This book is intended for mature audiences, and its content may include scenes, dialogue, or descriptions that might be offensive, troubling, or traumatic to some readers. Triggers may include:
Profanity/foul language
Graphic violence
Death and dying
War/combat scenes
Gun deaths/fighting
Suicide and suicidal ideation
Traumatic war injuries, including traumatic amputation
Prisoner of war trauma
Torture and abuse
Forced proximity
Descriptive sexual acts, consensual/non-consensual
Child/adolescent neglect and abandonment
Bullying
Unmalicious injury to animals
PTSD

Another spasm ripped my lower back, forcing me to grit my teeth and choke back a scream. It wasn’t as bad as before, but… Goddamnit! How much longer did they expect me to—

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

Lemme grind your spine to dust and see you hold still, asshole!

It’s not like they tried to make you comfortable for an hour-long MRI—nope, lie on this hard-as-hell table and keep still. Never mind the pinched nerves and muscle spasms that felt like your body was folding in half. A body you were trapped in as it self-destructed. The spasm lasted half a minute, but every second seemed an eternity before the loud buzzing, popping, and clicking resumed. Just deal with it, Bishop. Stop being a pussy. This wasn’t my first rodeo. Nor was it the first time I’d been pulled back into the system.

God, I hate the VA!

All because I fell. Again. Halfway to the bathroom. In my own home. Obviously, I didn’t make it, and by the time the ambulance arrived (damn that woman!) I was soaked in piss and writhing on the floor while Gunner tried to help by lying on me as his sister whined nearby.

The spasms were a recurring nightmare. One minute, I was calmly answering the EMTs (No, I didn’t hit my head) and arguing with my sister, Bev—the next, an excruciating spasm would try to tear me apart.

Beverly Arnold, 43, wasn’t my real sister. I became her adoptive sibling when her folks took me in years ago. She was a spiteful, vindictive, always-in-your-business, troglodyte—on a good day. Standing over me with her sour face and shitty attitude offered little comfort as the medics strapped me to a backboard. Not that she was interested in my well-being—probably didn’t give a crap if I lived or died (which made two of us). Life Alert notified her whenever my body sensor detected a fall, giving her another opportunity to remind me how pathetic and inconvenient I was, especially to her. She wanted me in a nursing home under the pretense that she gave a shit.

Fuck that!

Just when things seemed to get better… I hadn’t needed the walker or wheelchair for weeks. The four-footed cane was awkward, but I was walking on my own. Was that so much to ask for? (Nobody noticed the cane still beside my easy chair across the room.)

The ER docs tried their best to stop the spasms. They pumped enough drugs into me to take down a horse: Ativan, Morphine, Dilaudid, Dilantin, Klonopin, Keppra… nothing helped. They were ready to paralyze me and put me on a ventilator, but I made it clear I wouldn’t do that again. My vitals must have peaked because they shelved the notion. Valium turned out to be the key drug. Problem solved; they transferred me to the VA Hospital half a state away.

So, here’s what you need to know. Name’s Al Bishop or Alex Vincent Bishop, SSGT USMC/Ret(medical), if you want to get specific. I live alone in a single-floor, two-bedroom house, probably built before Lincoln got his brain case ventilated. It’s old, like me. That’s how it felt most days. Who am I kidding? I ain’t old! I just look it. If I were any other 35-year-old, I’d be cokin’ and jokin’ with the boys. This is where I’d pull a Marlboro Red out of my breast pocket and light up, ‘cept I gave that up years ago. Now I just sit back in my easy chair and contemplate life while Gunner and Libby sprawl on the floor at my feet, sleeping the day away.

The four-legged cane is next to the left arm of my chair to help me get around when I’m feeling froggy. In my bedroom is a four-legged walker for when I’m not. When things get un-froggy, I have a wheelchair to reach the toilet without shittin' myself. To my right is a table with a lamp, a cold cup of coffee, my new Lenovo Slim Pro laptop, and a low-profile safe for my 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 the guy knew his stuff when it came to match-grade tactical handguns.

I was such a natural with the .45 that, after Boot Camp and SOI* 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 the Corps cups ever since. My fame kept me punching holes for every unit I was assigned, just not the fleshy kind. I was too good for combat. Until I wasn’t, then I was awesome! And I never looked back.

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

I sighed loudly, and Gunner’s eyebrow twitched. My coffee wasn’t gonna warm itself up. With a grunt, I stood and looked disgusted at my mobility assist device. Fuck that. The kitchen was three steps away. I stepped around it to the coffee pot, refilled my cup, and looked around. It was high time I cleaned this pigsty. The dishes were clean, and the counters were relatively clear. But I hadn’t mopped or touched a baseboard in damn near a year. I was at that stage of my disability that if I dropped something on the floor, it was forgotten.

