Motherfuckin' Lemon by Robert "Rat" Kiley

So it was the third day of marching into these big fucking gook mountains after spending half a day crossing the wet fucking gook river. We came across a group of trees, total shade, quadruple canopy. The guys took a load off, a few of them sat with their backs to the trees, looking utterly exhausted. Mitchell Sanders whipped out his yo-yo and started dicking around with it, just like he was during the entire fucking three days of marching into the goddamn gook jungles. I swear to God that motherfucker plays with that thing more than his own fucking pecker, Christ.
I myself decided it was good to relax a little, I dropped my pack and M-16, whipped my helmet off my head, and poured some canteen water on my head. It trickled down my back and the sides of my face, feeling better then the pussy me and Lemon got during a weekend in Saigon. On the other hand the clap, which resulted from that weekend, was kind of a downside.
So I was just standing there, relishing in the shade of these big gook trees, when I hear, “Hey Rat! Catch, you worthless motherfucker!”
I turned right in time to see the smoke grenade hurtling at my face. Instinctively I dropped my helmet, caught the motherfucker and shouted, “Lemon you ain’t nothin’ but a chickenshit motherfucker!” right before I threw it right back at that motherfucker, who cackled madly as he caught it with one hand. Lemon was standing there in the shade, letting the grenade cook a little in his hand so it would cover me in the gook-shroud smoke when it got back to me. I’ll tell you man, I was impressed. The dude had already shed his pack, M-16, helmet and shirt, but the COs never gave him flak for that shit. They knew as well as I did that that motherfucker is down for anything. I remember this one time we had to go out on ambush at night, nothing unusual but it was Halloween and every motherfucker in the platoon was talking bad voodoo, not just the spooks.
Anyway there was this new kid PFC Who Gives A Fuck from Who Cares He’s Dead Now. I just remember the kid came from Berkeley and he had some strips of this crazy shit he called LDS, or SLD, or some wild initials, I just remember taking one and Lemon did too, and the trees started to melt, and keep in mind this is right before we go out on the fucking ambush. Me and Lemon, we’re wondering if it’s poisoned gook water or something, cause there’s no way a little strip of some Swedish douchebag’s initials could do this. But there’s no way dying of poison could feel so good. On the other hand, I couldn’t move, it was as if my mind was just grasping the concept that I was faraway from home, in this crazy jungle shooting motherfuckers with nothing to lose for what? Why were we killing these gooks?
There was no way I could focus on those thoughts, because a minute later there’s Lemon, reappearing before I even realized he had disappeared (had he melted into the ground?) but knowing that he must’ve gone somewhere, due to the fact the motherfucker was stark fucking naked aside for his gun, his tags, and his boots. Also, he was covered in all different shades of fluorescent paint, from his face to his pecker. To this day I have not one fucking clue as to where he got the fucking paint, or how he got covered in it so quick and I think it’s probably a good thing I never found out.
I only have vague, surreal memories from that night, but I remember crazy shit; creeping through the jungle, every single bullet that was fire had a blur following it, and the blood seemed to freeze in mid-air when the bullets met the mark of their gook targets. I remember Private Who Gives A Fuck, just sitting there, his head in his hands, screaming that nothing was real. I remember thinking the same thing, and then looking over at Lemon and thinking everything was alright. I was safe because God was there in the form of my best friend, a stark naked crazy motherfucker firing an M-16 into the air, his painted body brilliantly illuminated when the napalm came out and torched the whole fucking forest.
But back to the manner at hand, the kid from Berkeley was dead by morning, proving that he should’ve fucking stayed in school, me and Lemon haven’t gotten any more of that DSL shit, which probably isn’t a good thing to be on during ambush, unless you’re just balls fucking insane like Lemon. If I hadn’t personally seen his member so vividly and repeatedly that Halloween night, I would swear the guy had balls of stainless steel.
Anyway the gook jungles were no longer melting into nothingness so me and Lemon carried on with our game of catch, apparently to the dismay of those snoozing motherfuckers like Jensen, who gives me a look an irate motherfucker like him reserves especially for cool motherfuckers like me and Lemon. I don’t get those guys, they’re acting like this is all a big deal, like there’s nothing left to enjoy because they’re creeping through the gook jungle most of the day. Just cause there’s a war and shit doesn’t mean all fun goes out the window. We got an entire crate of these smoke grenades and I know damn well they’re not all going be used to smoke out Charlie so why not have some fucking fun?
I guess I was lost in thought or some other such bullshit cause next thing I know I’m hit smack in the chest by the fucker and engulfed in smoke. I stumbled away from the mess, coughing like a motherfucker, the smoke stinging my eyes, but laughing anyways. Lemon was doubled over, saying something about smoke grenades and me being a chickenshit motherfucker.
Once the smoke cleared Lemon came walking over to my position. He bumped into me hard with his left shoulder while adjusting his junk with his right hand. “Gotta take a piss, wanna cross streams ya faggot motherfucker?” he laughed at his own little joke and before I could even think of something to say that would put that motherfucker in his place, before I could even turn to see him right, I heard the click and knew something was wrong.
“Motherfucker,” I said, and for one moment I could see him out of the corner of my eye, silhouetted against the sunlight he had stepped into from the shade of the trees, and then I heard this big fucking boom.
It wasn’t even really a boom, it was whatever sound that’s made when a motherfucker steps on a landmine and gets blown right into the fucking trees. I couldn’t move, just stood there in shock as my best friend’s head flew through the air, the remnants of his last laugh stuck to his face like some cruel motherfucking joke. Nothing felt real, just like the Halloween night Private Longhair gave us that LSD shit. I just stood there as the other motherfuckers reacted, all kinds of “Oh shit’s” and “mother of god’s,” I stood there as Sanders rolled up his yo-yo and walked over to examine a tree, stained with Lemon’s guts, I just stood there while O’Brien and Normie Bowker peeled pieces of my best friend’s limbs out of the trees and moss.

Two months later I’m still in this fucking jungle with a bunch of dickheads like O’Brien and Sanders around me all the fucking time. They already sent Lemon’s family the usual; the American flag, the dogtags, the biggest part of him they could find, and a letter telling them their son, brother, cousin, etc. was a good American.
But would they even give a fuck? I’ll tell you one thing, I wrote a letter personally to Lemon’s sister, I told her her brother was a man of honor and balls. I cried like a motherfucking baby writing that shit, I poured my heart into it, even though I can’t write so good and whatnot.
So what happens?
I mail the letter. I wait two months. The dumb cooze never writes back.