Christmas '68

Christmas Eve 1968: Silent Running

Wisps of fog were split as the metal of PCF 54 swept forward on the river. My radar mate called out the depth, as we approached the cement pilings blocking us from Cambodian waters.

The pilings approached fast. I closed my eyes to visualize the pilings and the space between them; surely, my craft could easily clear. Surely my navigating can get us past.

Two US Navy Patrol boats were off the starboard bow. Luckily I had the engineman Charley fashion bamboo silencers for the engine earlier. We were silent running for Cambodia. The patrol boats were too busy lighting up the shore to notice us.

The mystery passenger lazily dangled an arm in the water. His green hat concealing his eyes.

With the cement pilings and Navy Patrol boats now at a distance we opened up the motors to get deep in "enemy territory."

Our Boatswains' mate reminded me that we might want to slow as floating debris might damage our hull. We didn't want to limp back into Vietnam.

Needless to say I slowed our progress down. We were approaching the drop off zone...

The spook moved toward me. His eyes and mine locked. That moment has been seared into my mind. Deeply haunting moment. His name escapes me now, but those eyes, they peered into my soul.

We approached the landing zone and I gunned the motors to ensure that we'd hit the beach giving the spook a running start.

As he leapt from the bow, he turned and flung his green hat at me. Those eyes again...I just knew he wouldn't return. His gift to me "my lucky hat."

...

I've carried that hat along with my other lucky charms. I now have it tucked in a secret compartment in my "black briefcase." No one knows about this, as this is the first time I've publicly acknowledged it's existence.

I pull it out when I'm most lonely, and remember back to that night along the Cambodian river shore. That CIA spook was never heard from again. I look in the mirror and I see his eyes, again, and again.

Christmas Eve 1968...Cambodia...CIA agent deep in enemy territory, and I remember the president telling me that there were no US troops there, I was not there. That memory is seared in my mind.

I did not have sex with that woman in Cambodia.

It was Christmas '68, but I don't think everyone should celebrate Chrsimas just because I do. I don't wear my religion on my sleeve, you know? Or my rank. I wear my rank on my collar.

Anyway, it was Christmas 1968 and we were in Cambodia, or near Cambodia, or maybe not. I don't know, I'm not a navigator and ours fell off the boat a while back and we didn't notice until it was too late.

Now where was I? Oh yeah, I was just saying I didn't know where I was. Anyhow, Nixon called on the phone, but it was a wrong number...

Comedy and tragedy
A comedy tonight

He's no weenie

He is a damn alpha male

He stands 6-foot-4

cold roasted. I love dove

I had a talk with a deer today

After he leaves, he'll be thinking about what I said

He strummed the guitar and belted: "Yesterday. . .

I heard he's aloof

My good luck hat

It's been an asset, because Iowans come with low expectations

He smiled and aimed his finger: "Pow."

the seams fraying

Christmas in Combodia

They ate in silence, rarely looking up from their food. The young El-Tee felt shame; his love for the agent, whose name he did not know, who's mission he could not know, was as endless as it was unrequited.

"I like your hat" he said. And regretted it immediately. Man, he thought, did that sound as desperate to him as it sounded to me?

The agent grunted. It' was one of the things he found irresistable about him. "Gimme that ketchup, huh?" He said, motioning to the small plastic bottle.

"Sure" he replied, moving a little too eagerly to comply with the request. "Anything you want, just ask..."

"This'll do" the agent said, taking the ketchup. Their fingertips topuched; to the El-tee it was like a brief spark, like running his tongue across the top of a 9-volt battery. He tried for eye contact but got nothing for his efforts. "You like ketchup, huh? I can't stand that stuff myself."

"Whatever" the agent said, and began eating. "Worst Christmas ever." he said around a mouthfull of snake meat. meat.

"Yea" said the El-tee. "Me too." He looked at his hands. "Crap" he muttered, "got ketchup on my sleeve." The agent remained silent. "That's how I got my first purple heart you know." he added, smiling. The agent gave him a look - the look you give a dead animal suddenly found in your path. "Kidding" he added quickly.

Silence roared between them until he finally got up the nerve. "I got you a gift." He said, and he produced the wrapped box.

"Is this a joke?" Was the response, but he took the box and ripped the paper off. He opened it and lifted the watch.

"It's a real Rolex. I picked it up in Saigon."

The CIA man was creeped out, but he knew he could hock the watch for 10 bucks, probably to the same crook that sold it to the squid. "Uh, thanks, I guess. But I didn't get you nothin'..."

"It's okay..." he said, but his voice cracked.

"Wait" the guy said "here, take the hat."

The LT stared, his jaw agape, at the most beautiful blonde flat top he'd ever laid eyes on...

It was a dark and stormy night, and the spook was still asleep. This evening is still seared in my mind, a white coal of new life. I have never felt this way towards a man before; but war, and all its terror and isolation, finds it own ways to change us.

Cambodia, that siren slut, will finally separate us, leaving me only with a memory, a taste of some kind of different existence. And, if I am lucky, that hat.

The tall, handsome lieutenant moved stealthily through the jungle, the weight of so much on his narrow shoulders. Only he knew Nixon's secret plan for ending the war. Only he, in fact, knew that Nixon had been secretly sworn in a few days after defeating Humphrey and Wallace, and that his team was already in full command of the war.

He parted the simple bamboo curtain and looked at the old man sleeping fitfully on the cot. He seemed so tiny and frail, it was hard to believe that this was Ho Chi Minh, who had so terrified America with the threat of falling dominos.

The lieutenant removed his knife silently from his sheath. Suddenly he heard his name called-- harshly, stridently--

"JOHHHHNNNN!"

John Kerry sat up with a start in the big leather Barcalounger that he'd inherited from his wife's late first husband. "Yes, Teresa?" he said as he hurried to the kitchen.

They stood there, glaring at him expectantly, as if he were a goddamned servant or something instead of the Democratic nominee for president. "The boys want to take the snowmobiles for a spin. Have you checked the oil in them?"

Outside the window he saw one of those Secret Service sonsabitches smirking. "I'll get right on it, honey," he said, hurrying to the door-- anything to get away from them.

"Hop to it, chief," one of the Heinz boys said to another, and as he slammed the door behind him, he heard them all laughing....

It was a dark and stormy night. The moon was fuller than any harvest ever witnessed, turning the surface of the Mekong Delta into a dappling array that seduced you into a relaxed confidence, while betraying your presence to the unseen eyes on either side of the raging torrent.

Cambodia was on one side of the still waters, Red China on the second, and Viet Nam, a place I rarely can bring myself to talk about, was on the other.

"Your mainsail is luffing," I told the pilot. "Is there a problem with our oars?"

"Blimey, gov!" the chimney sweep swore. "There be no wanting for 'ores when we meet up wit' Slick Willy in Laos."

"Louse?" I muttered, remembering how long it had been since my last sponge bath at the Savoy. It was a thought seared... seared! ... into my memory.

I motored into Cambodia a naive kid, and returned a changed and haunted man -- haunted by the fact I'd never actually been to Cambodia but would be compelled to claim I was, if only to explain why I was changed. And haunted. And seared too, did I mention seared. I returned a changed, haunted and seared man.

Also Penneyed and Weinstocked. Wal-Marted too, but I would never admit that to anyone back home.

We were near the village of Dun Bin Phucd in the valley of Poontang. We were surrounded by Charlie... up to our knees in grenade pins and nothing left to throw but our hats....

but not my hat...not my lucky hat..

nooooooo............

The spook approached me in the mist that drifted off the river in Cambodia. I knew we were in cambodia because I had seen it before when one of my cambodian servants prepared tea in that swiss boarding school long ago. But back to the spook: he stood close--closer than john edwards at campaign rally--and he looked deep into my eyes where we connected on a level that g. bush could never know. i notced that he sported good hair under the manly hat. when he took my hand in his, i knew that he would never return. i had never felt more wounded at any time in vietnam / cambodia then at that point. he then did something that is seared in my memory: he took his hat off and put it in my pocket then diappeared over the side of my boat, never to be seen again. i have never known quite how to deal with this memory. sometimes at night, while laying next to my wife, i can still see his eyes.

KABOOM! The explosion shook the swift boat, without damaging it in any way. Something hot and wet stinging my eyes. Rice! Damn, my M-79 must have cooked it in the waters of the Mekong. I seemed to be all right -- wait! An underdone grain had broken my skin, slightly.

"You'd better get that treated," said the CIA guy (I'm sure he has a name, but I call him the CIA guy). "I know of a doctor who specializes in the treatment of underdone rice grain wounds -- BUT he's inside the Cambodian border."

"Well, we can't go there. It's illegal. Once Nixon takes office, he might order me in there on a secret mission with the SEALS. I'll get it treated then. But for now, lets head back to base and have some figgy pudding."

"Maybe you're right. Here, use my hat to stanch the bleeding."

"Oh, it's not bleeding at all. It barely broke the skin."

"That's an order, soldier!" barked CIA guy.

"Yes, sir. I'll return your hat when we get back to base."

"No, you keep it. Merry Christmas, John F. Kerry."

"Merry Christmas, CIA guy."

When he say the young spook, he could not keep his hands off of him. Arm around his shoulders, touching his face, back and knees, and especially proud when that young agent said "This is my man."

When the young seamen on the boat noticed their behavior, the second in command just said "I think we're just seeing some genuine affection between them."

That week before Christmas was seared on the tall Lt.'s memory. Seared. When the young agent sliped off early in the morning from the boat forgetting, or maybe not, the hat that covered his blond tresses, young Kerry knew he would treasure it always. "We will always have Cambodia."

i once knew a spook from the mekong
who left without as much as a "so long"
but he gave me this hat
so let's sit down and chat
about my secret invasion of hong kong

I remember it well. The gooks were drunk and taking turns shelling eachother's border posts. I had a rash in my crotch from that last visit to Saigon that itched like the dickens. The night air was full of bugs, skeeters as big as your hand. Some CIA guy was sitting on the bow, mumbling to himself in Russian.

And it was snowing. Freakin' eighty degrees at midnight and the snow was just falling. The bosun slipped and fell overboard. I never liked him so we waited a while to pick him up. Biggest damn leach I ever saw fastened to his johnson, if you know what I mean. Shot it off with a flare gun, the leach, I mean.

Everything was turning white, and the gooks started singing Christmas carols in French. I tried to join in, but they called a 155 mm fire mission in on the boat so we had to skeedaddle upriver a ways.

It was then I noticed that the helmsman had a third nipple. Why hadn't I ever seen that before? Odd.

MORE

Mine takes place a little later...

http://www.quibbles-n-bits.com/archives/week_2004_02_22.html#002228

I didn't belong here, a 6 foot 4 inch catheter thrust into this Heart of Dampness.

Cambodia.

Shit.

But Uncle Lyndon in Washington wanted emergency surgery. Charlie was his patient.

"Skip, we got movement ahead," Mickey cried from the bow.

It wasn't Mickey's usual Boston Irish blarney. This was for real. I eased the safety off on the M-16.

"Deck the Bows with Balls of Charlie!" I yelped as I emptied one magazine, then another.

But it wasn't Charlie. More like Charlene. We barely noticed the USO sash when she emerged, quivering banana leaves for a bikini, from behind the mangrove stand.

I shot my man rays into Miss Penelope Del Ray, Playboy Playmate of the Year, 1967.

Mickey, panting, lunged forward, checked by my manly palm on his chest.

"She's mine, Mick," I said, storing the M-16. "Droit de Seignor."

My little bit of boarding school Francais did the trick. Mick simpered back to the stern.

It was a Merry Christmas after all. She really knew how to take the "L" out of LBJ.

A middle aged man sits. His face is entirely expressionless. The beacon light sweeps the room creating a mood of unreality.

He slowly fills his glass and drinks the bourbon swiftly down enjoying the burning sensation it creates. His mind drifts back to that long ago Christmas eve in 1968. He remembers every detail, The Vietcong wore gray, the spook wore a hat.

Of all the swift boats in all the rivers in all the world, he had to walk into mine.

John "Rambo" Kerry

Christmas in Cambodia in '68

This was a special ops deal and my "eyes only" orders had to be eaten immediately - ketchup made it go down a little better though. So secret was my mission that my double, more than 50 miles away in Vietnam, was taking my place and the newly automated controls allowed me to run the ship without any crew except the black ops guy they called "Tex." - no swabbie was going to rat me out by saying I was in Cambodia. The sounds, the sounds of the native drums from both sides of the river pounded in my head as Tex lounged on the swiftboat's deck, a Lucky dangling from his mouth with his signature hat, a beanie with a propeller on it, crumpled on his head in the humidity.. Then the communist veterans of Dienbienphu, hiding in the reeds on the shoreline, tormented me with their haunting trumpet version of the Marsaillaise. They must be sensative to my moods because I was thinking of Paris and Ricks nightclub in Casablanca and my gambling debts - maybe I could get some mark to pay them. Suddenly, I noticed the green line in the water that meant we had crossed the line into Cambodia. A few miles up the Mekong I got the call from Tricky Dick, and as he said the code phrase, "There are no U.S. troops in Cambodia" my deep programming, implanted so long ago in cold Manchuria, took over...The next thing I knew I was back at base with the sweaty beanie crumpled in my hand. I knew it was important but what did it mean? Whenever I thought about it I saw birds, black birds everywhere, I was running across the faces on Mt Rushmore and I couldn't look down--I wanted to build a model of that mountain in my basement--and the word "Rosebud" rang through my tormented brain.

It was January of 2005, I was waiting to be sworn in as President of the United States. My life-long ambition was fulfilled and I knew that with this accomplishment my life would be fulfilled. The future was offering me a rosy picture. I looked at the love of my life in the mirror and decided that I was ready for what was to come.
Looking back, I wonder if I could have done things differently. Maybe cutting and running from Iraq, in retrospect, wasn't such a good idea, damn Jimmy Carter for making me do that.
All I know is that I'm glad I wasn't in DC, NYC or LA on that day. Damn terrorists, vaporizing my supporters.
Screw President Rice.

The young lieutenant beached the SWIFT boat he commanded and ordered his crewmates and their uninvited guest to disembark and set up camp. The uninvited guest stayed aboard, squatting near the stern like some kind of grizzled Buddha figure. He kept his boonie hat pulled low over his eyes as he pulled another drag on his stubby cigar. The crew's mutt, VC, bounded out of the boat and ran up and down the beach, chasing flies and lizards.

As the other men went about setting up camp, one leaned into the young lieutenant and asked "What do we know about him, anyway?"

"Nothing. He told me to call him 'Joe.' Told me to take the boat across the border into Cambodia - even though President-elect Nixon says we're not here - and then he'd tell me what we'd do next. Other than that, you know as much as I do."

"Is it just me, or does he seem kinda mean?"

"No, he's mean all right. I hear he once killed a man just for snoring too loud."

