Sargeant Nickelroy and Captain Devrial Spin a Sweater

"Take this stick and smell it a bit," said Nickelroy, who was ascending in rank currently over Captain Devrial. Sitting in a leather chair on top of a limestone base made him happy and feeling in charge. Devrial sat below, Indian style, and took it to mean a lack of power. He was right. He smelled the stick. "Technical operations will commence once we finish this bowl of pasta and cutlets. Lamb cutlets." The traditional beast of peace, the lamb tasted like magical sprinkles. It was hard to chew, much like this protagonist language used against them, in honor of those in real charge. They gnawed on the meaty bones in the solitude of the national facility, facilitating complete destruction and the methods thereof. The facility, better known as Flat Grid Basin Technical Anomaly, was chosen due to its pristine natural setting and distance from any would be survivors. It was arduously painful to get there, and even more strict rules enhanced its output efforts, making the place a sort of think tank for the insane.

"Fuck this picture up Devrial," said Nickelroy, pointing to a portrait of Colonel Rodenbeck, the elite pressured lustrous maniac with a golden eye symbol worn on his coat sleeve; the symbol of longevity. Fucking the picture up was like eating a strawberry frosted pop-tart. Not a frosted strawberry pop-tart, but a strawberry frosted pop-tart, the best tasting around, but very difficult to obtain. It was career suicide on a national level, best left for experts and ghoulish outcasts. Devrial would comply after his last bite of meat.

Finality achieved, and Nickelrod cares less than ever. "Now let's listen to this Curtis Mayfield tape, and read the liner notes together. The liner notes are on small (very small) print," commanded Nickelroy. Nickelroy commanded Devrial because he could - read people magazine, destroy evidence, bake quick breads, delete visions of the future, report to the masses. Rodenbeck, then featured in Reader's Digest for his long prose entitled, "Meet me at the forest woods crossing for a good time," was a hot read, and meant a lot more than any of the top brass could comprehend. "No comprende son los sandia," they would say of the Honduran adventure.

Nickelroy got up off his chair, swept the crumbs from his beard and pants, and patted Devrial on the head. The scapegoat always gets the final image. Devrial sweeps himself up, devoid of hope, and slinks down the hill to fetch a water bucket from Mill Pond. Technical Area #39 is up and running. Believing is more than seeing. He looks over the pond, beyond the entrance road, and spins a sweater of a tale. This one may propel him to beyond the top and serve as a bragging point to his older grand children.