, stop being such a pussy.’ This was probably my umpteenth MRI over the years so it’s not like it was new to me or anything. It still pisses me off that they can’t just take my word for it. No, it’s not getting any better. Yes, my pain is worse. On a scale of one to ten? Maybe a 6 overall. Compared to the worst pain ever, right? Yeah, a six. Waking up in Landstuhl, Germany after getting your shit scattered while on convoy oversight in Afghanistan — now that was a fucking 10!

God, I hate the VA!

---

Name’s Al Bishop, or Alex Vincent Bishop SSGT USMC/Ret(med), if you want to get all specific about it. I live alone in a single-floor, two-bedroom house that was probably built around the time Lincoln got his brain case ventilated. Like me it’s old, at least it feels that way sometimes. Who am I kidding? I ain’t old! I just look it. If I were any other ordinary 38-year-old guy I’d be cokin’ and jokin’ with the rest of the mates. What’s ordinary anyway? This is where I’d pull a Marlboro Red out of my breast pocket and light up, ‘cept I gave that shit up years ago. So now I just sit back in my easy chair and contemplate the meaning of life while Gunner and Libby sprawl on the floor at my feet, sleeping the day away.

Next to the left arm of my chair is a four-legged cane that helps me get around the place when I’m feeling particularly froggy. Next to my bed is a four-legged walker for when I am decidedly not. When things get really un-froggy I even have a wheelchair nearby, so I can make it to the fucking toilet without shittin’ my britches. To my right is a table with a lamp, a cold cup of coffee, my brand-new Lenovo Slim Pro laptop, and an original Springfield Armory 1911 Vickers .45, with eight in the mag and one in the chamber. If I had had this baby 15 years ago, I might’ve taken our Far East shooting team all the way. Yeah, it was developed by an Army puke, but that fucker knew his shit when it came to match-grade tactical handguns.

I was such a natural with the .45 that, after Boot Camp and SOI (school of infantry) at Camp Pendleton —they meritoriously bumped me to Lance Coolie and sent me to Quantico to try out for the pistol team. I’d been winning them cups ever since. My fame kept me punching holes for every unit I was ever assigned — just not the fleshy kind. I was too good for combat. Until I wasn’t — then I was awesome!

Something about a 1911 just felt right to a guy like me. It fits in the hand perfectly. I felt naked without it nearby and I slept better holding it sometimes, especially when the dreams came. It even fit perfectly inside your mouth on those days when you were ... so damn close!

I sighed loudly and Gunner’s eyebrow may have twitched. My coffee wasn’t gonna warm itself up. With a grunt, I stood and looked with disgust at my mobility assist device. ‘Fuck that.’ The kitchen was three steps away. I stepped around it and made my way to the coffee pot, where I refilled my cup and looked around the room. It was high time I got my ass in gear and cleaned this pig sty. The dishes were all clean and the counters were relatively free of clutter. But I hadn’t mopped or even touched a baseboard in damn near a year. I was at that stage of my debility that if I dropped something on the floor, it was soon forgotten.

---

“Well Gunny...”

“Staff Sergeant,” I corrected automatically.

The doc frowned at my record, “I thought you were a Gunnery Sergeant,” he mused.

“I was.”

“Hmm. Well anyway, your back is not progressing as we had hoped.”

‘No shit Doogie!’ There were so many pieces in there, that no one wanted to try and put me back together again. So, it was steroids, nerve blocks, and hard-core nerve frying procedures called ablations that ... mostly helped — until they wore off.

“We are going to have to switch up your meds a bit.” He didn’t regard my taciturn manner very highly, as he sat behind his desk reviewing my computer chart.

‘Of course, you are.’

“With the recent focus on opioid deaths, the VA is ceasing all narcotic prescriptions except for the most serious conditions, like cancer.”

“I don’t take narcotics, so what does that have to do with me?” I asked.

“In your case, the tramadol is considered a class C narcotic, even though it only acts upon the receptors.”

“You’re taking my tramadol away?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied, “we will put you on a six-month taper so that you can reduce your usage gradually. In the meantime, I am going to start you on a new medication called Cymbalta. It has had amazing reviews for chronic pain. It’s also a mood stabilizer, so it can help you when you are feeling particularly morose.”

Morose? My spinal vertebrae were slowly disintegrating and I’m about to lose the only effective medication that ever helped. And this limp-dick thinks I’m being morose about it?

See why I hate the fucking VA now?

---

As I stepped carefully back to the den, I felt something sticky on the floor. Dammit! Probably spilled soup or something — only a matter of time before the roaches and ants come calling. How am I supposed to keep this goddamn hovel clean if I can’t even tie my shoes? Might as well hire a maid or something ... as if I could afford one on my medical pension. Maybe someday, someone will buy my damn book and I’ll have a — what did Davee call it — an alternative revenue stream.

I returned to my chair with a cup in hand and regarded the two lazy Rottweilers sprawled across the floor in front of me. Gunner and Libby were brother and sister, from the same litter, 5 years old and pure block-headed German. I settled in my chair and glanced at the screen of my iPhone — 14:56 hours. The mail would be here soon. I was tempted to go out without my four-legged cane, but best not to take the risk. It’s humiliating enough having people watch me amble across the road to my box like a goddamned turtle with a broken leg. Not that any of them cared in this neighborhood. Bunch of fucking liberal hippies!

Well, enough pissing and moaning about bullshit. Maybe something good will come in the mail today. I was about due for a new Dixie Gun Works catalog. I got to my feet and grabbed my metal cane. Gunner and Libby were on their feet instantly, knowing I was headed out. They sat patiently by the door until I opened it and then escorted me out onto the porch like a color guard. Mahogany and black color guard, I snorted.

The mail truck had just pulled away as I stepped down and crossed the yard. The fence was only 4 feet tall with a simple gate. I had posted Beware of Dogs signs every so often along the front. Not that four feet of chain link would slow either of these two down if they ever got a burr in their saddle. But they were well-trained and fairly mellow at their young age, so I didn’t give it much thought. It didn’t even surprise me the first time Libby pawed the gate open and let herself out. It pissed Gunner off to no end because he was too dense to figure it out.

I had two bills for power and water, several form letters from the VA (you can always count on mail from them), a couple of pre-sorted letters offering some bullshit or other, and ... Hmm, a thick letter from J R Publishing — my book publisher. Tucking the bundle under my arm, I turned and headed back across the street while my two guardians attacked each other in the street. It was an ever-constant struggle between them, Wolverine versus Sabretooth. The achy pain was starting to creep back into my hips and lower back by the time I climbed the three steps to my porch and made my way inside. It was early but I decided to pop two tramadol anyways. I had gone the whole damn day without any and every so often I felt the chill shivers in the back of my skull from withdrawal.

Finally, I collapsed in my recliner and washed the pills down with warm coffee. I checked the time to see how long that mission had taken and ... I had a missed call from Davee. Davee was Frank Davenport and represented me as sort of an agent, even though he worked for J R Publishing. He was one of the few people I would ever put under my ‘friends’ column. We met at a Starbucks about a year ago. I liked to go there and write on my laptop and drink their drip coffee for hours. He was a regular too and eventually he broke the ice with that stupid question, “Are you writing a book or something?” After sitting and chatting a few times I opened up to him about the actual subject of my book — my memories and experiences as a combat Marine, up til that fateful day when I got my shit scattered and wound up with a Med board.

Early on he told me of his involvement with his publishing firm and gave me his business card. After pressing me a few times I let him take a glance at my manuscript. He turned my laptop so that he could look it over and sat there for over two and a half hours, completely engrossed in my tale. When he finished, he sat back and grabbed his untouched coffee. “Holy shit!” he muttered and stared across at me with a dazed expression. “Is any of that true?” he whispered.

“Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty,” I muttered back.

He shook his head and sat up straighter. “Mr. Bishop...”

I held up a hand. “Just call me Al,” I said, “or Bishop. Or puss-nuts, dipshit, jarhead, fuck-tard ... anything but ‘mister.’”

He grinned and then made a face after sipping his cold coffee. “Al then,” he pointed at the laptop, “this is good,” he stated directly, “I mean it is really good!”

I lifted my shoulders dismissively, unused to being complimented for anything other than my ability to reduce the human population.

“I think that you really need to consider publishing it,” he gushed, “and I would be honored if you would permit me to help you.”

“Well,” I hesitated, “I dunno about all that...”

“I do!” he replied with the eagerness of a teenager with a new video game, “we could seriously sell this, the marketing, the target audience...” he paused, “Did you have a title for it yet?”

“I was thinking something like: Dark Tales from Down Range — So you want to be a Jarhead?”

His eyes bulged, “Oh my God! That’s perfect!” he exclaimed, “this thing will practically sell itself!”

Another thing I learned about Davee early on. He was gayer than a three-dollar bill. Like a lot of the Squids, I used to work with.

---

I opened the phone and played back his voicemail: “Al baby, it’s Davee. Listen, I need you to call me before you open that envelope, okay? I need to go over a few things. Talk to you soon.” Well, that was ... strange. I called him back and he answered on the first ring.

“J R P, this is Davee.”

“So, you know when my mail arrives?” I growled back at him.

“Al!” he exclaimed excitedly, “Listen, I hope you are sitting down for this,” he paused for dramatic effect, “Dark Tales has sold!”

Okay ... I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Uh ... okay? Like how many copies?” I think the bigwigs only agreed to a trial run of 10,000 books in the first go-round.

“All of them!” he almost yelled, “we sold every single copy, except for the case we reserved for you,” he was bubbling over with excitement. “And that isn’t all,” he added, “the digital version has been downloaded several thousand times too! It’s like watching a ticker tape.”

Okay, maybe I was starting to feel something akin to excitement. “So, what’s with the letter?” I asked holding it up. The envelope was very thick.

“Oh,” he said less enthusiastically, “well there are some forms I need you to sign and then scan back to me. This authorizes us to go ahead with a second run. A much bigger run this time,” he seemed to be holding back on something.

“Davee...” I said with my ‘don’t test the Gunny’ tone.

“Okay look,” he said with a hint of guilt in his voice, “I tried to talk the company into cutting you an early royalty check but they are such stingy little faggots, when it comes to schedules and distributions and all that crap.”

