Infamy.

What were you thinking, and what made you think this was acceptable?

Greed and haughty arrogance intoxicates.  Selfish ambition motivates and drives from within.

A litany of poor choices inevitably and inexorably leads to poor results.

The blind lead the blind into the ditch,  and they perish together. This is slow motion suicide with a captive audience.

Are there points awarded for style?
Infamy awaits with bated breath.

Wait for Hours.

Someone call for a chopper.
Heavy casualties are being reported from the field.

Hefty losses sustained, and in search of some stabilization.
"The radio's out, and we're going to have to walk miles for better reception."

Rinse this fellow's wound out.
Tie his arm in a tourniquet and isolate the bleeding limb.

Ambushed soldiers are strewn across the forest floor.
I'm doing what I can, but my help means nothing if we keep taking incoming fire.

Tracer fire leads back to the enemy position.
Maybe hail will serve as a friendly reminder to not encroach.

Let's make a break for it.
Sink or swim.

I dream of my bed, but I don't think I'll be getting there tonight.
Let's make our way out to the ridge.

I'm all out of coffee and cigarettes anyway, and we can make our call for an extraction there.
We might have to wait for hours, as they are always, always late.

The Gutter.

One may place a price tag upon a good night's rest
or upon doing one's level best.

While optimism sleeps, I'm trying to keep cynicism from choking it out.
Staying up on my political game, with a pocketful of D.C. clout.

Lighters up means that this house is alive.
Step into a cypher with strangers only minutes after you arrive.

This is how we do.
Can you vibe with that?

Stress relief.
Not everything in life is meant to be taken so seriously.

Understand?
I'll throw everything at you but the kitchen sink.

Understand?
I put the "gutter" in "guttural."