4781. CRUD

CRUD

High post and red bandanna, Malcolm West

and Russel Deaver. As if we were cadets, on

some outpost in a crummy mission, we sat there

drinking military coffee. Tasting like crud. Black.

'Used to be we fought for oil, now they just give

it to us to drink.' The guy saying that said, as well,

that his own father had died in 1974, killed in a

gas-line in a Chicago-suburb. '600 people waiting

for gas, there cars all lined up, steaming mad; they

all had murder in their eyes. My daddy's mistake

was his big mouth. Always was that way.' I

said I'd never experienced any of that  -  living

far out in the country back then, most people 

had their own bulk tanks, maybe 100 gallons 

each or more : farmers and tractors and things.

'Everything took time, yeah, but even running

out took time as well  -  so it was cool.' My

words of wisdom went off well. Then the

mortar hit; right nearby  -  end of that scene.

Malcolm and Russel. No more. Me, I

survived. Bent and twisted, but

I survived.