Still waiting for the point here...

He sounded more nervous at my continued silence. “Anyway, they agreed to a small advance on your royalties earned, but it’s nowhere close to what I wanted to give you.”

I was suddenly taken aback as his meaning dawned on me. “You mean there’s a check in here?”

“Yes, but I just wanted to prepare you so that you aren’t too disappointed,” he breathed, “I promise your first quarter royalty reimbursement will be much, much bigger.”

I tuned him out as I grabbed my Tekto auto knife from my table and clicked it open. I sliced through the top of the envelope and removed the folded pages. There were several forms of official BS with highlighted areas for me to sign, a printed copy of the revised book cover, and a cashier’s check for... “Fifty thousand dollars?” I gasped.

“I know,” he said forlornly, “I’m sorry, I really tried to do better for you.”

Holy shit! This was more than my annual pension! “Huh,” I muttered aloud, “maybe I can get a maid.”

“What?” he replied confused, “a maid?”

“Yeah,” I said hesitantly, “it’s been getting hard to move around ever since the VA fucked up my medications,” I sipped my cold coffee, “so I’ve been thinking about hiring someone to help me out around here. Do you think I can pull that off?”

I heard him laughing in the background. “Al,” he chuckled into my ear, “very soon you will be able to afford an army of housekeepers, maids, and chauffeurs — and you will be able to afford the best medical care in the world!”

Well, ain’t that some shit?

---

The grammar left something to be desired but I had nothing to lose so I called the number and left a voicemail for ‘Lupi’ with my name and phone number. The cool thing about modern technology was that I didn’t even have to leave my home to put the check into my account. Navy Federal has this app where I can take front and back pictures of the endorsed check and deposit it electronically. After it clears in a few days, I would be $50K richer. Damn! I’ve never had that much money at one time in my whole life! I had barely received the acknowledgment from my Credit Union when my phone rang again. It was a 939 (South Alabama) area code.

“Hoorah Semper Fi,” I answered naturally.

There was some hesitation on the other end and then a childlike voice spoke in my ear, “Hello this is Lupi Cruz returning your call about the house cleaning service?” Damn was she twelve? Definitely Asian.

“Uh yeah,” I stammered suddenly, as the reality of my near-complete helplessness came crashing down on my shattered ego, “I’m Al Bishop and I could use a little help around the place from time to time. When can you come by and check things over?”

I heard her mumbling excitedly in the background. She probably had her hand over the microphone. It sounded like a foreign language. Then she came back on. “Yessir, I can certainly come by and see what you need,” she said brightly, “what is your address?”

I told her and repeated it because she was evidently writing it down carefully. This time she forgot to cover the mic and I heard her having an animated conversation with another woman in the background. I had no clue what they were saying to each other.

“Hi,” she said again, “I’m sorry about that. Um, yes, I could come over very soon and see what you would have me do for you,” English was clearly her second language which sort of explained the terrible ad in the Little Nickle, “Are you going to be home now?”

‘Kinda obvious ain’t it cupcake?’ I smirked to myself. “Yep, I’ll be here. Just call if you need further directions,” I told her, “But it’s pretty easy to find my place.”

“Okay sir,” she replied excitedly, “we will be there very soon.”

We?

---

Lupi Cruz was a slightly framed Asian woman of indeterminate age. She looked and sounded quite young and her body was very compact. She had long black hair that seemed to glisten in the light as it framed her oval face. Her small nose appeared slightly flat against her radiant cheeks and large full lips, but it was her large almond eyes that captured your gaze when you looked at her. They were full of excitement and energy. She stood perhaps 5 feet, 4 inches tall, and had surprisingly large breasts for her figure. She wore soft green muslin pants with a thin cream-colored pullover that covered her hips and the top of her ass. Rapid-fire impression — she was fucking gorgeous!

When I answered the door, I saw she had arrived in an older model Ford Focus and that the driver remained in the vehicle where it had parked on my driveway. I held the door for her and then shook her hand gently as I stood supporting my weight with the four-legged cane. Her big eyes began taking inventory of everything around her, as soon as she dipped her head in greeting and followed me inside. They froze and grew bigger when she saw Gunner and Libby perched politely on their haunches in the middle of the room, regarding her curiously.

I smiled as she gasped. “Don’t worry. Those two will happily lead you right to the safe and tell you how to open it for a simple scratch behind the ears.”

She placed a hand on her chest and laughed nervously. “Oh! They startled me! They are so big!” she said as she followed me over to them timidly.

“This is Gunner,” I introduced her to the male, “he has an old tear in his left ear from a scrap he had with a Pitbull a few years back,” I pointed to the ear and gestured for her to hold her hand out for him to smell her. His tail was already thumping excitedly on the floor, which put her nearly at ease. “And this silly goof is his sister, Libby,” I never even finished because Libby quickly asserted her dominance by nudging Gunner aside and licking the proffered hand eagerly. Lupi giggled but took her hand back quickly.

I led her into the kitchen and pointed out what I had in mind for her to help me with. We wandered about the house where she took in the two bedrooms (The second was sparsely furnished with an unmade full-sized bed and dresser. And the two bathrooms and a small side room. There was also a recessed back mud room where my washer and dryer were located along with my well-stocked pantry. On the back patioed porch was my brand new, state-of-the-art four-person hot tub. In the backyard was a small shop and carport where my vintage 84 Bronco sat parked, waiting patiently for me to be able to drive it once again.

“It’s not much but it’s home and it’s getting to be a challenge for me to keep up with the place.”

“Your home is very nice Mr. Bishop,” she replied genuinely, “I am so happy I get to help you keep it clean and fresh.”

I gestured for her to have a seat on the couch while I returned to my recliner. “So how does all this work?” I asked bluntly, “I’ve never hired anyone to help clean my home.” I thought and corrected myself, “I mean we used to all pitch in to pay a Mama-San to take care of our barracks and laundry, back on Okinawa.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, I loved living on Okinawa!” she said dreamily, “where were you stationed?”

Like a light bulb in my head, I suddenly realized that she was Filipino. “Mostly Camp Hansen and the Northern Training Area,” I replied, “we came and went through White Beach a lot. What brought you to the ‘rope’?”

She sat ramrod straight with perfect posture. “My husband was in the Air Force on Kadena,” she replied quietly, “He was a Forward Air Controller over in the Gulf.” I needed to look no further than her lonely expression to know his fate.

I knew the FAC and JTAC roles well, having worked with both during my years in combat. “I’m very sorry,” I said softly, “he was a pilot too?”

She nodded demurely and let her gaze drop. “He was.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” I repeated. “Forgive me for asking but, are you remarried?” Now why the fuck did I let that slip out?

She shook her head shyly, still looking downward. “I have a boyfriend,” she said hesitantly, “he helps support me and my children. We live with him. He waits in the car outside.”

“You can certainly invite him in if you want...” I started, but she began shaking her head no. I mostly knew when to mind my own business (sometimes I chose not to) so I kept my peace. “How old are your kids?”

She brightened and looked at me once more. “I have twin girls,” she beamed, “Didi and Lulu, they are 6 years old and just starting kindergarten.”

She had 6-year-old children? I scrutinized her more closely but still came up blank guessing her age. If she had them at age 18, she would now be 24. Did she look that old? Damn, it was impossible to tell!

“That must be something having twins to show off everywhere you go.” I smiled and then returned to the topic at hand. “So how much do you think you will charge and how do I pay you?” I asked, “Do you want a check every Friday or cash after each visit?” I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t know how this works so you will have to educate me.”

She seemed suddenly timid and reluctant to pursue the matter. “I um ... usually charge twenty dollars per hour,” she began quietly, almost as if she were afraid of offending me, “I can do a very thorough job here in probably two and a half ... maybe three hours.”

There was no way in Hell I was going to pay her ONLY $20/hr. “Would that be once a week or can you come by more often?” My question caught her off guard and she had to consider her response.

“I can clean your home once a week. But if you want me to come by sooner, I can do that as well.” She stammered, “I can also cook meals, do your laundry, and even do yard work if you need it.”

I slowly rose and smiled back at her. “Excellent! How soon can you start?”

She seemed immediately relieved and shaken at the same time. She wasn’t certain how to answer so I prompted her.

“Can you start right now?”

She rose and fidgeted nervously for a moment before deciding. “Can you?” she paused, “Do you mind if I step out and talk to my boyfriend for a moment?”

“Of course,” I replied easily, “take all the time you need.”

She was back in five minutes and carried a bucket full of cleaning supplies. “I’m sorry about that,” she said as she began putting her hair up into a ponytail. God, she was a pretty girl! “Can I ask if it is okay for me to use your phone for a moment?” Her halting broken English was endearing and I unlocked my iPhone before handing it to her.

The conversation was with another woman and in Tagalog, so I understand not a single thing they were talking about. But I could tell Lupi was both excited and nervous and even uncertain at times. A minute later she handed my phone back. “Thank you,” she said, “My mother is watching the girls right now and I wanted to let her know that I would be by later to get them.”

I returned to my chair and grabbed my laptop, figuring I had best stay out of her way unless she asked. I opened it up to my story files and began working on the next chapter of my purely fictional (or nearly so) account of life as a Marine. This one was sort of intended as a sequel to Dark Tales but was written to completely shock and awe you from page one. If the first book was doing so well it seemed a pretty suitable divining rod for the future of Book 2. I tend to become wholly absorbed in my writing as the story flows from my mind on the screen. I became distantly aware of a pleasant almost citrus-like smell in the house, and occasionally I heard her humming to herself while she was scuffing, scouring, and sweeping. Mostly I was reliving an event that may or may not have happened in reality. Whenever asked my canned response was always, ‘You can’t make this shit up!’

---

Ramadi was farther west of Bagdad than Fallujah and thrived on the shipping that flowed back and forth along the Euphrates River. Like Fallujah, it was also a veritable hot spot for insurgent activity. So, they called me and my merry little band of door kickers to go in and help enforce the curfew. We typically worked as three teams, two breachers and a backup squad to cover us both, with a sniper team on overwatch. Nobody knows how to pick a fight like a bunch of frosty jarheads. One night it seemed like we kicked the living hell out of a hornet’s nest and found ourselves surrounded by Al Qaeda. We assumed a defensive posture inside an old building and hunkered down while our overwatch team (Froggy and Skybald) called for reinforcements.