“Well, Gunnery—”

“Staff Sergeant,” I corrected automatically.

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

“I was.”

“Hmm. Anyway, your back isn’t 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 hardcore nerve-frying procedures called ablations that… mostly helped—until they wore off.

“We need to adjust your meds.” He didn’t regard my taciturn manner very highly as he sat behind his desk, reviewing my electronic chart.

Of course you do.

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

“I don’t take narcotics.”

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

“You’re taking my Tramadol away?” Now I was pissed.

“I’m afraid so,” he replied. “We’ll put you on a six-month taper to gradually reduce your usage. In the meantime, I’ll start you on a new medication called Cymbalta, which has great reviews for chronic pain. It’s also a mood stabilizer, so it can help when you’re feeling particularly morose.”

Morose? My spinal vertebrae were disintegrating, and I was about to lose the only effective medication. And this limp-dick thinks I’m being morose?

See why I hate the VA?

I stepped back to the den and felt something sticky on the floor. Probably spilled soup or who knows what. Only a matter of time before the roaches and ants come. How can I keep this hovel clean when 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 an… alternative revenue stream, as Davee put it.

With cup in hand, I returned to my chair and regarded the two lazy Rottweilers sprawled across the floor. Gunner and Libby were siblings, two years old and pure block-headed Germans. I settled in my chair and glanced at 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 risk it. It's humiliating enough having people watch me amble across the street like a turtle with a broken leg. Not that any of them gave a crap. Bunch of liberal hippies!

Well, enough pissing and moaning... Maybe something good will come today. I was about due for a new Dixie Gun Works catalog. I got up and grabbed my metal cane. Gunner and Libby were on their feet instantly, standing by the front door. I opened it, and they escorted me onto the porch like a color guard.

The mail truck pulled away as I stepped down and crossed the yard. The fence was only 4 feet tall with a simple gate. I put up Beware of Dog signs along the front. Not that four feet of chain link would slow either of these two down if they got a burr in their saddle. But they were well-trained and mellow for their age, so I didn’t give it much thought. It didn’t surprise me the first time Libby pawed the gate open and let herself out. It pissed Gunner off 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, and a thick letter from J R Publishing. What’s Davee want now? I was still bent about our last conversation when he brought me home from the Tuscaloosa VA Hospital two days ago.

“Al, why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“I just tripped,” I grunted, bristling at his tone. “Ain’t nothing.”

“It is if you make it worse.” His eyes never left the road as we cruised in his over-the-top Jag-ewe-waar. It was a comfy ride. I was numb from mid-back to my ass, from the nerve block. “What’s wrong with looking into some sort of assisted-liv—”

“Don’t,” I snapped. “Just don’t.”

I rolled my eyes at his dramatic sigh.

Davee was Frank Davenport, who represented me as an agent despite working for J.R. Publishing. He was one of the few I’d consider a friend. We met at Starbucks about a year ago. I liked to go there to write on my laptop and drink their drip coffee for hours. He was a regular, and one day, 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 my book—my memories and experiences as a combat marine, up till that fateful day when I got my shit scattered and ended up with a Med Board*. Writing was how I dealt with it, encouraged by my therapist, Shannon, who recognized it as an effective outlet. Periodically, I’d send parts to her, and even though I never reread it, she insisted I not delete it. So, a few entries became a paper, then a story, then a book. I was working on #2 now.

Early on, Davee told me about his publishing firm and gave me his business card. After pressing me, I let him check out my manuscript. He turned my laptop to look it over and sat engrossed in my tale for over two and a half hours. When he finished, he sat back and grabbed his untouched coffee. “Holy crap!” he muttered, staring 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.

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

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

After sipping his cold coffee, he grinned and made a face. “Al then,” he pointed at the laptop. “This is good,” he added. “I mean, it is really good!”

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

“I think you should consider publishing it,” he gushed, “and I’d be honored to help.”

“Well,” I hesitated, “I dunno about all—”

“I do!” he replied eagerly, like 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?”

“Something like Dark Tales from Down Range—So you want to be a Jarhead?”

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

Early on, I learned that Davee was gayer than a three-dollar bill, like many of the squids I used to work with.

That first day back from the hospital was foggy. My back was numb, my legs were shaky, and I had bruises on my knee and hip. I relied on the walker to get from bed to head. I was too tired to think about how far I had fallen.

