Friday, September 16, 2011

Want More?

Yeah I'm still alive, still kicking, and still a raging asshole. And I love you all. Here's some new and/or upcoming shit.

I love you like the rich love war. Deeply and ravenously. Lustfully.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Home For Good

After eons on the road, I crested the final hill to see my hometown sprawled out below. Fireworks were exploding in the sky. And I'm not kidding. Sure, it technically wasn't for me, but as far as I'm concerned, yes it was. Every lit street light was for me, too.

A good welcome home. This Bud's for you, America.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009


I started these filthy rags as a way to keep track of everything I was doing, let my friends see what was up with me if they by some miracle were still interested, and also because I couldn't find a complete chronicling of an enlistment anywhere on the internet.

That said, I never expected a whole lot, figured it wouldn't get much exposure and amount to little more than a notebook full of ramblings, stuffed under the bed or buried by dirty clothes in the closet, that sorta thing. I never really put a lot of intense thought into any of this, I just always sort of did it on a whim, very much in the moment, and when I was done I left it at that. On occasion, I went back and proofread, but usually not. So you can imagine what a kick in the ass it is to find that people read this of their own free will, and some even enjoy it. It still blows me away.

So thanks to everyone who has ever stopped to read, and to everyone who takes the time to email or comment and tell me to pull my head out of my ass or to otherwise opine and relate experiences. I never would have kept this rag up this whole time if it weren't for all the feedback. I get bored. So thanks for helping me complete this and giving me the kick in the ass I constantly need. The adventure continues at Rucksack To Backpack. Live free. Suspect.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

The Last Burning Embers Of An Enlistment

This brings us to the last light of a strange and vile journey. Nearly every loose end is tied and the frayed ends are melted down with a buddy's lighter (armyfags will understand this one).

All the hoops, every last ring of the despicable circus, every detail, every mission, every CQ shift, every 3 AM drunken stagger through the barracks, every broken washing machine, every formation, all neatly categorized in a fat thick filing cabinet labeled "NO LONGER RELEVANT".

Sometime when I have a day to kill, I'll sit down and read this entire oddyssey from beginning to end, starting with the narrative from that dumb as shit nineteen year old kid, before there ever was a Suspect at all. I'll retrace all my steps and try to figure out where I was and where I am now. Get my bearings, nervously test the ground to be sure it's solid.

An unshaven, sparsely stubbled face behind a pair of Oakleys and unkempt hair will wear a tiny smirk from behind a sloped windshield, piercing through traffic on I-5. Riding off into the sunset, kid.

Yeah, I was never fully gone, but I was never really here either. A castaway in limbo, a wild rollercoaster of a trip that for all intents and purposes might not have even been real. Who I was and what I am now, well that's something that'll take some figuring out. Rising through the rubble of four years, I guess we have all the time in the world to piece that one together.

Depending on when you read this, I might already be out there amongst you. Hell, I have so many places to go and things to do, we'll cross paths and you won't even know it. A neat thought to be sure, but now's a good a time as any to pop ninja smoke and ghost the fuck out of here, roll credits, thanks for playing, ya don't have to go home but I ain't staying anywhere near this joint.

But first, let's share a parting chuckle, shall we?

MY DD-214 READS "HONORABLE DISCHARGE". HAHAHAHAHAHA! Yeah, a real All-American good ol' boy. My most honorable discharge was in the middle of a firefight in Baghdad, so joke's on you, Uncle Sam.


Thursday, May 7, 2009


Cleared CIF first time go. Only cost me a hundred and twenty bucks. Is this shit OVER yet?

Friday, May 1, 2009


Once the chains were broken, I became a ghost. I signed out on terminal leave so that I could focus solely on clearing, without the burden of PT against my will, or showing up to work at 6:30 AM. Yeah, that's civilian time, kids. Get used to it. I am.

I show up at the crack of noon, put the uniform on, and hunt down signatures and stamps and go-aheads with predatorial desire.

Briefings and briefings. A thousand copies of everything. They tell you to make seven copies, make seven hundred.

S-1 lost my leave packet. They didn't have it at Staff Duty. No sweat, I tell them. I pull out one of my umpteen copies. You can have this one. They sign it, and I slaughter every last walking tree from Lord of the Rings to make enough copies to thoroughly cover my ass.

Briefings. Briefings. Appointments. Drop gear off to have it laundered. Pity they won't launder EVERYTHING, but they clean a good chunk of it, less for me to do. Turning in gear will be a nightmare, a post all of its own.

And now I'm hunting signatures again. Yanking myself free from spiderwebs one thread at a time. This shit'll wear you out. Guess I'll have to sleep in til nine again. Life's rough when you're getting out. So rough. Doing things on your own terms? That's fuckin' scary, man! This is too much freedom! I need my inhaler!

I charged through an entire guantlet of signature hunting, only four remain. Finance and Final Out are to be done last. S-1 and CIF. CIF is the bitch. CIF is where I'm going next. CIF is where I'm going to learn to hate all over again.

I'm bringing $500.00 cash with me.

Luckiest Son Of A Bitch On The Planet

The stop-loss date was pushed back. Back, I tell you. Just beyond my date. Made it by the short hairs.


Chains falling off these wrists, and it's not real, how the hell could it be? Shock and disbelief, momentary paralysis, you gotta be fuckin' with me sarge. Then I saw the memo. An official looking memo with official dates and official lettered paragraphs and a signature and an insignia in the corner, and I damn near framed it right then and there.

My commander himself told me, "You're good to go."

I look all around me, completely skeptical. You can't do this shit to me, get my hopes up just to watch it all go down the shitter agai--

This shit's REAL, guy. As real as real gets, and gloriously so.

Everyone else is getting ready to deploy whenever they do, getting in that mindset, and they tell me to go back to clearing. No way! Seriously?

And then I snap the hell out of it, and bolt out the door to get paperwork, set up appointments, collect signatures, clean gear, Tasmanian Devil-style chaos with one fever-dream in mind: GETTING OUT. Squirming and fighting out of a crocodile's mouth. Escape that would make Indiana Jones proud, with the signature Last Second Hat Save. Retarded with excitement, I'm not wasting ANY time. I'm good as gone, a ghost, a speeding bullet tying up loose ends and wrapping shit up good and firm. Oh yes, Lordy.