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fight club hetalia 2Chapter 2
Ivan's big arms were closed around me to hold me inside, and I was squeezed in the dark between Ivan's new sweating muscles that are enormous, the way we think of God's as big. Going around the church basement full of men, each night we met: this is Art, this is Matthew, this is Ivan; Ivan's big shoulders made me think of the horizon. Ivan's thick blond was what you get when hair cream calls itself sculpting mousse, so thick and blond and the part is so straight.
His arms wrapped around me, Ivan's hand palms my head against the new pecks sprouting on his bare chest.
"It will be alright" Ivan says. "You cry now."
From my knees to my forehead, I feel chemical reactions within Ivan burning food and oxygen.
"Maybe they got it all early enough," Ivan says. "Maybe it's just seminoma. With seminoma you have almost a hundred percent survival rate."
Ivan's shoulders inhale themselves up in a long draw, then drop, drop, drop in jerking sobs. Draw themselves up. Drop, drop, drop. I've b
fight club hetaliaAlfred gets me a job as a waiter, after that Alfred's pushing a gun in my mouth and saying the first step to eternal life is you have to die. For a long time though, Alfred and I were best friends.
People are always asking, did I know Alfred f. Jones.
The barrel of the pressed against the back of my throat, Alfred says, "We won't really die."
With my tongue I can feel the silencer holes we drilled into the barrel of the gun. Most of the noise a gunshot makes is expanding gases, and there's a tiny sonic boom a bullet makes because it travels so fast. To make a silencer, you just drill holes in the barrel of the gun, a lot of holes. This lets the gas escape and slows the bullet to below the speed of sound.
You drill the holes wrong and the gun will blow off your hand.
"This isn't really death," Alfred says. "We'll be legends. We won't grow old".
I tongue the barrel into my cheek and say, Alfred, you're thinking of vampires.
The building we're standing on won't be standing here in ten min
A Turning Point in the Clockwork WarA war of attrition
depends on supply and drawdown,
how much you have and how much you use up.
With personnel, the balance concerns
the influx of recruitment versus
the outflow of casualties, deserters, invalids.
There is only so much loss
that a fighting force can sustain
and still fight.
Pilot Claude Archer was the first
to challenge his invalid discharge.
"I don't need legs to fly," he said,
patting the healed stumps of his thighs.
"My Osprey runs on elbow grease."
The members of the discharge board
paused and looked at each other.
What he said was true.
The Osprey-class fighter jets
relied on hand controls,
and a sharp eye and iron nerve.
Fingers flicked through the stack
of discharge papers -- so many, many pages.
So many soldiers lost, never to fight again.
They could not afford to let slip even one
who might be retained, somehow,
to face the front line once more.
Far less could the war effort spare
one of its best pilots.
So they put Pilot Archer back on the roster,
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
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