Two years ago, I was a hard-charging, lean, mean, killing machine. I ran 5 miles with a 45-pound loadout and a 90-pound rucksack full of our trade's tools—breaching gear, ammo, MREs*, spare batteries, socks, etc. Some REMF* Navy puke decided the optimal loadout for forward operating Marines should never exceed 60 pounds, typical bullshit ignored by every combat soldier. The mission, not your comfort, determines your loadout. Back then, I could jump, dive, tumble, fall, and bounce up ready to chew concertina wire and piss napalm.

A loud knock on my front door startled me out of my dark mood. Gunner and Libby bolted from their beds, shattering the peace with their barks. I whistled sharply, and they quieted immediately but faced the door.

“Who is it?” I barked from my easy chair.

Instead of answering, my sister let herself in, lugging two paper grocery sacks. The dogs greeted her excitedly, but she glared at them as she stepped inside. As she marched past me toward the kitchen, I slipped the Springfield off the table beside my coffee cup and tucked it into the seat cushion.

“Come on in,” I said sarcastically.

She didn’t bite. I watched her set the bags on my tiny dining table and step out of view toward my fridge. Her derisive snort pissed me off. “When was the last time you cleaned out this fridge?” She didn’t expect an answer, nor did I offer any as I lowered my feet and stood up with the walker. When I entered, she grabbed unmarked wrapped things and tossed them into the bin. She opened a dubious takeout container and made a face before tossing it. “Seriously, Alex, you can’t keep living like this.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” I muttered, embarrassed by the things she discarded. I didn’t remember half the crap she tossed. The 32-gallon bin was full when she finished and started putting away the food she brought.

She spun on me when I went to take out the full bag. “Don’t!”

“I’m not a goddamned invalid!” I snapped back. The weight of my situation made me flush angrily. There I was, stooped over, letting my upper body rest on the chrome walker. Her expression was a mask of thinly veiled pity.

Bev sighed as she pulled the bin away and tied the bag. “I’m not here to start another fight,” she replied without looking at me. She removed the heavy bag from the bin and lugged it into the mudroom, heading out the back door. Gunner and Libby eagerly followed her. I released a heavy breath of frustration and moved to sit in one of the uncomfortable chairs.

“When did you get home?” She stepped back inside and grabbed a new liner from under my sink.

“A couple of hours ago. Davee gave me a ride.”

She gave me a sour look. “It wouldn’t kill you to call. All you had to do was ask.” Her tone was softer than her expression. I didn’t bite. “How are you feeling?” I could tell it pained her to ask.

“Finer than frog hair,” I muttered, waiting for another nursing home lecture.

Instead, she returned to the front door, leaving it open as she stepped out. When she returned, she had a flat case of Pepsi and a white Hardees bag. Her purse was slung over her shoulder. Gunner and Libby smelled the warm burgers and followed her with hopeful expressions. She handed me the bag and set the sodas on the counter. “I have to go to Pascagoula tomorrow for a weekend seminar.” She worked for Chevron in one of its distribution divisions. “Call David if—”

“I’ll be fine, Bev.”

“I’m just saying,” she retorted. “Not trying to pick a fight, okay? We’ll talk later.” She reached into her purse and handed me a plain envelope. “Here.”

I looked at it as she held it out. My expression made her roll her eyes, and she tossed it onto the table. “$800,” she muttered dismissively. “David finally sold Daddy’s old Monte Carlo to a collector who wanted the engine. That’s half.”

“I don’t need your—”

“Would you just take the goddamn money and stop being an asshole?” she cried. “It ain’t charity. They didn’t leave us much, and you let me have the house.” I could see her struggle to control herself as she held back whatever else she wanted to add. “I gotta go.”

I watched her enter the living room. “See ya later.” I tried to sound contrite.

She turned back at the door. Her expression softened as she gazed back at me. “Bye.”

That was about the warmest interaction since I returned home. Growing up, we remained aloof. Beverly resembled our mom. She was tall, brunette, now augmented to keep the gray at bay. She wasn’t hard on the eyes, maybe one or two notches above average. Two kids hadn’t affected her slender figure, though motherhood had seasoned her. Our folks died a few years back, Dad from lung cancer and Mom from sleeping pills soon after. I was deployed and didn’t make it back for either funeral. It didn’t affect me like it did Bev. I regretted not being there for her, but OPSEC* is absolute, and I could never make her understand my absence wasn’t out of spite or disinterest. She’s never forgiven me.

