02.04.202X - BASTARDS

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

 

Fuck the rain, fuck the asphalt, fuck running away. He wouldn't have believed it if he heard it yesterday, not with a hand on the bible, not under oath of perjury.

 

Why now?

He'd just gotten two weeks of leave approved, he'd just gotten away from the giant pressure cookers at Blue Grass and the fucking poisons they were “neutralizing”, he'd promised the wife he'd finally prioritize being a good fucking father figure to Tina, but instead–

 

Him. A deserter.

Leaving his post, leaving his comrades, leaving everything behind. Not in a million years. Never.

 

fuck the gravel and fuck the disease and fuck the rain and

 

Still, what choice was there? He let out a shaky, raw breath, copper in his mouth and lungs, raw, bloody copper ripping his throat open like a million hooks forcing their way out through his windpipe, and he kept going. A tired eye trained on the treeline, he cursed and swore and grit his teeth, step after painful step.

 

fuck the air and fuck company lead and fuck that lily-white West Point armchair general for not acting sooner we could have locked down the entire county if we'd had the support

 

The pace had been fast. All too fast. Maybe the grinning shithead with the knowing smile from when he washed out of Ranger school, whatever his name, would be proud of him now. Look at that, pukes, he'd say from between brown, nicotine-stained teeth, that's proper Recon pace, that's double-time and you know it, maybe Cho is going to learn how to wipe his own ass next, and so on.

 

Recon pace, proper double-time (and you know it), and most hadn't been able to keep up. They'd been at it all day, ever since the early hours of the morning, when the gunfire started to die down and their ragged bunch had dwindled down to a few dozen scared individuals, when that one woman with the captain's bars finally said what everyone already knew – support wasn't coming, Knox was on lock-down, the entire county was under quarantine.

 

Most hadn't been able to keep up. He spat with distaste. No-one left behind, bull fucking shit. They'd started losing people as soon as the first mile, shedding wounded and stragglers and desk jockeys in way over their heads like hairs off a diseased dog, and the furious, burning protests growing in his chest at every loss, every surrender, every failure, even they died down when he realized this wasn't a march anymore, or an evacuation, or an orderly withdrawal – this was running for their lives, panicked flight, survival of the fittest.

 

The people they left at the roadside – unfamiliar faces with familiar names – they all seemed to understand what was coming, and even as they said their last, hopeful goodbyes while handing over canteens filled with water and magazines filled with green tip, they still kept their rifles, vise grips on worn polymer, 30 rounds locked and loaded. Maybe it would be enough to let them slink away, or fight them off, or at least take as many with them as possible.

 

Or blow their own brains out, thirty times over if need be. The world really was their fucking oyster.

 

There were three of them left now. That woman – oh captain, my captain, she wasn't MP, that much was sure – and one of the hooded Russians in mottled green fatigues, on loan from before he'd shipped in from California. Apparently there was at least a whole platoon of them in-country, doing SERE or some other shit – on American tax dollars, to boot. They hadn't talked much, as it stood, the past couple weeks had been busy enough. He didn't need to add 'fraternizing with the enemy' to the schedule.

 

fuck the Russians and fuck the Kremlin and fuck the goddamn pebble in my boot and-

 

“Captain?”

 

With a slight jolt, the haggard woman came to life, blinking away her confusion. His voice was far more tired than he would ever have admitted to, and he almost regretted leaving the hoarse question hanging in the air.

 

Sniffle.

 

“...Yeah?”

 

Her voice made it quite apparent – he wasn't the only poor, tired puke among them. She was winded, as well, winded and croaky and curt, and maybe he wouldn't be left behind, after all, and if he did get left behind then maybe he'd have some company to tide him over, and...

 

“Pebble in my fucking shoe. We got five minutes?”

 

And those hazel eyes were as merciless as they were uncompromising, and whatever hope had sprung forth was dashed just as quickly as it appeared, and maybe he should stop with the wishful thinking and get his rear in gear for once and just pipe down and keep walking instead, and maybe he can teach you how to wipe your own asses as well, and so on.

 

“On your own time, corporal. On your own time.”

 

The message was as clear as the weather was shit. She wouldn't wait for him.

 

“Ma'am?”

 

“Like I said. On your own time. We're not stopping.”

 

“We lost them hours ago, ma'am.”

 

Silence.