I tried to affect a flanking maneuver with Titus, my bigger-than-life Corporal. When I say big, I mean 6 feet, 280 pounds of pure black West Kentucky Brutha. The only thing that wasn’t black on this guy was his teeth. When it came to up close and, in-your-face, tactical negotiations — Titus was a holy terror. Nobody could take him in hand-to-hand, wrestling, or even weightlifting. He was a force of nature and I loved having him cover my six.

We managed to egress out the back and sneak down a block before turning the corner and finding ourselves face-to-face with an entire squad of enemy fuckers with AKs and RPGs. They were probably even more surprised to see us than vice versa, and we were hardwired to attack first and shake hands later. I opened up with three round bursts, directed into their midst while Titus lobbed his ever-present grenade, then dropped his SAW to the ready and opened up, sweeping left and right. We cut them all down effectively and were advancing when the RPG we didn’t see, came smoking straight at us from an alleyway.

I dropped my M4 carbine to its sling and instinctively dove into Titus to get him clear. Diving into Titus is sort of like trying to tackle an old hickory stump. Still, somehow, I was able to knock us both clear of the rocket’s trajectory — almost.

My ears were ringing from the explosion and concussion from the blast wave; and I felt myself lifted and tossed further backward only to land hard, with 130 kilos of frantic Corporal on top of me, yelling distantly into my ear.

“Ah Fuck!” he screamed, “Mah leg is hit. Mah leg is hit!”

“Get off me ya overfed lard ass!” I yelled back, I could hardly breathe and I was frantically looking about for more enemy insurgents. “Titus! Get the fuck off me!” He flopped back and forth before I felt his immense weight lift from me. I rose onto my knees and grabbed my rifle, aiming it ahead of me as I looked around for enemies.

“Goddamn! Bishop! My fuckin leg got blowed off,” he screamed below me, “Hep me man! Hep me!”

I dropped down to check him out and found his right leg had been shredded by the RPG. He was bleeding out and I had to stop it now or he wouldn’t be here long. We all had tourniquets on us and I ripped mine free, wrapping it quickly around the highest point I could reach on his thigh. “Hold on man,” I panted as I looped it back on itself, “Imma put a tourniquet on ya leg!” I wrenched on it as hard as I could to stop the blood loss.

Titus shrieked with a high-pitched cry of dismay and agony. “Ah Goddamn! My nut! My nut!” He began swinging at me frantically and grabbing my wrists.

“What the fuck Titus! Let go!”

“Mah nut! Fuck, you got mah nut man! Let it go Bish ... please!” Are you fucking kidding me?

“Cha talkin’ bout fool?” I tried to wrench the strap tighter but he screamed in my ear at 100 decibels.

“AHH! Fuck! Shit! God! Yer crushing my nut man!” he grabbed my wrist and tried to break it. “Let go mah nut! Let go mah nut!”

“Your fucking nuts ain’t gonna do you any...”

The report of an AK is something you never forget after having one aimed at you a couple hundred times. The sand-packing fuck-wad jumped around the corner and opened up on us, sending rounds smacking into the concrete wall above our heads. I forgot about Titus and his nuts as I threw myself on top of him. An instant later the fucker behind me corrected his aim and fired again. I felt all three bullets hit my lower back. Our armor plates are rated to withstand 7.62 NATO without penetrating. But it still doesn’t feel too swell getting kidney punched three times.

Unfortunately for the gunman, he ran out of bullets, or his piece jammed — as they were famous for doing. Fortunately for me, my hand was already gripping the 1911 in my torso holster. Like a million times before — I rolled over, drew my .45, acquired my target, and the rest was simply a well-rehearsed play: sight alignment — trigger control, BAM! BAM! BAM! The terrorist was talking to Allah.

I rolled back over and checked on Titus who was tugging at his crotch and cussing in a most ungentle manner. “Are you done playing with yer balls?” I snapped, grabbing his thigh and squeezing it with my hands.

“You broke mah nut man!” he wept pathetically. Tears were streaming down his eyes as he groped himself. “Ah, goddamn that hurt!”

He was still pouring blood out of his lower leg so I grabbed the tourniquet and pulled it tighter. He groaned but not as bad as before. The bleeding seemed to slow a lot.

“Overwatch Bravo 2 copy?” I heard in my earpiece.

“Bravo two,” I replied into my voice-activated mic.

I could hear the chittering as Skybald tried to talk normally, “Overboard is 1 mike out you’re posit, over.”

He was struggling to breathe and gasping as he tried not to laugh. He was failing miserably and I was gonna fuck him up for it later.

“Copy. We need medical priority one evac. Send it up.”

“Copy. Priority one evac for ... mah nut!” He was lost in gales of laughter.

“Fuck you, Baldy! Imma fuckin’ bus yo nuts when I get out a heh!” Titus yelled into his mic before laying back and groaning.

---

“Er ... excuse me? Mr. Bishop?”

I was startled out of my intense focus by Lupi’s soft youthful voice. “Yeah,” I replied as I refocused on the present, “what’s up?

She smiled bashfully. She was covered in wet spots from her cleaning and was wearing a pair of yellow rubber gloves. “I am finished for now,” she said, “Would you like to come, and see?”

I wanted to just blow her off and take her at her word but after 16 years in the military, I appreciated the value of a good inspection and being rewarded for hard work. So, I set aside my laptop and rose to my shaky feet. I followed her around and gawked at all the sparkly clean surfaces around the house. My washer and dryer were both running and the whole place smelled fantastic.

“I changed the sheets and blankets on your bed and they are in the wash,” she said, “I couldn’t find any linen for your other bed though.”

“Bah, nobody ever stays over anyways. Don’t worry about it.” I replied. I looked at the clock. She had done all of this in just 2 hours. “You do amazing work, Lupi!” I applauded her.

She blushed and dipped her head gratefully. “Thank you. Can I ask another favor? Can I use your phone again to call my boyfriend to pick me up?”

I handed her the phone and went into my bedroom where my safe was located. I returned and handed her a $100 bill after she hung up. Her large eyes grew even larger as she gaped at the bill.

“Oh no!” she said hesitantly, “that is too much for only 2 and a half hours of work!” she held her hands up in protest.

I placed it firmly in her hand and closed her fingers around it. “Nonsense, you quoted me three hours and I am paying you for three hours ... plus a tip.” I grunted softly, “Now when can you come back?”

She was speechless for a minute and I watched a play of emotions cross her face. Then she smiled gratefully at me. “I can come by tomorrow if you want me to weed your flower beds and mow your yard,” she suggested brightly. “My girls get out of kindergarten at 1:30 in the afternoon though and I don’t have any daycare yet. My mother is unable to watch them tomorrow.”

“Well,” I started thoughtfully, “you can either start earlier so that you can go get them when you are done, or...” I hesitated, “you can bring them with you tomorrow afternoon and let them watch TV or something here, while you work.”

Again, she seemed without words as she looked back at me with glistening eyes. “I ... I don’t understand why you are being so kind,” she gasped softly, “I would love to have them come and be with me while I work!”

“It’s settled then,” I smiled, “bring ‘em with you. I can’t wait to meet them.”

Ten minutes later her ride showed up and she left, taking her bucket with her. Gunner and Libby sat facing the front door sadly, coming to terms with her departure.

“She’ll be back guys.” I chided them softly.

I found myself moping about the place for a bit after she had left. It was like a heavy pall of loneliness settled back over me, or something stupid like that. I shook it off and returned to my seat and laptop. Being a Marine I’ve often felt there was no better way of handling things than the simple direct approach. So, I opened Google and clicked on the search window: How do I drop the VA?

After several minutes I was better informed and able to field several options. One suggestion was that I call my local Veterans Service Officer before making any rash decisions. I’d dealt with them before and wasn’t inclined to do so again, but better cover all my bases. Of course, they could offer me no advice regarding my medical care. Instead, they tried to lure me back down the rabbit hole of ‘other’ phone contacts and extensions, where I knew I would get no answers.

I searched: ‘treatment options for chronic degenerative spinal cord injuries’ and found a link to a Pain Management Clinic that was located not far away. They accepted private payor self-referrals so I called them up and spoke to a receptionist. I was asked about primary and secondary insurance and found that they accepted my Humana coverage through TriCare. So, I set up an appointment for a week out and contacted my ‘agent’ to see if he could give me a lift. By then my check should have easily cleared and I would have more than enough money to pay for my first visit.

Davee advised me to begin searching for a new Primary Care Provider if I planned on leaving the VA, so I searched that next. I found page after page of them and nearly everyone accepted TriCare as well. I had to narrow my search once I realized that not all of them were currently accepting new patients. But I found a couple and made some more phone calls before settling on a local Doctor’s office. My first appointment was not for several more weeks but I wasn’t too concerned. As far as my meds went, I could call in my refills and have them sent directly to my house. I had plenty of meds though. A month was just fine with me.

That exhausted the scope of my chores for the day so I sat back and returned to what I did best. Writing.

Chapter 2: Corpsman Up!

A heavily armed and armored Humvee came racing around the Mosque and into the market square, spinning and fishtailing wildly as the driver overcorrected and tried to regain control. I could see the top gunner clinging to the M240 GB coaxial machine gun, as he was tossed about like a rag doll. ‘Mother fucker!’ I cursed to myself, ‘Where did these numb nuts come from?’ It was clear the driver had no tactical driving skills. Maybe he was afraid he was gonna roll it or something (a virtual impossibility, I assure you — I tried) because he stomped his brakes, sliding to a halt in a cloud of dust.

I could hear the gunner screaming at the driver as I jumped up and started barking orders, “Goddammit!” I yelled, “Cover fire! Cover fire! Light those fuckers up! Those RPGs are gonna start popping out like a porcupine!” I ran forward and began firing into the higher windows of the building across from me. I hoped to hell our field of fire would contain them long enough for the fuck-wit to get his shit clear. Because of this dumb ass thing, we call ROE or rules of engagement, we were firmly asked not to fire upon religious centers for fear that it might upset their God or cause the fucking insurgents to piss all over their prayer rugs. And of course, that was where the RPGs started firing from. Once the first shot was fired, all bets were off and the REMFs (rear echelon mother fuckers) could take their ROEs and shove em broadside up their sore little assholes.