I picked up the envelope and counted eight crisp $100 bills. That gave me an even grand with the cash in my gun safe. Wonder how much a maid would cost.

Tucking the bundle under my arm, I turned and headed back to the house while my two guardians attacked each other in the street. It was an ever-constant struggle between them, Wolverine vs Sabretooth. The ache crept into my hips and lower back as I climbed the three steps to my porch and went inside. It was early, but I decided to pop two Tramadol anyway. I had gone the whole day without any, and I felt the chills and tremors in the back of my skull from withdrawal.

I collapsed in my recliner and washed the pills down with lukewarm coffee. I checked the time for the mission’s duration on my iPhone... I had a missed call from Davee. I opened the phone and listened to his voicemail.

“Al, baby, it’s Davee. Listen, call me before you open that envelope, okay? I need to go over a few things. Talk to you soon.” Well, that was…strange.

We hadn’t parted ways amicably after yesterday’s three-hour drive. He tried to get me to give up my independence, dignity, and self-respect for a richer, more fulfilling life.

“Afraid I won’t finish book two?” I retorted accusatorily.

He looked chagrined for a moment before vehemently denying such a shallow motive.

I called him back, and he answered on the first ring.

“J R P, this is Davee.”

“So, you know when my mail arrives?”

“Al!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Are you sitting down?" 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?” The bigwigs had agreed to a trial run of 10,000 books.

“All of them!” he blurted. “We sold every print except the case reserved for you.” He was bubbling with excitement. “And the eBook has been downloaded thousands of times! 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 thick.

“Oh,” he said less enthusiastically, “I need you to sign and scan back some forms. They authorize us to proceed with a second, much bigger run.” He seemed to be holding back.

“Davee…” I used my don’t test the Gunny tone.

“Okay, look.” His voice went lower, “I tried to convince them to cut you an early royalty check, but they are uptight about schedules and distributions.”

I stayed silent. Still waiting for the point.

He sounded wary. “Anyway, they agreed to a small advance on your royalties, but it’s nowhere close to what I wanted.”

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

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

I tuned him out as I grabbed my Tekto auto knife from my table and clicked it open. I sliced through the envelope’s top 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... “Thirty thousand dollars?” I gasped.

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

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

“What?” he replied, confused. “A maid?”

“Yeah,” I said defensively, “You and Bev keep bitching how I can’t take care of myself. And now the VA has taken away my medication. It ain’t getting any easier. So, I figure hiring someone to help me might get y’all off my ass.” I could feel the tension through the phone as he quietly bristled. I was blunt. “You think I can pull that off?”

“Al,” he chuckled, “Soon, you’ll afford an army of housekeepers, maids, and a chauffeur—and the best medical care!”

Well, ain’t that something?

How do I drop the VA?

Google was the greatest thing since Richard Jordan Gatling invented the machine gun in 1863. After several minutes, I was better informed and considered several options. One suggestion was to call my local Veterans Service Officer before making rash decisions. I’d dealt with them before and wasn’t inclined to do so again, but I’d better cover all my bases. They offered no advice regarding my medical care. Instead, they tried to lure me back down the rabbit hole of other contacts and extensions, where I’d get no answers.

Treatments for traumatic degenerative spinal cord injuries

I found a nearby Pain Management Clinic that accepted private payor self-referrals. I called and spoke to a receptionist who asked about my primary and secondary insurance and discovered they accepted my Humana coverage through Tricare. 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 cleared, and I’d have enough money for my first visit.

Davee advised me to find a new Primary Care Provider if I planned to leave the VA, so I searched and found many providers, nearly all of whom accepted Tricare. I had to narrow my search once I realized that not all accepted new patients. But I found a couple and made more calls before settling on a local office. They couldn’t get me in for a month, but I wasn’t concerned. For my meds, I could call in my refills and have them delivered to my house. I had plenty, though. A month was fine.

That exhausted my daily chores, so I sat back and returned to what I did best: writing.

A heavily armored Humvee raced around the Mosque and into the market square, spinning and fishtailing as the driver overcorrected and tried to regain control. I saw the top gunner clinging to the M240 GB coaxial machine gun being tossed about.

Jesus Christ! Where’d these numb nuts come from?

The driver had no tactical driving experience. Maybe he was afraid of rolling it (virtually impossible, I assure you—I’ve tried) because he stomped his brakes, sliding to a halt in a cloud of dust.

I heard the gunner yelling at the driver as I jumped up and started barking orders, “Goddammit!” I yelled, “Cover fire! Cover fire! Light those fuckers up!” It would be seconds before the enemy reacted. Those dumb fuckers made an irresistible target.

