The ring is mine, and so are the men. The ring is steel, and the boys, so hard -- quiet and hard (somewhat section-eightish of them, that silence... "Sound off like you've got a pair"); not there, not there anymore. But they're always mine and I theirs ("semper fidelis" is the motto, right?) I lose the ring from time to time; and give the boys a hump and a half looking for me, but never for too long...
(Disgression: Oh my! Upon writing this, I got schooled: they weren't as mute as my characterization makes out -- far from it, I'm sure. But those times when they were near, I know for a fact they never dared talk over me. I must be getting old.)
I started it, of course: if I had to answer, then yes, I know the significance of the ring -- the signficance I confabulated: One of the crowns etched in the ring is for me, the other five crowns for each of the sterling dorks in the unit. I don't know the story before mine, which is this: in 2012 or thereabouts, one fine blustery day, I purchased the piece of jewelry in question for $10 at the bazaar in UN Plaza. I'm sure it was crafted in the bountiful East, specifically in either India or Pakistan. More than that...?
Why the Marines? Who fucking knows? What should I be to the Corps, but an old oogle, a puke with no excuse. And all five of mine are interchangable jarheads, as far as they themselves, and as far as whomever or whatever they put their dicks in on an overnight pass are concerned...
I am one nobody, one of six nobodies, and among us the token civilian (useless, to purloin my late father's turn of phrase, as tits on a boar hog): Hi, my name is Will. Want to hear something cool? So whatever -- you couldn't pull it off, ritualistically excruciating me. In my humble opinion, gold star for effort, you know? The problem, I'll tell you, is you, not me; it's just not in your nature to deal me pain, not that way, certainly -- you'll always fail. I, on the other hand, have done what a legion could not do to me in return. Lord knows I've accomplished some inflicting in my time. Maybe I could teach you how to do it the right way, but I'm not confident of that... I hate to sound fatalistic or woggy, but one probably has to be born to do it; hurting others so well is a knack, or it must be one's karma.
 |
| Recovered by the Queen of the Gold Diggers, and returned to me during a visit last year to her lair at the Center of the Universe... |
 |
| Stainless steel, my friend -- no rust. Yes, bitter, you know, but also six times luck. Good price for you, okay? |
::::::::
