Thank-You, Saddam!
by j.charles @ textproductions
Somewhere in a remote part of iraq there lies a military base formerly under the control of a fascist government. It had been recently reclaimed in the name of it’s country. By the american government of the early twenty first century led by yet another bush. private first class brandon dyer was there to uphold his end of a contract he made with the american government.
The contract which had placed him in iraq was his enlistment agreement, and the reason he was in iraq was because he wanted to shoot some people. people who may or may not deserve it, he understood, but after all, he was actively protecting his right to such an assumption. his and an entire country’s. you see, it was not required in the enlistment papers of private first class brandon dyer for him to agree with the cause of the influx and seizure of the base. It was, however, required of him to do a job which he had been specifically groomed for. And as is the case in many high stress jobs, it took a lot to unwind.
The city which shared a common border with the military base was, currently, draped in a sheer curtain of smoke. It was quickly turning into an inferno as posessions and structures fell prey to fire’s insaciable urge to multiply. “the desert air hurts the lungs today” brandon thought. “same as every fucking day” he remonded himself.
The desert air that irritated his lungs also helped irritate that fire, now exhausting enough smoke to dim the sum. Brandon watched as the cloud got high enough to begin blowing away, reminding him of los angeles or the napa valley during a burn day. Nothing would be left but black, he was sure, and since they managed to piss off the americans in the process of a come up, this was simply to prove a point.
The gas pump was situated all the way at the end of the last hangar. The filter to the gas pump had never been changed, that much was obvious. It pumped as though it was retired. “this thing pumps like a ninety year-old man” private first class belted out in frustration. His demeanor was that of a kid who was sent to time out during a birthday party. Watching from the corner. The pump paid no mind to him and continued at a medium pace.
The gas can he so intensely required for mobility received the fuel at an ever increasingly frustrating tone, and brandon began his impatience. It looked a lot like homer simpson waiting for a donut. Like a kid at christmas waiting until all the presents were open to rip the first candy cane off the tree.
An all terrain military vehicle sat idling about ten inches from brandon. It sounded like a skeleton masturbating in a garbage can (they used to be metal.) If it had a radio it would be on. An a-4 fully automatic rifle sat shotgun, complete with seatbelt and helmet. Out of the passenger side of the truck shot a filler hose, connected to the diesel pump. The all terrain vehicle paid no attention to private first class brandon dyer as he waited for the gas can to accept its final dash of gas.
Brandon replaced the lid, removed the filler hose from the passenger side of the all terrain vehicle and swaggered to where the attendant would’ve been. With the tip of his hat he offered “thank you, saddam,” then he shook an imaginary hand through clinched grinning teeth. The all terrain military vehicle was still masturbating when brandon reclaimed his ass grooved driver’s seat, casually dawned his helmet and chin strap, kissed his rifles and drove toward the fire. The all terrain vehicle had a full tank of gas, and private first class brandon dyer had fuel for the fire.