I ran forward and began firing into the higher windows of the building across from me, hoping to hell our field of fire would contain them long enough for the fuckwit 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 of upsetting their God or causing Al Qaeda to piss all over their prayer rugs.

And, of course, that was where the RPGs fired from. Smoke trails sprouted like party favors from the second floor of the mezzanine overlooking the courtyard.

Once the first shot was fired, all bets were off, and the REMFs* could take their ROEs and shove them up their sorry little asses.

But by then, it was too late. Once the first rocket grenade hit near the stalled Hummer, half a dozen more followed. The first explosion knocked me back, and everyone ducked when the next six brought absolute Hell down on those poor bastards in the open. I looked back to see PFC Potts calmly step out from our alleyway and lob M203 grenades with his launcher onto the circular mezzanine halfway up the Mosque. He was cool as a cucumber as he delivered death back at those sorry, sand-packin’ sumbitches, and I loved him like a son for it. I turned and peered through the smoke and dust 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 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. “Corpsman up!” I yelled and turned to find Doc Thomas pushing through the huddled marines behind me. I joined him, and we raced into the open. The entire square erupted as covering fire commenced from every alleyway and entrance. I kept my head down and focused on reaching that Marine as the world above and around me shook with small arms fire and heavy machine guns.

It felt like hours, but we reached the downed gunner and dove beside him. His left leg was detached, lying several feet away. Blood squirted from the stump, and he screamed incoherently as I held him down. Doc Thomas had the stump tied off with a tourniquet in seconds and nodded at 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 back across the square. Bullets punched holes into the ground around us, and we kicked into high gear. It was a miracle or blessing that those fucks were lousy shots. We made it back into the alley unscathed, and Doc began treating the horrific amputation with the determination shared only by those few heroic bastards who answered the call to become FMF (Fleet Marine Force) Corpsmen.

The deafening shriek of a warbird deafened us as it ripped through the air above, just clearing the rooftops. An explosion shook the mosque, and its dome collapsed. I hovered protectively over Doc as he began an IV and pushed plasma into the leaky Marine at his feet.

“Why the fuck did you leave his goddamned leg out there?” yelled a deep voice I knew too well. Top had decided to grace us with his presence—all hail Sergeant 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 that 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 plasma bottle and handed it to a nearby marine as he produced a morphine syrette and stabbed it into the wounded man’s arm.

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

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

“At ease, Sar Major,” I growled, “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 disappeared as I entered beast mode. In combat, hand-to-hand or downrange, there was no friend or foe—only targets. And targets got put down.

Arms wrenched me back, pulled me off the target, lying beneath me with a bloodied nose and mouth. “Gunny! That’s enough!” Sgt. Santos screamed in my ear while others helped the Sergeant Major back to his feet.

He jerked his arms free, glowering at me (from a distance). “Are you out of your motherfucking mind Gunny?” He spit blood onto the ground, “I’ll have your ass court-martialed alongside that worthless cunt!”

He was half right.

The next afternoon, Lupi arrived with her girls, ending my quiet solitude. They hid shyly behind her as she brought them inside, looking away from me during introductions. Both had thumbs in their mouths. Gunner and Libby were beside themselves with excitement over the mini-humans and unsure how to deal with them. They sat up alert with their ears cocked and licked their lips, alternating between standing and sitting awkwardly. The girls were wide-eyed and clung to Lupi’s legs.

Both wore identical colorful Oshkosh jumpers and slip-on shoes. They had matching backpacks that Lupi relieved them of and hung by my door. As she bent to take their shoes off, I was acutely aware of her ass, stretching the confines of her denim cut-offs. Her shirt was a threadbare tee that showed the lines and material of her bra. Her skin was tanned to a soft mahogany tone that raised my blood pressure. I averted my gaze when she turned around.

Eyes Right, Gunny!

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

No way. They only had eyes for Gunner and Libby. Sigh…story of my life. I couldn’t blame them. The mutts were acting like total idiots, trying to decide what to do. They desperately wanted to make friends but held back with comical uncertainty. I whistled softly, drawing their attention. I lowered two fingers, and they dropped down and stretched out with their heads on their paws, working their eyebrows to full ‘shock and awe’ effect. Their tails thumped the hardwood behind them, and they licked their chops. Occasionally, one would emit a high-pitched whine.

I snapped a finger, and they rolled onto their backs like synchronized swimmers. Seeing two upside-down rotty ‘grrr’ faces was too silly for the twins not to giggle at, much to the delight of the dogs. Lupi put her hand out before Gunner and got an upside-down kiss. Libby tried to scooch her lopsided head over to be included and got a jaw-pat.