The enlisted man cursed under his breath and drifted to where the others were working on the bivouac. The young lieutenant suddenly realized he was thirsty, and walked the few steps over to the camp to find something to drink. By some miracle, the men had managed to bring a case of Coca-Cola. The young lieutenant pulled a bottle from the case, popped the top and prepared to slake his thirst. It sure didn't feel like Christmas, swatting flies in this sweltering heat.

"Joe" suddenly stood, and though he tried to give off the air of a man of action ready for his mission, the young lieutenant could tell the man was tired to his bones. The way he carried his raincoat - draped over his slumped shoulder - and the way he shuffled his feet as he moved betrayed his fatigue.

"Joe" wordlessly slouched past the Swifties and headed for the jungle a few yards away, his gait heavy and slow. The young lieutenant, sensitive even in the midst of war, recognized that perhaps "Joe" was as thirsty as he was.

"Hey Joe."

The uninvited guest turned and looked, annoyance plain on his face, at the young lieutenant.

"Here." The young lieutenant stretched out his hand, offering the untouched Coke to the beleaguered stranger.

To everyone's surprise, "Joe" stepped forward and took the Coke. For the first time since they had met him a few days earlier, the man attempted half a smile. The young lieutenant's eyes rounded like giant saucers, and a grin split his face. "Joe" put his head back and downed the Coke in one long gulp, then turned back toward the jungle and his appointment without a word.

The young lieutenant wilted.

"Joe" took a few steps, then stopped. He half turned back toward the young lieutenant, who had turned away to hide his dejection.

"Hey, kid." The young lieutenant turned toward the stranger calling him. "Catch."

With that, the stranger took off his hat and tossed it like a frisbee to the dejected young lieutenant.

The young lieutenant beamed. "Thanks, mean Joe."

Without another word, "Joe" disappeared into the Cambodian wilds, never to be seen again. The young lieutenant clutched the hat to his breast and sighed. He knew he would never part with this hat, which he now treasured above the pair of Purple Hearts he had already earned.

As the swift boat gently glided through the afternoon Cambodia swampland, Lieutenant Kerry and his crew began to notice just how accutely quiet it had become in the surrounding river delta.

Granted it was better than the alternative. For a Vietnam soldier, trapped miles inside Cambodia, the only thing creepier than the silence of a river delta was all the Christmas carols.

South Vietnam, also known as the Land of Christmas, had long celebrated the important holiday by drinking large quantities of spiked egg nog, wandering into Cambodia, and firing off their guns as an homage to St Nguyick. It was a tradition as old as Christmas itself.

Earlier in the morning the crew had been pelted with chorus after chorus of "Deck the Halls" echoing through the swampland from unseen voices. At this point, they would sooner go to their graves than have to hear one more chorus of "Fa ra ra ra ra, ra ra, ra ra."

But still the silence was chilling. Thankfully the two CIA frogmen who were getting a free ride into Cambodia, broke the tension and approached Kerry with a Christmas present they smuggled on board just for him.

The gift was wrapped in palm leaves and bailing wire, but since he wasn't expecting anything from his rag tag band of brothers, it was the prettiest gift he had ever seen. He tore through the wrapping as his crew looked on in anticipation.

It was a hat.

"That's the official secret CIA symbol there." noted CIA Agent Stuart Townsend of the red dot inside two concentric red circles featured prominently on the brow of the cap.

"It's on the back too." noted his CIA compatriot, Henry Jones. "You make sure you wear that everyday."

Kerry noticed that neither of the two CIA operatives was wearing a similar hat, prefering a full camo hat with a wide brim. Jones and Townsend immediately saw the look.

"Umm, we don't get to wear the hat until we've been in country for at least 90 days. That is the super secret special agent hat there." Jones explained.

With an uderstanding grin, Kerry took the hat and placed it on his elogated skull. Kerry wanted to record the moment for posteriety.

"Do you guys mind if I take a picture?"

Not at all they responded and Kery quickly began to organize the shot. He called out his long time gaffer, Hehn Lo, who had been best boy at his Ahn Tre shoot earlier in the year, to clear the deck of the extra equipment and get a light reading. His cinematographer, Dat Nguyen, had come down with scurvy earlier in the week and so he had to make do with his brother Tran for the camera work. Tran was fine, he had shot all of the cool background scenes in his "Welcome to Vietnam" montage earlier in the year, but he just did not have the artistic flair of Dat.

Fortunately, Hehn Lo had figured out how to draw power off the boat's battery to rig up a truly exceptional backgroud lighting display to create a real 'golden hour' feel to the shoot.

"Now just act normal, "Kerry directed as Lo turned on the lights, "But keep ducking every few seconds as if we are under constant fire. About thirty seconds into the shot, one of you fall off the boat and I will jump in and rescue you .... ready with the scene marker Mr. Lo!... Action!"

Tran carefully filmed the two men regiving Kerry the hat as they ducked from invisible incoming sniper fire, Kerry stood steadfast and motionless at the prow of the boat. Like Washington crossing the Delaware. All of a sudden Johnson fell of the side into the waist deep canal and Kerry jumped in after him and quickly flipped him back on deck.

"And cut! That's going into the archives for sure!" Kerry exalted. "Mr. Lo, check the gate and set up the craft sevices table! It's a wrap."

My entry:
http://posseincitatus.typepad.com/posse_incitatus/2004/08/kerry_fan_ficti.html

Dear Penthouse Forum-

I never believed the letters you received were true, until I had a mind-blowing experience I'd like to share with your readers. It was Christmas of '68 in Cambodia, and I was escorting an incredibly hot CIA agent on a secret mission. It was 95 degrees and humid, and sweat was glistening in rivulets that slowly ran down his chest and disappeared behind the half-buttoned fatigue shirt that barely concealed his now-hardening nipples. Imagine my surprise when he stripped off his hat without a word and handed it to me, all 7-3/4 of it...

"Cut the engine, men," whispered Lieutenant as the swiftboat slid quietly through the rice flows of the Mekong river. Standing on the prow, Kerry placed his left hand on his left hip while pointing the grenade launcher toward the far shore of Cambodia with his right hand. The American flag hung limply from the mast.
Quietly the men rowed on. Lt. Kerry urged the men forward. " Row, row, row the boat, gently down the stream...35 years from now this will just be a dream."

You peasants wouldn't be laughing if you saw me with my Purple Heart on!

"It was a dark and stormy night that Christmas Eve of 68. Rudolph had lost his way so my shipment of film cannisters from my parents (my Christmas gift) had not gotten through in time for me to take my camera with me on this secret rendezvous inside Cambodia. So all I have in way of proof of my being there is the searing images in my brain, imprinted there by the excessive heat, which can never be erased. The distinguished historian of New Orleans--Mr. Douglas Brinkley--was really pissed that I couldn't come up with film showing me standing at attention as we crossed the border, but he thought my searing memories were perhaps enough. Not that he had much choice. Anyway, midnight struck, and suddenly the air was awash with angels singing "Peace on Earth, Good will toward men". That's when I began to suspect I had gotten some really bad weed, and maybe I was lost. Besides , they were singing off key and it was really painful to listen to; I felt one of my migraines coming on, so I opened a cool one and toasted the angels: "Shut the f__k up, you bastards--you're twenty centuries late, and you're not supposed to be on this side of the border! Didn't Nixon inform you???" After the beer I felt really sleepy and mellow, and when I woke up I was back at Duc To, or wherever, and I stretched my lanky frame out of my bunk and announced to no-one in particular: "Merry f__king Christmas, everyone!"

Ackley took another look at my hat . . . "Up home we wear a hat like that to shoot deer in, for Chrissake," he said. "That's a deer shooting hat."
"Like hell it is." I took it off and looked at it. I sort of closed one eye, like I was taking aim at it. "This is a people shooting hat," I said. "I shoot people in this hat."

The boat's engine cut through the water. The air was warm and heavy, the moon hanging low in the night sky. The silhouette of the tall, handsome young liutenant and the older, grizzled CIA agent were etched against the inky horizon. All that could be heard was the throbbing of the engines and the occasional bird stirring from the Cambodian bush.

As they made their way down the river, their breathing grew louder as their tension increased. This was a dangerous mission, one which could never be revealed to anyone. The agent knew, however, that he was in good hands. The liutenant had been hand picked by his superior officers who had marveled at the young liutenant's navigation skills and his bravery in the line of fire. The liutenant didn't like to talk about it, but in his short time on the front lines he had already been gravely wounded a number of times. Each time, despite his wounds, he had insisted on rejoining his men, knowing that they depended on him to remain safe.

The boat stopped. "This is where I get off" said the agent, a slight catch in his voice. "Thanks for the ride". They nodded to each other silently, both knowing the peril the liutenant still faced. It would be a dangerous ride back to his base and if he was caught, they knew he would probably never be heard from again.

"Good luck, Sir" said the liutenant, giving him a crisp salute.

As the agent disappeared into the undergrowth, the liutenant called out "hey you forgot this!". The agent's hat lay on the boat's bench, still warm and wet from his perspiration. There was no reply from the dense jungle.

The liutenenant picked the hat up and held it close.

"This hat will be returned, I vow it!" he whispered, putting the agent's hat in his shirt . "And if I live", he thought "this memory will be seared - seared - in my brain till my dying breath". He turned the boat around for safer water, not knowing that the hat would not leave his side for the next 35 years, a grim reminder of the folly of humankind at war.

There we were in enemy territory, on the Mekong Delta, which ran the border between Vietnam, Cambodia, USSR, Nazi Germany, and the Ottoman Empire. The most heavily defended water way in history, defended by suicidal islamofacists carring RPG-suitcase nukes laced with Anthrax. The mission was top secret, from Abraham Lincoln himself: "Find and destroy Ho Chi Min, Osama Bin Laden, and Adolf Hitler". It was Christmas Day and George W Bush had already told the American people that there were no troops in this part of the world, and yet here i was, alone on a solitary suicidal mission. My equipment included my snowboard, guitar, a bottle of Heinz, global warming, a tax raise, and my green hat that i found in the 'lost and found'....the memory of that day is seared in my mind that i would never forget it. Anyways the details of the mission is kinda fuzzy and i might or might not of been there

A visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past, (in Cambodia). BAH HUMBUG!

Kerry stood on the prow of the boat, gazing at the Cambodian shoreline to either side. The CIA operative left his seat near the Mark 411-Z Autocannon and walked up beside him.

"I say, old boy," he said to Kerry in his British accent, "you could have dropped me at the border. Deuced risk you're taking."

Kerry coolly took a drag of his cigarette.

"The bridge at Lam Chahp's gotta be blown, or the entire NVA Assault Army Brigade will pour straight into Saigon. Then there's nothing between them and San Francisco."

"There's you, old chap."

Kerry gave him a sardonic grin, took a final drag, and casually tossed the butt into the river.

"I aim to get you to that bridge."

The CIA man looked at him with annoyance and admiration. "Blast it, Kerry, you're the most damnably stubborn man I know ... " - he paused - "And the bravest."

Suddenly they heard the pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the enemy flamethrowers...

"Walter!"

Walter Kerry was startled from his fantasy by the shriek of his wife Theresa in the passenger seat.

"Stop daydreaming! You almost ran that red light!"

"Yes, dear."

He mused that if he were Emporer of the World - or even President of the United States - he could be free from her nagging that kept him from his pleasant dreams. Ah, yes. President Walter Kerry, indomitable to the end...

My first Christmas back home after returning from 'Nam and 'Cam was rough for me. At the time, I was blind and still in a wheel chair and the only work I could get was as a door-to-door mirror salesman. I didn't make a single sale until a miracle occurred on Christmas Eve. As luck would have it I knocked on the door of Martin Sheen -- I think it was on the west side of his house -- and sold him the mirror that later made him famous. I still carry a fragment of that mirror in a wrinkled gunnysack hidden in an old green hat at the bottom of a battered briefcase, right beside the launch codes for Al Gore.

Christmas '68: Cruising up the MeKong on our way to Kampuchea. The Doors blasted through the stereo speakers. "LA Woman" - I'll never forget it. Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water" was our theme song, but I was jamming along with Mr Mojo Risin' on my guitar for a special lady. K-dog was water skiing, Rufus was piloting, she was sunning herself on the poop deck and we were all stoned immaculate.

The eight-track switched over. Man, what we had to put up with for state of the art sound. Then the song ended but I wailed off a few more licks before engaging the sweet little honey in scintillating conversation.

"So, you're with the CIA?" I said, casually setting my Hendrix autographed Strat into it's stand. Mom had sent it for Christmas just this year.

"Whadda yew tawkin' abowt?" she replied in that phony Brooklyn accent. "I'm a dansah, I'm here wit da USO. Not da CIA, da USO"

"Yeah, I said, admiring the curves." When were you last at Langley?"

She looked at me kinda funny "I know a guy named Frank Langley" she said "but he's a bum that can kiss my..."

"I know George HW Bush you know." I replied. "Went to school with his son. He's the head of the CIA. HW I mean, not his son. His son's a drunken frat boy, never will amount to much."

"I once danced at a drunken frat party. They tried to rip me off." She said, but she pronounced it "awf." OI loved that accent then, and I love foreign sounding accents to this day. "Yew gawt any tanning lotion?" she asked.

"CIA doesn't provide for all your needs, eh? Here, I've got some SPF 15. Want me to rub it on?"

"No tanks" she said, and took it from me.

"Yeah, lets hope so" I said.

"huh?" she asked.

"No tanks. You said no tanks. I said let's hope not."

"Yeah.. whatever. Look, I ain't CIA either. I'm USO. I don't care what Rassman said, he just wanted to make sure you'd let me on the boat, okay? Don't get angry wit him. He's a noice guy."

"Yeah, got it. Good cover, that USO thing. Hey, is this your hat?"

"Huh? Naaaw, dat ain't mine. I never seen dat before. Where's Rassman, anyhow?"

"Probably fell overboard again. You sure this isn't your hat?"

"It ain't my hat. Look at it. It looks like crap. Is that mold?"

"Maybe" I said. "Oh well, finders keepers. It's my hat now." I put the hat on my head and straped my guitar over my shoulder, and hit the "play' button on the remote. The opening chords of The Who's "Won't get Fooled Again" blasted, and I did my best Pete Townsend windmill thing. I'd seen them at Woodstock, I had it down.

Like I said...stoned. Immaculate. The sun was shining, she was sparkling, and I was singing, looking forward to the scream at the end. I could scream better than Daltry. Better than Janis Joplin even. The girls dig a good rockin' scream.

"Yeeeeaaargh" I belted it out.

"We won't get fooled again!"

Dave S.

Couldn't you have worked this in: "Sensing something amiss in the distance, perhaps the slightest sound of arrows in the distance knifing through the steam-thickened air, like pins in a tumbler..."

Actually, yours was pretty good.

The concrete pilings arose in the gloom like the yellowed incisors of some river dragon. In between, a moored landing craft blocked the passage like a thick tongue. Beyond, down the dark, steaming maw, was Cambodia. We were headed for the belly of the beast.

