Chapter 1: OohRah!

“Ya gotta hold still if we’re gonna get this done Sergeant,” the metallic voice chimed through my headphones.

‘I’d like to grind your spine to dust and see you hold still fucker!’ I thought as I gritted my teeth inside the loud tube. It’s not like they tried to make you comfortable for the hour-long scan — nope, just lay on this hard-as-fuck bed and hold still. Never mind the pinched nerves and muscle spasms.

A loud popping and clicking began banging around my head as the MRI machine once more began its monotonous droning. ‘Just deal with it, Bishop, stop being such a pussy.’ This was probably my umpteenth MRI over the years so it’s not like it was new to me or anything. It still pisses me off that they can’t just take my word for it. No, it’s not getting any better. Yes, my pain is worse. On a scale of one to ten? Maybe a 6 overall. Compared to the worst pain ever, right? Yeah, a six. Waking up in Landstuhl, Germany after getting your shit scattered while on convoy oversight in Afghanistan — now that was a fucking 10!

God, I hate the VA!

Name’s Al Bishop, or Alex Vincent Bishop SSGT USMC/Ret(med), if you want to get all specific about it. I live alone in a single-floor, two-bedroom house that was probably built around the time Lincoln got his brain case ventilated. Like me it’s old, at least it feels that way sometimes. Who am I kidding? I ain’t old! I just look it. If I were any other ordinary 38-year-old guy I’d be cokin’ and jokin’ with the rest of the mates. What’s ordinary anyway? This is where I’d pull a Marlboro Red out of my breast pocket and light up, ‘cept I gave that shit up years ago. So now I just sit back in my easy chair and contemplate the meaning of life while Gunner and Libby sprawl on the floor at my feet, sleeping the day away.

Next to the left arm of my chair is a four-legged cane that helps me get around the place when I’m feeling particularly froggy. Next to my bed is a four-legged walker for when I am decidedly not. When things get really un-froggy I even have a wheelchair nearby, so I can make it to the fucking toilet without shittin’ my britches. To my right is a table with a lamp, a cold cup of coffee, my brand-new Lenovo Slim Pro laptop, and an original Springfield Armory 1911 Vickers .45, with eight in the mag and one in the chamber. If I had had this baby 15 years ago, I might’ve taken our Far East shooting team all the way. Yeah, it was developed by an Army puke, but that fucker knew his shit when it came to match-grade tactical handguns.

I was such a natural with the .45 that, after Boot Camp and SOI (school of infantry) at Camp Pendleton —they meritoriously bumped me to Lance Coolie and sent me to Quantico to try out for the pistol team. I’d been winning them cups ever since. My fame kept me punching holes for every unit I was ever assigned — just not the fleshy kind. I was too good for combat. Until I wasn’t — then I was awesome!

Something about a 1911 just felt right to a guy like me. It fits in the hand perfectly. I felt naked without it nearby and I slept better holding it sometimes, especially when the dreams came. It even fit perfectly inside your mouth on those days when you were ... so damn close!

I sighed loudly and Gunner’s eyebrow may have twitched. My coffee wasn’t gonna warm itself up. With a grunt, I stood and looked with disgust at my mobility assist device. ‘Fuck that.’ The kitchen was three steps away. I stepped around it and made my way to the coffee pot, where I refilled my cup and looked around the room. It was high time I got my ass in gear and cleaned this pig sty. The dishes were all clean and the counters were relatively free of clutter. But I hadn’t mopped or even touched a baseboard in damn near a year. I was at that stage of my debility that if I dropped something on the floor, it was soon forgotten.

“Well Gunny...”

“Staff Sergeant,” I corrected automatically.

The doc frowned at my record, “I thought you were a Gunnery Sergeant,” he mused.

“I was.”

“Hmm. Well anyway, your back is not progressing as we had hoped.”

‘No shit Doogie!’ There were so many pieces in there, that no one wanted to try and put me back together again. So, it was steroids, nerve blocks, and hard-core nerve frying procedures called ablations that ... mostly helped — until they wore off.

“We are going to have to switch up your meds a bit.” He didn’t regard my taciturn manner very highly, as he sat behind his desk reviewing my computer chart.

‘Of course, you are.’

“With the recent focus on opioid deaths, the VA is ceasing all narcotic prescriptions except for the most serious conditions, like cancer.”

“I don’t take narcotics, so what does that have to do with me?” I asked.

“In your case, the tramadol is considered a class C narcotic, even though it only acts upon the receptors.”

“You’re taking my tramadol away?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied, “we will put you on a six-month taper so that you can reduce your usage gradually. In the meantime, I am going to start you on a new medication called Cymbalta. It has had amazing reviews for chronic pain. It’s also a mood stabilizer, so it can help you when you are feeling particularly morose.”

Morose? My spinal vertebrae were slowly disintegrating and I’m about to lose the only effective medication that ever helped. And this limp-dick thinks I’m being morose about it?

See why I hate the fucking VA now?

