Bastard Freedom: Chapter 8

 

Joseph woke early that Sunday, intent on preparing  for his two-week stint back in the Army two days from now. Since Marie knew it was coming, and having claimed her savagely last night for hours on end, he merely stared at her sleeping face. She was naked, and he, not wanting to carry over a hard-on through the threshold of his flat, settled for running his finger over her curves while simultaneously adjusting the sheet that barely covered them.

"See you in a bit, baby," he said. 

"Mfpl," she muttered, opened her eyes, smiled, and said, "Bye, baby. Be careful."

He was still smiling as he crossed the street to get to the tram. He needed parts for a tactical belt, and they were on the other side of town. Preoccupied with both sex and war, therefore, he didn't see Peter behind a tree lining his street, watching him go, and moving into the prize beyond. 

This might have been the grand narrative of the West itself: preoccupied with conquest and spoils, it neglected the insanity already incipient in its very act of conquering. Thus the West is sick of autoimmune disease, and, knowing full well that it is diseased and dying, lashes out at the entirety of the world, bullying it with regulation and market and oil and knowledge, intent on turning the world into itself so it could fuck itself twice over.

Peter entered the door silently, and thinking that he locked it when in fact he merely did so in his head, he proceeded to the bedroom. His ears were ringing with anticipation, and he was nearly smelling colors, particularly that of her sex. It was tendril purple, this smell. He inhaled selfishly, went to the bed, and punched her in the jaw, knocking her out.

Arriving at First Tactical, Joseph went straight to the sales clerk. It was a busier day today, and hence he took nearly twice as long to reach the end of town. 

"Give me a steel/aluminum belt nine kiloNewtons direct and eighteen indirect. 100D nylon high-density webbing, of course."

"Sure," the clerk said. "Black, I take it?"

"Green." 

He hurried to the tram. He was getting hard again, and he needed release. He had long stretches without Marie, of course, or without women, especially when he was in active duty. It was just that the possibility of having sex undergirds the desire for it, and the desire for it everyday. Left without that possibility during campaigns, the desire does not even rise. The men hence turn to each other during moments of high tension and hence testosterone.

"Clean your goddamned gun!", a private had shouted to him once. He looked at him slowly, but sprang to his feet, collaring the poor man. 

"What did you say to me? Get the fuck out." 

The private slunk back to his barracks, proving once and for all that he was as sturdy as a bag of feathers. Joseph breathed, pulse rate returning to 68, then sat down, and cleaned his gun.

Shaking his head off of the memory, he got back to his flat. He opened the door and knew something was wrong.

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