It was Christmas 1968. There came a ripple in the constitutional-time continuum. Suddenly, I wept, mind seared by the temporal distortions on the very edge of my awakened social consciousness. Nixon had just become president of the United States. Somehow, I knew that he had always been president of the United States, at least during the Vietnam War. The fiend! My mind reeled. Now it was clear why I had been ordered into Cambodia. A part of my mind was grateful that no Democratic administration had a hand in this foul war.

I felt the radar returns from our surface search set and knew river to be impassable. The concrete pilings were too close together and the landing craft acted like a gate. I fought rising panic. My crew looked to me, and I showed no signs of concern on my long, impassive face.

Suddenly Kato, our South Vietnamese guide, was sitting cross-legged at my feet. He seemed to be floating a few inches above the deck, but it might just have been a trick of the shadows and fog. Kato was just a boy, really. His head was shorn smooth in the traditional style. Unlike the vast majority of our Vietnamese allies, who were Catholics and drunk as wake-full of Irishmen (I can say that because I plan to be Irish one day), Kato was a Buddhist. Like all non-Christian religions, his actually worked.

Kato's dark eyes seemed to drink my fear.

"Do not try and get around the concrete pilings," Kato said quietly. "That's impossible. Instead... only try to realize the truth."

"What truth?" I asked him.

"There are no concrete pilings."

"There are no concrete pilings?" I asked, incredulous.

"Then you'll see," Kato said. "That it is not the concrete pilings that bend for you, it is only the truth."

I later found that major media outlets would also bend for me, if I willed it.

Armed with this wisdom I had only to shut my eyes and we were up river. But my sense of peace and wholesomeness soon was torn asunder by theatrically tracer-heavy automatic weapons fire ripping from the near bank, where our Vietnamese allies were, drunkenly, celebrating Christmas, as was their wont. This fusillade provoked a storm of return fire from the Khmer Rouge, North Vietnamese, ChiComs, and lost Japanese soldiers from World War 2 arrayed in a vast Oriental hoards on the far shore. The air was so alive with ordnance that I thought that I would assuredly be putting in for a Purple Heart before the night was old.

Fortunately, in my heightened state of awareness, each bullet seemed to approach me like a pitch that I would one day throw at Fenway Park. I easily assumed various manful poses so that each round passed me by, leaving me and my crisp uniform unharmed. My crew stared at me in wonder.

"Surely," they all proclaimed. "He is The One!"

Captain's Log, Stardate 196869.1

The vortex pulled relentlessly at the bow of the U.S.S. Swiftboat. Not nearly swift enough, perhaps, to reach escape velocity from the swirling quagmire that is the amorphous Mekong Delta Quadrant.

"Captain," Mr. Edwards alerted me, "censors are set to full power, but they're losing effectiveness. Shall I switch to tort?"

"More power to reverse," I ordered the Asian at the helm, who I only ever saw from behind.

"But, Captain," he uttered in that way when an inferior breed obviously worships your righteousness, "you just ordered full speed ahead..."

"How dare you question my patriotism!" I rightly corrected him. "I ordered full reverse before I ordered full steam ahead. A man at the helm should appreciate nuance! Now follow my orders!"

"Aye, aye. Setting autopilot to FlipFlop mode."

Storming off the bridge, I reminded Lt. Ta-RAY-za of our plan to gain support from the fly-over planet of Kansas IV. "Slow the Swiftboat to Warp 7," I said, "and I will wave from the mansion deck just before we reenter hyperspace."

"Do you think the people of Kansas IV will see you from down there?" The damn alien also was questioning my patriotism.

"No, but I will see them, and isn't that what's important?" Then it was off for some Fois Gras and Champagne.

The LT stood by his helmsman and watched the spook standing at the bow, staring quietly through the fog into Cambodia.
"Doesn't say much" said the helmsman, the LT grunted in reply.
"His accent says Texas"
"But his stance says Yale" replied the LT.
The navy officer walked forward, he didn't have much time left for conversation, Vietnamese artillery was starting Christmas a litle early.
"You know Nixon says we aren't here" said the LT.
The spook smiled, "everyone thinks I'm flying darts right now, you believe I went AWOL to come here?"
The LT looked startled as the spook swung off the boat into the dark jungle.
"Yep, I'm not supposed to be here either" he tossed a crumpled peice of green canvas to the LT, "here, keep it under your hat."

More artwork.

I remember that day like it was yesterday - actually, in a way, it was yesterday - but this is supposed to have taken place 35 years ago so I'll just say "like" yesterday.

Anyway.

It was either volunteer for Vietnam or take those skin-color changing tablets and try and buy a ham sandwich in New Orleans and that had already been done, and besides, I figured that kid named "Al" that I met while riding up Alpe de Huez in '66 already had an angle on the negro story. I figured I was going to need a "hook" when my time came, so it was Vietnam for me.

Looking back, my time in Vietnam was a blur - not because it moved so quickly but because there was something wrong with my video camera most of the time. I think that dog we kept around as a mascot pissed on it.

Anyway.

I'm here to talk about CIA Guy. This is how it happened.

"Kerry!" barked the Captain, "get over here and bring your boat! I need someone to run a special errand for me. Take this CIA Guy up the river. He has a load of grilled diver sea scallops and steak salads for Pol Pot."

"Pol Pot? Doesn't that mean going to Cambodia?"

"That's right, it does. You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

"Absolutely not, sir. At least not until it's politically expedient, that is."

"That's good enough for me. Now get going. CIA Guy is waiting for you on the dock. You'll recognize him by his funny hat."

So I walked up to the dock and lo and behold there was someone standing there in a funny hat holding a grocery bag with the words "Newburgh Yachters Do It Better" written across the side. But it wasn't any CIA Guy, it was a woman. Wearing big round sunglasses. And a scarf wrapped around her head.

"Hi," she said, "I'm Valerie. And you are?"

"In love, if you're rich."

[Found on a scrap of paper in the hidden compartment of a black briefcase case left on a Boston bus.]

Twas the night before Christmas,
and all through the SWIFT boat,
not an enemy was stirring, not even the 'kong.
The night orders lay on the capt. brown desk,
in hopes that Cambodians' soon would be dead.

The crew were nestled all snug at their posts,
while visions of Geisha girls danced in their heads.
With the gunner at his post, and I in my cap,
we had just settled down for a long boring patrol.

When out on the shore there arose such a clatter,
I fired a grenade, to see what was the matter.
Away from the danger, I flew like a flash,
did a job in my pants, and threw up my hands.

The moon on the water, reflecting just right,
gave the luster of midday to object on shore.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a camouflaged 'copter flown by a CIA spook.

[...]

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old spook,
and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of my eye and a cock of my hand,
soon gave him to know he had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
slipped from the SWIFT boat, then turned with a jerk.
And taking his green felt hat from his head,
he tossed it to me, then floated down the river.

But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he swam out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all but Cambodian's tonight!"

It was Christmas, 1968. As forewarned, my final visitor arrived at the strike of three. It was the ghost of Christmas future…Christmas, 1969… Richard Nixon was in the White House, and after touching my specter’s arm, I was whisked from my bed in Sa Dec, to a river five miles inside of Cambodia.

Kerry was worried. Felix didn't usually act like this. In all the time Kerry had worked with his colleague- and friend- from the CIA, he'd never seen him so quiet. Kerry rolled his martini (shaken, not stirred) around his mouth and pondered the mission at hand.

M had ordered him to meet up with Felix in Cambodia, in direct defiance of Prime Minister Nixon's orders. Kerry wasn't sure what, or who, they were after, but he was about to find out.

At the push of a button, the Swift Sub converted silently to the Swift Boat that they would use once they entered the shallows of the Mekong. Thank goodness for Q. He was a clever one, even managing to hide a combination laser/plastic explosive/travel scrabble game in Kerry's prosthetic chin. That might come in handy, thought Kerry, pouring his second martini and joining Felix on the bow.

Just then, he was astonished to see a beautiful young Cambodian girl approach the riverbank and call out to them. "Hey Ferix, you rate!" The CIA man laughed, and guided the Swift towards the bank.

Kerry was dumbfounded as Felix jumped off the boat and waded ashore, whirling the girl around before kissing her passionately. He stammered, "Felix, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

"This is where I get off, doofus. Thanks for the lift", responded Felix. The spook and his woman turned towards the jungle, leaving Kerry behind. A single tear snaked down his heavily-botoxed cheek.

"Hey Felix! You forgot your hat!"

"I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack boats taking fire near the Ho Chi Mihn Trail. I've watched Green Berets invade in the dark near the Phnom Penh gate. All those things will get lost in time with a bit of luck. Time to lie."

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the brush
If a creature was stirring, we were ready for ambush;
The mines were all placed in the river with care,
In hopes that a swift boat soon would be there;

The comrades were nestled all snug on their thatch beds,
While visions of Siagon danced in their heads;
And Charley with his 'red' book, and I in my (black) 'jama cap,
Had just settled down for a brief monsoon's nap,

When out on the water there arose such a clatter,
I awoke from my nap to see what was the matter.
Away to the blind I crawled like a snake,
Tore open the ammo and loaded as much as it would take.

The moon on the breast of the camouflaged scow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to object in tow,
When, what to my watering eyes should appear,
But a miniature boat, and eight yankee invaders,

With a tall thin driver, so cautious and wary,
I knew in a moment it must be Lt. Kerry.
More stealthy than habu his rowers they came,
And he whistled, quite shrouded, and whispered their name;

"Now, ALSTON! now, SANDUSKY! now, WHITLOW and BARKER!
on HATCH! on SHORT! on, ZALADONIS and WASSER!
Watch the mines in the river! Don't let RASSMAN fall!
Now splash away! splash away! splash away all!"

As in silence that before the fire fight apply,
Ready to cross any border, and always deny,
So up to Cambodia the invaders they drew,
With PCF-44 full of boys, and Lt. Kerry too.

And then, with a tinkling, I heard in the area
The clicking and ticking of an 8mm camera.
As I loaded the mortar, and was turning around,
"Up the river" Lt. Kerry directed - gees what a clown.

He was dressed all in armor, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with rices and soot;
A bundle of film he had flung on his back,
And he looked like Frank Capra blocking the act.

His eyes -- how they twinkled! his pupils how merry!
They passed the Four Roses, and a doobie for Kerry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up to blow,
but the borders of his eyes were as white as the snow;

The stump of a hash pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a gaunt face and a 20 something belly,
And he shook, when he moved like a cart full of jelly.

Not chubby or plump, wouldn't fit his image self,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
The glint in his eye and the hat on his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And positioned the cameraman; then turned like a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the river bank he rose;

After yelling "cut," to his team gave a whistle,
And away went the crew never drawing their pistol.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he floated out of sight,
"GOOD BYE CAMBODIA - HELLO HOUSE WHITE!"

"The smell of GoofyGrape kool-aid brings me back to the jungles of Vietnam because it's seared in my memory how that Christmas night I poured it in my canteen to hide the taste of the water purification tablets even as the purple haze of GoofyGrape-smoke canisters drifted by on the opposite shore after it was popped to mark our position for overflights of fast movers as I listened to the incoming rounds from the NVA, VietCong, VietMinh, Khmer Rouge, Pathet Lao, deranged French lost for years in the jungle, Chinese volunteers, Russian anti-aircraft crews, confused South Vietnamese allies and Ho Chi Minh personally, over the sound of Christmas music on Armed forces radio just after the Bush speech saying we weren't in Laos... as I clasped my lucky hat given to me by John McCain personally to my breast" -- JForbes "callsign Boston Strangler" Kerry(D)

The Gift of the C.I.A. Magi
By O Kerry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And piece of souvenir grenade shrapnel. Three times John counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

"Kerry," read the simple tag on his khaki shirt, with insignia showing he was a Lieutentant, JG. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and he had only $1.87 with which to buy "Agent X" a present.

He had been saving every penny he could for three months, with this result. One hundred dollars a week plus combat pay doesn't go far, even in Vietnam, even in 1968. Expenses had been greater than he had calculated. There was the 8mm camera for the battle re-enactment movie, plus the film, and the soft-focus lens. Only $1.87 left to buy a present for the Agent. His Agent. Many a happy hour they had spent planning a secret illegal mission upriver to Cambodia, despite Nixon's denials.

Now, between them there were two possessions in which they both took a mighty pride. One was John's Purple Hearts, which he had earned in ferocious battles. Had Alvin York himself been in the company barracks, John would have displayed the gleaming decorations just to depreciate the Sergeant's puny array. The other was the Agent's map of the Cambodian Mekong. Had James Bond been on assignment in Saigon, Agent X would have pulled out his map every time he passed just to see him claw at his strangling-wire watch from envy.

John steeled himself for the sacrifice he was about to make.

Where he stopped the sign read: "Mr. Nguyen. Buy Sell Trade Cash. Come On In GI Joe." One flight up John and collected himself.

"Will you buy my medals?" asked John.

"I buy medals, okay," said Nguyen. "I take look at them, okay Joe?"

Out poured the glittering purple cascade.

"Twenty dollar," said Nguyen. "Or maybe you like nice briefcase."

The briefcase. It surely had been made for the Spook and no one else. There was no other like it anywhere, oxblood cordovan leather with a secret compartment for the Agent's beloved Cambodian map.

"Give it to me quick," said John.

When John returned to the base he waited for the Spook at his tent, clutching the attache case. He ran his fingers across his breast pocket where the medals once hung and whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still mission-capable."

The flap opened and Agent X stepped in. He looked thin and very serious. His eyes were fixed upon John, and there was an expression in them that the Lieutenant could not read, and it terrified him. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at John's bare breast pocket with a peculiar expression on his face.

"Agent X," cried the Lieutenant, "don't look at me that way. I sold my medals because I couldn't have gone on our covert mission tomorrow without giving you a present. I'll earn more medals--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. Say `Merry Christmas!' Agent X, and let's be happy. You don't know what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've sold your medals?" asked Agent X, laboriously.

"All of them," said John. "Don't you think I'm still a hero anyhow? I'm me without my medals, ain't I?"

Agent X seemed quickly to wake from his trance.

"Don't worry Lieutenant," he said, "Nothing would convince me -- or Nixon himself -- that you aren't the man for Operation Secret Santa. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you gave me a start."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; for there lay The Hat--the handsome magical hat that Agent X had purchased in a Da Nang street market.

"It was for good luck on our secret mission," said Agent X. "Something to pin your medals to."

John hugged it to his bosom, and looked up with dim eyes and a smile and said: "I get medals so fast, Agent X!"

Then John held out the briefcase eagerly upon her open palm. "Isn't it a dandy, Agent X? I hunted all over town to find it. It has a secret compartment for your Cambodia mission map! Open it!"

Instead of obeying, Agent X put his hands on John's shoulder and smiled.

"Lieutenant," said he, "you keep both our Christmas presents. I sold my map to get the money to buy your hat. Carry the magic hat with you in the beautiful briefcase, and remember this, our special day, when you become President."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They also invented the art of the covert Christmas mission. Not everyone today believes that story either, but you don't see Fox News asking for proof that it happened.

