"Why am I guarding the poppy fields?" -- had to be one of Pat Tillman's last thoughts as somebody picked him off at close range with o'-so-friendly fire. A brother-in-arms watched him expire. A sell-out to the regime. A servant of the team. Another black-ops android going about the devil's work. Thinking and doing exactly what he's told. Mercenary bastard. This is for you.
"Momma, why am I guarding the poppy fields? I thought I was sent here to fight terrorists..."
So the advertising department saw that their glorious poster boy back-fired on them -- oops. He wasn't just brawn and a pretty face. Red alert you doers of the dirt. He did his own thinking. Wrote home to Momma. And threatened to expose your bitch-ass reason for another fake war. Just like Vietnam except now there's even more. Afghanistan makes the old opium business look like small beans.
Revenue revenue. It's all about the money. No matter that my sister was buried long before her time because she couldn't leave the smack alone. I saw her friends at the wake. Mostly skin and bone. They were soon to follow.
Hey sniper-boy. I hope you feel good about what you've done. Gone the sun. All the river has run out. Nobody left to scream and shout. No bird or insect sounds. No guard to make the rounds. What chya gonna do then? Who you gonna call? Your Daddy? Your Momma? Your government handler?