Days of the Weak (standard:humor, 1133 words)
Author: Greggo	Added: Feb 21 2003	Views/Reads: 3277/2169	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Part three

Day three: 

I dreamt last night for the first time since birth it seems. I was alone
in this dream which isn't too shocking as I am always alone. I'm 
dressed in solitude as well as dressed in a camouflage uniform, not a 
real one, but one that might have been hastily concocted by a rushed, 
drunken father on the eve of Halloween. My face is recklessly smeared 
with forest-green and black but I'm not in combat. I am in the center 
of a rush-hour freeway surrounded by passenger-less vehicles speeding 
towards their empty destinations. I began running. Like there was no 
tomorrow I ran, only in this dream there was no tomorrow. I sensed it. 
Footsteps crashed and echoed behind me; towards me. I felt unstoppable. 
I heard shouting from all around me but by now I was too afraid to 
stop. I heard these voices in every which language. Some that I'm 
certain that I've never even heard before yet I somehow understood. In 
German, then French, Greek, Russian, even a Bronx accented English. I 
heard Japanese and Spanish all yelling the same thing: We Want You! 
Back and forth, in Afrikaans this time: We Want You! I accelerated up 
the next off-ramp. Sweating and yearning to quit running yet 
inexplicably propelling myself further. Finally I reached the peak of 
the incline and there I was staring off the roof of my apartment 
building. Eight stories up overlooking the city-scape with barely an 
oxygen atom in my lungs. I was teetering on the verge of falling 
forward and collapsing back. So I did what any normal American citizen 
would do in this precarious position: I woke up. 

Three extra-strength Tylenol and two beer later, my head still pounds.
What the hell did I do last night? I am almost positive that I didn't 
lose my seed and “daddy” myself  last night since I woke up totally 
alone. But I guess you never know. I do remember dancing and then 
drinking. Oh now it's coming back to me, I also remember drinking and 
then dancing. Man oh man, whatta mess I am. You know when you get 
insanely tipsy (if there is such a thing) and you begin to think that 
you might just be the perfect catch out there on the dance floor. I was 
dancing with anything and everything; I think I even grinded with a 
transvestite now that I think about it. She/he had the nicest ass but 
it's facial stubble left a little to the imagination. For about an hour 
I shook my bootie with a fabulous little filly with a lollipop shrouded 
shirt and the invitation “buck-a-lick?”. It wasn't until after I gave 
her a five and stuck out my tongue that I realized ( well actually 
somebody realized for me) that she was trying to enjoy her stag-ette 
without the interference of this soon-to-be private. It turns out that 
she has a solidly built bridesmaid that didn't appreciate my subtle 
five-dollar advances nor my bum-lovin' lefthand. But I recovered well 
and did the next best thing, I ordered a round of drinks for those 
lovely ladies and ran away from that side of the dance floor.  I 
vaguely recall standing on somebody's table and belting out the 
Star-Spangled Banner while saluting towards a tiny old beer-stein, 
dustily pinned above the bar, with a scratched and faded American flag 
on it. I then remember tearing up as my eyes welled with pride. That is 
my last memory. Hmm, I hope I didn't embarrass myself. 

I kind of hope that the recruiting office doesn't call me today. I am
definitely in no condition to move, let alone answer questions. Maybe I 
am not military muster. I somehow remember, while singing on the table, 
that nobody joined in. They seemed too unimpressed about the whole 
ordeal considering that we're on the verge of a war. Why aren't there 
any wartime rallies instead of anti-war protests. Come on people, we're 
doing the world a favor, aren't we??? I just wonder what it would be 
like pulling into a silent port with barely a newspaper mention of our 
tour of duty fighting for democracy. Do I really have to be ashamed to 
wear my uniform to a church function like soldiers used to? Do I really 
have to wait for a world war three to be welcomed as an officer in my 
own country? I sure as hell hope not! Dammit I'm am still on my way to 
becoming a great leader, a historical wartime figure up there with the 
ranks of General Douggie MacArthur. Oh gawd, just a sec, I totally got 
the squats now! 

I'm back. The bathroom smells like a trench now but at least I'm a
survivor. It got rough in there for a while but I pulled through. I 
deserve the medal of honour for that entanglement. I don't remember 
eating anything green but I won't argue with the toilet water. Anyway, 
I feel sixty percent like death, thirty percent hit-by-a-bus, and ten 
percent craving a hotdog. I hate math! Today might just be a waste day; 
that's okay since by the time you hit my age, you're used to them. A 


Click here to read the rest of this story (25 more lines)