It took ten minutes—a new record. By the time Lupi stood and stepped over with her long, tanned legs, bare feet, and painted toes…

“Thank you so much for allowing this, Mr. Bishop…” she began.

I cut her off with a raised hand, “Just call me Al, Alex, or Bishop,” I said quietly as she followed me into the kitchen. The two six-year-olds were engrossed in getting every dog toy from the large bin by the couch and trying to get Gunner and Libby to play with them. The Rottweilers were busy sniffing them and deciding which parts needed the most kisses. They loved little toes. Who didn’t? “And please think nothing of it. I’m happy to have them over,” I added, pointing back into the living room where the four gathered around a pile of stuffed toys and chewies on the floor. “This is going to be fun.”

Yeah, keep telling yourself that…

I showed her the shop with the mower, hedge trimmers, and assorted gardening tools. I used to keep a tidy curbside, but it had been neglected. I left her and returned to find the girls still infatuated with Gunner and Libby’s toys. Libby was trying to coax one girl into a tug-of-war game with her Kong Wuba rope while Gunner lay on his back, flopping like an epileptic, grunting and sneezing.

Lupi couldn’t start the mower, and I couldn’t try due to my condition, so she spent her time digging around my flower beds. I went out with the dogs and her girls for fresh air, and she smiled at the company. I felt like a bottom-feeder for just watching her work. When Didi and Lulu saw the hot tub, they erupted with joy and cried, “Swimming! Swimming! Mama Swimming!” Lupi looked uncertain, but I discreetly nodded and assured her I’d stay close. She quickly folded under the pressure and agreed.

With twin screeches of joy, they darted off, stripping buck naked. I shook my head as I removed the lid and watched them climb the steps eagerly, then gingerly sink into the 104-degree water. I showed them how to activate the lights, jets, and waterfall features, and they giggled and splashed. Gunner and Libby stood side-by-side on the stairs, staring at them guardedly while I retrieved my laptop, towels, and some floating chew toys from the dog bin. Who says babysitting was hard? Adapt and overcome.

“Gunnery Sergeant Bishop, do you understand the charges?”

“Yessir.”

“Do you wish to enter a plea to these charges?”

“Guilty as Hell, your Honor.”

I saw the Colonel’s resignation as he reviewed the files and stared at me. No one felt good about this… Except Shitwitz, who gloated like Mussolini—unaware of how badly he fucked up his career.

My CO, a Light Colonel, tried to mitigate me to NJP* instead of a court-martial. But Top was having none of that. He had the pull, and I was hung out to dry. I was too pissed to give a shit. The affair would impact me more than I thought.

Upon returning from our mission, I was met by PMO*. There were two enlisted and a First Lieutenant who advised me that they had to take me into custody immediately and asked if I could surrender my firearms. Certainly not to you, cupcake. I turned to SGT Santos and handed him my M4 and 1911. “Watch these for me, will you, Mike?”

“Sure thing, Gunny! Look on the bright side,” he grinned, “No AAR*!”

I laughed, letting them handcuff me before loading me into a white Humvee with the PMO logo on the door.

The court-martial had been in session for hours, and I stood before the panel in full dress, weighed down by more salad* (slang for medals) than damn near anyone but Chesty Puller himself. However, he had five Navy Crosses (the second-highest meritorious decoration, second only to the Medal of Honor), whereas I had only one. The unease in the court was thick enough to spread on toast.

During the council cross-examination, a bright young lieutenant asked me, “Gunnery Sergeant Bishop, you admit to grabbing the Sergeant Major and physically wrestling him away from Petty Officer Thomas. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Ma’am, that’s exactly right.” My tone earned me no points with the Judge.

“And then you threw him to the ground and assaulted him?”

“Affirmative.”

“Why?” she asked. I blinked back at her.

How can these college-educated toadstools be so fucking stupid?

“Why, what, Ma’am?”

“Why did you physically assault the Sergeant Major?” she repeated.

I stared at her as if she were so dumb her hair hurt. “Because ventilating his brainpan with my .45 seemed excessive... Ma’am.”

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 cracked up with my wit.

“Gunnery Sergeant Bishop,” he asked again, “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 to Staff Sergeant. I was docked half a month’s pay for six months and ordered confined to the Brig for five days minus time served, which, ironically, had been five days. SGM Shitwitz was lowballed from his CSM* post and forced to retire under a high-year tenure. I was pleased to learn Hospital Corpsman Second Class Virgel J. Thomas was awarded the Bronze Star for valor.