By then, however, it was much too late. Once the first rocket grenade struck the ground near the stalled Hummer, half a dozen more were on the way. I was knocked back by the first explosion and everyone ducked when the next six rained absolute Hell onto those poor fuckers in the open. I looked up to see PFC Potts calmly step out from our alleyway and begin lobbing M203 grenades with his launcher, directly onto the circular mezzanine halfway up the Mosque. He was cool as a cucumber as he rained death back down on those sorry, two-face sumbitches and I loved him like a son for it. I turned and looked back out to see the Hummer in flames. It was a hot mess as thick black smoke rose and filled the air above the clearing. I could feel the heat on my face from where I was crouched 20 yards away.

I heard the screaming and spotted the gunner who had miraculously been blown away from the doomed vehicle and lay in the dirt several yards to the left of it. “Corpsman up!” I yelled and turned to find Doc Thomas shoving his way through the huddled marines behind me. I joined him and together we raced out into the open. The entire square erupted as covering fire commenced from every alleyway and entrance to the clearing. I kept my head down and thought only of reaching the gunner as the world above and around me shuddered with small arms fire and heavy machine guns.

It seemed to take hours but we reached the downed Marine and dove to the ground beside him. His entire left leg was detached and lay several feet away. Blood was squirting from the stump and he screamed incoherently as I held him down. Doc Thomas had the stump tied off with a tourniquet in seconds flat and nodded to me. That was my signal to grab his multi-loop and haul ass for cover. We each had a grip on his rescue strap and dragged him as quickly as we could back across the market square. Bullets began punching holes into the ground around us and we managed to kick it into a higher gear. It was a damn miracle that those raghead motherfuckers were such lousy shots. We made it back into the alley unscathed and Doc began treating the horrific amputation with that steadfast determination, shared only by those few heroic bastards who answered the call to become FMF (Fleet Marine Force) Corpsmen.

The ripping tearing shriek of an approaching war bird deafened us all as the jet shot overhead. An instant later a massive explosion shook the mosque and its entire dome collapsed in on itself. I hovered protectively over the corpsman as he began an IV and started pushing plasma back into the leaky bastard at his feet.

“Why the fuck did you leave his goddamned leg out there?” yelled a deep-pitched voice that I knew only too well. Top had decided to grace us with his presence — all hail Sargeant Major Shitwitz! I turned and saw him charging through the ranks of my platoon, bearing down on Doc like the apocalypse. “Get yer yellow ass back out there and get the goddamned leg, Corpsman!” I tried to block his way but he shoved me aside. “Get outta my fuckin’ way Gunny!” He stood over Doc Thomas and screamed at him. “Did you hear me Petty Officer? Go get that fuckin’ leg now!”

“No way Top!” Doc Thomas replied evenly, “I got a man to save here and I’m not risking my ass for a leg he’ll never use.” He spiked another bottle of plasma and handed it to a nearby marine to hold up as he produced a syrette of morphine and stabbed it into the wounded man’s arm.

SgtMaj Shitwitz turned the ugliest shade of purple I had ever seen and grabbed Doc by his shoulder. “You listen here, you cowardly little fuck!” he raged, spit spraying from his mouth with every syllable, “You get your fucking ass back out there and get that fucking leg or I’ll bust your balls to Leavenworth!”

Doc knocked his arm away and screamed back, “They don’t reattach limbs lost in combat, Sergeant Major!” He turned back to his patient and would’ve got his head punched in if I hadn’t stepped forward to grab Top’s arm, spinning him backward.

“At ease Sar Major,” I growled in his face, “Doc’s right and this ain’t the time or place for this bullshit!”

He swung his free fist at me, broadcasting like a little bitch. I twisted away from it while leveraging his other arm backward and placing him soundly on his ass in the dirt. The gunfire and explosions seemed to fade away as I went into combat mode. In combat, you weren’t facing a friend, foe, or enemy. Top was now simply a target. And targets were to be put down.

I felt arms wrench me back and pull me away from the target. It was lying below me with a bloodied nose and mouth. “Gunny! That’s enough!” Sgt. Santos screamed in my ear, while several others helped the Sergeant Major back to his feet.

He jerked his arms free as he faced me (from a distance). “Are you out of your motherfucking mind Gunny?” he screamed spitting blood onto the ground before us, “I’ll have your ass court-martialed right alongside that worthless cunt!”

Well, he was half right.

---

The next afternoon Lupi arrived with her two girls and my life of quiet, peaceful introspection came to a screeching halt. They hid shyly behind her as she brought them inside and looked away from me as each of them was introduced. Both had thumbs latched firmly in their mouths. Gunner and Libby were beside themselves excited over the mini humans but were undecided about how best to deal with them. They would both sit up alert with their ears cocked and lick their lips eagerly, then stand up and promptly sit once more. The girls had eyes as big as saucers when they first saw the hairy beasts and clung to Lupi’s legs for protection.

Both were dressed identically in colorful animated Oshkosh jumpers and tiny little lace-less shoes. They wore matching backpacks that Lupi relieved them of and hung by my door. As she bent to take their shoes off, I became acutely aware of her very nice ass as it stretched the confines of her denim cut-offs. Her shirt was a creamy threadbare tee that clearly showed the lines and material of her bra. Her skin was tanned to a soft mahogany tone that made my mouth water. When she turned around, I tried not to stare at her voluptuous chest. Instead, I took a sip from my cup of cleavage... ‘Eyes Right, Gunny!’

She knelt behind them after she removed her shoes and pointed towards me, “Didi, Lulu ... this is Mr. Bishop,” she said trying to coax them out of their shells, “can you say hi to him?”

Nope. No way. They only had eyes for Gunner and Libby. Sigh, the story of my life. I couldn’t blame them though. The two mutts were acting like total idiots trying to figure out what to do. It was clear they both desperately wanted to make friends with the girls but they held back with comical uncertainty. I whistled softly once drawing both their attentions instantly. I lowered two fingers to the floor and gave two more soft whistle bursts. Both dogs promptly dropped down and lay stretched out with their heads resting on their paws, working their eyebrows to a full ‘shock and awe’ effect. Their tails thumped the hardwood behind them and they continued licking their chops excitedly. Once in a while one or the other would emit a high-pitched whine.

I gave two more short whistles and they simultaneously rolled onto their backs like synchronized swimmers. Seeing two upside-down rotty ‘grrr’ faces, was just too silly not to giggle at and the twins promptly did so, much to the delight of both canines. Lupi put her hand out before Gunner and was rewarded with an upside-down kiss. Libby tried to scooch her lopsided head over to be included and was treated to a jaw-pat for her efforts.

It took ten whole minutes, a new record. By the time Lupi stood and came over to me with her beautifully tanned, sculpted, and painted bare feet ... Sorry, where was I?

“Thank you so much for allowing me to do this Mr. Bishop...” she started but I raised my hand to cut her off and rose to go to the kitchen.

“Please, just call me Al, Alex, or Bishop,” I said quietly as she followed me into the kitchen. The two six-year-olds were completely engrossed in breaking out every single dog toy from the large bin by the couch and trying to get Gunner and Libby to play with them all. The two Rottweilers were still trying to smell every inch of them and decide which parts needed the most kisses. They were both quite fond of little toes. Who wasn’t? “And please think nothing of it, I am happy to have the girls over whenever,” I added pointing back into the living room where the four were collectively gathered around a pile of stuffed toys and chewys in the middle of the floor, “this is going to be fun to watch.”

It took me a bit but I took her out back, to the shop and showed her where the mower and hedge trimmers were, along with my assorted gardening implements. I used to keep a tidy-looking curbside but it had been neglected recently. I left her to it and returned to find the girls still infatuated with Gunner and Libby’s extensive toy collection. Libby was trying to coax one of the girls into a game of tug-of-war with her Kong Wuba rope, while Gunner just laid on his back and flopped around like an epileptic, grunting and sneezing.

Lupi could not get the mower started and I dared not try with my current condition, so she opted to spend her remaining time digging around in my various garden beds around the house. I went out with the dogs and her girls to get some fresh air and she smiled brightly at the company, even though I felt like a bottom feeder for just watching her do the work. When Didi and Lulu noticed the hot tub, they erupted with joy and cries of “Swimming! Swimming! Mama Swimming!” Lupi looked uncertain but I nodded my head discreetly and assured her that I would stay close by to watch them. She quickly folded under the pressure and agreed.

With twin screeches of joy, they darted off, stripping buck naked as they went. I shook my head as I removed the lid and watched them both climb the steps eagerly, then gingerly climb into the 104-degree water. I showed them how to activate the lights, jets, and the waterfall feature and they were excited beyond words. Gunner and Libby stood on the stairs, side-by-side staring at them guardedly while I went in to retrieve my laptop, towels, and several floating chew toys from the dog bin. Who says babysitting has to be hard? Adapt and overcome!

---

“Gunnery Sergeant Bishop, how do you plead to the charges read?”

“Guilty as Hell, your Honor.”

I could see the resignation in the full Colonel’s face as he looked over the files before him and stared back at me. Not one person here felt good about any of this ... except for Shitwitz. He gloated about it like Mussolini — having no idea how badly he fucked up his career by doing so.

My CO, a Light Colonel, tried to have me mitigated to NJP (non-judicial punishment) rather than a full court-martial. But Top was having nothing to do with that. He had the pull and I was being hung out to dry. I was too pissed to give a shit either.

The minute we returned from that mission, I was met by PMO (Provost Marshall’s Office or Corps speak for MPs) There were two enlisted and a First Lieutenant who advised me that they had to take me into custody immediately and could I please surrender my firearms. ‘Certainly not to you, cupcake.’ I turned to SGT Reyes and handed him my M4 and 1911. “Watch these for me will you Sam?”

“Sure, thing Gunny! Hey look at the bright side,” he grinned, “no AAR (after-action report) for you!”

I laughed and allowed them to handcuff me before loading me into a white Humvee with the PMO logo on the door.

