Okay, I had a little drink about an hour ago...and...and a lot of drinks since then. I've got to thinkin' 'bout my time in the army. Oo-rah, semper fi blah blah blah blah. I'm in a confessin' mood.
I fought in the Gulf War, back when I was in my prime. In that world, death was a daily fact of life. While scouting ahead once, I found a young guy dying behind a boulder. An Iraqi, don't know if he was with others or just some farmer. We got a lot of farmers, they would carry guns to deal with animals and such. We ended up killing a few by accident. Anyway, he'd been shot in the shoulder and was bleeding out. His lips were all cracked and dry, skin was peeling. He must've been there for days. I radio'd the medic, and stayed with him. For a second, I thought he'd died or he'd been dead all along and I hadn't realized. But then his hand just lifted and reached out...just searching like a blind man. And I clutched it, and his eyes moved a little, and then he kicked.
I guess he at least knew I was there. And I never found out his name. I never knew if he was a civilian or an enemy, if he had a family, a job, a CD collection. None of that really mattered. What gets me, is that for that moment, I was the most important son-of-a-bitch in that sorry bastard's life.
That's how you know. That's how you know that God is real, and is laughing his heavenly fucking ass off at all of us. Fuck you, God.
But maybe that kid deserved it. Who knows, right? Who the fuck knows? Allahu Akbar.