ife. I watch as my hand is animated by Mad-dog. Its barrel moves up to an inviting temple and cast its vote in my favor. It makes me angry when Mad-dog makes decisions on its own. I can't really blame it though, just protecting its own interests. I wrestle the rifle away from its watchful position, it is still not fully convinced of the commies' sincerity. Mad-dog is contented only after I clean its muzzle on a dull and ugly shirtsleeve and no motion of protest is registered.
             A memory of high school comes to me. I once tried to learn the language of this fertilizer under my foot, or something close to it. Mad-dog doesn't seem to want to dwell on that, I am reminded how bad I was.
             I shoulder Mad-dog, wipe my bloody boot across an agreeable chest, and signal a "go" to luke. I glance again at Luke as we move off through this, now temporary, "safe" zone. Some minor differences between us, I realize, are purely superficial. I stride in an ambling gait, he walks fast. I am good-looking.
             Mad-dog whispers, "Even the commie beaner is better looking than Luke, especially now".With a frown I tell Mad-dog, "Shut
             ...