The court-martial had been in session for several hours and I stood before the panel in full dress, weighed down by more salad (slang for medals) than damn near anyone but Chesty himself. But then he had five Navy Crosses (the second-highest meritorious decoration, just below the Congressional Medal of Honor), whereas I only had one. The unease in the court was so thick you could spread it on toast.

When I was cross-examined by the council she asked me, “Gunny, you admit to grabbing the Sergeant Major and physically wrestling him away from Petty Officer Thomas, is that correct?”

“Yes, Ma’am that is exactly right,” I replied easily.

“And then you threw him to the ground and began pummeling him with your fists.”

“Affirmative.”

“Why?” she asked. ‘How can these college-educated toad stools be so fucking stupid?’

“Why what, Ma’am?”

“Why did you have to get so physical with the Sargeant Major?” she repeated.

I stared at her with a look suggesting she was so dumb that her hair hurt. “Because drawing my .45 and ventilating his brainpan seemed a bit excessive ... Ma’am.”

Finally, the JAG Colonel lost his shit, “Goddammit Gunny. Just plead not guilty and I can dismiss this whole mess! Why are you being so damn stubborn?”

“It’s a matter of honor ... your honor,” I nearly chuckled at my wit.

“Gunnery Sergeant Bishop,” he asked one more time, “what is your plea for these charges?”

“Guilty as Hell Sir.”

He had no choice but to find me guilty and strip me of my rank, busting me back down to Staff Sergeant, docking me one-half months’ pay for six months, ordering me confined to the Brig for five days minus time served (which, ironically was 5 days.) SGM Shitwitz was lowballed from his Senior Enlisted post (Command Sergeant Major) and forced to retire under high-year tenure. I was never so pleased when I found out that Hospital Corpsman Second Class Virgel J. Thomas was awarded the Bronze Star for valor.

---

By the time Lupi was done, every dirt bed around my house was free of weeds and raked smooth, and ready for fall planting. She also washed all of my windows and raked up the first of many Fall leaves. I had to let her corral her little waterlogged princesses out of the tub and wrap them into towels. By the time they were dressed and ready to go, I had produced another $100 bill which she flatly refused to take this time.

“Alex, that is far too much, please just half of that,” she pleaded. At first, I thought she was feeling guilty for taking advantage of my generosity, but something suggested to me that other motives were at play. So, I acquiesced and went back to my safe.

“Would smaller bills be better for you?” I asked on a hunch.

“Oh yes please!” she replied immediately.

Un huh! So, I came back out and handed her 5 $20 bills. She looked up surprised and I gazed at her with a knowing look that made her blush. “Is that alright?”

She nodded her head gratefully and we set up another time for her to return next week. I watched her go out to the Ford Focus and set to the task of loading the girls into their car seats in the back. I could not make out the driver through the glare and tint of his window, but when they backed out to the street, I could see him through the windshield. He was black and dressed like a hoodlum. I think she said his name was Dante. I watched them pull away. She waved to me while he merely stared with hostile eyes. The twins both waved and I waved back.

---

Davee called me bright and early the next morning. I could tell he was unusually excited but I knew better than to expect him to get right to the point. Still, his first question caught me a little off guard.

“Are you certain — beyond any reasonable doubt — that you changed every name in the book?”

I found that slightly insulting. “Of course, I did, I even changed up the locations a bit. Why?”

“Well...” I rolled my eyes as I pictured him fiddling his fingers in the air, “it seems that more than a few of our readers were rather familiar with some of your graphic depictions,” he said, “and they told a friend who told another friend ... and now a certain retired bigshot is threatening to sue the publisher for defamation.” He sounded almost giddy.

I considered his words for a minute and tried to wrap my head around them. “If y’all are getting sued for defamation, isn’t that sort of a bad thing?”

His bubbly gay laugh always set my teeth on edge. “Oh Alex,” he replied glibly, “that is what we have lawyers for! Lots and lots of Lawyers. And a whole team of proofreaders to make sure your manuscript is airtight, meaning we would be free from any such silly liability.”

“So, it’s not a bad thing?”

“No Fool!” he laughed, “this is wonderful! Don’t you see? If this gets out — and it will — it’s going to drive sales through the roof!”

‘So, Sergeant Major Shitwitz caught wind of my book and took it personally ... and there was nothing he could do about it?’ Well now... “So, we are selling more books?”

“The second printing hasn’t even begun yet and they have already doubled the order last night in anticipation of a rush,” he said, “and epubs have already exceeded physical sales by over 10,000!”

‘Holy shit!’ “I guess I had better get busy on Book 2 then,” I muttered to myself. He heard me.

“Oh yeah, about that!” Uh oh, “How far along are you?”

“I’d have to pull it up to give you an accurate word count, but I’m up to Chapter 14,” I replied, “maybe 180 or 200 thousand words.”

“How soon do you think you will have it finished?”

“I have no idea. A couple more months, maybe sooner if I can get my back to ease up. Why all the questions?”

“Well, as bad as I felt for only securing you a pittance of what you deserve for Dark Tales,” he sounded hesitant again, “I don’t want to make any promises but, cash advances are often offered to well-established writers who agree to certain terms. I think we can conclude from the first book’s performance that your second will do well. So...”

“What kind of terms?”

“Usually, we would ask for you to send us what you have written so far and sign a contract agreeing to a reasonable timeline for its completion.”

I thought about it for a minute. “I’m a bit out of my league here Davee, but I’m not real keen on being held to a deadline. You have done this sort of thing, so tell me what you think.”

“I understand completely,” he replied, “let’s make a hypothetical scenario here. You say you can probably complete Book #2 in, say, four months. Correct?”

I shrugged, “Yeah, sure.”

“So, then it is not unreasonable to expect you to have it completed in 6 months, or even 8?”

I could see where he was going with this. “So, you could offer me a term with a completion window way beyond what I think I can achieve,” I liked this.

“And,” he added, “we could even throw in a bonus if you deliver it early!”

“So how much are we talking here?”

“That will be based on projected outcomes. We have an entire department that makes educated guesses by analyzing past performance, target audiences, pig entrails, and tea leaves.” He giggled at his humor.

“Can I think on it for a bit?”

“Of course,” he replied, “how do you feel about coming out into the limelight for a few book signings?”

I closed my eyes with a grimace, “Frankly. I’d rather shave my balls with a weed whacker.”

He (the gay agent) was completely silent for a moment before, “Oh dear — that paints a vivid picture.”

“I got a million of ‘em,” I replied with an ugly tone.

“Look Alex,” he began with that stern fatherly tone, “nothing shows a publisher devotion, than an author doing their part to try and get their book sold. If you could just devote 2 hours to sitting at a booth at the Barnes and Noble, signing copies and greeting your readers ... it would go a long way towards easing their fragile little insecurities.”

“Do I have to talk to people?”

“Don’t be stupid! Of course, you have to talk to them. You might even try to smile once in a while too,” he sounded exasperated, “who knows, you might even make a friend or two.”

“I don’t want any friends.” My phone buzzed in my hand telling me I had another call. It was Lupi. Saved by the bell, “I got another call, gotta go,” I hung up on him and answered her. “Hi Lupi,”

Her voice was quieter than usual like she didn’t want to wake someone up. “Hello, Mr. Bishop. I wanted to tell you that I won’t be able to come over this week to clean for you.”

Something was off. “That’s okay. Is everything okay with you?”

More hesitation. “No. I just have a problem with my schedule and arranging daycare...”

“You know you can always bring the tykes with you. They are more than welcome here,” I encouraged her.

“Yes. Thank you. I will try to be better prepared next week. I’m so sorry.” Her voice was pained.

“Lupi, are you okay?” I asked concerned.

“I am okay. I will be. Thank you for understanding. I will talk to you again later. Bye.” She hung up and I was left wondering what the Hell was going on. I had a strong suspicion it had something to do with her overbearing boyfriend, Dante.

---

My first appointment with my new Pain Management doc was an eye-opener. They were the exact opposite of what I was expecting — having never been treated outside the military or VA health systems. I had to fill out a shit-ton of paperwork but that is the same everywhere I suppose. Still, I was beckoned from the Lobby within 15 minutes of my arrival (which is and always will be 30 minutes early). After weight and vital signs, I sat in a comfortable waiting room for another 5 minutes before I found myself being interviewed extensively by a pretty middle-aged nurse practitioner named Tiffany. She was pleasant and no-nonsense at the same time. She reviewed my medical history and took the medical records I kept from all of my VA visits — to be scanned into their electronic system.

I had to review their terms of agreement for treating me and I found them agreeable. No sharing meds, no street drugs, no misusing narcotics, pee in a cup every other visit, etc. She stressed that this was a Pain Management Practice, not a Recovery and Addiction center and they did not administer methadone. If I ever failed to abide by the ground rules, I was out ... period. As long as I understood and agreed with those ground rules — sign here, here, and here and initial everything highlighted. I was told to expect to wait another 20 minutes or so for her to confer with Dr. Sousa and give him time to review my chart. I remembered a Master Gunnery Sergeant Sousa once — he was Brazilian if memory served.

This Dr. Sousa was definitely from south of the border and thin as a rail. I guessed he was in his mid to late fifties, choosing to let his short-cropped hair, gray and thin gracefully. His energy was exuberant and he seemed genuinely happy to meet me. Like everyone else, he thanked me for my service and then began poking and prodding me and making little notes as he progressed. A younger woman attended him during my examination and typed onto a laptop as he called out his findings.

He asked me to describe the mechanism of my injuries that had caused such extensive damage to my back and hips. I tried to relate it without remembering Gomez’s face as she sat behind the wheel of our H2. “All I can say doc, is that we were escorting a UN convoy through the Panjshir valley just north of Kabul. We were third from point and were targeted by a remotely detonated IED.” I saw her face again, laughing and joking with me. I remembered the slim golden ring that she wore on her left hand...

---

“Look Gomez, you already suckered me into going to the Marine Corps Ball,” I growled from the shotgun seat, “I wouldn’t push my luck!”

“Ah c’mon Bishop (she only got away with that when we were alone), it’s just a friendly little competition.”

“What kind of competition?” My ‘bullshit radar’ was spinning up.

“Well ... I heard some folks say that you think you are pretty fancy with that oversized sidearm you pack,” she smirked as she drove along the winding road.

