The True Adventures
Of
Youthly Puresome
BLOOD BROTHERS
by
Jack Woodul
The Cubi Point O-Club was crowded as hell, and Puresome and Weed had been there since early afternoon, when they had snuck off from their respective extremely responsible junior officer collateral duties aboard CVA-62.
They were at the stage of beer-drinking (short of bullet-proof and invisible) where the facial muscles are paralyzed, limiting the subject to a single, silly-assed expression and terse speech.
Early-on camaraderie had gradually lost out to sullen belligerence as the Club had filled up with Phantom pukes, A-6 pukes, RIO pukes, and some ship's company pukes, including the Air Boss, who was, besides being a commander, generally considered to be an asshole.
Not only were most of the crowd not righteous A-4 drivers, their noise was drowning out the Filipino band's version of such favorites as "I reff my har een Sam Pranceesco," which usually caused Puresome to get all wet and runny.
“Hey, Weed," Puresome nudged his room-mate, "lookit that weenie Air Boss sitting over with that bunch of blackshoe faggits!"
"Yup," commented Weed incisively.
"I vote we launch an Alpha Strike against that target," continued Puresome, whose soft-voiced comments actually blanked out the band’s spirited rendition of “You better quit kickin’ my dog around.” Other malcontents muttered approval, swilled their drinks, and made ready.
None of the shot glasses lofted from the bar across the smoke-filled room actually struck the target, but its approaches were severely cratered. And though it had seemed like a good idea at the time, Puresome and Weed found it prudent to mix and mingle in the crowd away from the bar to avoid reprisals launched from the impact area.
Now that immediate death seemed to have been avoided, Puresome had time to acknowledge the relentless filtration of San Miguel beer through his system. Since his full bladder light was on, he left Weed for the long trip to the head, or the bushes outside, whichever came first.
After a trip outside and a furtive stop back at the bar for more cold beer, Puresome eventually found Weed in intense conversation with a short, skinheaded individual. Weed was staring down like a snake stares at a conejo. "I bet you're a... god... damm... MARINE!" Weed was saying. "I bet you're a god... damm... CAPTAIN!" he continued. "I bet you're a god... damm... ROTORHEAD!" Weed hissed, about two inches from skinhead's face.
To Puresome, grinning fixedly, time went one-potato, two-potato, while the object of Weed's withering scorn deliberately shifted his bottle from his right hand to his left; drew back his fist, estimated range, elevation, and windage to Weed's nose, and fired....smack! rendering Weed's normally perpendicular snoot about forty-five degrees port.
Again, time again went one-potato, two-potato while a thin trickle of blood started seeping out Weed's bent nose. The little captain just leaned back and surveyed his work. Weed was still grinning, the neural road to awareness somewhat awash in San Miguel.
Finally, the truth dawned. Puresome and Weed slowly faced each other. "Goddam, Weed," said Puresome, "he hit you!"
"Yeh, goddam, he did!" Weed acknowledged.
“Let's hit him!" suggested Puresome; Weed nodded his head "One…two…three!" The section turned, aimed, and fired, nailing the Jarhead, who had not moved from the original scene of triumph. He dropped out of sight in a forest of aviator legs.
"Fixed his ass,” said Weed.
The killer duo had hardly completed their first triumphant swig of beer when a slightly bent Marine struggled up from the floor and yelled, "Goddam, for a couple of squids, you guys can hit!"
"Aw, hell, a section ought to nail a single anytime, and you punched ol' Weed a purty good one, too," offered Puresome.
"Hell of a deal anyway, pardner," said the marine, "Us go get a beer!"
"Bet your ass," snuffled Weed.
The rest of the evening was a paragon of inter-service tolerance--whiskies were drunk; war-stories were traded; even the Commandant was toasted. When the Marine finally wandered off into the bleary distance, Weed allowed that he was a "good ol'boy."
Aboard ship next morning, a befuddled and bent Weed roughly shook the sleeping Puresome awake. "Hey, did you see the sumbitch that hit me?" he said, pointing to the forty-five degree list of his nose.
"Yup," replied Puresome. "It was a god.... damm.... Marine!"
Says Puresome
BLOOD BROTHERS is copyright 1997 by Jack Woodul
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