Drop Me Some Place Awful
You don't have to get into this matter. It was in the late 70s. One of those missions where they drop you out of a plane over the Yucatan and you have to eat lizards while getting a start in the local status mill. Even aboriginals vie for blue blood privilege in their own really different type of culture. American bigots think everyone's loin cloth all looks the same. Ha. Primitive tribals are an ambitious and highly enterprising cuss. People don't realize how much they are like the Stepford Wives.
It was a combat mission. There's still a spot on my left calf where hair does't grow, from the parachute landing. The Incas got their dun muscular heinies on the US radar because they were meeting in a centralized location. Just that. I don't speak Incan. No one does. I do a mean sign language of I'M AN ANGELIC MISSIONARY FROM EAST KABUTTFUCK, gain their confidence, then hike my heinie home to US, with a classified report in a leather wine skin. There was some other shit. What's that saw, (ha, ha) about cut off the head and the tail dies. They say it in most gangster movies. Some short OC figure had said it somewhere in Florida around the time Kennedy got whacked. Or else some intelligence agency thought it up. One thought up my visit to the Yucatan.
Me, me,me. I got to machete a couple committee leaders. Wet work, titter, titter. We rag each other about it. Then, since I don't feel guilty, same as most, I have to find a Jungian myth that fits what I did. I cut one head off the Hydra. According to the fairy tale, two heads will grow in its place. And you know what that means to everyone living in dreamier places then where I was. It means it isn't really a big deal. Two heads will grow in its place, exponentially the thing will get more gigundous and successful, we might have to drop more angels of mercy down there. We may have, but I lost track of the place soon as I got back here. So did everyone else. I'll bet they're A-okay.
You don't have to get into this matter. It was in the late 70s. One of those missions where they drop you out of a plane over the Yucatan and you have to eat lizards while getting a start in the local status mill. Even aboriginals vie for blue blood privilege in their own really different type of culture. American bigots think everyone's loin cloth all looks the same. Ha. Primitive tribals are an ambitious and highly enterprising cuss. People don't realize how much they are like the Stepford Wives.
It was a combat mission. There's still a spot on my left calf where hair does't grow, from the parachute landing. The Incas got their dun muscular heinies on the US radar because they were meeting in a centralized location. Just that. I don't speak Incan. No one does. I do a mean sign language of I'M AN ANGELIC MISSIONARY FROM EAST KABUTTFUCK, gain their confidence, then hike my heinie home to US, with a classified report in a leather wine skin. There was some other shit. What's that saw, (ha, ha) about cut off the head and the tail dies. They say it in most gangster movies. Some short OC figure had said it somewhere in Florida around the time Kennedy got whacked. Or else some intelligence agency thought it up. One thought up my visit to the Yucatan.
Me, me,me. I got to machete a couple committee leaders. Wet work, titter, titter. We rag each other about it. Then, since I don't feel guilty, same as most, I have to find a Jungian myth that fits what I did. I cut one head off the Hydra. According to the fairy tale, two heads will grow in its place. And you know what that means to everyone living in dreamier places then where I was. It means it isn't really a big deal. Two heads will grow in its place, exponentially the thing will get more gigundous and successful, we might have to drop more angels of mercy down there. We may have, but I lost track of the place soon as I got back here. So did everyone else. I'll bet they're A-okay.
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