Read the whole thing here:

http://electriccommentary.blogspot.com/2004/08/reductio-ad-absurdum.html

Excerpt:

"Maybe so," said Brian, "but how do you plan to respond? And why aren't you eating Wendy's? You told Edwards that you would participate in his tradition. Where did you get that fois gras?"

"There was a gourmet French restaurant right next to the Wendy's! What are the odds? So you see, I basically did go to Wendy's."

"Sir?"

"It was right next door," said John, in the monotone voice he used when he was excited, "I was practically there!"

"Sir, this will not sell well in the Midwest. We need those votes."

"I've been great in the Midwest! Why just the other day we took that boat into Illinois..."

"That was Wisconsin, sir."

The jungle breeze carried a scent of decay down from Charlie's side of the river. I waited, patiently, for just the right moment. The sun was dropping low in the sky on its way down. Soon. Very soon. But not yet. I glanced at Eddie crouched low in the boat, steadying himself on the gunwales. The sun would be behind him and there'd be no glare. Good man. I was glad to have him with me, and Big Jim up in the gun tub too. Both were rock solid, and too much of the future was riding on this to worry about my crew. I reminded myself not to rock the boat too much when I jumped off. It wouldn't do to ruin Eddie's aim at that one critical instant. That instant would be the most important shot of the whole mission.

I checked my own equipment. The M-16 at my side had a full clip, with three more on the bandolier across my chest. Grenades hung off me - enough of them that I probably looked like a pineapple tree. A small pang of worry hit me over that. Maybe I had too many. I rubbed my arm, the spot where Doc Leston had removed that piece of white-hot shrapnel. It still hurt sometimes, and the Purple Heart didn't always ease the pain. Yes, grenades could be dangerous. But I needed them, no getting around that.

The sun sank a little lower. I looked out at the river bank in front of me. From the bow, it was a short, easy jump, then another ten or twenty yards to the crest of the hill. The golden light from the setting sun blazed against the foliage. In an instant, everything was lit perfectly, magically. From above me, I heard Big Jim whisper "Now! Go!"

I glanced back. Eddie nodded, blackened metal glinting slightly in his hands as he pressed the trigger. I rose, carefully, and leaped for the bank. Suddenly, the boat lurched beneath me, throwing me off balance. My foot slipped and I cut my knee on the forward cleat before I tumbled over the side into the mud. My helmet had slipped over my eyes, I never buckled the strap, and I was blinded for a moment. But I could hear Big Jim yelling, and then Eddie was there, standing over me.

"Cut." Eddie said, letting the camera drop to his side. "Dammit John," he said, shaking his head. He looked up at the sky, at the fading sky. "Now you're all muddy. By the time you get cleaned up and change into a new uniform, the light will be gone. We'll have to film this again tomorrow. What did you trip on, anyway?"

I looked him square in the eye as I stood. I set my jaw as firmly as I could. "I don't fall down." I said. "That S.O.B," I pointed at Big Jim, "he bumped me."

All the submissions have been fantastic, but I think IowaHawk wins it hands down.

It was a dark and lonely night, as nights tend to often be, and the patrol boat drifted silently down the muddy river like some kind of floating vessel gently cutting through a very small and narrow body of water. There were trees, too.

But my mind was too busy racing to pay much attention to the world around me. "How in the world was I going to get THREE purple hearts" I kept asking myself. It just didn't seem possible to do in such a short time, but if my days in France had taught me anything it was to never give up and never surrender. I would need this kind of strength if I was to survive all four months of my tour of duty.

The craft grinded to a halt and I could see looks of fear and anticipation come over my crewmates' faces. I stood up from my crouched location and started looking around the shoreline.

"Get down, Lurch!" someone called to me.

I knelt down behind another crewmate and readied my M16. "What is it?" I called quietly out to my crew.

"A sampan," said a third shipmate.

"What's that?"

"It's a boat, retard." said a voice from behind me.

"I like boats." I replied slowly. But something about this boat didn't seem quite right. Perhaps it was the looming fog around us, or maybe it was the site of all the poor-people emerging from the craft...

"Poor People!" I cried in panic. "Oh, God! Kill them all!"

My crew let loose with a barrage that shredded the shoreline to swiss cheese. My M16 jammed and I quickly picked up a grenade launcher to finish the job. It was at that moment that I spotted a vietcong guerilla camoflauged as a rock. I let lose a grenade straight at him, but damn if he wasn't thick skinned! The bouncing shrapnel caught me in the arm... wait, no... I dodged my shrapnel and then the rock launched a grenade at me... yeah. In a fit of heroism that could rival Superman I threw my body across this deadly grenade and saved my entire crew, as well as the crews of all the other boats in the area.

The wound was grotesque - a smoldering mass of charred skin and lacerated wrinkles that was more like Teresa Heinz's face than a man's forearm. I resisted the urge to bandage the wound, and instead called for my crew to lug my ass twenty miles to the nearest hospital. I could see the look of anger and shame in their faces - anger and shame for not being able to save me from the shrapnel.

At the hospital I met with the doctor who oddly enough had the same look of anger in his face.

"What are you doing here, you don't need a doctor!" he called at me.

"You think I need a priest, right?" I replied coldly. "Well I'm not going to die. You underestimate my strength. Just remove the shrapnel and give me a band-aid... I'll heal later."

"You don't need a band-aid!" he cried out again.

"Listen, doc, I appreciate your concern for my well being, but surgery is out of the question."

He relented and pulled the piece of shrapnel out of my arm with a pair of forceps.

"Its about the size of a dime," he pronounced after having it cleanly removed.

It was the biggest dime I'd ever seen, but I resisted the urge to question his eyesight. Instead I placed the band-aid over my hideous skin and made my way toward the exit. I could feel the emotion stirring inside of me like a violent storm.

"Doctor," I said through building tears, "thanks for saving my life."

"Just leave," he said and returned to his other patients.

From: jsevins@halliburton.ir
To: krove@whitehouse.gov

Subject: Operation X68

Mr. Rove,
Good News! We just received a sealed letter dated December 10th, 1968. It's from "Joe". The insertion was successful. He arrived in time to replace the target. He's received orders to depart in two days. Barring any unforseen circumstances, he should be in place by the 23rd.

Judging by current events, the Temporal Team theorizes that altered events may leave pieces of unaltered memories. However, these memories seem to be intermingled with the new memories. Affected individuals likely cannot tell the difference between them, and may seem confused. I suggest that you tell O'Niell to take advantage of this. Also, tell him that, due to the success of Operation X68, we are ready to begin Operation PH-3, and Operation SS. He can begin pushing these more.

Dr. Jason Sevins
Temporal Team
Halliburton, Iraqi Division

One State
Two State
Red State
Blue State

This one has a Lone Star (uh-oh!)

This one has a Giant Car (but it's not mine; it's my family's!)

My what a lot of flyover states there are!

From east to west, from north to south
Ta-RAY-za just can't shut her mouth!

Pup is up (blown out of our swiftboad)
Pup is down (landing in another! Wow!)
Mr. X is out of town! (But he left his green hat)

From seared to fuzzy, from fuzzy to ne'er,
Fuzzy memories are everywhere!

Hop! Hop!
Hop on Pop!

STOP! Don't question Pop's patriotism!

It was Christmas, 1968. We had traversed the Mekong River that runs between Vietnam and Cambodia, and we went further, we took it up, up, past Laos, up through the highland jungles, all the way to the river's source waters in the Himalaya. My crew was nervous. We were not supposed to be there. President Nixon, having taken office a several weeks early (tricky Dick!!!) was telling the world that there were no US forces in the Himalaya. "Don't worry, mon amis" I reassured them, "when McGovern is President there will be no more war and no more poverty and no more evil in the world." They shivered with cold and fear. It was then that we stumbled upon Sir Edmund Hillary. . .

For some reason Hillary keeps popping up in all my bad dreams.

Act 2,SCENE 4,No Christmas this Year:

Jingle bells were not heard that night as the bow of our midnight raid crossed into Cambodia.

"Monsieur American", whispered the commander,"ready le guns".
The crew was liberally daubed with facial camoflauge, the boat festooned with netting and river fronds as we approached the shore. It was pitch black on the river.
"Do you hear anything from the jungle? Ze natives are awake...." he crooned softly.
Suddenly the night expoloded as a battalion of Vietnamese troops opened fire from both shores. A screaming teenager wearing only a loin cloth but brandishing an RPG ran onto a muddy bank and aimed at the boat."Death to Amerika! Death to Nixon".
"Shoot! Shoot le partisan!" screamed Lt. Kerry, a smoldering cigarette in the corner of his mouth`.
A river of glowing tracers flew from our guns, .50 calibers all.
With incredible grace and dislaying a joi de livre the Lieutenant drew his pistol and fired into the boy as he turned his back for a , eh...., better aim at the vessel.
He falls into the river, his body trailing a rivelet of blood, shining black in the dim light.

Do all my In My Worlds with JK in them count as entries?

A cool wind swept up from the Cambodian jungle below me as I swung in the breeze. Looking up I could tell that my CIA charge hadn't made it out; In the soft pre-dawn I could still see the plane's silhouette falling into the jungle aflame with streaming gasoline.
"Now what? - the recon pilot would remain unrescued."
The chute swayed and veered left and I dropped my camera.
"shit - I needed that footage."
A snake bumped into my foot and slithered off into the coming dawn. The sound of cicadas above my head was as loud as a siren.
Cambodia didn't look any different than the delta, and I had to figure out how to get back to the Mekong with just a compass and a transistor radio.
Wiping my chin and weighing the situation in my head, I jumped as a tattered green hat landed in the thicket 5 yards distant.
"Hmm - that might come in handy.." I pulled the chute pack off and picked it up. The Gods of fate were smiling at last.

Call me Schlemiel.

It was a damp Christmas Eve on the deck of the Boston Whaler as it plowed through the muck and mire often encountered five miles inside the border of Cathay, four months journey from the creature comforts of New England.

Our quest, and God hear our prayer that we meet not the devil for it, was to find and kill the Stupid White Whale.

The injury I had sustained to my buttock would probably require my getting a wooden peg leg. No, a common bandage, composed of petroleum resin would not suffice, I swear this most holy of nights.

But that would not deter me from my vengeance on Moby Dick Cheney.

"Halliburton!" the parrot croaked, again and again. "Halliburton! squawk!"

A cry came from the crow's nest: "Ho!"

Land? Could we have reached the opposite shore of the Mekon River already, this most uncrossable of streams? "Did you cry 'Land Ho,' Mister?" I demanded.

"No, sir, just Ho!" he replied. "Ho, ho, ho!!!!"

Then I realized it wasn't a crow's nest at all. Nor was I on a Boston Whaler. Nor were we in Cambodia, at the behest of a corrupt President Taft.

I was in my living room, and Santa was sliding down the chimney.

Weeeee!

Twas the night before Christmas and right next to Laos,
The enemy was feasting on dog meat and mouse.
We cruised the Mekong to Cambodia with care,
Cause President Nixon told us to go there.

My crewmen were getting all drunk on the boat,
By pouring Jim Beam right down their fat throats.
Without a clue and without even a cap,
I had passed out cold right on top of my map.

I dreamed of big breasts at the USO Show,
Giving a straight hardness to my package below.
Then what to my sleepy eyes should appear,
But a CIA Spook and a 6-Pack of beer.

He was a smart little guy, so lively and quick,
He threw me a beer and said "Just call me Rick."
More rapid than eagles his commands all came,
as he yelled at my crew and called them by name:

"Yo Dennis and Danny and Patrick and Vinny!
Common Charles and Colin and Donald and Billy!
To that concrete border and over that wall,
To Cambodia we sail, to Cambodia all!"

At the pylons he hugged me and gave me his hat,
then pounced into the jungle like a nimble black cat.
But I heard him exclaim as he hiked out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all - give them one hell of a fight!"

John Kerry's heart froze at the look on Theresa's face. "What is it, Sweetheart?"

Theresa threw herself into her husband's arms. "Oh, John, I just heard that the Atkins diet has totally destroyed the ketchup industry. The Heinz company is bankrupt! My fortune is destroyed! We're paupers!"

Kerry smiled into Theresa's eyes as he gently stroked her back. "Don't worry, Darling. Your money didn't mean anything to me, anyways."

Theresa sniffed. "Oh, John, I knew you truly loved me!"

Kerry wiped a tear from his wife's cheek. "Keep your chin up, my love - money isn't everything. After all, we still have each other. I promised to love you for richer or for poorer, and I meant it!"

Without the Heinz money, the Kerry campaign was finished. Hilary successfully took over the Democratic nomination and won the Presidency.

But John Kerry was true to his word. He stayed with Theresa in spite of her poverty, living in a dumpy, rat-infested apartment and surviving on rations of beans and rice (although they did occasionally splurge for a trip to Wendy's). But the Kerrys hardly noticed their surroundings; true love is indifferent to such trivial affairs. And they lived happily ever after.

Scene: Vietnam, 1968, 100 miles from Cambodian border

::cue Creedence Clearwater Revival song::

"Kerry!"

"Lt. Kerry, reporteeeeeeeng for doooooooty, suh!"

"Would you f*cking stop doing that? Now, what's this I hear about you running spooks into Cambodia?"

"Well, sir, I entered Cambodia on several occasions before I decided I was near the Cambodian border."

JFK Personal Journal
24-12-68 23:30 hrs.
Sa Dec, The Area Between The Sea of China and the Norwegian Border

Just returned from another double-secret mission. I wore the lucky hat that Sgt. Saunders gave me when I dropped him off last month at Villers-Bocage, along with Kirby, Cage and Little John. I was only wounded 6 times tonight: I think it was either Spetznaz or Maoris, so we had to be close to Belize at the time. I guess the hat mojo works. But then, as Ma Mere always said, "Comme il faut; cherchez le chapeau." The bittersweet memory sears my soul. And conscience.

Tonight I was very near Nairobi, dropping off E. Howard Hunt,a CIA guy. He said he had some spook business in La Paz with Howard Hughes He was very impressed with how I held my hand in the flame of the burning torches which I have come to use as searchlights on PCF 44. Said he only knew of one guy, some nut from the FBI, who was courageous enough to do that. I laughed bitterly, told him I was more concerned with my conscience, and telling America the Truth. We took some 5.9 fire from the 2nd Royal Welsh Fusiliers, who were doubtless celebrating St. David's Day. We must have gotten closer to Jalalabad than I intended. I only lost my spleen, so I won't have to turn it in, and won't miss any secret-mission time. They might make me leave my crew if I turn in too many wounds. I laugh bitterly at the ironic irony.

I'm exhausted by the irony and bitterness which well up in me as I hear a president-to-be-named-later say we're not in space. Not in space! And my secret mission docking with the Soyuz spacecraft, 20 or 500 miles high above a spot somehwere between El Alamein and Canberra, still seared - seared- on my soul. And they never would have gotten home without me. I laugh bitterly at the bitterness.

I write a bitter and ironic card to Admiral Nimitz: "Season's greetings from the only Swifties to have occupied Hanoi." I smirk ironically to think they wouldn't have Ho Chi Minh if I hadn't captured him.