By the time Lupi finished, every dirt bed around my house was weed-free, raked smooth, and ready for planting. She also washed 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 in towels. By the time they were dressed and ready to go, I had produced another $100 bill, which she refused to take.

“Alex, that’s too much. Please, just half,” she pleaded. I sensed more than guilt in her tone, raising doubts in my head.

On a whim, I went back to my safe and returned with twenties. “Would smaller bills be better for you?”

“Oh yes, please!” she replied immediately.

I handed her five $20 bills. She looked up, surprised. I returned her gaze and nodded encouragingly, “Is that alright?”

She nodded gratefully, and we scheduled another time for her to return next week. I watched her go to the Ford Focus and load the girls into their car seats. I couldn’t see the driver through the tint of his window, but when they backed out, I saw him through the windshield. He was black and dressed like a hoodlum. I remembered her calling him Dante. She waved to me while he stared with hostile eyes. The twins waved, and I waved back.

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

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

“Of course I did. I changed the locations a bit, too. Why?”

“Well…” I rolled my eyes at the thought of him fiddling with his fingers in the air. “It seems some of our readers recognized your graphic depictions,” he said, “and they told friends who told others… And now a certain retired bigshot is threatening to sue us for defamation.” He sounded downright giddy!

I frowned, trying to wrap my head around the revelation. “Let me get this straight,” I muttered. “If y’all are getting sued… Isn’t that a bad thing?”

His bubbly laughter set my teeth on edge. “Oh, Alex,” he replied glibly, “That’s what we have lawyers for! Lots and lots of lawyers. And a whole team of proofreaders and copy editors to ensure your manuscript is airtight.”

“So... It’s not a bad thing?”

“No, Fool!” he giggled gayly, “This is great! When this gets out, it will drive sales through the roof!”

So, Sergeant Major Shitwitz is upset over my book, and there’s nothing he can do about it? I felt smug. “So, we are selling more books?”

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

Holy crap! “Guess I better get busy on book two,” I muttered.

He heard me, “Yeah, about that…” Uh oh. “How far along are you?”

“I need to check, but I’m on Chapter 14,” I replied, “maybe 60 or 70 thousand words.”

“When will you have it finished?”

“I have no idea. If my back eases up, a couple months, maybe sooner. Why the sudden pressure?”

“No pressure, Alex,” he replied. I could feel the caveat in his tone. Finally, he sighed, “Okay, look, I still feel awful about securing you that puny pittance for Dark Tales.” He was hesitant, treading carefully. “I don’t want to make any promises, but cash advances are sometimes offered to well-established writers who agree to certain terms. Based on the first book’s performance, your second will do well. So—”

“What terms?” I interrupted.

“Usually, we ask you to send your work and sign a contract agreeing to a reasonable completion timeline.”

I considered it. “I’m out of my league, Davee, but I’m not keen on a deadline. You’ve done this, so tell me what you think.”

“I understand,” he replied. “Let’s make a hypothetical scenario. You say you can probably complete book two in four months. Correct?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“So, it is not unreasonable to ask you to complete it in six or eight?”

I picked up what he was throwing down, “So, you could offer me a term with a completion window beyond my estimate.” I liked this.

“And,” he added, “we could throw in a bonus for early delivery!”

“So, how much are we talking here?”

“It will depend on projected outcomes. Our marketing department makes educated guesses by analyzing past performance, target audiences, pig entrails, and tea leaves.” He giggled at his humor.

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” he replied and pivoted. “How do you feel about stepping into the limelight?”

The coyness in his tone had me glancing for the nearest foxhole. “What do you mean?”

“A promotional event like a book signing.” He explained. “We arrange a venue, usually a bookstore, where you sit, look all soldierly, and meet and greet your readers while signing books.”

I shuddered. The thought of facing crowds made me palpitate. “I’d rather shave my balls with a weed whacker.”

There was a pregnant pause before he sighed. “Well, that was… Vivid.”

“I got a million of 'em.”

“Look, Alex,” he began with his stuffy, condescending tone. “Nothing impresses a publisher like an author who does their part to market their book. If you spend two hours at a Barnes and Noble, signing copies and greeting your readers… it would go a long way toward easing their fragile insecurities.”

“Do I have to talk to people?”

“Don’t be dense! Of course, you must talk to them. You might even try to smile,” he sounded exasperated. “Who knows, you might make a friend or two.”