As I stepped carefully back to the den, I felt something sticky on the floor. Dammit! Probably spilled soup or something — only a matter of time before the roaches and ants come calling. How am I supposed to keep this goddamn hovel clean if I can’t even tie my shoes? Might as well hire a maid or something ... as if I could afford one on my medical pension. Maybe someday, someone will buy my damn book and I’ll have a — what did Davee call it — an alternative revenue stream.

I returned to my chair with a cup in hand and regarded the two lazy Rottweilers sprawled across the floor in front of me. Gunner and Libby were brother and sister, from the same litter, 5 years old and pure block-headed German. I settled in my chair and glanced at the screen of my iPhone — 14:56 hours. The mail would be here soon. I was tempted to go out without my four-legged cane, but best not to take the risk. It’s humiliating enough having people watch me amble across the road to my box like a goddamned turtle with a broken leg. Not that any of them cared in this neighborhood. Bunch of fucking liberal hippies!

Well, enough pissing and moaning about bullshit. Maybe something good will come in the mail today. I was about due for a new Dixie Gun Works catalog. I got to my feet and grabbed my metal cane. Gunner and Libby were on their feet instantly, knowing I was headed out. They sat patiently by the door until I opened it and then escorted me out onto the porch like a color guard. Mahogany and black color guard, I snorted.

The mail truck had just pulled away as I stepped down and crossed the yard. The fence was only 4 feet tall with a simple gate. I had posted Beware of Dogs signs every so often along the front. Not that four feet of chain link would slow either of these two down if they ever got a burr in their saddle. But they were well-trained and fairly mellow at their young age, so I didn’t give it much thought. It didn’t even surprise me the first time Libby pawed the gate open and let herself out. It pissed Gunner off to no end because he was too dense to figure it out.

I had two bills for power and water, several form letters from the VA (you can always count on mail from them), a couple of pre-sorted letters offering some bullshit or other, and ... Hmm, a thick letter from J R Publishing — my book publisher. Tucking the bundle under my arm, I turned and headed back across the street while my two guardians attacked each other in the street. It was an ever-constant struggle between them, Wolverine versus Sabretooth. The achy pain was starting to creep back into my hips and lower back by the time I climbed the three steps to my porch and made my way inside. It was early but I decided to pop two tramadol anyways. I had gone the whole damn day without any and every so often I felt the chill shivers in the back of my skull from withdrawal.

Finally, I collapsed in my recliner and washed the pills down with warm coffee. I checked the time to see how long that mission had taken and ... I had a missed call from Davee. Davee was Frank Davenport and represented me as sort of an agent, even though he worked for J R Publishing. He was one of the few people I would ever put under my ‘friends’ column. We met at a Starbucks about a year ago. I liked to go there and write on my laptop and drink their drip coffee for hours. He was a regular too and eventually he broke the ice with that stupid question, “Are you writing a book or something?” After sitting and chatting a few times I opened up to him about the actual subject of my book — my memories and experiences as a combat Marine, up til that fateful day when I got my shit scattered and wound up with a Med board.

Early on he told me of his involvement with his publishing firm and gave me his business card. After pressing me a few times I let him take a glance at my manuscript. He turned my laptop so that he could look it over and sat there for over two and a half hours, completely engrossed in my tale. When he finished, he sat back and grabbed his untouched coffee. “Holy shit!” he muttered and stared across at me with a dazed expression. “Is any of that true?” he whispered.

“Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty,” I muttered back.

He shook his head and sat up straighter. “Mr. Bishop...”

I held up a hand. “Just call me Al,” I said, “or Bishop. Or puss-nuts, dipshit, jarhead, fuck-tard ... anything but ‘mister.’”

He grinned and then made a face after sipping his cold coffee. “Al then,” he pointed at the laptop, “this is good,” he stated directly, “I mean it is really good!”

I lifted my shoulders dismissively, unused to being complimented for anything other than my ability to reduce the human population.

“I think that you really need to consider publishing it,” he gushed, “and I would be honored if you would permit me to help you.”

“Well,” I hesitated, “I dunno about all that...”

“I do!” he replied with the eagerness of a teenager with a new video game, “we could seriously sell this, the marketing, the target audience...” he paused, “Did you have a title for it yet?”

“I was thinking something like: Dark Tales from Down Range — So you want to be a Jarhead?”

His eyes bulged, “Oh my God! That’s perfect!” he exclaimed, “this thing will practically sell itself!”

Another thing I learned about Davee early on. He was gayer than a three-dollar bill. Like a lot of the Squids, I used to work with.

I opened the phone and played back his voicemail: “Al baby, it’s Davee. Listen, I need you to call me before you open that envelope, okay? I need to go over a few things. Talk to you soon.” Well, that was ... strange. I called him back and he answered on the first ring.

“J R P, this is Davee.”

“So, you know when my mail arrives?” I growled back at him.

“Al!” he exclaimed excitedly, “Listen, I hope you are sitting down for this,” he paused for dramatic effect, “Dark Tales has sold!”

Okay ... I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “Uh ... okay? Like how many copies?” I think the bigwigs only agreed to a trial run of 10,000 books in the first go-round.