I'm still very concerned that Admiral Zumwalt told me in Zurich last month that my missions were so sensitive they would likely remain denied and unverified forever. Well, I suppose that's just the way it is: I have learned much from Chuck Conners in "Branded".

Well I'm tired. Think I'll sleep in the twin-.50 cupola, just so I'll be ready to face the danger in case the Hittites attack like last week. I laugh bitterly at the irony.

Katie Couric: "What was like, in Cambodia? How did you get there?"

John Effin Kerry: "Immediately after beaching my boat as I fled enemy fire, I was captured by a gang of Cambodian teenagers. They led me back into the jungle- I'd say about five miles into Cambodia. They took my 8mm camera, and started filming me. At one point, they brought out Pongo, a Cambodian Panda bear, who was trained to...trained to -"

KC: "Go ahead, we're on the same side, I promise."

JFK: "He was trained to...well, trained to have relations with me. Real friendly-like. I still remember their laughter as Pongo -"

KC: "Yes?"

JFK: "I can't speak of it. They were filming - and laughing. They said, "Al Gore will put this on the Internet." I couldn't believe it."

I led my band of brothers onto the field, and here (and it's seared in my memory; seared, I tells ye!) we performed the brave act that earned three Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, an Iron Cross, a Dick Tracy Decoder Ring, a Purple Buttock, a Diamonique Pendant, and the Crown Jewels of England, all simultaneously:

BOOM chugga lugga lugga
BOOM chugga lugga lugga
BOOM chugga lugga lugga . . . BOOM!

"John Kerry reporting for duty!"

And I do not, repeat: do NOT, confuse my own life with people I see on the screen at the cinema.

Is plagiarized work eligible? Because if so, I would like to submit a horror classic.

Johnny Kerry and the Screamin Dude

Posted here.

We were about five miles inside Mouse Town, and you could feel - feel! - the excitement in the air.

See these mouse ears? Donald Duck gave me these mouse ears when we took him on the Pirates of the Carribean ride. I carry them everywhere I go. They're my lucky mouse ears.

I remember July 4th, 1974, riding a Chrysler down I-40. I remember what it was like to drink gas station coffee and listen to screaming kids, and have my wife tell me that Disney World isn't in Oklahoma.

Disneyland isn't in Oklahoma? Florida, you say. Well, we were pretty close to Florida. I remember now! It wasn't July 4th. It was Arbor Day. That's an old Kerry family tradition: going to Disneyland on Arbor Day. To hunt deer. With a double barrel shotgun.

It was a dark and steamy night and I was drifting on a soupy river deep in the heart of deepest darkest Cambodia, just a click or two from Gayku Province. My dreams of cycling serpentine around the gay streets of Provincetown on my custom Serotta from the downtown steam-filled bathhouses to the Sears a block or two from the dunes on the eastern shore, were suddenly stirred by searing showers of spears and arrows that seared the swiftboat's skin like a stick poking a fat silver gray pinata. Oddly, I was numb to the searing danger as I stirred watching the other three swiftboats flee the searing storm. Shit what if I couldn't save them, I thought. What if I couldn't singlehandedly save them all. Despite their war crimes, their shitfaced searing of gook ears and torching of villages, my heart was seared with my love for my band of brothers, McGreevey, O'Neill, Elliott and all the swifties. Seared in my memory, the self doubt lifted like the fog of dawn when seared by the first searing rays of the hot summer sun. Ironically, it was Christmas and President Nixon had just the other day cellphoned me that the mission into Cambodia must be kept secret at all costs. It was seared into my memory forever. I sprung into action....I was on my own, just the way I liked it

John Kerry

sliding painfully out of the flight seat. Brewer gawks at
the pool of blood collected in the hollow of John Kerry's seat.

John Kerry goes to the gun door. Takes De Fravio's AK-47.

DOLLYING WITH John Kerry as he limps toward the MOTC with
relentless determination. The well-wishing ground
personnel fall back, letting him pass.

Trautman, B.G., sees him and strides forward to intercept.

OVER John Kerry'S SHOULDER

DOLLYING, as he approaches the command center.
Kirkhill's aide, in dark glasses, moves forward to
restrain him.

John Kerry motions him aside with the AK.
Goes to the door. It is locked.

INT. MOTC

The lock is shattered by a LONG BLAST from John Kerry's AK.
The door is kicked open. John Kerry stands silhouetted.

He looks like what we never saw in "The Monkey's Paw."
He moves into the humming command center, among the
mission control electronics, reeking of the jungle, blood
and death.

LOW ANGLE

as John Kerry walks to Kirkhill, looming. Stopping.

Kirkhill quails as John Kerry grasps him by the collar and
flings him backward into a chair.
He raises the AK. Muzzle to Kirkhill's forehead.

John Kerry
Mission accomplished.

--Deleted Comment--

The Mudville Gazette will not knowingly host plagiarized material. Brief excerpts with links to original source are acceptable, if on topic and otherwise within the standards of this site.

Wow, Sean, thanks for clearing that up! You have single-handedly made all of us forget about JFK's tales, and once again put Bush under the microscope. Score another one for the Democrats. I give up.

It was Christmas 1778 it was cold and the men had no shoes in a place called Valley Forge, flash forward 1970... a flatbed truck filled with anti- war protesters with a woman leading her group, her name was Jane....on the same hallow ground of Valley Forge. Where you there John Kerry?

Kerry was a warrior
From the land of the morning brunch,
With his Thompson gun for hire,
Prosciutto and shrimp for lunch.
The deal was made in Cape Cod
On a dark and stormy night,
So he set out for Cambodia
To join the bloody fight.

In Christmas '68, he fought the Viet Cong
With his finger on the trigger,
Or maybe on a bong?
For days and nights he battled
The Khmer to their knees,
He killed to pad his resume
Of his Service, Vietnamese.

Kerry the Thompson Gunner
Kerry the Thompson Gunner

His comrades fought beside him,
Van Owen and the rest,
But of all the Thompson gunners,
Kerry was the best,
So the CIA decided to reward all of that,
That son of a bitch Van Owen gave Kerry his hat.

Kerry the Hatted Thompson Gunner,
Hyannisport's favorite son,
They can still see his Lurch-like body
Stalking through the night,
In the muzzle flash of Kerry's Thompson gun,
In the muzzle flash of Kerry's Thompson gun.

Kerry searched the continent
For the man who'd doffed his brim,
He found him in Hue City,
In a barroom drinking gin.
Kerry raised his attache,
He showed the secret stash,
And he bored Van Owen shitless
With stories vain and brash.

Kerry the Hatted Thompson Gunner,
Talkin' about the man.

The eternal Thompson Gunner,
Still boring us to tears,
With tales of Vietnam,
Embellished o'er the years.
From firefights to spooky ops,
Purple Hearts for tick biiiiiiiites,

Howard Dean, screamed his scream,
And Kerry's Thompson gun was on us.

-- Deleted comment ---

For sucking all the fun out of the room. But note, the Bush AWOL story has been covered in depth on this site. You're dealing with military people here - we do care about these things. Use the search block on the main page and enter "Bush AWOL". Enter your comment on one of the many appropriate places for it.

Olympic Swimmer, somehow I feel that your entry is not the winning one.

Kerry's Hollywood Record

John Kerry commanded the first nuclear powered swift boat - it was also the only one, because John Forbes Kerry(JFK) was the only human who could handle the task(of course.) The ambiguity about entry into off limits Cambodia is a diversion - - JFK was actually sent on a SECRET mission. This secret mission in mid-January, 1969 led to the film "Predator." So the movie character named "Dutch Schaefer"[actor Arnold Schwarzenegger] was used in place of the actual John Kerry. And Central America was a diversion from the actual Southeast Asia.

That nuclear explosion at the end of the movie was false: there were actually two detonations. Kerry had to backpack a 175-lb containment vessel containing his walnut-sized nuclear reactor core(perhaps everyone recalls that the nuclear reactor core in today's standard attack submarine is the size of a baseball.) Hero Kerry(please pardon the redundant use of those two words) had to sequence his detonation perfectly(of course) because the predator's power unit core would have otherwise obliterated - - and therefore sterilized - - the surface of planet earth. So John Kerry is the ULTIMATE environmentalist, saving not just the species homo sapiens sapiens, but gazillons of other species as well. (cue the music)

Those right wingers who bust a gut about JFK's "frequent" mentioning of Vietnam, are trying to goad him - TAUNT him -- into violating secrecy. If Kerry ever mentions that he SAVED ALL mankind, the planned right wing response is to harp "whoa, there he goes again" ... "he's showing that save-the-spotted-owl nutjob attitude!" They have no shame.

Prediction: Ahhnold will hide under his desk in Scaramento and never acknowledge the "real" Dutch Schaefer.

The right-wingers make millions from his death-defying secret mission, then prevent showing THE TRUTH about Kerry's slightly less risky activities. How can anybody sleep at night knowing what's being done to John and Teresa? boo hoo (cue the music)

Some astute readers might question John Forbes Kerry's use of a REACTOR core instead of an atomic bomb core. After all, a reactor core simply CANNOT detonate: it can overheat and melt, and can generate a neutron pulse - - but not detonate.
The military in 1969 thought that they could only provide JFK with three hours preparation before sending him in. After two hours, JFK showed them the pitfalls in using a standard kiloton or megaton weapon.

At Yale, John Forbes Kerry had access to three secret chambers within the Directoire Skull & Bones complex, known only to the top-one-percent of S&B members (naturally Dubya plus his dad and grandfather would have absolutely not imagined that such things existed there.) So JFK was well versed in nuclear science; so well that he could teach his "instructors" in a half hour how his walnut could deal with an intergalactic force, which surely was at least a century more advanced than us(from a strictly technological standpoint) and which therefore could negate our use of first generation nuclear weapons.

So a hollow plutonium sphere spiked with lithium deuteride was removed, and the walnut sized JFK-modified( !! ) reactor core went instead. Consequently we are not dead or unborn©. When the scientists and military brass realized that JFK was an even MORE astounding, seemingly superman-quality young man, they wanted to not risk such a stupendous asset. The backup, Oliver North, never knew he was slated to be called up(how's that for abominable, perhaps death-wish judgement by the DoD!) But Kerry's words .... "send me" ..... were too compelling, too true, and today we know ... JFK was our planet's only hope of survival.

Actually, the predator was not a disgusting bipedal quasi-cephalopod chimera ; it exhibited extreme fetching beauty, understandable for such an advanced deceitful cerebral predator. But JFK asked it the crucial question: "What are your present and future assets worth?" - - and its unsuitable answer led to our NOT being dead or unborn©.

Note how the selection of actors was meant to oh-so-effectively throw us off.

A few years later, JFK realized that the predator did not have to die. If JFK had raised both arms and smelled his armpits, the predator would have been so grossed out it would have departed our solar system. So PEACE was at hand, if only the incessant brainwashing of the right had not distracted JFK from seeing this certainty of peace.

JFK is the only candidate with such first-hand dealing with an alien. He realizes that the multilateralism of the UN will be a brief stepping stone to our membership in the multilateral intergalactic community. (cue the music) Then the clouds will clear, angels will blow lovely notes from on high, the honey will flow, and earthlings will be in friendly union as never before("an enemy of my enemy is a friend".)

"Dead or unborn" is a copyrighted phrase of Planned Parenthood.

Gee Sean, you really hit the old nail on the point.

Now, about that night in Bangkok, or was it Haiphong; whatever...The boat was moving swiftly through the swift currents of the Mekong, snaking its way slowly up the bowels of the Cambodian ouback. Tall and gaunt, Lt John F. Kerry stood proudly, almost Lincolnesque, at the helm of the custom-rigged sailboat, his sou'wester pulled down tight over his horselike countenance. "Damn brown-water scurvies", Lt Kerry muttered, "any sailor worth his salt and vinegar knows that motoring is for sissies." He ordered the bos'n to pull up the center board and trim the mainsail as they approached the shallows of the Cambodian delta.

In a fit of unbridled leadership he had once again taken it upon himself to fix a badly broken system. How could anyone be expected to secretly deliver a "package" five hundred miles upriver behind enemy lines piloting a noisy, smoke belching motorboat? He had shrewdly commandeered a local sailboat and had it rigged with a .50 on the bow and two M60's astern. He had hastily scrawled PT 109 on the hull so as not to be mistaken for a Republican Guard patrol boat. His M79 was conveniently stowed on the poop deck where he could readily retrieve it when the shit went down. He wouldn't have long to wait.

The gaping bore of the thumper glared at him, reminding him of his trusty double 12 gauge back in the world. He'd spent many a summer night slithering through the Massachestts woods on his belly, craftily stalking whitetails. He had stalked a few white tails at prep school, too, he laughed to himself, but those were cheap frog sluts who didn't have a 100 francs between 'em. Hot little shagbags for his scrapbook of memories, but not worth latching onto for longer than eight seconds of glory. Nothing like the rich New England chowderheads that waited back on the Cape.

A rustling below decks brought him out of his trance. "Are we almost there, Cap'n?", the spook asked nonchalantly? He had been coolly honing his Randall knife on a stone for the past two hours and the soft but incessant grinding sound had been grating on Kerry's nerves. "Soon", he growled, "and I'm not a Captain, I'm a Lieutenant. But you can salute me anyway, because I will be Commander-In-Chief one day."

Despite his irritation with the spook's grinding, he had to admire him. How could the CIA man stay so cool? Kerry was hotter than a quahog at a clambake and it was only December 25th. It was about to get hotter. "Get ready", Kerry whispered over the sounds of the sails luffing in the humid night air. "We're approaching the LZ." It wasn't really an LZ in the strictest sense of the term, but to Kerry it was close enough to be accurate. "Close counts in horseshoes and grenades." he grinned to himself. The term LZ would sound good in his after-action report, too.

"Where's Rasputin?", the LT asked his cabin boy, Phuc Dup. "You mean Rassman, rootenan?", the vietnamese youngster responded. "I tink him crabbing off stern. He numba one crabber" Just then all hell broke loose from the darkness of the Cambodian jungle twenty yards away. Cannonballs arc'd over the bow, splashing harmlessly in the pounding surf between the sailboat and the river's edge. "Come about!" Lt Kerry commanded with an emotionless shriek. His command echoed in his ears and he responded to his own order by spinning the helm 360 with his right foot as he grabbed for the 40 mike mike bloop gun.

Tracers were streaming past him now. They reminded him of the tennis balls that had nearly taken his head off one summer in the Hamptons when he was a boy. He vividly recalled how Billie Jean had laughed as she peppered him with overhand serves, but it had taught him to be calm under fire, and now he would have the last laugh.

"Eat lead, ya gooners!" he screamed at the slant-eyed land lubbers in the shadows on the shore. He fired one fat round from the M79 point blank into the head of a helmeted gook. The round exploded sending a shower of bone, brain, and steel shrapnel hurtling back at him like angry bees. Victor Charles was definitely in the hurt locker tonight, with John F. Kerry in command. He picked an ear off the deck and stuffed it into his pocket. It would come in handy later in his career and he would often speak to it when no one else was listening.