 

He didn't huff and sure as shit didn't sigh, he'd learned how to keep quiet long ago, but he'd be fucked if he wasn't close to boiling over. Maybe he had been taught properly – some kind of Pavlovian conditioning, internalized after years of being told how high to jump and where to do it. Maybe he was just too tired for a shouting match. As it stood, he trudged along, limping very slightly, cursing under his breath all the while, as the fucking rain just kept on coming.

 

fuck the Captain and fuck that ruskie bastard and fuck the trees and fuck the rain and fuck, this wasn't what he fucking signed up for, was it, no, but they were up Shit Creek, all of them, and sometimes you just gotta pipe down and paddle like you mean it and fu-

 

---

 

Sayori leaned her head against the passenger-side window, eyes empty and tired. The road to Rosewood passed her by, rain-soaked and monotonous and unimportant. They'd made it. With their bags, even. And the gun. In one piece. She glanced over at Katie, the nurse slouching in her seat, hands on the wheel.

 

"...You tired?" Her tone was practically beige.

"Mm." Not just tired. "...A bit, I g-guess..."

"You... kept up. Really well." Katie snuck another glance at the firearm, the third or fourth so far, every tense syllable swiftly clicking into place, like she was scared to wake the slumbering dragon.

"How's the... lip?"

 

"I-it's fine..." My mouth feels like hamburger meat, tastes like blood, and my head is still spinning. "It'll heal up soon, it's n-nothing serious..."

 

Whatever Katie made of her new lisp, she didn't let on – Sayori's lips were bleeding, swollen and bruised, every word from her mouth accompanied by yet another dull pang of pain. She tasted copper, again and again, swallowing blood every few minutes. However, she'd touched her teeth earlier – as carefully as she could – and while it did hurt, she'd keep all her teeth for the time being.

Idiot.

There were so many things she wanted to say but didn't have the words for, so many things she wanted to ask but didn't know how to broach, so many things she wanted to fix but only ever managed to fuck them up further.

 

"...you've got me homesick, I feel it slipping – I feel the cold hand, of death is creeping...“

 

So she just stared out of the window, cursing the stupid gun and her stupid ideas.

“...he took my brother to the ocean floor – I beg, but Death don't come, that fucking coward..."

 

She already felt hollow enough, and the music didn't help one bit. They'd survived, yeah, but she'd almost fucked it all up again. They were safe and fed, for now, but what if they had to go out again? She should have kept her nose clean, stayed two steps behind at all times, stopped poking around when their lives were on the line.

Or at least when Katie's life is on the line. Not fucking her over would be the least you could do, if you actually cared, but–

 

"...let me keep sinking – let me keep drowning...

...I am no-one, and I am nothing..."

 

Sayori blinked once, twice, and then shot a sad smile towards Katie, ignoring the pain in her mouth, the taste of copper in her throat. She reached out toward her friend just as she moved to switch gears, gently stroking Katie's knuckles with her palm. She jolted, slightly so, her lips parting in surprise, a brief flash of confusion in her eyes.

"C-could we... turn it down a little?" Sayori blinked sheepishly. "It's n-not like I hate it or anything, b-but... m-maybe something more cheerful would be g-good?"

 

"...and all I see is that bastard in me..."

 

Katie shot her a look, not a hostile or unpleasant one by any means, but it was still a look she didn't quite want to face. Maybe it was how she could see the jigsaw snapping together behind Katie's eyes, maybe it was the sympathetic, sad smile she got, maybe she already felt naked and lost and vulnerable and wasn't ready for Katie to be the same way.

 

"...and all I see is that bastard in me..."

 

Maybe it was because she could feel the anguish in those words like they were her own, because she remembered how much weight just two lines could hold, how much pain you could fit into a mere sixteen words.

 

"...and all I see is that bastard in me..."

 

Katie's finger touched the dial, and Sayori let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

 

"T-thanks..." She bit her lip, as carefully as she could, casting half-hearted glances hither and thither. "...t-that was kinda... intense."

 

Katie sighed quietly, a hint of a smile on her face, the distance from before little more than a memory now as she wrapped her fingers around Sayori's, as they both rested their hands on the transmission.

 

"...Yeah, I guess. It is kinda... intense." Katie cleared her throat, drumming a rhythm on the steering wheel. "I, uh, I kinda found these guys during a pretty... rough time in my life. Heh. Felt like there was a lot I could relate to, despite all their albums being concept albums."