I regarded her skeptically, “You want to have a shooting match?” I laughed, “With me?”

She mimicked my response, “Not afraid of losing to a girl are ya?”

“Okay,” I agreed sweetly, “alright. But this is my wager — when I win, you have to wear a nice gown to the Ball.”

Her guffaw was almost comical. “Yeah right!” she grunted, “and if I win, so do you!”

---

“Mr. Bishop?” his soft voice brought me back to the present.

I blinked a couple of times and found both of them staring at me uncomfortably. “Sorry,” I said harshly, “I don’t remember anything. I woke up in the Army Hospital in Landstuhl, Germany. I was in intensive care and on a ventilator with a tube down my throat.” I lifted the stack of files next to the exam table. “I included a brief after-action report that they provided as part of my disability screening. It might help.”

“It’s okay,” he replied, “I am going to spend some time reviewing all of this later,” he stood and referred to a poster displaying a profile of the human spine, “the most extensive damage appears to be to the posterior aspects from lumbar vertebrae number 3 to thoracic vertebra number 9,” his accent and pronunciation made it sound like ‘Ver-tee-bray noom-ber’. “I would like to see the imagery for myself,” I flinched at the thought of another MRI and he noticed, “But we will work with these reports for now.” He sat on a round stool and accepted the laptop from his assistant.

He wanted to attack my pain issue from multiple fronts with overlapping fields of fire. I was going to be placed on high-dose steroids to knock out the rampant inflammation. He prescribed a powerful muscle relaxant to keep my spasms under control and placed me back on tramadol as well as hydrocodone to help me sleep at night. Before I left, I was given an intramuscular shot of Toradol and was already feeling relief before Davee had even made it to the CVS to pick up my other prescriptions.

The following day the massive dose of prednisone kicked in and I was feeling great! Later that afternoon Dr. Sousa called me personally to check on me and see how I was doing. He was encouraged by my progress and we discussed another series of medial branch blocks followed and an eventual ablation to kill the nerves again. He promised that I would be put under for each procedure which was a foreign concept to me. I was wide awake the last time they stabbed eight needles into the medial nerves along my spine (four to each side) and then fried them with an electrical current until I felt nothing. I don’t recommend it.

For the remainder of the week, I was able to get up and move around with less and less reliance on my four-legged cane. I even took the dogs for a drive in the Bronco (a rare treat for them) to get coffee and pup cups from Starbucks. It was uncomfortable using the clutch but the freedom of just being able to get out and drive somewhere was profound. I almost felt like a human being again. I knew all of the baristas by name and they pretty much fought over the right to make and offer the pup cups to my overgrown blockheads. It must have been a site from inside the shop, seeing two huge rotty heads trying to fit in the drive-thru window, to lap up cups of whip cream.

---

2^nd Platoon stood in formation for morning muster before me and LT Smith. The morning chill was quickly giving way to what promised to be another hot AF day in the Corps. We had finished roll call and I stood facing our three newest arrivals. God help me! They were standing at attention as I scrutinized each of them in utter disbelief.

“Welcome to the New and Improved Marine Corps!” I bellowed before the entire 42-man formation. “God help us all!” I muttered slightly lower. There were chuckles in the ranks but I chose to ignore them. I knew LT was about to have a stroke, the fucking PC, yes-man, butter-bar pussy! I turned and saluted him, giving him my brief report so that he could dismiss me to carry out the plan of the day.

After he left, I put the platoon at Parade Rest, except for the newbies.

“PFC Gomez!”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!”

“Private Dodds!”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!”

“Lance Corporal Parks!”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!”

I jerked my head to face that high-pitched squeak. “I ... said ... Lance Corporal Parks!”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” Another squeak.

“Goddammit! How did they let you maggots into my Marine Corps?” I hollered at their blank faces.

“Private Gomez!”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!”

“Are you a boy or a girl?” I asked sarcastically.

“The private is a female Marine, Staff Sergeant!”

“You don’t look like a girl, Gomez!” I bellowed down at her. She looked almost exactly like that mutant kid in that Deadpool movie.

“Does the Staff Sergeant require proof?” she replied without so much as a smirk. Oh, I liked her!

I bent down and got nose-to-nose with her. “No maggot! What the Staff Sergeant requires is for Private Gonads to get on her face and give me 20 push-ups!” I yelled, “Can a girl do 20 push-ups?”

“OohRah! Staff Sergeant!” she bellowed and dropped.

I turned to the taller blonde next to her. Her massive locks were braided into a tight bun that was barely contained by her cover.

“Private Dodds”!

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” she called back.

“Chesty Puller is rolling over in his fucking grave right now!” I replied, “I hope you didn’t take that as a disparaging remark towards your remarkably endowed front end! Did you Private?”

“Er ... No! Staff Sergeant!” she stammered.

“Good! Because this is the new and improved Marine Corps!” I yelled back. “Where we trade our testicles for breasticles!” There were several open laughs among the ranks and I glared back towards them. “Isn’t that right, Private?”

“Yes ... er No! Staff Sergeant!”

“Well, which one is it, Barbie?” I waited for an answer but got nothing as her cheeks began warming up.

“Corporal Bell!” I called to my left guidon.

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!”

“Do you know why they don’t sell a pregnant Barbie?” I asked.

“No! Staff Sergeant!”

“Because Ken came in a different box!” There were laughs all through the ranks now. But I ignored them as I turned and faced down the last female marine. LCpl Parks was black and shorter than any Marine I’d ever seen before. Before I could speak, a voice called out from the ranks:

“Hey Staff Sergeant, did you hear about the new Taliban Barbie?”

I straightened, “No PFC Fletcher, I did not hear about the new Taliban Barbie! Please do tell!”

“It’s a blow-up doll!”

They teach you many leadership skills in Resident Sergeants School. How to keep a straight face is not one of them. I was able to keep my expression dower and overbearing — while the formation burst out in gales of laughter — but only just barely.

“At Ease!” I bellowed.

“Permission to pop tall Staff Sergeant!” Gomez asked winded.

“Pop tall!” I replied and stared down at the short black female Marine, “Lance Corporal Parks, what the hell is wrong with your voice?”

“I swallowed a squeaker toy as a baby, Staff Sergeant!” she squeaked readily.

I smirked and returned to my place as Platoon Sergeant.

“Alright! Listen up you puss-nuts! This is the new Corps! And those of you who were brought up in the ‘Old’ Corps will learn to adapt and overcome! Do you hear me?”

The dirt grinder echoed with a loud chorus of OohRahs!

“From this moment forward there will be no slanderous, derogatory, degrading, or sexually demeaning conduct towards those of us of the opposite gender! Am I clear?”

“OohRah!”

“And there will be no wisecracks about menstrual cycles ... Period!” Even the three females chittered at that and inside I felt better as our camaraderie enveloped them into its folds. But outside...

“I am glad you are all in such good spirits this morning!” I chided them loudly. A few grumbles could be heard. “That puts me in a good mood!” The grumbles became subtle groans. “I’m so happy right now that I feel like...” The groans grew louder as I grinned evilly, “I feel like going for a little run!”

“PLATOON! UH-TEN-HUH!”

Boots scuffled as the unit popped to attention.

“UNCOVER!” All field caps were doffed and secured inside the belt at mid-back.

“RIGHT-HUH!” 42 bodies made a sharp right-facing maneuver.

“AT A DOUBLE ARM INTERVAL ... DR.ESS RIGHT! HUH,” All the ranks spread apart. “COVER DOWN!”

“GUIDON TAKE EM OUT! AT A DOUBLE TIME—FORWARD! HUH!”

God, I loved the Corps!

Chapter 3: Knife to a Gun Fight

The second bedroom also served as my office of sorts. I put in a small desk for my old Acer desktop computer. I also had two large file cabinets to one side, filling in the corner. I took some initiative to buy a couple of sets of full-sized bedding and made up the spare bed just so that it didn’t look like an empty barracks. Of course, it was made to Corps specs (yes, I bounced a fucking quarter on it!). The closet was a project all in itself. There were half a dozen large moving boxes with Home Depot and Lowes logos on them. I couldn’t remember what the hell they contained but they were packed and heavy so I dragged them out and put them against the wall. The first one I opened contained stacks of award binders and dozens of decorative boxes that held the awards themselves.

I instinctively looked up at the file cabinets where the shadow box was set face down. It was a heavy bastard, made of some exotic African hardwood. It displayed row upon row of all my decorations, badges, and citations, along with a large brass plate engraved with a bunch of bullshit — and a tri-folded US Flag that flew over the Commandant’s Headquarters in Bagdad. I had another one somewhere that flew aboard the USS Belleau Wood, the day she was decommissioned and turned into razor blades over at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard (those of us who guarded the nukes over at Sub Base Bangor, WA liked to refer to PSNS as Penis Anus).

Why my shadow box wasn’t displayed proudly for all to see and ogle, wasn’t because I had just never gotten around to it. I simply didn’t want to have to look at it all the time. I knew every single feature that was on display behind the plexiglass case. I still remember every single award and citation I received. I also remember quite well how each of them was earned. Some I was proud of, others — not so much. One medal nobody ever wants to earn is a Purple Heart. It happens and I supposed it’s nice to be recognized for getting your ass shot, blown up, shredded, burned, or broken apart — and live to talk about it. I got a few of them (actually it’s just one medal with two gold stars for previous awards), and —as pretty as they are — a Purple Heart and $5 will get you a cup of coffee at Starbucks.

The one I hated was the ugly black ribbon with the red, white, and blue borders, just to the left of my Good Cookies (Good Conduct Medal--mine had 2 bronze stars, representing 12 years of good conduct out of 16 — yeah, I was a bad boy!) Ain’t nobody alive that ever wants to earn that fucker! Nor do they enjoy being reminded of it every time they see it.

---

It was a dead end. ‘Fuck! What a shitty-ass, dumb-fuck, newbie mistake.’ I seethed as I faced the rubble piled in the narrow alley between the burnt-out buildings — in the Khaki Jabbar district of Kabul. I turned back to my five-man (er ... person) squad and hand signaled them to beat feet back and get us the hell out of here. We spread out with Talbot on point, then Rake, Simmons, Arturo, Gomez, and myself watching our six. I swept my eyes up to the mangled rooftops, or what was left of them as I backed myself slowly from the rubble. This was bad! Really bad, and I knew we were fucked even before the grenades started falling around us. My only conscious action was to turn and jump on the nearest Marine to try and cover them with my body as the world around us disintegrated.