Finally the firing slowed to a few sporadic pops and LT Kerry turned and squinted through the smoke, looking for the spook. He was already gone. Somehow, in the midst of the insanity and confusion of combat, the CIA man had slipped away into the blackness of the night unnoticed. Now, in the deafening silence, Kerry was awed at the man and his mission. He didn't know what that mission was, but Nixon had personally ordered it, so it must be beau coup important. At least for the moment, in the sweet almost sexual afterglow of combat, he, Lt John F. Kerry, was proud to be a part of it.

At dawn, after sailing boldly back to Cam Rahn Bay, the young Lieutenant was overseeing the cleanup of the masted gunship. "Rootenan, you hit", the cabin boy whispered. "Numba ten, Joe. You didi now, go see Bac Se. Him make you all betta". Sure enough, one of the shrap bees that had buzzed his way back in the thick of the shit had burried itself to the hilt in his forearm. "It's nothing, Phuc Dup", he said stoically, "just a scratch. I'll take care of it when we're finished here. Probably good for a tee-tee heart though." The thought warmed his insides, which had been chilled by the savagery of the recent combat.

In his after-action report, Kerry downplayed the action and the wound. After all, JF Kennedy had his PT 109 shot out from under him and he never put in for a heart. If he deserved a heart for his actions, then what did the spook deserve for his? Kerry mused to himself that the CIA man would get the medal of honor if he had anything to say about it. But who was he?

Later that day, Rassman visited Kerry's billet. "LT, I want to thank you for saving my bacon tonight. I nearly drowned trying to get that crab pot off the rudder. I brought you something."

"I'm not in the mood for crabs, Rasputin, but thanks anyway."

"I found something on the boat that had your name pinned to it. It's hat, sir", Rassman rasped.

"What the...let me see", Kerry uttered in disbelief. It was indeed a hat, and it had a note pinned to it with Lt Kerry's name on it. He cautiously opened the note and began to read silently to himself.

"Thanks for the lift Cap'n. You handle a skiff like a real pro. I won't be coming back your way any time soon, but I wanted you to have something to remember me by. Keep this top, and if you ever have any doubts about the war or our mission here, just put this on and you'll feel proud and confident that we are the good guys. Keep the faith and be glad you're a brown water swabbie. A word to the wise, Cap'n, you ain't no grunt so stay away from the bad bush. Your friend in the shadows, O. North"

"Hmmm", the Lieutenant pondered. "Wonder what he meant by that?"

"Do you want a sandwich?"

The covert ops CIA guy's dead eyes looked out from underneath the hat that he wore at a rakish tilt, an imprecision that mocked the squarely worn Navy cap on my head. I had been coveting that hat since he stepped foot on the boat. I didn't like him. He didn't seem to get that it was *my* boat. He didn't seem to understand that orders to the helmsman went through *me*. He didn't salute and he didn't seem to pay attention to much of what I said. A guy like that just wants to kill people, and probably rob them blind. A guy like that doesn't offer you a sandwich unless he plans to use it against you. He wasn't going to make me the fool, this SOB.

"I only eat heroes," I said, trying not to scoff at his meager rations. Maybe a little too hopefully, I checked his reaction with an inner smugness.

He only let out a little air from his nose then, and looked away. Damn, that hat looked sharp. I might have said the wrong thing. I only wanted to sound tough. I didn't want him to think I was a cannibal. Or that I thought he was a hero, and I wanted to...I really didn't know what I wanted. I just knew I wanted him to like me, to not call me out in front of the guys if I asked him where a fellow could get a hat like that. I felt if I could just be a little more sensitive to him, maybe we could get along. I knew I was going to have to cover that one, and fast.

"I just mean, well...I don't only eat heroes, but I genuinely like them, if I am at a place that serves them. These sandwiches here though, are the best that I've seen, now that I've considered it. Yes, that has been quite clear all along, and I may have only just now articulated it correctly but that is what I have been saying."

And I made sure to make the perp thumb at him. I started using the perp thumb because it made me seem forceful but not agressive, but I really started practicing after an aide-de-camp told me that my usual favorite, the whirly-point, was convincing people that I was looney tunes. He said I overused it and other strange body language in concert with a bouncing of my weight from left foot to right that made people think I had a weak bladder. He said "to put it nicely". Well, I took his advice but I fired him, too.

So anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I made sure I perp thumbed at him and drew out some of the syllables. He still hadn't looked up from his sandwich, the beast. I was seriously considering threatening him with physical force, truth be told. Here I was, the OIC on a mission into Cambodia on Christmas Eve, being constantly barraged with fire from all sides, from friend and foe alike.

This reminded me of the time I bicycled clandestinely across the border into East Berlin. I made that run, and I would make this one. If I got grounded when we got back to Sa Dec, well so be it. But getting back wasn't going to be easy, and I still had to drop off this inhumane warmonger.

The Cambodians wanted to kill us because we were sneaking into their country. The Vietnamese were shooting at us because we were committing horrible war crimes on their people in our hegemonic imperialist march of brutality across their fair paddies. And our side...well, our side wanted us dead for reasons I am still not at liberty to talk about unless I'm pulling rank on some civilian chump back home on line at the cineplex. And this guy wanted to ignore my carefully reparsed retort? He was a true Nazi, this one. He was like some fascist megalomaniacal dictator, that's what. I was certain he was everything evil, and stood against everything I held dear. I felt myself start to bounce. Left foot, right foot. Left foot, right foot. I'm always ready to pounce, or point. I reminded myself 'ok, watch it with the whirly points. That makes you look funny'

I wasn't going to actually *do* anything,probably, but he had best just think I might mean business, if it came down to it, and he threw the first punch, if I wasn't in a wounded state, or under some other unforeseen onus or circumstance outside my control, but that goes without saying, of course.

I quietly stowed my camera, knowing that my band of brothers would help me reenact this later. Anyway, whatever happens...he draws blood and I am out of here. Three purple hearts'd probably get me so laid back home, and that's where I'll be heading once I get that baby. And nary a one of these purple hearts so far as bad as some I've seen. What's the use of getting a medal without being able to be completely able-bodied afterwards? I might ever need to have the ability to throw them away, or throw out a pitch at a ball game. Or bat for the home team, if they needed me too. I would, if called. That's more than I can say for *this* guy. I better not say anything though, because that aide I fired told me I throw like a girl. Instead, I deftly tried to knock his hat of his stinking cowboy head. He quickly batted my hand away with surprising strength and rose to meet me. I was getting in deeper, but he hadn't heard the last of my diplomacy. JFK feared no man, and I have his same initials. He had something to say, and in the interest of diplomacy, I let him speak his case. I'm a kind and generous officer, after all.

"You touch me again and I'm going to haunt your short few minutes left in this world, you yellow livered college boy. You swallow your pride before you open your mouth at me again, you got that?"

I could see that I was going to have to get the other guys to go against him. I could take his insults, that was no different than every day at the mess hall. If this guy was going to try and smear me for thinking kindly of him even though he is obviously unbalanced and probably lying as a career, though then that was something worse than any of my guys would do. They might not like me. But my guys would still follow orders. Heheh, they had to. When he shoved me back against the bulkhead though, man that hurt. My whole arm went numb, and I knew it was going to bother me for hours after that, and possibly even bruise. I was sort of out of breath, too. I was going to have to set this guy straight.

"I resent your unprovoked attack, and I condemn it in the harshest terms! I am fully willing to knock you cold, but I only meant that I appreciated your offer of a sandwich and thought it was very kind, sir. And if you had let me finish, I was going to ask to see your hat up close. I like the style, and I'm going to be doing some filming tomorrow back at the ambush site and I thought..."

I used my secret weapon on him then, as I said it. I gave him the artillery point. Arcing and beautiful, my best polished rhetorical flourish. Unabashedly aggressive, I even launched a double artillery point right after drawing out a whirly point from a perp thumb. I told him in no uncertain terms that I thought very highly of the work we were doing here behind the Cambodian border, where I felt a searing pain in my arm that I wouldn't soon forget. I told him it made me really realize that the two of us were the same, that we were both scarred now by the hell that war was. I made sure I drew out the syllables extra long when I said that the Khmer Rouge would loooose, and weeeeee would win. I told him that somehow we'd survive, together even though President Nixon was denying we were here. I knew he must feel deep shame for his war crimes, and probably hated Nixon too. So I let him have it all, you know. I had to give him every chance before I acted, so he would know he was wrong about me and it was nothing personal if I laid him out. That's just sometimes what you have to do if you want to speak truth to power.

I had saved my big guns for last and I thought that maybe, if the timing was right, and nothing was against me, and I thought the other guys would go along with it, and I saw no other reason not to, and he looked away for a second, I might take a swing at him. But he didn't, he just kept looking at me with those dead eyes.

I knew it was time to act, so I straightened up and tried to time my lanky right arm with the bounce from right foot to left. I swung as hard as I could, but my first shot missed.
I barely saw him move, but I sure felt his hardened fist in my gut that doubled me over, and possibly, hopefully, caused something inside to break. I couldn't be sure, but I wasn't getting up just to be safe. He took his hat off and crammed it down on my head.

"You spineless nothing, We're in Sa Dec, not Cambodia. Nixon isn't president yet. You're even worse at piloting this boat than you are at persuasive discourse or fighting.
You can have the blasted hat, just take me back to base before you get us all killed."

I took him back to base, but experiences like these, with the insane and lying hawks who just won't let peace happen, told me everything I needed to know about this war, and the evil Nixites running it secretly, before taking office. I mean after that it was like they almost wanted me gone, like they knew I was on to them. I kept the hat though, as a memento. It's my lucky hat and I call it that 'cause I've been lucky.

--deleted comment--

Forgot to be funny!

Laura, you're polluting our site with distorted facts and painful truths. Leave that to me. We don't need to know that Cheney is a crack shot. It only hurts us more to know that while Slick was nobly building his political legacy behind the Iron Cutain, Dick was scurilously living up to his name. This is a fiction site, so please stop firehosing us with unvarnished truth. I'm puking now.

"So, Lt. Kerry, what's your plan when you get back stateside?" the gunner asked, as they sunned themselves on the deck. "Hell, Rick," Kerry said as he drowned his k-ration in thick, rich Heinz catsup, "I figure I'll find some woman who can afford to keep me in catsup the rest of my life. I don't care if she's some ugly, bitchy, stuck-up broad, I just want to be a 'kept-chup' man, if you will." The young lieutenant snortled at his cleverness and knocked the catsup bottle against the .50 cal to suck the last of the ambrosial nectar into his mouth. It left a ring on his lips that made him look vaguely like a tall, gangly transvestite with a new tube of "screw me red" lipstick. He threw the empty bottle into the river, and ordered his mate to grab another bottle from the ammo case on the deck. "Damn, Lt., you always have a plan," the gunner chuckled, "and knowing you, by god you'll do it too."

The CIA agent boarded the boat. He stared at the first mate. "Why's your lieutenant wearing lipstick, soldier?" he said in a brusque manner. "Oh, no sir, that isn't lipstick, it's Heinz. Lt. Kerry has a bit of the problem with the red stuff, if you ask me. Has his parents ship him cases at a time. Some men get strange in the bush, you know, sir?"

The CIA agent kept his intense stare on the first mate for what seemed like an eternity. "So I got some transvestite-looking storky lurch-looking m.f. taking me upriver?" "Well, sir, you don't have to worry about Lt. Kerry. He can drive this boat blindfolded, hopped up on a 3-day catsup bender. He often does, for that matter."

The CIA agent and Kerry stood under the hot Vietnam sun, maps spread over the bridge of the boat. "I say we take the river up to here, take the bend here, and you let me off here, in Cambodia," the CIA agent said. Kerry hemmed. "I don't know. How about if we go up north, around the bend, go backwards, come back down here, then turn around and go back up?" The CIA agent gave his typical hard look back at Kerry. "I don't think so, Lt. We'll just go up the river, take the bend, and you let me off here, in Cambodia." Kerry looked absolutely incensed. "That's what I just said I wanted to do, damnit!" This nonsense and double-talk went on about a half an hour. Finally, the CIA agent stared at Kerry. "If you don't make up your f'ing mind and stop waffling, I'm going to stick my hat so far up your ass it's going to take you 25 years to pass it."

[Inspired by Kerry's 1971 testimony before Congress

NOTE: Yes, what follows is flagrantly disgusting and mean-spirited, but let's remember that in 1971 John Kerry was NOT proud to have served his country, and he claimed these kinds of things were SOP in the US playbook in Vietnam. If you want funny, go visit my site.]
----------------------------------------

Lt. Kerry pulled his knife out of the baby's body. It was his last kill in a long day of slaughter. His entire swift boat group had razed the coastal village - just another day for this group of hardened souls.

He tallied up the day's atrocities in his mind as he wiped the bloody knife on his pants. For himself, he counted roughly 30 killed by his 50 cal. before landing, follow by 38? No - the baby made 39 personal kills with his knife. Somehow he found the time to rape 17 women and girls.

He hated doing it. Absolutely hated it with a passion, but he was a serviceman in Vietnam and it was simply The Way Things Were. So every time the order came down to shoot and knife and behead and rape the gooks, he muttered a silent curse, vowed his constant vow to change things when he got back stateside, and then hopped in the boat and got his freak on - he was still in the employ of the United States, after all, and his men depended on his being able to lead them in committing these horrible atrocities. And by gosh, he was an excellent leader.

As his bloodlust wore off, he noticed his pants and hat were missing. He'd worry about those later. Right now it was time to torch the village, erase the day's work.

As flames lit the dusk sky, Kerry found his pants, but not his hat. Damn! Well, maybe he'd get lucky tonight. He had to run another CIA spook into Cambodia (Kerry was so tired of Cambodia and by this time could navigate the river there in his sleep), so maybe the CIA man would let him have his hat, seeing as he wouldn't be needing it on a black op and all. Kerry needed a hat. It was what gave him luck. Over 200 rapes so far and he hadn't needed penicillin once.

"Yo, lover boy!" cried one his faithful bloodbrothers. "HQ wants you!"

Kerry sighed, and took the call and was not surprised by the news. Tomorrow would be another day, another village, more murders and mutilations. More rape.

As his penis stiffened in his pants, he knew he'd hate every minute of whatever he did tomorrow.

THIS IS AN OFFICIAL STATEMENT FROM JOHN KERRY FOR PRESIDENT 2004 CAMPAIGN HQ, POSSIBLY SOMEWHERE IN THE UNITED STATES...OR NEAR IT...

"THIS IS JOHN KERRY. I SERVED IN VIETNAM. I EVEN SERVED IN CAMBODIA, BUT I AM NOT SURE IF I DID. NOW I AM NOT SURE IF I SERVED IN VIETNAM, EITHER. I DID SERVE IN THE US SENATE, ALTHOUGH I HAVE SPENT SO LITTLE TIME THERE I MIGHT NOT HAVE SERVED THERE. BUT I THINK I WAS IN VIETNAM. AT LEAST I WAS IN VIETNAM BEFORE I WAS IN THE US SENATE. I WAS IN THE US SENATE AFTER I WAS IN VIETNAM. UNDERSTAND?

