Let me tell you, friends, about the Big Team work force. Soldiers home for din-din. Our boys returned at last from the exotic Death March — dumb, but bursting with yarns to spin and chains to pull. Tales of adventure sure to thrill the kids and stymie noisome Aunts. This is the Home Coming, the last-stop. End of tour.
Mass to from. It almost feels.
Let the dance commence! Do the “Quick Jitters;” the “Sleepless;” the “Get-to-bar,” and “Pick-up-six!” Splendid shenanigans for all, hoofers, so make with the hootenanny — you’ll stomp these steps and more!
Black Suits optional.
Soldiers, forget your addictions, heed not cravings for “one more kick,” for a true hero knows when to — no. I will not lie. There is no greater thrill than that. Thus, the road to job security is a job in Security. License to carry, but not, not always, use.
Do not, I repeat, do not sink. Rise! Emerge from the booze-blank I – whole.
Courage, fortitude, patience. Consider our martyrs. Consider the Man in the Black Suit, cipher extraordinaire, inventor of The Code, in-genius Alpha Bet of nothing signified. Fully encrypted in Black Suit.
The password to whisper, when he passes – “Hey, you see that guy?” — was created, the theory goes, to foster independent processes of ultimate recourse. Keep the rhythm while marching to civilian drummers. Sounds better, what I am saying, with repetition. Our common mantra will glue us back from fragments, disparate and dispersed as they are, as we are, during these stressful days of enforced civility and decompression.
Indeed it is obscene to watch the ink drip. Vile pages of journals we are required to submit for perusal until we are safely out of what they — our temporary Masters — consider the addiction zone. No doubt a question of “Mental Health,” subjectively determined and defined.
Consider again the endurance of The Man in the Black Suit, of whom the rabble whisper, “It’s not a job he goes to…it’s a hospital!”
For wounds received; for surgeries; for faces and personae conceived years ago and reconstructed still, yet, again.
The Man in the Black Suit himself can barely speak, so addled is he now, so mislead by their synthetic drugs and images; their subtle Time-corruptions.
He says, repeatedly, the same-old-same-and-again-same:
“The the. Not good for. The the. The war. I mean. Away away. I’m all just. I’m. That is. We’re all just ink.”