“Okay. Okay!” The IBM electronic typewriter hung hipside.
There were five of us. Seth was on the phone. One, who’s name I’m brain farting on, was adjusting the Combined Arms Center. He was a Navy SEAL.
“Okay, your going to make me climax! Just put on flared trousers, white ones. And I’m finished!”
He was above average. Didn’t speak much? Selfstarter who passed out once all the work was done, the majority by him. Always awake in time for Midrats.
Even with one four chits.
“Knives. Don’t bother him. Phone call. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking. Of hives. Honeybees. Can you imagine, if you were the Queen? Except you were male. Instead of the worker bees going for pollen, they were going for your midsection. Lower, until there is nothing left to be spent that is sticky-”
“We get it, knives.”Then? Incoming rounds.