“I don’t want any friends.” Gunner and Libby jumped to their feet, staring at the door. Their tails wagged at the sound of the small car pulling into my drive. “Looks like the housekeeper is here. Gotta go.”

“How’s that going?” he asked curiously as I hung up.

I heard feet stepping onto the porch, then a knock. “Come on in,” I called, reaching for my cane and standing.

Lupi entered, followed by the twins. She carried a flat of flower starts, some I recognized as petunias, chrysanthemums, and goldenrod. The girls carried bags of bulbs, probably dahlias. “Hello, Mr. Bishop—”

“Al,” I corrected. “What do you have there?”

She smiled as the twins held up their prizes. “We wanted to get the front beds planted—”

Gunner’s deep growl cut her off, followed by Libby’s. Both dogs went rigid, facing the door, assuming guarded postures. I turned to see a tall, black man stepping onto the porch, wearing faded jeans with scattered holes and a purple hoodie emblazoned with the name of an unfamiliar rapper’s logo.

This must be the boyfriend, I mused.

The room erupted when Libby lost it and began barking and snarling aggressively. Gunner sank lower to the floor in a posture any trainer would recognize as…dangerous. I turned to see the newcomer side-step drunkenly as he recognized the two dogs. His eyes flew open wide in alarm.

I whistled, and Libby sank quietly to the floor. I could feel the rumble in her chest as her gaze locked on the man. Gunner was slower, but nothing about his posture suggested submission.

“Gat damn!” the man exclaimed stepping back.

“Dante!” Lupi cried in alarm. “I asked you to stay in the car.” The twins clung to her, staring at Gunner and Libby with terrified expressions.

“I don’t take orders from no woman, bitch!” he snarled from the porch. I was halfway across the room, and we locked eyes as he glared and stood warily on the second step, ready to bolt. His expression switched from haughty arrogance to me and wariness at the two brown and black devil dogs poised to attack.

“Maybe you should heed the signs on the gate, then,” I offered as I stepped onto the porch, regretting the cane. “Or did they escape your notice?” My tone wasn’t hostile, but I wasn’t tolerating his foolishness either.

Lupi’s visit was cut short by her angry boyfriend and the terrified twins. She turned to me woefully as Dante cursed and demanded she get her bitch ass back to the car. “I am so sorry, Mr. Bish—”

“Al,” I corrected softly, moving aside to let her leave. She glanced up at my wary face as I continued, “Don’t worry about it.” I kept my tone low as she set the plant and bulbs on the deck and turned back to me. “You have my number.” I watched quietly as she hurried the twins out of the gate and helped them into their car seats.

Dante tried to give me some stink-eye from behind his open driver's door. I returned his gaze with an expression forged in the crucible of combat.

When she called the next day, I could tell something was off. The incident consumed my thoughts throughout the night. Part of me wanted to ignore my disability and put the asshole down like a rabid dog. But the bigger, darker side told me to mind my own and stay in my lane.

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

“That’s okay. Is everything okay with you?” I couldn’t hide my concern.

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

“You know you can bring the tykes with you. They’re welcome here,” I meant it.

“Yes. Thank you. I’ll try to be better prepared next week. I’m so sorry.” Her voice was full of regret and uncertainty.

“Lupi, are you okay?”

“I am okay. I will be. Thank you for understanding. I will talk to you later. Bye.” She hung up, and I wondered what the Hell was going on. Whatever was troubling her, I knew the source.

My first appointment with my pain management doc was an eye-opener. They were the opposite of what I expected, 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. Still, I was taken back within 15 minutes of my arrival (which was always 30 minutes early). After my weight and vital signs were taken, I sat in a comfortable waiting room for another 5 minutes before being interviewed by a middle-aged nurse practitioner named Carrie. She was pleasant and no-nonsense. She reviewed my medical history and took the paper records I brought to be scanned into their system.

I had to review and sign their terms of agreement. No sharing meds, no street drugs, no misusing narcotics, pee in a cup every other visit, etc. She stressed this was a pain management practice, not a recovery and addiction center, and they didn’t administer methadone. If I failed to abide by the rules, I was out. As long as I understood and agreed with the rules—sign here, here, and here, and initial everything highlighted. I was told to expect another 20-minute wait for her to confer with Dr. Sousa and for him to review my chart. I remembered a Master Gunnery Sergeant Sousa—he was Brazilian, if I remembered.

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, with short-cropped gray hair. He was energetic and seemed genuinely happy to meet me. He thanked me for my service and began examining me, making notes. A younger woman assisted him during my examination, typing onto a laptop as he called out his findings.