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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 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.