“All of them!” he almost yelled, “we sold every single copy, except for the case we reserved for you,” he was bubbling over with excitement. “And that isn’t all,” he added, “the digital version has been downloaded several thousand times too! It’s like watching a ticker tape.”

Okay, maybe I was starting to feel something akin to excitement. “So, what’s with the letter?” I asked holding it up. The envelope was very thick.

“Oh,” he said less enthusiastically, “well there are some forms I need you to sign and then scan back to me. This authorizes us to go ahead with a second run. A much bigger run this time,” he seemed to be holding back on something.

“Davee...” I said with my ‘don’t test the Gunny’ tone.

“Okay look,” he said with a hint of guilt in his voice, “I tried to talk the company into cutting you an early royalty check but they are such stingy little faggots, when it comes to schedules and distributions and all that crap.”

Still waiting for the point here...

He sounded more nervous at my continued silence. “Anyway, they agreed to a small advance on your royalties earned, but it’s nowhere close to what I wanted to give you.”

I was suddenly taken aback as his meaning dawned on me. “You mean there’s a check in here?”

“Yes, but I just wanted to prepare you so that you aren’t too disappointed,” he breathed, “I promise your first quarter royalty reimbursement will be much, much bigger.”

I tuned him out as I grabbed my Tekto auto knife from my table and clicked it open. I sliced through the top of the envelope and removed the folded pages. There were several forms of official BS with highlighted areas for me to sign, a printed copy of the revised book cover, and a cashier’s check for... “Fifty thousand dollars?” I gasped.

“I know,” he said forlornly, “I’m sorry, I really tried to do better for you.”

Holy shit! This was more than my annual pension! “Huh,” I muttered aloud, “maybe I can get a maid.”

“What?” he replied confused, “a maid?”

“Yeah,” I said hesitantly, “it’s been getting hard to move around ever since the VA fucked up my medications,” I sipped my cold coffee, “so I’ve been thinking about hiring someone to help me out around here. Do you think I can pull that off?”

I heard him laughing in the background. “Al,” he chuckled into my ear, “very soon you will be able to afford an army of housekeepers, maids, and chauffeurs — and you will be able to afford the best medical care in the world!”

Well, ain’t that some shit?

The grammar left something to be desired but I had nothing to lose so I called the number and left a voicemail for ‘Lupi’ with my name and phone number. The cool thing about modern technology was that I didn’t even have to leave my home to put the check into my account. Navy Federal has this app where I can take front and back pictures of the endorsed check and deposit it electronically. After it clears in a few days, I would be $50K richer. Damn! I’ve never had that much money at one time in my whole life! I had barely received the acknowledgment from my Credit Union when my phone rang again. It was a 939 (South Alabama) area code.

“Hoorah Semper Fi,” I answered naturally.

There was some hesitation on the other end and then a childlike voice spoke in my ear, “Hello this is Lupi Cruz returning your call about the house cleaning service?” Damn was she twelve? Definitely Asian.

“Uh yeah,” I stammered suddenly, as the reality of my near-complete helplessness came crashing down on my shattered ego, “I’m Al Bishop and I could use a little help around the place from time to time. When can you come by and check things over?”

I heard her mumbling excitedly in the background. She probably had her hand over the microphone. It sounded like a foreign language. Then she came back on. “Yessir, I can certainly come by and see what you need,” she said brightly, “what is your address?”

I told her and repeated it because she was evidently writing it down carefully. This time she forgot to cover the mic and I heard her having an animated conversation with another woman in the background. I had no clue what they were saying to each other.

“Hi,” she said again, “I’m sorry about that. Um, yes, I could come over very soon and see what you would have me do for you,” English was clearly her second language which sort of explained the terrible ad in the Little Nickle, “Are you going to be home now?”

‘Kinda obvious ain’t it cupcake?’ I smirked to myself. “Yep, I’ll be here. Just call if you need further directions,” I told her, “But it’s pretty easy to find my place.”

“Okay sir,” she replied excitedly, “we will be there very soon.”

We?

Lupi Cruz was a slightly framed Asian woman of indeterminate age. She looked and sounded quite young and her body was very compact. She had long black hair that seemed to glisten in the light as it framed her oval face. Her small nose appeared slightly flat against her radiant cheeks and large full lips, but it was her large almond eyes that captured your gaze when you looked at her. They were full of excitement and energy. She stood perhaps 5 feet, 4 inches tall, and had surprisingly large breasts for her figure. She wore soft green muslin pants with a thin cream-colored pullover that covered her hips and the top of her ass. Rapid-fire impression — she was fucking gorgeous!

When I answered the door, I saw she had arrived in an older model Ford Focus and that the driver remained in the vehicle where it had parked on my driveway. I held the door for her and then shook her hand gently as I stood supporting my weight with the four-legged cane. Her big eyes began taking inventory of everything around her, as soon as she dipped her head in greeting and followed me inside. They froze and grew bigger when she saw Gunner and Libby perched politely on their haunches in the middle of the room, regarding her curiously.