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DROP YOUR COCKS AND GRAB YOUR
SOCKS
It was way after midnight. My first official
day in the Navy. The bus that had met us at the
airport (the sailor at the airport who met our group
had been downright rude - calling us "fucksticks,"
"limpdicks," "needledicks, "pricks" and other
greetings with penis-like meanings) had pulled on
to the base and dropped us off at the some cement
bunker filled with metal folding chairs. We sat
silently facing a wood box with a big slit in the top.
An officer strutted in, "All right you assholes, I've
got the fucking duty tonight and I want to get some
sack time. I've had a long fucking day and I'm not in
the mood to fuck around with you pansy little pricks
so let's get this goddamn shitting show on the road.
If any of you cocksuckers have in your possession
any liquor, drugs or narcotics that are not
prescribed, guns, knives, pictures of your
girlfriend's pussy, pictures of your mother's pussy,
pictures of your boyfriend's cock, fuck books, or in
other words anything you don't want us to find, you
now have the chance to discard these items. If you
have any of said items or anything else the Navy
decides you can't have you will march your sorry
fucking ass to the front of the room and drop it in
the hole in the top of the box. This is your one and
only motherfucking chance to come clean. If any
one of you bastards are caught with these items
after the next five minutes are over your ass will be
swinging in the breeze. You will be sent to the brig
where Marines with huge dicks will bend you over
and fuck you in the ass. Is that understood?
Goddamn it! Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir!" We all screamed out.
About half the room scurried to the front to
drop some sort of contraband into the box. I didn't
have anything to worry about since I had been
robbed by the beautiful prostitute less than a day
earlier. The guy sitting next to me had pulled out
about a half a dozen Trojan brand rubbers (?), a half
pint of Jack Daniel's, a Playboy, and a Penthouse,
out of his gym bag. As he was dropping his swag
into the box the officer caught him nervously
looking at him.
"What are you eyeballing you fucking
geek?" He shrieked in rage.
"Nothing, Sir!"
"Nothing my rosy red asshole! Drop and
give me twenty pushups you ignorant fucking
maggot!"
The recruit finished his twenty (done poorly)
pushups and charged back down the aisle, propelled
by a kick in the ass by the officer. "Move,
motherfucker!"
"Jesus Christ!" He whispered as he sat down
and rubbed the sore cheek of his ass. "That guy is
wearing a cross on his collar. He's a goddamn
chaplain!"
***
I've only been in the Navy for a matter of
hours and it already sucks the big one. Sleep is
granted to us around two that morning. I can hear
people crying softly into their pillows. Less than
three hours later we are marched into the chow hall
for our first meal in the military. We had been
woken rudely by two assholes who had charged into
the barracks and had hurled empty fifty gallon
garbage cans across the floor. The place is starting
to take on a sort of prison atmosphere as fellow
recruits in the chow hall whistle at our long hair as
if they plan on cornering us in the showers and
taking our anal cherries from us later on. These sons
of bitches have only been in the Navy slightly
weeks longer than us and already they think that
they are wise beyond their years.
Breakfast, which had consisted of some
runny eggs and some gruel that was billed as
oatmeal, ends for me early when a guy sitting across
from me barfs all over his tray. Our table had
already been warned by a sailor wandering up on
down the aisles to keep our "pie-holes fucking shut"
or we'd find our asses out on the loading dock
"pearl diving." Pearl diving we quickly learn is the
practice of taking one's dog tags and throwing them
in a 50 gallon slop barrel full of wet table scraps
and then having to retrieve them. I consider asking
the sailor who warned us how we could pearl dive if
we hadn't even been issued our dog tags yet but
decide to be prudent and keep my yap shut.
After chow our heads our shaven right down
to the bone. We look like we belong in Auschwitz.
The barbers think they're fucking comedians and
leave our sideburns on for comedic affect.
Stripped to our underwear, we are issued a
full sea bag and then we are marched over to stencil
all our clothes. We will soon learn that the Navy is a
den of thieves and if you as much as catch a case of
the flu and shit in your pants and crawl into the
bathroom (called the "head" in the Navy) leaving
your stained underwear on the floor, within minutes
someone will rip them off. And probably put them
right on and wear them for the next week! So
everything must be stenciled with your name.
THE MEANEST MOTHERFUCKER IN
THE WORLD (IF NOT THE NAVY) was the son
of a bitch who was in charge of us stenciling our
clothes in boot camp. Anyway, here I am in my
first day of boot camp, guts already churning like a
dog trying to shit a peach-pit, and this scary asshole
comes tearing in and starts screaming and ranting
and raving about what a bunch of scrotum heads we
are and how if we fuck up our clothes he's going to
hold us personally responsible and have our sorry
asses court martialed! Hell, I didn't even know what
a court martial was. Right away I screwed up
stenciling a t-shirt and this dude, I think he was a
first class petty officer, took one of these big
brushes we were using to stencil with, gets a bunch
of this India ink on it, and jams it right in my
motherfucking mouth. I had black teeth and lips for
the next four weeks. It takes a long goddamn time
to stencil all of those clothes since they give you a
whole sea bag full of them and I was shaking the
whole goddamn time and I about puked from that
ink.
