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