"...C-concept albums?" Stop sweating. She's gonna think you're gross.

 

"Yeah, like... an album with a theme or story running through it, or like..." Katie furrowed her brow and chuckled. "I mean... I know it sounds nebulous, but that's really the best I can give you right now, hah. It's like a "you know it when you see it" type of thing."

 

"Oh, right, s-so these guys... is it like, about a sailor, o-or..."

 

"No, actually, that's the coolest part – all their albums, except for, like, one, follow the same family in reverse chronological order, and fuck me , ain't they some unlucky folks." Katie's smile didn't quite reach her eyes, this time. There was a lot she could relate to? "The one we just heard, that's the future family's dad, shipping off to France to fight the Nazis, and that's kinda where it all starts. And ends, too, um... it was the last album about that family, and the album's in reverse chronological order as well, a-and..."

 

"Wow... they really must have put a lot of effort into that, huh..." Writing stories was hard – she'd learned that much from her attempts, at least – and Katie seemed to notice a hint of genuine respect in her voice, judging by how flustered her smile grew.

"...yeah... and just... the stories, the music, the lyrics, it's all... I m-mean, it sounds sad without context, yeah, but..." Katie shook her head. "It's anything but. It helped me understand that I wasn't alone in the world, that there were other people in the world with similar issues, a-and..."

 

"Y-yeah! That you're not alone, no matter h-how much it feels that way..." Sayori squeezed Katie's hand, just for emphasis. "...I've just never really been into this kinda stuff, I always thought it was k-kinda... violent, I g-guess? B-but, um... if you w-wanna, you know, recommend something, maybe..."

 

“S-sure.” A moment's silence. “Maybe... once we get home. I, uh...”

 

Katie cast a guilty look towards Sayori and her battered jaw.

 

“I shouldn't have snapped at you like that, back in the store. I mean... I kinda got us into that... situation.” Katie shrugged, apparently on unfamiliar territory once again. “Wanted to... to make sure all our bases were c-covered. You know.”

 

“Y-yeah. But it never hurts t-to, uh, be safe, right?”

 

“Yeah, but we... should just have skipped the hardware. I just got spare batteries a-and stuff... light bulbs... fucking useless shit.” She took a shaky breath, clearly steeling herself for something. “Listen, I'm sorry. B-but I'm also saying this because, well, I r-really would have preferred it if you'd just... left it. The gun.”

 

“...Mm...” Sayori's heart sank. She knew she'd fucked up. “...I just... guess I w-wanted t-to be safe, as well. Y-you know. I k-kept wishing I'd had t-the axe, a-and... yeah.”

 

“I... left it for a reason. I just... I dunno.” Katie was clearly nervous, her fingers drumming an erratic rhythm on the steering wheel. “...Maybe it's just some kind of Pavlovian bullshit.”

 

“W-what do you-” Sayori barely got the words out.

 

“When I saw that guy laying on his back, and heard him like... mumbling and moaning, it... it made me... think.” Katie shook her head and grimaced slightly. “I've seen a lot of people in that... state, where they don't understand who they are, they can't even control their bowels anymore, they just lay there and moan and babble nonsense. I know it's not the same thing, I know they might be, like, cannibals, but I... I don't know.”

 

“Katie...” Sayori felt a sudden pang of sympathy. “That sounds... I don't know how you can deal...”

 

“These... these people are sick, right? What if the cannibal thing is just a fluke, a mutation... a stress reaction, or something? I don't wanna test that out, better safe than sorry, but I don't wanna act all gung-ho either.” Katie paused, finally meeting Sayori's gaze again, her eyes full of regret. “Life is priceless. No money in the world that can bring someone back once they go."

She cleared her throat, her voice steadily growing thicker and thicker.

"And I wouldn't mind that if it wasn't... If life wasn't so fucking fragile." She sniffled and shook her head. "It's the smallest f-fucking things, it really is...”

 

Katie took a deep breath, her voice trailing off from it's earlier staccato rhythm, like there was something forcing the nurse to continue against her own wishes. Katie had talked about depression with her, but not her reasons – she hadn't really mentioned the beetle in her box, and Sayori wasn't sure if she was ready to relive anything with her.

 

“...One month too soon and the kid m-might not live. You h-have thirty seconds u-until you pass out and f-five minutes 'til you bleed out...”