My eyes and lungs were burning and my ears were ringing distantly, as if my entire head was stuffed with burning wool. I had no clue who, what, why, or how the hell, I was suddenly so fucked up. My brain wouldn’t work and neither did my body. I gasped for breath raggedly and found the air to scream as the pain hit me. I couldn’t isolate what hurt the worst. My face was burnt and cut up and I couldn’t see shit. I thought I was lying on my left side and every breath I took sent searing waves of pain through my ribs and chest. Why couldn’t I move my arms? Dammit Marine do something!

A hard blow to my back took me by surprise and sent me toppling over, trying to catch my breath again. My arms were tied behind me and my feet were lashed together, but it still didn’t make any sense to me how I wound up like this. Voices were yelling over me in the harsh dialect of Pashtu. Fuck! Taliban! I groaned and received another kick for my troubles, right in the head. Good fucking night!

---

Gunner and Libby alerted me to the arrival of a new visitor. I went over to the front door and looked out the small window to see a car that I did not recognize, pull into my drive. A second later Lupi climbed out of the passenger door, wearing cut-offs, another threadbare, revealing t-shirt, and flip-flops. Her eyes were covered by huge framed sunglasses. She went to the back door to let out one of the girls. The driver opened his door and stepped out. He was a young white man with the most glaring red afro imaginable. He could have been Bob Ross’s fucking grandkid! He stepped back and helped unload the other twin as well as the car seats, before opening the trunk to let her collect her bucket of cleaning supplies. I opened the door to let the beasts rush out and bark excitedly at the new arrivals. There wasn’t a trace of menace in either of them, yet Bobby Ross Jr. yelped and jumped back when they leaped up and leaned over the chain link fence, wagging their tails excitedly as Didi and Lulu ran over to greet them.

The driver and Lupi exchanged ‘thank you’s’ and ‘your welcome’s’ and she handed him a wad of cash before he climbed back into the car and left. I stepped down from the porch and walked over to hold the gate open for them to come in. The dogs knew better than to crowd them as they entered the front yard, but once their favorite human tots were clear, they both lost it and began running their stupid zoomies, occasionally stopping to roll around in the grass. I shook my head helplessly at their behavior and grabbed the two car seats, before following Lupi and the girls back into the house.

“Who was the new driver?” I asked innocently as I set the car seats by the door.

She shrugged with her back to me as she removed her flip-flops and supervised the twins removing theirs. “He is an Uber driver,” she replied, “I didn’t catch his name.” She was still wearing the tinted frames when she turned back and I could feel her tension like the blast wave from a mortar. I discreetly turned and greeted the girls, giving her the moment, she needed.

“Hi girls,” I said excitedly, “did you bring bathing suits today?”

“Yes!” they both said together, “Swimming! Swimming! Swimming!” they continued chanting as they jumped up and down excitedly.

I held up my hand to quell the energy a bit. “Soon,” I said, “but first I need you two to help me with a very important job.” They looked at me with eager expressions. “We need to give those two bozos,” I pointed at Gunner and Libby who were perched attentively on their haunches, panting, “Baths!” Clearly, that was the most excellent plan of the day because they screeched excitedly and twirled around me. “Go get your suits on,” I ordered and they disappeared into the bathroom with their bags.

When the door closed, I slowly straightened and turned to face their mother again. She still wore the sunglasses so I reached forward and gently removed them. My expression must have betrayed the rage that ignited deep in my gut. Her beautiful face was marred by a dark discolored bruise that covered her left eye and cheek. She started to turn away but I caught her gently in my hands stopping her.

“Dante?” It was only one word and simple to pronounce, but I must’ve sounded like I was tasting poison when I growled it. I startled her with my emotions and she shivered. I let go of her arms but kept my hands gently against them. Eventually, she looked up at me and nodded with intense shame in her eyes.

“He ... he told me that I cannot work for you anymore,” she nearly sobbed, “I refused him and he got very angry with me.” She swallowed as she looked down at the floor. “He is just so jealous and protective of me...”

I shook my head and placed a finger under her chin, lifting her face until she met my eyes again. “This is not protection,” I said harshly, “this is abuse. And it stops right now!” I ended with a growl that probably frightened her, but at that moment Didi and Lulu came bouncing out of the bathroom in their matching one-piece swimsuits, ready to do battle with the dirty canines. I took a deep breath and buried my anger as they each latched onto one of my hands. I smiled and winked at Lupi, causing her to smile brightly back at me. “We will talk in a bit,” I said softly.

Washing two rowdy Rottweilers is tantamount to herding and baptizing cats. To the twins, it was a grand adventure. To Gunner and Libby, it was just one really fun game. I let the four of them have at it with the garden hose sprayer and the 6-foot kiddy pool that I already had filled up. They splashed, squealed, laughed, and barked madly at each other as they ran around the side yard. Over my time in the Corps, I developed this subconscious habit of taking notes and jotting them down in my mental ‘notebook’. It is a habit that I still have today and I found myself ‘jotting’ down — ‘Bubbles’ as I oversaw the chaos and mayhem. After 15 minutes of riotous shenanigans, I whistled sharply and redirected both dogs into the pool, making them sit.

Over the next half hour, we diligently scrubbed each of them down with pet-friendly suds and brushes. I had to run inside in a panic trying to find my phone at one point. Lupi asked what was wrong as she helped me look. We found it stuffed in the cushion of my easy chair. I grinned and waved her to follow me as I dashed back outside. The twins had ingeniously decided to give each of my mutts a makeover. Gunner now sported a towering mohawk of bubbles while Libby looked like Thelma Harper as ‘Mama’. I was crying with laughter as I snapped pic after pic, encouraging her twins to pose with mine.

“Okay,” I called finally, “time to rinse them off.” I returned to the porch with Lupi and let the girls spray down the two obediently poised dogs for a minute. Then I puckered my lips and released them with another short shrill whistle, and all hell broke loose! Gunner and Libby bolted to their feet and shook themselves to about an 8.5 on the Richter scale. The entire yard exploded in a huge shower and the twins were caught in the deluge screaming and running about. Lupi’s laughter was the most beautiful sound as it rang out from beside me. I chuckled with her and went to remove the top from the hot tub. Soon the girls came over shivering and chattering and climbed into the steaming tub happily. Lupi turned to go back inside.

“You are welcome to bring a suit and join them you know,” I called after her. She paused and looked wistfully at her two babies as they splashed and played.

“That sounds wonderful,” she replied before returning to her tasks. I felt more than a little excited at the thought of seeing their mother in a bathing suit.

---

“American pig!” a heavily accented voice spat in my face with broken English. A hood protected me from all but his vile breath. I was hanging by my hands which were bound to a beam or something above me. My bare toes just touched the ground beneath me. I had been completely stripped of clothing and hung there like a fucking piece of meat, waiting to be butchered. That just pissed me off.

“Your breath puts a pig to shame,” I retorted earning a kidney punch that set me swinging and gasping for breath. “At least I don’t have to see your ugly fucking face,” I groaned. I heard the woosh of air just before my back exploded with agony from a hard blow. They must’ve used a piece of pipe or a staff. Another woosh and another blow, lower down against my thighs. I bellowed out in pain and rage as the blows continued to land all over my body. I was too out of it to realize when the beating had stopped. All I could do was groan and try to take in ragged painful breaths.

A conversation took place nearby in Pashtu, which I could not understand two words of. There was laughter and the sound of boots walking away. My arms ached horribly from the weight of my body trying to pull them out of their sockets. I tentatively swept my feet out to try and see if anything was around me. Nothing. I tried to listen past the ringing in my ears but could only make out far-off sounds that made no sense to me. No dripping water, humming of electrical appliances, grumbling or rumbling of traffic. No sounds of fighting or anything. It was too damn quiet. Where the fuck was I? Where was my squad ... oh fuck! Gomez! I felt fear for the first time in a very long time at the thought of her being killed or captured. I had to get out of here. I jerked my arms painfully testing the strength of my bindings. No way I was getting down on my own.

Hours passed; I think. It was hard to tell any sense of time when you are trying to block out the pain and agony from a dozen different hurts. I heard a familiar sound. It was a warbird screaming overhead, somewhere far above. I had some difficulty breathing so I tried to slow my respirations like Doc had taught me once.

I remembered his idiotic cherub face, masked with fear as he patched me up. I had gotten shot in the meaty part of my right trapezius. I was fucking gushing blood and he was trying hard to keep me calm as he squirted that new superglue shit into it while holding pressure.

“Goddamn Doc! Why don’t you just cut my fucking head off while you’re at it?” I screamed at him in pain.

“Oh, relax Gunny! Breathe,” he stuttered, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s just a flesh wound, you’re gonna be fine!”

“I’m bleeding like a mother fucker Doc!”

“Don’t worry Gunny,” he grinned, “all bleeding stops eventually.”

Fucking corpsmen! But he got what he wanted and I began laughing my ass off at his stupid morbid, sense of humor. Morphine is great shit!

I heard another roar of a warbird as it screamed overhead. I could feel the rumble in my bonds as it passed. There was an explosion some distance away. Then I heard a second bird scream by and another blast, closer this time. We were still in Kabul. Usually, the warbirds signaled the beginning of a new offensive. I listened closely and heard more explosions as artillery commenced. Occasionally there would be a ground shaking boom. Those would be cruise missiles targeting special assets like power stations, suspected headquarters, ammunition depots, missile defense systems, etc. It sounded like we were gearing up to kick some serious ass. Coalition forces had been fighting like hell to take the city from the Al Qaeda-backed Taliban, for nearly two months. It was only a matter of time before we drove them out but they weren’t making it easy. Another couple passes by the warbirds and this time the explosions were damned close!

