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The surlier hippie clanked his beer against the counter in a show of irritation. Wiping his heavy paws across a bright yellow shirt emblazoned with a large blue star on his chest, he smirked, Student deferment. He spit on the floor, ignoring the angry retort from the bar tender. I looked straight ahead, across the bar, and told Tom, Tell him to fuck off and forget it. They'd just plucked the two dozen pieces of Mojo's body from the stale waters of a rotting rice paddy. His remains were in a black body bag, folded inside an ice chest on the hospital's west forced sex mom boy end. Nervously gesturing his thumb over his shoulder, the sergeant added, Near the noncom's dining hall. And, by the way, how would I fucking like to visit what was left of Mojo? The next two hours, I was chewing pages from the Time Magazine I'd been reading. I spat out paper balls I was imagining were bullets aimed at everyone I could blame for us been sent to that hell hole. Then I remembered. Forced sex mom boy it was me. And Mojo. Nobody had forced us to volunteer. Mojo's last fond memory was having learned the green beret talking to him in the helicopter had been a pro football player for Mojo's hometown team forced sex mom boy. The beret's reserve unit had pulled the unlucky number and was called to Vietnam.