 

All she could do was hold her hand, stroke her knuckles, watch Katie's eyes turn dull and lifeless, and be there.

 

“Half an inch too deep in the wrong place and you're j-just a shell, two milligrams of the wrong stuff and you're... gone."

 

Katie trailed off, leaving a silence that was thick enough to choke on.

"I never... got to m-meet my dad. He... he died a couple months before I was born. My... mom never really got over it, people tell me. I've heard the story about her being like... a different person so many times I...”

 

Sayori squeezed Katie's hand. What else was there left to do?

 

"That's... what ten grams of lead can do. B-break families. Steal lives." Katie sniffled. "I... d-don't want us t-to make that kind of mistake. I c-can't make that choice.”

 

"Katie..."

"It's... alright. I j-ust don't like talking about my... family."

 

The silence stuck for a while, rain-sodden trees passing them by on either side, the sun out of the clouds again. Sayori found herself staring at Katie, thinking, wondering – she seemed exhausted. Sayori had felt the tension underneath the surface, heard it in every sniffle and shaky breath.

 

Maybe if she hadn't been so caught up in herself she could have predicted this – Katie had likely taken the Hippocratic oath, what with her line of work, and not lightly. Still, Sayori felt a sense of unease – she really didn't expect things to become any better for the already-infected population of Knox County. Not if they already had insects burrowing into their eye sockets.

"Do you... really think there's g-gonna be a... cure?” Sayori spoke softly, despite the weight of the topic. “T-that those... things can be human again?"

"...I honestly dunno... and I'm not holding my breath for it.” Katie sighed, her tired eyes fixed on the rain-slick road. “Just... not before we know for sure, okay? Nothing... indiscriminate. Just... for those that got out, but... but left someone behind."

---

One foot in front of the other, just one more step, and then one more, and then another, and then you keep going. At least the rain was letting up. It was still the three of them, just the three of them, the only living reminders of the existence of the 438 ^th Military Police, the 75 ^th Troop Command, and whatever bandit gang the ruskie had tagged along with.

 

He shot a spiteful glance at the velcro-backed flag on his sleeve – white, with a thick blue bar in the middle. The flag of the federation had been white, blue and red – the new “republic” had left out the red.

Washed off the blood.

But no matter how thoroughly they washed the flag, nothing would change – not as long as the sleeves wearing them were still soaked from before.

 

 

"Hey Ivan, lemme ask you something."

 

"Ask."

 

Whether the barb passed him by or not, Cho wasn't sure. The Russian was no livelier than before.

 

"Where's the rest of your people?”

 

“Exercise. Fort Liberty.”

 

“So why aren't you with them?”

 

“Eye surgery. I recover.”

 

Cho grunted dismissively, turning his gaze away from the splotchy green fatigues for a moment, quickly scanning the treeline to his left, just in time to catch a murderous stare from the CPT herself. He responded in kind – the pebble was still very much in his boot, and judging by how slick his left foot was, it had likely drawn blood already.

 

“Fuck. Why'd we even bring you ruskies here?” He heard the slightest hint of a hiss from the foreigner, and smiled underneath his hood.

 

“Make diplomatic ties with new government.” The man took a quick breath and continued.. “We invited Navy SEAL group to Vladikavkaz for training, but they prefer to reconnoiter treasures of Kremlin. Maybe easier to write more books on presidential desk.”

 

Cho almost bit back on instinct, but took a moment to digest the heavily-accented English instead.

 

“Might be so. I heard SQT sucks even harder now that they grade the candidates on creative writing.” He looked away, scanned the treeline again, speaking absentmindedly. “The 'Corps thinks it's unfair, apparently – I heard they're gonna file a formal complaint as soon as they find a literate Marine.”

 

“Maybe your Marines and our policemen have same ancestors. We always have three policemen together on patrol.” Cho could practically hear the smile in the Russian's voice, and while he was slightly surprised at the sudden turn of events, it sure as hell beat just limping along and cursing the pain. “One of them can read, and the other can write.”

 

“Hmh.” Cho smiled. “...And what about the third?”

 

“He keeps eye on the smart guys, so they don't get ideas.” He winked.