THE RIGHT-WING ATTACKS ON MY SENATE RECORD IS DISGUSTING. JUST BECAUSE I VOTED FOR THE IRAQ WAR BUT THEN VOTED AGAINST HELPING THE TROOPS DOES NOT MEAN I SHOULD NOT BE PRESIDENT. I SHOULD BE PRESIDENT BECAUSE I SERVED IN VIETNAM. AT LEAST I THINK I DID.

I THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME. PLEASE GIVE MY CAMPAIGN LOTS OF MONEY. OH, AND BY THE WAY - I AM NOT GAY LIKE JAMES MCGREEVEY. AT LEAST I DON'T THINK I AM. BUT I WAS MARRIED BEFORE I WASN'T GAY. OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT.

JOHN KERRY"

W/ Apologies to P O'Brien At the turn of the glass and the striking of the bell the PCF Surprised steadied on her new course, a dangerous course , up river. Her captain pacing the holy windward side was a tall man, much scarred in battle at forearm and buttock, the near legendary(in at least one mind), Lucky Jerk Kerry. Lucky Jerk, or to his fellow captains and commanders, "That Jerk", was in a pensive mood as his taut little ship shouldered bravely forward under double secret orders from the new emperor elect. Orders that only he in the privacy of his own mind was privy to. At the bow he could see his own particular friend Matt Urine preparing himself for the mission to come, hunched over, rocking back and forth in that peculiar rhythmic fashion that Lucky Jerk had grown used to each and every morning since he had joined the Surprised. Of course Matt Urine was not just Lucky Jerks "special friend", he was also a well known collector of tropical diseases and more secretly, much more secrectly, an Imperial Spy for the Saudakar. And now with the old Emperor El BJ fading in his power the fate of future democrats hung in the balance. Even as Lucky Jerk contemplated the awesome heritage his for the stealing, he was distracted by thoughts both past and present.In the present, the ministrations of his house boy Ky-Lic and the flood of odors from his simple shipboard breakfast of anisette flavourred coffe, pate foi gras, eggs benedict, thyme shoulder of mutton,and deep diver scallops reminded him of his task to deliver the "ONE RING" . For here at the borders of Vietnam,Cambodia,The Klingon Empire, and Mordor, his fate would be decided. So setting his special Swiss finishing beanie firmly to the fore (the propeller catching the wind with its signature wwwhhhirrr) and basking in the knowing smiles of the crew he headedd below and into his past. For the steaming under deck brought back memories of other under deck adventures. Memories of the martyed Kennedy and when they met and his immortal words that first time. " Take your hands out of your pants Jerk, you damn catamite." Or the deeply more satisfying second encounter," Now fetch me a warm wet towel and a double scotch." Yes this Christmas would be different than the ones in Gstaad, the French chateaus, and Marthas Vineyard. Ky-lic! Ky-lic do you hear there! Polish my medals I'm bound for glory!!!!!

Dear Mumsy;

Well, I've made it through another day, but I still hate it here, as I did not sign on for combat, as I have repeatedly told you. Have you been able to contact Senator Kennedy or anyone, anyone at all, about getting me out of here? Did you remember to show him that picture of me on the sailboat with JFK? If nothing has ever taught me the value of taking lots of pictures, that certainly has. I'm going to make sure I always have a camera around me, always have pictures taken of me whenever I can, and I especially will make sure to get copies of any pictures taken when I am near an influential person. If that picture with Kennedy gets me the hell out of here, it will be worth the whole afternoon I had to spend listening to those arrogant Irish nouveau riche pretenders condescend to me. Privilige goes to all the wrong people.

Speaking of pictures, thank you for the movie camera, and the film. I know you said you wanted me to have a crewman film me talking to you, but my creative juices are flowing and since we have some down time, I thought I would indulge in a little theatrics. Who knew we'd have time to make little movies here? Maybe I will pursue a career in film-making; I can see that. I photograph well, I think, but perhaps I belong behind the camera, running things, making things up, using my imagination. I have an excellent imagination. Of course, this film I'm sending you is lacking special effects, but I think you'll be proud of your little man. I'm quite the conquering hero.

Warmly,
Your son, "Johnny Nam"

This was one of those unofficial missions that I chafed at. "Surely Nixon can't be running the government already," I had complained to Elliot when receiving my orders. "He's not the President yet!"

Commander Elliot had winked. "This has been Nixon's war all along, you know that as well as I do."

Gardner poked his head in the door. "Couple PBRs coming up, Skippy--err, Skipper." I could see him surpressing a grin and wondered why, then cursed and whipped off the camo hat. Later that night I would have to put it in the secret compartment of my attache case. Otherwise Gardner and the other guys would undoubtedly visit indignities on it.

More here.

Christmas. I was getting bored, so I told my buddy Nick, "Let's explore the upper Mekong today." He answered, "Are you crazy? They don't want anyone crossing over into Cambodia. Those waters are heavily patrolled, and you could end up in the brig!"

I thought it over for a moment, and decided I couldn't pass up this photo op. So I traveled light - only one cameraman - and we hopped on bicycles to get around those patrol boats. That got old very fast with the heat and humidity. Then I saw a fishing boat, and threw one very surprised gook overboard, shouting, "Do you know who I am?" I got him motivated into swimming to shore by firing a few rounds from my .45 into the water.

We were only going up to the Cambodian border before turning back, but they must have given me a defective map, 'cause I didn't see the sign, "Bienvenue a Cambodge" until it was too late. We got intercepted by a Khmer Rouge speedboat. Its sadistic skipper thought up the ultimate punishment: throwing us all into a bamboo cage THREE FEET from the Vietnamese border! They confiscated the camera and pulled out the film, so I have no record of this exploit.

About two hours after sunset we heard a tapping sound. My cameraman was ready to crap in his pants until I heard a voice in fluent American say, "Don't worry, I'm here to help you escape. I'm the son of Admiral McCain, but you can just call me John." I was relieved and told him, "How interesting, my name is John, too. I owe you one." Then he uttered the words that turned out to be so prophetic: "Under other circumstances we could be the best of friends or the worst of enemies." Since I was the highest-ranking individual, I exercised my privilege of crossing over into Vietnam first. Nick made it to safety, but my cameraman was not so lucky. Only one foot away from the border, he got shot in the back with an AK-47 round, fell into my lap, and died in my arms.

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale
A tale of a secret trip
That started from this Mekong port
Aboard this tiny ship
The spook was a nameless mystery man
The skipper tall and grim
The mission took them to Cambodia
'Cause the spook couldn't swim
The spook couldn't swim

The campaign's aground, something's amiss
The story is a lie
By the Senator...
And his campaign crew...
His billionaire
Of a wife...
Where's Michael Moore?
The tale would take
If he'd just make
A documentary!

"A BLOG O' QUIPS NOW"

Saigon, 2004. I had been here for weeks after my last op, assassinating the chances of a barking mad loony candidate from Vermont. It had been easy. But now I was tired of drinking "33" beer with little opium balls in the bottle, doing shadow tai chi in my jockeys until I had a nervous breakdown and punched my mirror and bled like a Phu Do Street pimp all over my sheets. I needed a mission. And I got a mission. It almost killed me.

The next thing I knew, two flat-bellied, clear-eyed MPs were escorting me to an air conditioned trailer in Cu Chi, about 300 miles from the Cambodian border, snuggled right in there so close you could hardly tell when you'd left Nam. The ARVNs called it That-Magic-Hidden-Amorphous-Nameless-Area-Somehow-Located-Between-Vietnam-And-Cambodia.
It was a beautiful language. But we destroyed it. Just like we did all those ears.

A two-star stood to greet me. "Clinton" read the right blouse pocket. "Glad you could join us, Captain Willard. I'd like you to meet a friend of ours," he said, motioning to a civilian whose jacket, pants and shoes were covered with dozens of tiny pockets. "Mr. Berger is, ah, an advisor of sorts." Berger looked at me with cold dead eyes as we shook hands silently. Little slips of paper fell from his shirt cuffs. "I thought we might have a little lunch, save a little time," the General said as he ushered Berger and me to a formica-topped table.

He passed a large platter of Shrimp Vandallo to me. "If you eat this you'll never have to ptove your loyalty to this command ever again. We've also got some grilled diver sea scallops that aren't bad, are they Sandy? Just because we're in the bush doesn't mean we have to eat like we're in flyover country. Would you like some tea? Beer?"

I would have killed the real JFK's chances for a beer, especially with that little opium ball in it. But I knew it was a test. "Tea's fine, sir."

As the three of us ate, a Captain with a file stepped into the room. My eyes fell on the largest pair of ankles I had ever seen outside of the zoo. They were big as oil cans. "This is Captain Rodham. You don't mind answering a few preliminary questions, do you?" He nodded at the Captain with the freakish legs, and the Captain read from papers in the file.

"In February, 1972, Nashua, New Hampshire, Runner's Mate Third Class Ed Muskie massacred in the snow in a psyop. San Diego, March, 1984, Frontrunner Gary Hart, found with his pants around his ankles on the skiff "Monkey Business", politically dead. September, 1984, Pennsylvania coal fields, First Chair Joe Biden, eviscerated with a lifted Neil Kinnock Welsh Coalminer story. Aberdeen Proving Grounds, Maryland, October, 1988,
New England Scout Michael Dukakis, campaign killed by huge Tank Commander's helmet as..."

I broke in. "I'm sorry, General, What does this have to do with me?"

"Willard, where you when these ops ran?", he asked, scallop juice at the corner od his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but as you know, I'm not at liberty to reveal any details of any classified ops, even if I had any knowledge of them, which, of course, I don't."

"Cut the crap, son. You're this command's hitter. That's why you're here. We have another mission for you." The general nodded to the brontosaurus-ankled Captain, who waddled to a tape player. "We began intercepting these transmissions three months ago, from New Hampshire, Iowa, Boston."

A haunting, deadly, sepulchral voice came from somewhere deep in world. "I voted for the war, before I voted against it....I have spoken with many foreign leaders, and they have said they would like me to lead us...vicious Republcan attack machine.....reeeeeeporrrrteeeeennnng forrrrrr dooooooooooottteeeeeeeee..." The ghostly, barely human voice drifted, faded, became garbled and incoherent.

The general looked like he'd just been forced to eat at Wnedy's. "Shut it off!", he barked to the Captain with elephantiasis. Turning to me, the two-star said, "Captain, do you know who Lt. jg Lurch is?" Of course I did. He was the most decorated and famous leader in our entire command. Everyone knew the great man. I nodded.

"That was him on the tapes. Over the last several months he has gone deeper and deeper into Vietnam. Now he won't come out, can't come out. He's surrounded himself with a band of desperate lunatics who think he's some kind of god, except that they're mostly atheists, but you get my point. And he himself, I think you would agree, has obviously gone quite completely and totally...insane." "Yes, Sir", I said, finally not having to lie.

"A man like him out there, saying what he's saying, doing what he's doing...". The general looked up from his raspberry roulade. "Well, he could do us terrible, terrible damage, don't you agree? In fact, we know exactly what's going to happen in November if he's allowed to continue, don't we?" "Absolutely, Sir." I began to like being able to speak truthfully.

The General became formal again. "Captain Willard, you are to travel by PBR up river to Sa Dec, that area about 60 miles from Cambodia that everone in the world except Lt. Lurch knows is in Vietnam. You are to find Lt. Lurch...and terminate his candidacy." For the first time Berger spoke: "Terminate..with extreme prescience." Notepaper fell from hair.

"Captain Rodham will give you your orders. They are to remain sealed until you get within 100 miles of the truth. Good luck, Captain Willard." The General turned and walked out, trailed by Berger, who was himslef trailing little peices of paper. The human water buffalo shoved a sealed folder into my hands.

The next morning I found Chief McAuliffe's PBR in the harbor. He was a slick and slimy operator, who reminded me of a pedarast piano teacher. He knew to expect me, and wasn't happy about it. "Well I don't know where we're going, but one look at you and I know it's gonna be bad." "Shut up, Chief. For once in your miserable, whining, deceitful life would you put a cork in your ass and just shut the fuck up." I was serious about the cork; that's how he talked.

We got underway immediately. Rassman was in the gun tub, Alston was on the 60. Or Short. Or Sandusky. Or was Thorson on the 60 and Belodeau in the tub, or...what the hell, it won't matter in 35 years.

As soom as we got out of Vietnam into the International Mekong Delta No Man's Land next to Cambodia, I opened my orders. "16 August, 2004.
From: Clinton, General Commanding; To: Willard, Captain. You are to find this maniac wherever the hell he is and stop him. Please, God, stop him, before he kills us all." Short and sweet, although a little unmilitary.

I looked through his dossier. He was obviously bred for this life. Born to privilege. Education in Swiss private school. Summers in Providence, Matha's Vineyard, the Hamptons and Hyannisport. Winters in Gstaad, Innsbruck, Aspen, Palm Beach. Andover, Exeter, AND Groton for prep school. My God, I only made it one semester at Andover, and my rectum STILL bled when I strained at stool. How the hell could he take that kind of slamming for four years? Fluent in French. The Language Of Capitulation; it was absolutely necessary for all who sought high rank in our command. Quite impressive.

I discovered I was not the first to have this mission. Two weeks ago they sent an ex-POW. Within a day he was converted and signed on. He had sent a letter back: "Stop the disreputable and dishonorable attcks. I'm gone!" This would be tough.

We came across an Air Cav op underway. It was being honchoed by a Colonel Carville, a most unpleasant baldheaded man. He was an abrasive, arrogant asshole, who beleived his boys could do no wrong even as he watched them Zippo a Buddhist temple, just so they could blame it on the bad guys. I wanted to approach him and ask for a little assistance, but he always looked like he smelled something so bad he was about to puke. I sidled up to him, "Colonel? I'm Willard. I have some orders here that direct you to assist me in any way I see fit." "What the hayull you mean boy? I ain't never seen nothing like these here orders. I don't think so." I tried for his weakness. "Colonel, my mission might help us to victory," "Vitory?", he snorted. "That smells like shit instead of victory. Get the hell off my beach." I left him to his stenches.

The closer we got to Lurch, the spookier the territory. Fog, mist, shadows, dust, smoke. Bullshit in great steaming piles. Anything could be out there. And probably was. We were definitely spooked.

And then we were there. We couldn't have been more than a light year or so away from Cambodia. We came around a bend and saw slogans and signs festooning the area. Bush Lied! No Blood For Oil! Students Against The Zionist Occupation Of Palestine! I Had An Abortion! Give Peace A Chance! I Was A Hero! I Was A War Criminal! I Married For Love!

My blood chilled. This was madness. It was like we had gone back to an ancient time, when there was no order, no reason. Only hatred and lunacy and that animal desire to win the battle, no matter what it took. Definitely not of this age and time.