Then the explosions lessened which usually meant the ground forces were engaged in close-quarter combat. I tried to listen for more clues to what was going on but I couldn’t discern anything. Then I heard a scream from nearby. It was filled with pain and anger, and it was female. Gomez! I felt intense pressure in my head and my eyes saw red inside the hood. I screamed in rage, promising every one of those filthy fucking, rag-head, animals a slow and certain death if they so much as touched her. They heard me because they came back and began beating me again. That was fine with me, so long as it kept them away from her.

Next thing I remember I was being dragged by my arms, my bare feet scraping painfully across the littered ground as they pulled me between them. My arms were no longer bound but the agony and pain in my shoulders was such that they might as well have been. I groaned miserably as we went along. Eventually, I began to perceive illumination through my hood as I was brought into a well-lit area. I was flipped roughly around and dropped onto a chair or bench. It was almost sublime being able to sit without having my arms ripped out of their sockets. Then the hood was ripped off my head and my swollen eyes clenched shut to protect me from the blinding brightness of the room.

“So, you don’t like us fucking your friend?” a cruelly accented voice said next to me, “Come American pig, open your eyes and watch us fuck her like the whore she is!” I felt his spit against my face and I strained to open my eyes, turning away from the brightest areas. “What’s the matter? Can’t bear to see the sight of your little bitch as she pleases us?”

I heard the sounds of grunting nearby and another heart-wrenching sound as CPL Gomez screamed through clenched teeth. I jerked upright and tried surging to my feet. The blow that sat me back down clouded what little vision I had with bright flaring stars. I shook my head trying to put my marbles back in place. Gradually I could make out some details of the square cell we occupied. It was about 20 by 20 feet and lit up by two strings of NATO halogens across the ceiling. On the wall across from me was the all too familiar Black Banner of the World Islamic Front. A tall turbaned dude stood before the banner in a ritual warrior’s robe, holding a giant curved Talwar with its point in the floor.

CPL Gomez was tied spread eagle on a framed cot in the corner to my left. She was completely nude and a ragged-looking bearded man stood over her as he pulled up his trousers and tied them in place. Tears stained her dirty face as she looked away from her captors. Her body was badly bruised and red lines marked the various lashes she had to endure as they beat and tortured her. Her large breasts were hideously disfigured by multiple bite marks around her bleeding nipples. A small patch of black pubic hair centered over her swollen and bleeding vagina. Her inner thighs were blackened with bruises. The last man to rape her bent over the cot and spat contemptuously in her face before nodding toward me with a grin and leaving the room via a doorway behind my left shoulder.

“They tell me she has a very tight little pussy,” the fucker beside me sneered. “Have you fucked her, American pig?” he asked venomously.

“Fuck you! You slimy piece of shit!” I roared hatefully at his face. I was still blinking back tears from the blinding lights.

“Staff Sergeant?” Gomez cried out tearfully, “Oh God Bishop!”

“Semper Fi Corporal!” I called back.

“Ah, so you do know one another,” the man gloated. He moved forward and squatted before me with a leering evil smirk on his ugly bearded face. “This is like a family get together don’t you say?” He ducked aside when I spit at him. He lashed his fist out and struck me hard across the face, knocking me off the chair. “You filthy stupid Americans and your enslaved coalition forces!” he spat, “you are a bunch of pig fuckers all of you!” he screamed angrily as I was picked back up and plopped back in the chair. “You may win this city for now,” he growled, “but as history has shown time and again, we will take it back. And you will go back to your hedonist ways, turning a blind eye once again to your so-called allies.”

“Why don’t you take your fucked up ideology and shove it up your ass,” I snarled back.

He laughed in my face and nodded behind me. Two more robed figures entered the room carrying a tripod and video camera which they set up in the corner to my right so that the Black Banner provided a suitable backdrop.

“Before we cut your head off for all the world to see, I think I want to watch you fuck your little friend here.” He turned and walked over to where Gomez lay and slashed at her bindings with a sharp dagger. Once she was free, he grabbed a handful of her short black hair and pulled her up to her knees. She cried out in pain and rage as she gritted her teeth. “Come little whore, you need to get your Staff Sergeant ready to fuck you,” he grinned, “let’s see if his dick is as big as his mouth.”

I screamed in rage again and tried to stand but rough hands held me down. Others pulled my legs apart exposing my flaccid penis to the room. “You will never get me to do this, you pig!” I snarled. I wasn’t expecting to see the giant-robed guy with the giant sword move, but when he did it was with a blur of motion as he stepped forward, swinging the Talwar up and over his head. I gaped in disbelief as he stomped his right foot downward and brought the heavy blade whistling at me like a breath of death. I was stunned as the tip of the weapon slashed through the chair between my legs, just millimeters from my dick. The wood shattered and left a huge gouge in the seat. If my distressed pecker could’ve crawled backward into my asshole it would have. When I blinked, the black robe was once again standing before the banner holding the sword point down. Was this really happening?

CPL Gomez was shoved forward onto her knees between my legs. “Go on and suck his dick little whore,” her tormentor sneered as he drove her face closer to my crotch, “show him you care enough to let him leave this life with a good fucking.” I gazed horrified down at her as she blinked away her tears and returned my look. She appeared calm and resolved and nodded at me.

“It’s alright Staff Sergeant,” she muttered, “better you than these horrible fuckers.” And with that, she bent down with her mouth open and tried to work my limp cock into it. It was like a perverted game of bobbing for apples and I tried l not to jerk away as she managed to suck my head past her lips.

I screamed in impotent rage as she forced herself to take more of me into her mouth. The terrorists around us laughed wickedly as she began slurping and bobbing her head over my lap. No matter how hard I willed it I felt myself begin to swell and harden as she sucked me harder and harder.

“Argh!” I snarled as I struggled to pull myself away, “please stop this!” They only laughed more and forced her head lower onto me making her gag and choke on my erection. “You fucking animals!” I screamed. “I hope you die slowly and burn in hell in pieces!”

Suddenly she was lifted off of me and my hard wet dick popped out of her mouth like a cork. She was dragged back over to the cot as I was lifted and pulled after her. Once they had her down on her back, I was shoved onto her and held down.

“Now fuck the little whore for me pig!” the scrawny fuck sneered in my ear, “consider it my final gift to you before you die. Do it or I will start cutting little pieces off of her, starting with her sharp little tongue.”

I found myself looking deep into her eyes and I wept at the thought of the abuse she had endured so far.

“Do it, Bishop,” she said evenly as she reached for my wilting hard-on, guiding it towards her bruised and battered labia, “please just fuck me,” she urged, “as long as you are doing it, they aren’t ... please.” Suddenly I felt myself entering her and she hissed between clenched teeth at the agony of my invasion.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” I whimpered into her ear.

“It’s alright.”

I felt a sharp stabbing pain as he stuck his dagger into my left ass cheek. “Fuck her!” he yelled. The shock caused me to crush her mound painfully when my rapidly deflating cock, slipped out of her. She cried out but reached up to hold my arms as I tried to pull off. Another stab in my other cheek and I fell against her again causing another whimper.

“Come on American Pig! Fuck her good!” he gloated as he stomped on my back, crushing me down upon her. “Don’t worry about her, we will keep her well fucked after you are dead!” he laughed hysterically and stepped back.

“Bishop...” she panted in my ear, “Oh God!” She was crying in despair and agony and it shredded my heart as I tried once more to roll off her. We heard the familiar woosh of the wooden staff right before it struck me across the shoulders. I roared in pain and struggled to push myself up. If I could just get one hand on that fucking...

My head exploded in pain as the staff smashed across my skull.

“FUCK HER!!!” he screamed insanely. More blows rained down upon me and for once I was grateful to be covering her with my body, protecting her from the pain. My mind was reduced to the basest of animal traits. All I could do was grunt in pain as each blow landed. I felt her gasping breath in my face as I crushed her beneath my weight. I was helpless beyond even the simplest of survival instincts. There was no longer any fight or flight response. I simply knew I had to protect her from further harm.

Ironically that was exactly what I did, unbeknownst to me at the time. The room was suddenly engulfed in a massive concussive wave as several flash-bang grenades detonated within the confined space. Those who were unprepared suffered debilitating concussions and blown eardrums. I was already face down and screaming (inadvertently protecting my eardrums) when the blasts went off. I lay helpless as gunfire erupted above and around me. They were staggered three-round bursts of 5.56 NATO ordinance. And only the screams of dying Al Qaeda terrorists echoed around me once the gunfire stopped.

“Clear!” a voice barked.

“Clear!” a second replied.

I lifted my head and saw the tactically outfitted soldier approaching me, a death’s head balaclava covering his face.

“You alive soldier?” he asked gruffly.

“Ughh!” I groaned, “You alive Gomez?” I moaned aloud.

“OohRah, Staff Sergeant.” she whimpered beneath me.

“Come on Marines, let’s get you out of here.”

Semper Fucking Fi!

---

I was able to wrestle the little twin urchins out of the hot tub by myself this time and wrapped each into a fluffy towel, before marching them into the house to change. Gunner and Libby were both passed out on the area rug in the living room. Each had a thick over-sized dog mattress and they were sprawled upon them, dead to the world. They didn’t even twitch when I came in and sat in my recliner. Lupi was finishing up in the kitchen and I asked her to join me when she was done. Once the twins had finished changing back into their jumpers, I parked them on my bed where they could watch Nickelodeon on the flat screen.

Lupi hesitantly came into the living room and sat on the couch across from me. I could feel her trepidation and it weighed heavy on my heart. But I once again decided to handle it like a Marine and hit the ground running.

“We need to talk Lupi,” I said as softly as I could, “you are involved in an abusive relationship and I am worried for you.” She just stared into her hands on her lap and didn’t reply. “I know you are caught up in all this and you are probably scared and feel like you have nowhere to turn.” She pressed her lips tightly together and sniffed quietly. “I want you to know that this is not the case. I am here for you and I am going to help you.” She finally looked up at me and I could see the pain in her face as she swallowed.

“What can I do?” she asked with a trembling voice, “I live with him,” she said haltingly.

“Have you nowhere else to stay?” I asked, “Do you have any family you can turn to?”

“My mom watches the girls on days when I can’t afford daycare,” she replied hesitantly, “but she lives in a retirement community and isn’t supposed to be babysitting, so I can’t rely on her very often.”

She sounded so destitute that I wanted to get up and go to her. But I didn’t want to cause her any more confusion than she already felt.

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