 

Cho chuckled quietly, limping along, recon pace now little more than a memory. The two men walked side by side, Cho's hand on the pistol grip, occasionally rubbing the EOTech with a gloved finger. The Russian was cradling his spray-painted AK, the curved magazine held in place by the crook of his elbow, his forearm hugging the receiver to his torso, fingers holding onto a backpack strap to lock everything into place. His right hand was free, occasionally digging into a pocket, occasionally crossing over to fiddle with the camouflage tape wrapped around his suppressor.

 

He couldn't quite recognize the model of the rifle – not that he cared that much about any that didn't have his serial number on them either way – but seeing a Kalashnikov – the weapon of the enemy – without any of the classic wooden furniture and chunky Soviet bakelite felt almost uncanny, somehow. They'd fallen into lockstep, almost on instinct, and Cho figured he might as well ask the question that had been on his mind for the last half-hour or so.

 “So...” Cho cleared his throat.“...Were you in Europe?”

 

 

Silence.

 

 

“...Yes.” He was careful, understandably. “Poland, Bjelorassija, Karelia. ...Were you?”

“I was stationed in Germany for a year. Near Ramstein. Just guard duty, hosting POWs... never saw any action.” Cho spat. “And thank fuck for that. Heard Bydgo-something was a real meat-grinder on both sides.”

“It was real. Real war.” He shuddered and shook his head. “My unit had been in area many days, all the time fighting, calling in trista-tridsat-tri, then we get orders to reinforce 79th Guards from too many losses. There was so much shooting, so much rockets and artillery everywhere, flares in the sky every second... it was like the midnight sun was shining. Like Siberian summer... I was squad lifesaver. My leader – Rusak, he tried to say to officers that it was impossible – they didn't listen, until attack detachment was liquidated at Fordon bridge.”

The young man took a deep breath, and sighed. “...I knew some guys there. Gruz dvésti. All of them.”

 

"Grasdvesty?" There was a faint bell ringing in his head as Cho mangled the unfamiliar word.

"It is... what you say... Cargo. Two-hundred." The distaste was palpable. But the connection was made, the bells were ringing full-on, and Cho more than understood the distaste.

“...I'm ...sorry. About ...that.” Cho muttered, and despite the gruff tone, he was.

 

Cargo-200. KIA, in U.S. Military terminology. The remains were packed into zinc-lined coffins, hermetically sealed, and then airlifted back "home". So he'd heard, at least. The POWs at Sembach Kaserne had been surprisingly chatty, especially after a cigarette or two. 

Loss was loss, and duty was duty. He knew that as well as anyone else.

And he cared.

He cared, but like Lucy always said, he didn't really know how to show it, and so his hand just twitched a little, the movement barely noticeable.

Maybe he could pat the Russian on the shoulder. Show some compassion. 

 

 

Maybe the rifle sling was just digging into his neck. He looped it under his left arm, pulled it taut, and counted steps.
Kept himself busy. Ignored the pebble.

If you could miss birthday after birthday, you could ignore a pebble now and then.
At least your feet would stop aching eventually.

“That's just how it is.” The Russian glumly said, reaching into the pocket on his right sleeve and fishing out a pack of cigarettes. “It's war. People die for no reasons. Most stupid pizd- fucking thing on whole planet. Smoke?”

“Really?” Upon receiving a nod in response, Cho took his Nomex gloves off and reached for the pack of unfamiliar smokes. L&D. The Russian was humming something melancholy in pace with his steps, nodding in response. “...Thanks.”

 

"...Smatrij naprasno puli, nje ishi..."

 

He wasn't much of a nicotine fiend, only buying a pack or a can now and again, when stressed out – and between decontamination, writing reports, preparing casualties and quarantining the sick at Redstone, he hadn't even found the time to visit the PX before all hell broke loose.

 

"...Ja znaju, shto ne truz, ja k slovu tak..."

 

Opening a small, zippered pouch on his carrier, he pulled out a rickety butane lighter, the tool finally complying after three annoyed flicks. First, the other guy – whatever his name was – as was etiquette, and then his own. The Russian took a drag, and resumed singing, puffs of acrid blue exiting his mouth with every syllable. He had a nice voice – Cho had to admit that much.

"...I ruku na prashanje mnje pazhmi..."

It was definitely strong, a bit rough in flavor – the second pull almost made him burst out coughing, and he made a mental note to smoke slowly, take his time – he had no idea how much nicotine Russian tobacco contained, but getting dizzy and light-headed while fleeing a cannibal horde on foot would be the worst possible outcome.