And then the mopeds started surrounding us, the little ones with tiny hydrogen generators for "green" energy production. There were dozens, driven by pale, scrawny kids wearing clothes made from hemp. Chief McAuliffe barely scraped one, and 8 or 10 blew up like an M-79-launched grenade in a rice bin, one right after another. No one seemed to mind. Purple Hearts must have been cheap out here.

We docked. A cherub-faced guy with a razor cut and a United Colors Of Bennetton crewneck sweater ran down the hill to intercept us. His teeth were so perfect he looked gay. "Ya'll are here for him aren't ya'll? I knew it, ya'll. Just like ya'll did before, ya'll. Well, ya'll, I'm not gonna let you do it. Ya'll know why, ya'll? Because he's my meal ticket, that's why. Look, ya'll, I'm a small man, you know? I'm a little girlie man, in diapers, right? I know nothing. Nothing! Just rippin' off some textile and auto manufacturers in personal liability suits. But him! Oh, ya'll, him! He's a genius! Even though I scammed and slimed my way into some millions, he, ya'll, he just up and MARRIED a billion! Did you hear me, ya'll? A BILLION? And he picked me, ME! If I can just stay near enough, just learn from him, ya'll, then maybe I can have one-tenth the cunning. And maybe I can dump this 200-pound heifer that latched onto me and pick up a trophy wife that guys like me deserve! I love him! I hate him! He's a genius! Maybe he'll teach me how to turn my ROTC into a Distinguished Service Medal!" He ran back up an incline which had a sign with "Becaon Hill" painted on it. It wasn't just Lurch; they were all quite clearly insane.

I moved up Beacon Hill toward the yurt on top. The pale hempies surrounded me, muttering something. I finally caught it: "Liarliarliarliarliar...". Endlessly.

They parted, and I came into The Presence. He was taller, gaunter, ganglier than I had expected, wiht a face meant for Trigger. He had his face painted in his personal camo style, like the "Scary Movie" bad guy. I did not speak. He did. "I've said many times before, I've always said, I've made it very clear what my position was. Republican attack machine. I question the timing. Bring/it/on! Bring/it/on! Bring/it/on!"

I was frozen. He was mad. He was brilliant. He had to be stopped. "Lt. Lurch," I said, trying to give the man one last chance to show some sanity, to save himself from destruction. " Lt., can you tell me just where the hell you were on Christmas Eve of 1968, and why you told a story that was so obviously a lie?"

For a momemt I saw a flicker of sanity, of understanding. Then it was extinguished forever. "I've always said. I've always made clear. NEAR Cambodia! January! March! May! 1970! Extra long special tour extension. Ghost boat on the river!"

It was hopeless. I positioned myself for the kill.
He reached for a moldy floppy hat, and held it tenderly.

"Wounded! Superior enemy force! Band of brothers! Lucky! Pow! Irony! Absurd! Ears! Heads! Genitals! Cambodia! Nixon! Vietnam! Vietnam! Vietnam! SEARED! SEARED!"

I had no more time, I had to act now. Quickly, silently, I dashed into his hooch and picked up DOD Form #180, releasing all military records. With one quick stroke I signed it for him and dropped it in the mailbox. It was done. Finished. And so was he. It would all crumble to dust before I could get back to Saigon.

I ran back to PBR to find that Chief McAuliffe had put a grenade next to his head and pulled the pin. Or maybe Colonel Carville had him fragged. A bunch of guys I'd never seen before, that no one had ever seen before, were now manning the craft.

I sat in the pilothouse and shook. This was my closest kill, with the most damger. But the command would be safe to fight another day. Maybe that fat-ankled Captain could do a better job than Lurch.

As we turned to head back downriver, I heard the pathetic, mournful cry from the top of the hill: "The honor! The honor!"

Well...my respect for you folks is boundless...but I must say...my FAVORITES are Michele's Acid Trip/Santa/Bongo story and John Earnest's incredible effort just above. But I loved Monkeyboy's too. And...and...oh, there are just too MANY good ones! Don't stop!

The Nuanced Hero

It truly hurt and I so swore
About that grievous scratch I bore,
From tense and darkened nighttime battle,
So fierce that it might surely rattle
Those who failed to see my deeds
And could sense not my future needs
For medals to lob o'er a fence
Then boast of in elections hence.
So thus it fell alone to me
To swear to what they didn't see,
And gain myself a Purple Heart,
So they could soon see me depart.

I knew the rules and knew that three
Were all it took to spring me free
From that despised and desperate land
So I devised my nuanced plan,
To cry of wounds that hurt me naught,
But got me out 'fore things got hot.
And thus I laid my lifetime track,
March in the front duck out the back.
So don't expect the least contrition
When ere I boast about my mission,
And without shame brag every day
Of the medals I won in that fray.

Some vets may say they cannot see
How I could turn my back and flee
The oath I swore and my duty station
To fly back to a war-torn nation,
Where my deceiving perverse word
Was widely through the country heard,
And to forever falsely damn
Those left behind in Vietnam,
All branded by my condemnation
As villains to their saddened nation,
All while my pseudo hero throng
Gave succor to the Viet Cong.

But come now can you truly doubt
Because I got three hearts and out,
Abandoned combat and my mates
To run back early to the states,
Had any other goal in life
Than politics and richened wife?
To all you lesser men I say,
But in my subtle nuanced way,
So what I scorned you once before?
Put that behind you I implore,
Forget those slights and any others,
And join those fools in my band of brothers.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

From Book XI of The Iliad of Kerry (Revised Standard Version)

Now Dawn rose from her bed, where she lay by haughty Ambition,
to carry her light to men and mortals. Nixon sent down
to the fast ships of the swifties, that wearisome goddess of heroes, holding in her hands the secret orders.
She took her place in the dem-hallowed black ship of Kerry
which worked its way up the river of spooks
as far as the hootches of Kurtz
or those of the magic hats; since these had been balanced on the heads of heroes
certain of their fluency in french.
There the goddess took her place , and cried out a great a Swiss boarding-school cry
so terrible and loud, that seared nobility into the great Telamonian Johnie.
And now we mere mortals hear the great war cry of the Boston Party: the kennedy of the potty mouth, the shining boy of Aflac, silver-tongued edwards of the peanut and butter sandwich. These and more who took the oath that patriotism is the last refuge of scoundrels.
O' how they swayed, these men of Boston, and Kerry took the first place of heroes.
But the men troy on the potomac, whose hearts did not see that the Bostonians were
the noble ones, stood before the sons of gore as wheat stands before the divine scythe on a sunny autumn day when the reaper is hungry for his bounty. Alas the magic hat, won in far off Delusion, redeemed in its great war gear sweeps all before it.
And 911 ladies of Hate was energized.

Homie: Sublime, elegant, beautiful! Bravo! Immediately I sensed "ketchup-dark sea" was coming. And Kerry/Edwards Achilles/Patroclus wierdness. Ah, we're all editors. Outstanding!

It was a hot night. But it's always hot out here in Mekong - somewhere between Vietnam and Cambodia - Delta country.

But I had a good book to read me to sleep. 'Nixon,' by Oliver Stone!

Memo to Self: Have future biographer/Boston Globe reporter strike entry about book I was reading. It only confuses the timeline.

Oh, yes. Hot.

My secret decorder ring had not glowed for several days now. And having only 8 months, or another Purple Heart left before I would leave, desperation was making my face all crackly, something that mighht haunt me later in life....

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, my ring began to glow! Pink, purple, blue.

My 'CIA Man' had a message for me.

I rolled out of my bunk, went immediately to my locker, and pulled out a piece of 'decoder' paper. Obviously, once decoded, it would later be relegated to the burn bag.

M-e-s-s-a-g-e R-e-a-d-s.....Prepare Swift Boat for Covert Operation. Signed, CIA GUY.

I almost tripped over the Christmas Tree as I went to start the engine. The crew was ashore at Long Vinh, and besides, this was covert.

Memo to Self: Confirm all variations and dates for the celebration of Christmas in SEA.

The engines awoke with a fury. Smoke billowing off the river from behind. Damn, this is one fine stealty vessel, I thought to myself.

As I moved west, a faint light appeared. Suddenly a hat emerged from the jungle. It was the man from the 'alphabet organization,' "the Company,' spooksville.

I pulled the boat alongside, just quickly enough for him to make a giant leap onto the boat.

I was hungry as hell. Wanted a PB&J. But my man was back with the rest at Long Vinh. Damn.

We proceeded up the Mekong River, oblivious to the rustlings around us. Who could know. Maybe Khmer Rouge could be laying low for some future attack 2 or 3 years from now. I wondered.

End of Part I

One of the main jobs of Swift Boats on this river is to look for anything big enough floating down the river that it might have an explosive strapped to it.
To make sure the VC hadn't booby-trapped the debris in this awfully foul and muddy river we just shot it with the .50 cal machine gun.

It was not uncommon to see the carcass of an animal floating down the river and sometimes even people. We had to shoot those too, just to make sure they weren't rigged into a mine.

Since it was Christmas we opened bottles of Coca-Cola and I unwrapped a gift that my mother had sent me. A pair of purple flip-flops, that moment was seared -seared- into my memory. I keep those flip-flops with me even to this day in a secret compartment in my black briefcase.

Later we were in Cambodia and our boat was carry a SEAL team and CIA agents. Marilyn Monroe was there for a while too, in fatigues, shooting an enemy aircraft with the twin guns. There were purple dinosaurs and pink donkeys running up and down the shoreline, they were VC and they were shooting at us with small caliber candy corn.

The muddy river was now chocolate and the trees had become lollipops and the crocodiles in the river were all smiling and cracking obscene jokes.

I think someone had managed to spike those Colas. The memories of those days are etched and seared, yes seared, into my mind. We were out there fighting sacks of rice, burning villages, shooting children in the back, and we had fun doing it.

I got a purple heart because of that piece of candy corn stuck under my fingernail. They even gave me a medal of honor after I had led the anti-war protests. Someone has been spiking my drinks all my life and when I am President, I might find out who has been doing it. I blame Nixon. I wake up at night screaming because of Nixon. I will order his arrest as President, I will have my revenge finally.

I will also my finger on the nuclear button, which should be fun. Yes, I can see it now. It will be seared -seared- into memory when I accidentally nuke Texas.

(December, 1969. In a large boardroom, a dozen older men in conservative business suits sit around a long wooden table. Several are smoking, and cigarette and cigar smoke hangs in the air. A young woman, likely a secretary, has just turned on the lights as a projector screen flaps up, back into its cylindrical holder.)

"Absolutely brilliant!"

The man at the head of the table waves his cigar animatedly; he is smiling broadly. "I haven't seen a young man with such a gift for comedy in years. I don't care if this is his first proposal, we can work with it. I smell a hit series, gentlemen!"

The other men murmur in approval. From the looks on their faces, they enjoyed the movies as well.

"Mr. Kurtz," one of the subordinates chimes in, "I love the lead character. The clueless leader is a common archetype of sitcoms, almost clichéd - not that has ever stopped us, right, gentlemen?" He continues to speak over the raucous laughter. "But this swift boat captain, this disjoint between his own self-image and how the audience will see him - that is comedy, gentlemen."

"And that Super8 camera he carries?" another subordinate interjects. "The character actually thinks there's a dress rehearsal for war!" More chuckles come from the television executives.

"I like the way every minor injury is another medal opportunity for the captain. 'I twisted my ankle when I thought I saw Charlie! Better put in for another Purple Heart!'"

Another man gets up and hastily sketches a storyboard on one of the paper tablets at the front of the room. "Let's start the show with another one of the Captain's trademark Purple Heart requests. Now, instead of it being denied, a clerical error happens, and he gets one hundred outstanding Purple Hearts approved - all at once." He sketches an image of the Captain, tilted to one side. "Just picture the actor walking, tilted, with all this weight on one side."

"And let's not forget that support character, let's see, Rassman was the name, right?" The men nod. "Bumbling sidekick. Always falling down. Physical comedy, good, but I like the interplay between Rassman and the Captain. Rassman needs someone to care for him, but he's providing the Captain with a chance to feel heroic, to feel like a superior officer, when he's never going to accomplish anything heroic in reality."

"Yeah," another man agrees. "Anyone who can't keep straight what country he's in on any given day isn't the kind to accomplish anything real. But he can accomplish great comedy!"

Another man jumps up to the paper tablet, and writes down a few keywords. "I'm seeing a 'glimpse of the future' episode, where the Captain is shown running for president. Just imagine the laughs we could get by having him run on nothing but his Vietnam record!"

The boss stubs out his cigar. "Now, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but we aren't going to develop this sitcom yet," Mr. Kurtz says. "Remember, we had to wait until 1965 to do that show about a World War II POW camp, and we're delaying that Korean War drama until 1972. So, out of respect to the fallen, we'll have to put this show on the back burner until, at minimum, ten years after the conclusion of hostilities. But put those ideas on paper, and we'll talk later."

(In a dark room adjacent to the boardroom, a young man with an angular face is watching the television executives from the other side of a one-way mirror. A young woman stands behind him.)

"I thought you said these Hollywood types would help bolster my war record, Ms. Fonda. But look at them. They're laughing!"

"I don't understand, Lieutenant Kerry," Fonda responds. "I gave them your movies, and asked them to work their Hollywood magic. I don't know how they could see them as anything other than a chronicle of a great hero. A leader for our times, not afraid to challenge the world!"

Back in the boardroom, one of the men makes another comment. As the men guffaw, Fonda turns to Kerry. "We have to pretend this day never happened."

"I can do that," Kerry replies. "Yes, pretend - like I must pretend to follow the company line, pretend that Nixon didn't send me into Cambodia before his inauguration on a secret CIA mission."

Kerry reaches into a black attaché case, and from a secret compartment, pulls out a battered military cap. Clutching the cap, he looks away wistfully, and then shakes his head. "No, I cannot do that. This experience is seared, seared into my mind."

Why do the Dead Kennedys seem so aprapos:

---------------------------
So I'd been in the senate for a term or two
And I thought I'd seen it all
With the Heinz's car sure I'd go far
Back east we'd never crawl
I'll play ethnic jazz like Clinton's snazz
On her five grand stereo
Bragg that I know how the poor feel cold
And the slums got so much soul

Got to prevent a Republican rout!
Got to un-elect that lout!
It's time to brag about...

My holiday in Cambodia
It's tough kid, but it's life
It's my holiday in Cambodia
Don't forget to thank my wife

That star-bellied Bush should get off his tush
everyone should vote for me
I'll find another bitch so I can stay rich
While your boss gets richer on you
Well you'll work harder with our guns in Iraq
For a bowl of crack a day
Slave to fashion, slave for a steak
Please stop calling me such a rake

People all vote for me as one
People want a man who can get things done
This should prove I'm one:

It's my holiday in Cambodia
It was dangerous over there!
My holiday in Cambodia
Where I kicked ass, I swear!

Times Poll, Gallup Poll, Pew Poll!
-----------------------------------

More of this John Kerry/Apocalypse Now fiction over at Reason
Magazine...

http://www.reason.com/links/links090904.shtml

With comments over here...

http://www.reason.com/hitandrun/006694.shtml

-MayDay72