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  • Writer's pictureCurt Rude

the bee killer Friday read #2

On our first read, last Friday we read about soldiers, who are sharing a morning together in a place where killers linger. Not a place to make mistakes but . . . really, to error is human, and soldiers are human. Where'd I come up with this story. Listening. really listening to soldiers.

Sarge was thinking. Mission had required one bomb-maker to be put out of business, and Military Intelligence fingered the Islamic rat and the hole he called home. Things had gotten nasty when they kicked a door and found no rodent, just women undressed enough to really piss-off the homeowner. The soldiers had bolted for their ride with the gentleman shaking his fist at them; Muslims killed male eyes peeking at their women. O’Connor squeezed his ankle. He figured a medic could take his pulse through his boot. Kabul doors usually gave before bone; but not this time.

“Yo Connor. My man. That some kick. You A-okay in my book dog.”

Tee Pee stared through O’Connor. Shee’it … that low life A-rab didn’t know shit from Allah for a sec,” Tee Pee chuckled. “All I’m a-sayin’ is ya did good.”

O’Connor put weight on his foot. Pain put the brakes on talking. “Damn ride would be nice. This leg killin’ me.”

“Ah hell … you see that Mu-se-lum? He hada look o’ pure surprise under that beard. Yessirree.” Tee Pee started singing, “Been in the desert ona camel got no name, it felt good to be—” A voice groaned for Tee Pee to shut it.

Pain pulled O’Connor’s mouth into a tight line. “Jesus … we should write them words down. Sing your way onto American Idol. You gonna remember me, pal … when you’re one of those people?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Connor. I ain’t never forgettin’ yo’ white ass. I’m a feelin’ it in my bones though. Damn too quiet for my taste. Natives fixin’ to make things interestin’.” He looked at the windows. “You kick the doh good though … You know how it is … can’t give the infidels wood. Hell, I’m not so sure I could get mine up with a crane. This place just takes it out of ya. Now they riled some to the point I could hear a spider choken’ ona sand flea a mile ‘way. Ain’t supposed to be this quiet atall—”

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