The Navy had the biggest fucking
swimming pool in San Diego that I had ever seen.
They see if you can swim by throwing you in the
pool for about ten minutes and then wait and watch
to see if you'll drown. These guys walk around the
pool and shove you away from the sides with these
long cane poles. Some recruit shouted out "Hey
Chief! How long do we have to do this fucking dog
paddling?" and was rewarded by catching one of
those poles that was thrown spear-like across the
water, right in the middle of his goddamn forehead.
Now one recruit, me, walks around with India inked
stained teeth while another has a big red dot in the
middle of his forehead. Several fellows almost
drown and are immediately sent to some kind of
swimming school Hell which they must complete
successfully before actually starting boot camp.
Our company is christened #149 and we
meet our company commander - Boatswain's Mate
Chief Johnson, a short, burly black man, and a
world class jack-off. Heís also a fucking thief. He
immediately confiscates everybodyís cigarettes and
informs us that only two cartons of cigarettes are
allowed in the barracks at one time. One carton of
menthol, the other regular. He proceeds to collect
two bucks a week from close to fifty people for
cigarette money, yet we donít get to smoke but a
day or two a week and only one cigarette per person
at that. This goes on for the entire nine weeks of
boot camp. The dirty son of a bitch is making a
small fortune off of us but since we are held captive
we are basically helpless.
I take my first shower in the Navy - the
comparisons to prison life are becoming frightening
realistic. My brother has told me about friends of
his who have done time at the reformatory in St.
Cloud, Minnesota, and how blacks love to rape
skinny white boys in the shower. Obviously this
doesnít happen much in military boot camp and Iím
goddamn relieved about that fact. One black dude in
our company by the name of Bolds has a hunk of
pipe that damn near hangs to his knees. If he got a
hard-on while taking a shower there wouldn't be
room enough in the shower for all of us.
While in high school I had blown a knee out
while running from the cops after a pot sale had
gone down the shitter and later had surgery to
remove the torn cartilage. This old injury flares up
again in boot camp from all the marching and
running and at sick call they give me a jumbo jar of
Darvon. They hand the shit out like candy. Itís my
first excursion into the world of prescription drug
abuse as my bunk mate and I begin to gobble down
three or four a night. Grissom, a big old fat boy
from Texas, is getting loaded the old fashioned way,
with illegal recreational drugs. His girlfriend mails
him hits of acid by hiding them behind the stamp on
his letters. He tells me that tripping while in boot
camp is ďfucking awesome, pilgrim.Ē It appears that
Grissom has watched quite a few John Wayne
movies.
About halfway through our training people
are starting to feel the stress and the tension of
military life. There is talk of giving blanket parties
to the company fuckups and several are then carried
out. A blanket is throw tight over the unsuspecting
recruit and then he is pounded in the body with fists
and bars of soap shoved in socks. Chief Johnson
appears to sanction this behavior, especially when
itís done against the white guys in the company. All
of us from Minnesota agree that if one of us is
singled out that we will all respond to that personís
dilemma and beat the shit out his attackers. Joe, a
lad from St. Paul, has irritated several people
because he has pissed the bed several times but
nothing happens after it is realized that we
Minnesotans have formed a posse.
There is a rumor going around that we are
being dosed with saltpeter - which is a chemical that
supposedly keeps a man from achieving a good stiff
woody - in our food. I suspect this isnít really true
but I then realize that I havenít been being
experiencing morning wood or any kind of wood
for that matter. I donít masturbate even once while
in boot camp and I was a twice a day guy -
sometimes three - back home. I suspect something
is rotten in Denmark.
Close to graduation, Chief Johnson tells us
that he is going to break the rules and bring in
pizzas for the company. Heís only going to charge
us five bucks a head so with eighty recruits in the
company he walks out of the barracks with close to
four hundred bucks. Days later when the food
arrives, there are only twenty five pizzas and most
of them are cheese only. Chief Johnson is obviously
building up quite a retirement nest egg at our
expense.
There is talk and fear of a snitch in the
company. It seems like when anyone is stupid
enough to bitch about Johnson in public, he is
quickly singled out later for a ďmarching party.Ē A
ďmarching partyĒ is a invitation that you can't turn
down to an event where you are forced to don a rain
coat and are then forced to exercise for one to two
hours straight until you drop, puke, shit your pants,
or pass out. Which ever comes first.
Itís three days before graduation. I wake up
around one in the morning and get up to take a leak.
Again Iím eighteen years and I donít have a piss
hard-on. Strange! Anyway, I pad down the aisles of
bunks to the head, take my leak, and then notice
something out of sorts when I walk out the door of
the head. There is always a assigned night fire
watch for the barracks and they almost always
approach you when you get out of your bunk.
