Routine Orders

I live from weekend to weekend. No amount of coffee can cure the lethargy of my soul.

0816HR. The new guy is paraded before the laojiaos of the unit. The phalanx of raucous glances are like rifles of a firing squad. His own eyes take furtive glimpses at the single blemish on the polished toe of his left boot – the anomaly, the existential foible, the hamartia of his dramatis persona.

0934HR. Two dirty old white-haired enciks are engaged in surreptitious conversation about getting a blowjob from the female sergeant. Their giggles take centre stage in a struggle between the moral expectations concomitant with rank and the primal needs of their unenlightened id.

1227HR. The lieutenant colonel stands before the cookhouse auntie, demanding the last drumstick buried in a tray of chicken innards. She curses herself inwardly, behind a melamine smile, for not being able to save it for her favourite lance corporal. Her day is spoilt and she accidentally chops off her left thumb when slicing watermelons.

1414HR. The private and the corporal have locked themselves in the armoury amidst the neatly stacked and waxed phalluses. The famished kisses and rapid-fire intercourse can little quench the infernal conflagration in their loins and in their closeted hearts. The padlocked 6 inch steel doors can little separate their unmuffled moans from the prying ears of a platoon as well as an impending court martial.

1545HR. The private, afflicted by sweaty palms and a mental state rendered fragile by the depraved yells of a staff sergant, rams his forklift into a 155 millimeter high explosive artillery shell. Working like ants on steroids, the dent on the shell exposing flakes of Composition B is swiftly concealed by masking tape and a desperate coat of paint. They refused to call it a cover-up; they called it an economical repair.

1800HR. The master warrant officer at the urinal finds that instead of a stream of urine, it is a stream of blood. In what was the anagnorisis of his disaffected existence, he had amidst his hysterical hollering found confirmation of both his cancer and the end of his career as a soldier.

2232HR. The security trooper prowling the furthest edges of the base chances upon the resident stray dog – emaciated and clasping on futilely and painfully to the last wretched breathes of its pathetic, macerated life. With a gaze of brute steel, the trooper plunges his bayonet into the heart of the unresisting beast, not knowing that what it wanted was a last gentle pat rather than a coup de grâce.

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