American tabloid

59

Eyes left, eyes right. Port arms, snap the bolt-let’s see those carbon-free M-l chambers.

The drill field sparkled. The trainees moved like spic Rockettes-every turn and slapdown was synchronized.

Lockhart called cadence. Nйstor Chasco played flag bearer. The Stars amp; Stripes and Pit Bull Monster fluttered.

Pete led a white-glove inspection line. Richard Bissell and John Stanton trailed him-civilian squarejohns in worsted wool suits.

The trainees wore starched fatigues and chrome helmets. Fulo, Paez, Delsol, and Gutiйrrez stood off in a squad leader flank.

Boyd watched from the dock. He didn’t want rank-and-file recruits to know him.

Pete checked weapons and handed them back. Bissell patted shoulders and smiled. Stanton stifled yawns-he knew it was all PR bullshit.

Lockhart yelled, “Shoulderrr arms! Guide-on front and centerrr!”

Forty-four rifles went up. Chasco marched ten paces forward and about-faced.

Chasco saluted. Chasco snapped his flags out at arm’s length.

Lockhart yelled, “At ease!” The men hoisted down one by one for a nifty ripple effect.

Bissell gawked. Stanton applauded.

Boyd was eyeballing Chasco. Stanton built the little shitbird up as Jesus Christ sans mercy.

Chasco ate tarantula meat and drank panther piss. Chasco killed Reds from Rangoon to Rio.

Chasco coughed and spat on the pavement. “It is a pleasure to be here with joo in America. It is an honor to be able to fight the tyrant Fidel Castro, and an honor to introduce to joo Seсor Richard Bissell.”

Locomotive cheers went up-choo-choo-choo fifty voices strong.

Bissell waved the noise down. “Seсor Chasco is right. Fidel Castro is a murderous tyrant who needs to be taken down a peg or two. I’m here to tell you that we’re going to do it, most likely in the not-too-distant future.”