MPS

A dust storm was brewing. Outside a little town, a helicopter flew over a foothill. Hutchinson and I were sharing his last cigarette in the shade of a bombed tank. George Bush is an asshole, our prisoner says. That ain't the point, I say. What is the point? Hutchinson asks. I don’t know. Staying alive. Going home. Playing catch with my kid. Getting drunk. Fucking my wife. I’ll drink to that, Hutchinson says, takes a slug out of his canteen and hands it to me. George Bush is an asshole, our prisoner repeats. Yeah he is. Now shut up or I'll blow your ugly fucking head off I say, take a swig and give Hutchinson back his canteen. Can I have a drink? the prisoner asks. No, we both say. You guys are assholes. True, I say and point my M16 at his chest, however, I've had enough of your shit. So have I, Hutchinson says and shoots him three times in the face. Everyone’s a political scientist, Hutchinson adds. Yeah, let’s get out of here, I say before someone finds out we just shot this dickhead for no reason.