The Soldier Bob

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
You might wonder what life holds for you, whether you'll make it out alive, whether all these people around you really understand anything.
Look no further.

Warning: Put yourself in an associative, light-hearted frame of mind before you read this, or don't. Just don't tell me that I'm wrong. You can yell at me all you want, but yelling doesn't stop black holes from existing.

Submitted: February 19, 2012

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Submitted: February 19, 2012

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If you would look back and remember a day...remember a day when people held their hands clasped around a white robe; or a day when women listened to dollies; or a day when men sipped whiskey from their hand baskets; you might see a day when there was purity.

You may see a day when there was evil.

Did you ever consider that they were one and the same?

 

The story of a soldier named Bob starts in the city of San Diego, California.

Bob had been told he and some friends were to go to Tijuana for the weekend.

 

“Hey Bob,” said Jack Cirrahe, who wore ray-bans and a 90's style vested, long-sleeved shirt.

“Yeah,” replied Bob, who was presently involved in some pessimistic thinking, and looking down at the ground, squatting with hands clasped and pressing against the feng-shui of the room.

“Hey Bob,” said Rob Vernon, who had a jacket crusted with semen and hash oil, and baggy pants that provided refuge from the sun for insects and small animals.

“Yeah,” replied Bob, who was now tensing up and feeling around for the joint.

“Hey Bob,” said Hank Hya, who had just swiftly come round the corner into the damp room, and who, after uttering his guttural naming, grunted and drew up his nose at a smell.

“Yeah,” replied Bob, who was becoming noticeably frustrated with his surroundings, and who pulled at the smoke from the joint presently.

“Hey, uh, yeah, what the fuck is that smell? Are you doing that shit again?”

“Yeah,” replied Bob, who was giving the space where two walls met each other and the floor a thousand-mile stare.

Seconds passed, and awkward feelings swam around Hank like fish swimming in a frying pot and wondering if they were going to make it out alive, and why they couldn't see, and why did the water seem so hard to breathe, and oh, what was that slight warmth, hmm that's weird, oh well, well now that's just getting hotter, oh fuck it's a predator, god damn that's fucking BOILING, oh shit oh shit oh shit aghehoeghoog...

 

All these thoughts were coalescing in Bob's head, and he continued to stare at the wall, not giving a fuck.

“Well, then, yeah, you're gonna like where we're going next month.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, we're going to TIJUANA!” Hank's voice crescendoed as he made his final cadence and threw his hands up into the air with a face that just screamed 'LOOK AT ME! EVERYONE! RIGHT HERE! I AM EXCITED! I AM A PERSON WITH LITTLE-TO-NO INHIBITION WHEN IT COMES TO DOING SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE THINGS SUCH AS GOING TO MEXICO WHERE YOU CAN DO DRUGGGSSS AARHHHGHGHGGHHHHHHHHH YEEEEAAAAAAAHHH!'

Jack and Rob threw up their hands with Hank and danced around the room. Rob stopped to scream at the ground, composing the syllable “OOOHH” over and over again and pumping his fist as if the carpeting was threatening him and he needed to show it his inherent superiority again, because really, carpet, you are just fucking making things complicated. Jack stopped in response to Rob's jab at the carpet, and started throwing his fist at the sun-god Ra, in fact telling Ra that he did not fear him, nor his omnipotence, for he had materialism and a thoughtless grace that had been a part of everything that had indeed bested Ra since the Industrial Revolution. Jack really didn't have anything against, Ra, it's just that Rob was screaming at the carpet, and his one-upmanship would allow him no less than to show his supine super-significance to a god.

 

Back to the issue at hand.

Bob, feeling a sort of social excitement, was inspired to thumb his philtrum, then stand up with a false exertion and begin to stare at the idiots before him.

An overwhelming need to leave, leave leave came over his spirit, and he was thrust by his warriorness out of the door, into and across the street, onto the a beatiful sidewalk, lined with stone and stucco buildings fitted with the finest quartz glass and carbon-black metal holstering, and glided down the hill, picking up speed, and eventually sprinting, and then loosing his footing and rolling down the steep decline, and was tossed up by a combination of speed and his big toe, which eventually took him to an alternative universe, one where he impaled his temple upon a fire hydrant.


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