Usually not because they are taking their job
seriously but they are fucking bored beyond belief
and just want to chat. I see a light streaming out the
partially opened door of Chief Johnson and when I
step off to the side to peek in what I see almost
makes my legs give out from under me. Johnson is
leaning back in his chair and his pants are about a
quarter of the way down. On his knees in front of
him is a recruit named Murphy. Murphy is the
company yeoman, he handles the office paperwork,
and he is also the fire watch that evening. By my
angle I canít be sure but it looks almost 100 percent
that Murphy is blowing Johnson. I sneak back to
bed and never tell a soul.
At lunch the next day, Cooney, who is the
recruit chaplain, (his job consists of giving the
evening prayer before lights out - ďShut the fuck up
for evening prayerĒ becomes his standard line) tells
me that he thinks Murphy is the company snitch.
Cooney has told Murphy to fuck himself on several
occasions and was always awarded with a marching
party and if he has his way heís going to track
Murphy down after boot camp and beat the shit out
of him. I almost tell Cooney what I think I saw the
night before but decide to keep my hole shut.
Our orders are in. Iíve been assigned to the
CINCPACFLT headquarters building in Pearl
Harbor. I'm happy as a son of a bitch. I luck out in
that I don't get assigned to a ship out of boot camp,
a major coup, and Hawaii is suppose to be crawling
with hot babes and kickass marijuana.
The night before we graduate and ship out
everybody is busy packing their sea bags. I look up
and find Chief Johnson standing by my bunk. He's
got this weird look on his face and it's the first time
I've noticed that he has eyes like a fucking snake.
Predator eyes. He gazes around the squad bay and
steps closer to me. His voice is a whisper, "I know
you were there. Watching me. Weren't you? You
sneaky little bastard. You ever say as much as a
word to anyone, I swear to baby Jesus I'll have you
fucking killed. I've been in the Navy a long
goddamn time and I know a lot of people who can
hurt you." He winks, slaps me on the shoulder, and
walks away. "Have fun in Hawaii. Lots of hot
beaver over there," he throws over his shoulder.


THE GODFATHER OF THE HOMEFRONT
"Did you know Cletus la Favor has mob
ties?"
I feel like a gerbil is running around inside
my colon and not the good kind of gerbil up- the-ass
feeling that Richard Gere is rumored to get. I was
standing in the massive passenger lobby at Travis
Air Force base. My flight to Honolulu was
departing in minutes. Pumping a shitload of quarters
into the phone I had made the first phone call to my
dad since I had blown out of town.
"What does that mean? You mean like The
Godfather?" Visions of Marlon Brando having guys
whacked pop into my head. I could hardly hold on
to the phone my hand was sweating so bad. I
change hands and wipe the sweat on to my uniform
pants.
"It means, you dumb shit, that he hangs
around with guys who run people who piss them off
through wood chippers or give them the old
concrete overshoe treatment. What the hell went on
out at Mike's anyway?"
I had to whisper into the phone. "I don't
have a lot of time here but the short story is la Favor
busted in and beat the shit out of Mike with a pair of
brass knuckles. He killed Mike, the fucking bastard!
He thought we had stolen some dope from him. I
hid my ass up in the attic and then I heard la Favor
say that they were going to burn Mike's place down
so I conked la Favor on the head with a baseball bat
and got the hell out of there. What happened to la
Favor anyway?"
"He had a helluva concussion but he's going
to be all right. I can't say that for Mike though. By
the time the fire department got that fire put out he
was burnt down damn near to his skeleton."
"What about the cops? Are they doing
anything?"
The old man snorted through his nose.
"Those dumb shits couldn't pour piss out a boot if
the instructions were on the heel. They think Mike
just got stoned or drunk and fell asleep with a
cigarette and burned the place down. I'm sure that la
Favor has some cops in his pocket anyway."
"Does la Favor know I was there?
Silence.
"Dad! Does la Favor know I'm the one that
hit him with the bat?"
"He's got a good idea it was you. In fact, he's
positive it was you. He was out here at the house
with one of his boys asking questions about a week
after Mike's funeral."
Jesus Christ! "What did you tell him?"
"I told him the truth. That I hadn't seen you
for going on a week now.
"Are you going to be all right? Is la Favor
going to go after you?"
There was a loud sigh. "I think I'll be cool.
Cletus knows that I was good friends with his dad
when we worked together at the packing plant."
Peter la Favor AKA "Pighouse Pete" had been a
local legend know for his incredible drinking
prowess and barroom brawling skills. He once
knocked out a horse at the county fair with one
punch. A goddamn draft horse at that! He also was
rumored to have a gigantic cock and favored black
truck stop prostitutes. Pete was currently serving a
life sentence at the Stillwater penitentiary for
murdering his second wife - probably killed her
with one punch - for screwing a Mexican short
order cook. The cook also wound up dead. Out on a
country road with his hands tied together behind his
back with barbed wire and a bullet in the back of
the head.
"Where are you at, son? It would be better if
you just turned yourself into the police and let them
handle this. They're world class fuckups but I don't
think la Favor is going to let this go."
I gently hung the phone up.

To be continued....

------
Scott L. Anderson


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