Weapons of choice

"No," he answered ingenuously, "I didn't hear nothing about the lady sailors. I don't reckon they'd let us keep them, though. There'd be another riot if everyone thought we was getting girlfriends and a new ship."

"Oh, God," groaned Davidson as he pulled a threadbare pillow out from under his head and attempted to smother himself with it.

Moose waited patiently for another minute before asking whether Slim Jim was planning on getting up. They could already hear the mail being handed out in the distance.

"C'mon, Slim Jim, maybe some Girl Guide sent you some cookies."

"Unless she sent me a picture of her fanny I couldn't care less," he moped.

"Slim Jim!"

Moose seemed genuinely offended that anyone could sully the image of the Girl Guides of America. As far as he was concerned, protecting them from the ravages of the Japs was one of the main reasons they were here, camping out in this godforsaken burned-out cane field.

"I'll tell you what, Moose," Davidson said finally, "if I get any Girl Guide cookies, you bring 'em back for me, and we'll share them."

"Is that a promise?"

"You can bank on it. Just let me get some rest."

Moose hurried off in pursuit of free cookies. Davidson thought about whipping his shank out for a quick pull, but he couldn't even work up the enthusiasm for that. He lay on his cot, scratching his balls until a thought occurred to him. Checking that Moose really was gone, he rolled to his feet and dragged his duffel bag out. The flexipad was at the bottom, and it took some digging to retrieve it. When at last he had the stolen pad in his hands, it felt heavy with possibilities.

A quick check out the tent flap again. No sign of Moose. Davidson smiled as he powered up the unit. He'd become quite adept at controlling it and quickly found the file he'd been meaning to check out. A few taps on the touch screen and suddenly he nearly wet himself at the sound of a nigger band-called Death Row of all fucking things-punching out a weird number called "Rape the Bitch Now." The title had intrigued him since he'd first seen it a day earlier. The jigaboos sounded like they were doing some really angry, fucked-up poems to a jungle beat and it was hard to understand everything they said.

He dropped the volume and shook his head in disbelief throughout the two-minute performance. It took him three repeats to fully understand the lyrics, and when he did, he struggled with a tangled mass of feelings. He found that for the first time in his life, he was genuinely affronted. His morality-Could you believe it? His fucking morality! — was actually outraged by those fucking hoods. But contending with that outrage was excitement at the images that accompanied the "music." He'd never seen women dance like that, not even in the skankiest fucking New Orleans whorehouse. Those hussies were like damn dogs in heat, the way they were throwing their fannies around.

"Goddamn," Slim Jim hooted softly. "The future looks rosy!"

He cycled through another performance by Death Row. It sounded so similar that he couldn't be certain, if he closed his eyes, that he was listening to a different song-if you could even call it a song. But the new clip featured an entirely different bunch of "bitches," as he quickly and effortlessly came to think of them, and Slim Jim had no trouble at all telling one bitch from another. He was about to revisit his decision not to haul his shank out for a quick one, when he heard the heavy tread of Moose Molly approaching. Davidson hastily shut down the pad and jammed it under a blanket.

"Hey Slim Jim, you're up."

"And at 'em."

The big oaf had a package for him. If it was cookies, it was the biggest pack he'd ever seen. Davidson pushed himself up on one elbow. He was slick and sticky with sweat. The tent felt like the inside of an oven.

"You got laundry," Moose said as he tossed over the package.

"Laundry? I didn't send no fucking laundry out," said Davidson.

"You must have left some with the Chinese place before we shipped out for Midway," said Moose.

"Chinese?" said Davidson, suddenly coming wide awake. "Yeah, now that I think of it, I did leave some pants behind."

"You're always losing your pants, Slim Jim."

"Ain't it the truth? What'd you get, buddy?"

"Just a letter from my old man. He says they're having real trouble keeping the spics in line now that a lot of the younger fellows have left the police force for the army. But he reckons the old boys on the force, they still got a few tricks in them."

"I'll bet," said Davidson.

"And I spoke to Chief Craven, he said Chief Mohr's gonna be out of the hospital tomorrow and there's no way we're shipping out with the other guys. We're staying here."

"Well, you gotta take the good with the bad," shrugged Slim Jim, who'd die a happy man if he never set foot on another goddamn boat.

"You gonna open your package?"

"For a pair of pants? No. I'd thought I'd save the excitement for this evening. Give me something to look forward to in the cocktail hour."