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Translators now sing Sinatra tunes deep in Iraq.With sunglasses on and shemaghs worn on our gear,you brought us to the Green Zone where we always had a beer.The whole team loved you as we traveled about,no malfunctions nor anything to pout.Remember that time we went someplace classified?Working for the Bear where we damn near died?You were strapped on my MOLLE vest along with my gear,but now you're home and stopped working I fear.With earbuds in or those glasses to watch...those pornos we uploaded into those movie slots.I've watched a lot of pornos on that little, teeny screen,and strapped you in that Pelican case that I painted tan & green.From New York to London then Paris to Rome,you kept me entertained when I was far from home.I kept you pristine in a protective case,you were beloved like a priceless Ming vase.I downloaded Farsi lessons in the weekly podcast,and played you with my iHome when I was getting some ass.Remember those days out in Kandahar?When I was in the hospital. Revenge is a dish best eaten cold, it is said, and I maintained an icy exterior beneath a raging fury as I knocked loudly on the door of Bailey’s residence.I waited, my temper building at the delay, and was about to hammer on the door with the hilt of my broadsword when the door opened.Mrs Bailey stood on the threshold, dressed as if she had just come from bed, with her hair unbound, cascaded over her shoulders. Her red, flushed, face and heavy breathing suggested she had been disturbed from an activity of some exertion. She wore a wool shawl draped loosely about her shoulders, but I noticed the bodice of the dress beneath gaped with undone buttons, and glimpsed the pale flesh of her breasts.“My pardon for the delay, sir. I was attending to something in my bedroom and...” She looked at me more closely “Why, it is Major Greenaway is it not?” She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders and curtsied. “Please, do come in sir.”I followed her along the passageway that led to her.
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