 

"...I pjesnu spoj, ja znaju ty mastak..."

 

 

He snorted.

Fleeing.

Well, there wasn't anything else to call it. Live to fight another day, so on.

Maybe it was just the connotation. The implied cowardice.

 

Cowardice? Gaze upon what I have gazed upon, ye motherfuckers, and despair. I've seen enough for one lifetime already. Much, much more than enough.

 

God, I hope this bug stays in Kentucky... if this somehow spreads all the way home to California, then I'm stealing a fucking plane or something. Flying back.

 

I'm not leaving Lucy to fend for herself again.

 

I'm not missing any more birthdays.

“Hey, amerikanskij, is anyone home?” The Russian waved a gloved hand in front of his eyes. “I don't think I put any ganja in that one, hahaha.”

 

“It's Cho.” He shook his head and fell back into step. ”...Richard Cho. You?”

 

“My mother call me Dima, but the guys in my squad calls me Adik.” Adik flashed a wide grin, while holding up three fingers. “Dimitri Akulov is full name, but Adik is nicer.”

 

“A dick, huh?” Cho snorted. “That fits.”

 

“Very funny, Richard. It is Russian name for Adidas.” The three fingers came out again, and a Cho ignored the barb for now. “Maybe you heard of it before?”

“Yeah, I might have. Why?” Finishing his cigarette, Cho tossed the smoldering butt onto the rain-soaked pavement, the filter hitting the blacktop with an audible sizzle. “Why'd you get that name?”

 

“Because we were really good at storming houses. Zachistka.” Adik points at his black leather boots and shakes his head. “And when I fight in city, I wear running shoes, Adidas brand. Very light, feels good to walk, the bottom is soft so my footsteps are quiet. These new boots is okay, but the old boots I used in training were bullshit, they probably made during Afghanistan war or something.”

 

As Dima laughed at his own joke, an image floated into Cho's mind – an old Polaroid he might have seen as a kid once – a column of young Soviet soldiers in brown fatigues carrying AK's, all of them wearing dark blue sneakers as the mountains of Afghanistan loomed in the distance, as unconquered then as they were now.

 

“All the guys wear running shoes when city fighting, I tell them how fucking good they are and after one day everybody switch.” Adik – he pronounced it “ah-deek” – grinned from underneath his hood, a wide, toothy smile and hollow cheeks half-hidden by his baggy fatigues. “By the way, you have shoe problem, yes?”

 

“...Fucking pebble.” Cho muttered. The captain was some fifty yards away, still maintaining her pace – he'd probably lose her unless he started running, but the thought of her company felt much less pleasant than it did just two hours ago. “Adik, can you watch my six? I'll get the stone out and lace up again, just two minutes.”

 

“Yasno.” Adik gave a thumbs-up, shouldered his AK, and took a knee some twenty feet away. The mottled green blended in quite nicely, the young man hidden in the treeline, barrel pointed towards the fork in the road they'd passed two minutes ago. “Ya prikryvayu.”

 

Cho had no idea what the young man said to him, but his tone and body language were enough to set him at ease. Calm, collected, eyes and ears peeled for any sudden movement, the omnipresent hood pulled slightly backwards to allow for better peripheral vision and hearing. He heard a faint clack from the lever safety flipping down, the very same clack that had haunted the poor bastards stuck in the jungles of Vietnam seventy years ago, and his laces came undone.

 

The enemy of my enemy is...

 

Cho didn't finish the thought. He'd seen enough for several lifetimes already – the Chinatown Riots, the war in Europe... Kentucky was supposed to just be guard duty, a few fat pay-checks before demob in California, but Shit Creek had a way of finding him when he least expected it.

 

Now he just had to paddle like hell, but after another quick glance at the Russian standing stock-still, slowly breathing in and out with his barrel pointed down the road made Cho feel safer than he had felt in ages. Adik seemed like he'd seen his fair share of shit, and clawed his way out through it all. The captain he could afford to lose. Maybe they'd run into her again, maybe not, but if she figured she'd have an easier time alone then she could be his fucking guest.

But Adik? Class was in session again, and he'd take as many notes as possible. Learn to wipe his own ass. Besides, there was nothing worse than paddling alone.

 

fuck the captain and fuck the war and fuck these laces and fuck Kentucky and