I snort another lung full of road dust as the suspension jounces us up and down once more. I come down wrong and land on my tail for the third time since the three deuces had rolled out of city limits. You'd have thought the thing had just sprouted out of my ass yesterday rather than four years ago. Of course the fact that I'm still not used to my body is actually a point of pride, at least for me.

Nobody else on the bench seats talked much, a few read, others just bullshitted. I was too new to the group for anyone to bother talking to me just yet, and I wasn't in the mood to strike up a conversation anyway. Instead I let the steady roll of a guitar keep me company. Fade to Black drifted out of my ear buds.

The iPod had required special ear buds to fit the two satellite dishes on my head. I'd have figured by now there'd be more of a market for these things, but no, they're still special order, custom made, and cost me half my paycheck. It was criminal, charging that much.

Of course that was the reason I'd decided to take this job, the money to buy all this crap is easier to make. I'd gotten tired of running solo, working with whomever else my employer had hired, if anyone at all. The jobs had been too hard, too risky, and too likely to get me killed. So it seemed natural that when a band of mercenaries had a few empty slots on their roster, I should join up.

The pay wasn't as good, and the work was more dangerous, but it still felt easier. Now I wouldn't have to watch my back all the time, I had people watching it for me. I'd have to watch their backs as well, but that was a lot easier than the shit I'd had to deal with when I worked solo. With three truckloads of mercs, all decked in a full combat load, I could just shoot in the general direction of the enemy and pull a paycheck at the end of the day. Easier than falling out of a chair. Speaking of which, I just landed on my tail again. God damn trucks, make me wish for my car again. I am very glad I didn't have to pay a cent for those crapsack trucks.

"Hey, nice tattoos."
I realized the black kid across from me had given a compliment. "Thanks."
"How'd you get em done? I mean, did they shave you or-?"
"No," I said, trying not to sound harsh."That wouldn't have worked, hair would have just grown over it."
"So? How'd you you get it done?"
"I payed a guy to change the color of my fur, make a pattern out of it. Cost a bundle." I love showing the faux tats, I got both shoulders done the same pattern for full effect, it's why I wear a tank top under my combat harness. That and sleeved shirts tend to overheat me. With no sweat glands I'd have to hang my tongue out of my mouth and pant to ditch the excess heat, and I haven't been hairy long enough to be okay with that.

"Cool, they mean anything?"
I'd never actually given much thought to the exact meaning of a pair of jolly rogers on my shoulders. More thought was put into the thorned roses that twined within them. I suppose that had something to do with my romantic desires, along with some freudian bullshit linking to death and pain via the bones. Of course from what I'd heard about Freud, he'd probably link it to fucking my mother.

"Na man, they don't mean anything." We sat in silence for a moment.
"Hmm, well I'm Parker." He extended a hand
"Tristan," I gave his hand a shake.
"I suppose I can assume you're new. Unless I just spaced a six foot dog man?"
"Wolf."
"Huh?"
"Wolf man, I would have to be inbred by a couple thousand generations to be a dog man."
"Hey, Parker, what's with the dog," asked a man dressed in flecktarn camo. He had an accurized M14, a dedicated sniper weapon, a nice gun.
"He's new. Gerald, meet Tristan, the dog soldier."
"Hey man, I ain't a-"
"Parker heard you," said the flecktarn soldier, now known Gerald. "Dog soldier means you're a merc like the rest of us."

"Really?"
"Yeah, really, now start getting on my good side cause I'm gonna be covering your ass."
I rolled my eyes."Alright, Gerald, nice to meet you. And I must say, nice fucking rifle."
"Thank you," he made a mock show of it like I had."It cost me a bundle."
"Yeah, money well spent in my opinion."
Parker cut in,"moving on. The guy next to you is Rambo, our resident heavy weapons specialist."
Rambo turned out to be a lot smaller than I expected."Hey, how's it going! Welcome to the squad!"
His shake was highly enthusiastic."Good to meet you too, man."
"Glad to see you're hitting it off, because you and him are going to be sticking together."
"Sticking together?"
"Squad leader left me to tell you, until we get things hammered out you and Rambo are connected at the hip."
I bruised my tail again."Alright, how close do you want me to be?"
Rambo got a serious look,"you're my shadow. Move when I move, shoot where I shoot, and don't fall behind."
"I think I can handle that."
"You sure, no running off on your own when it suits you."
"Parker, man, I joined this outfit to get away from all that loner shit. Going solo has nearly gotten my ass shot off nine times out of ten. If it's all the same to you guys, I'd like to play follow the leader for a while."

After that there was a little discussion as to the nature of the plan. I hadn't been there for the briefing, if there had been one. I would have liked to have sat in on some sort of planning session, but the abridged version was good enough. I asked if anyone would care if I cut up the pants they'd given me. No one cared, so I took out my knife and undid my pants. Undoing a few straps on my harness, I slid the pants off a bit to slice into the seat of the fatigue pants. Pulling them back up, I threaded my fluffy white tail through the gap. The tip was an oily black like my too long hair. I clipped the straps back into place and squirmed in my harness until my white body fur set right again.

The guy riding with the driver, who turned out to be squad leader, hung out the window to yell at us. We had a good half hour before we reached our destination, a half hour to make any final preparations. I decided to remove all my piercings and put them in my ruck sack. The last time I'd left them in, a guy had landed a punch square on the tip of my jaw and smashed a stud through my teeth. Ruined the stud, and I had to get stitches for the lip. I was actually lucky it was real silver, other metals would have been harder and hurt a lot fucking more given the thickness of the stud. I tied my hair back as well, getting it out of my eyes.

I checked the new gear, making sure it was all secured and where it was supposed to be. Most of the gear had been issued to me, and was not part of my regular load out. They said the harness, pouches, and radio had belonged to the guy who'd left. The fatigues were part of a large shipment they'd aquired, and they had BDUs coming out the ass.

My tunes went into the rucksack, replacing my ear buds with a pair of thick earplugs, since my big fluffy ears aren't just to show off my peircings. A single ear but went in my left ear for the radio. The collar that held the mikes to my throat was a tad tight, but I had the better part of a half hour to get used to it.

My radio worked, but Rambo didn't have to tell me twice not to use it unless some serious shit went down. This wasn't my team, I didn't know how strict they were running their protocols, or whether my lingo was compatible with theirs. I knew a few things about group dynamics, and when everyone knows what they're doing you don't often have to enunciate everything for your buddies to get the gist. So I'd stay silent and follow the lead until I started fully understanding what my commanding officer said.

20 minutes out I slapped a magazine into my AK-74U. The thirty round banana clip would be more than enough to kill anything that moved. The stubby AK had a the silencer threaded onto the barrel for the benefit of my ears. It had set me back a bit, but as with all my personal gear, it had been worth it. I flipped the wireframe stock into the ready position and jacked the first round into the chamber, keeping my finger off the trigger and the muzzle in a safe direction. It would look quite stupid if we went over a bump and my finger slipped while the weapon was live. I double checked the safety just to be sure.

With 15 minutes to go I thought about the heavy revolver occupying my personal thigh holster. The .45 double action was a last ditch weapon in more ways than one. I didn't really want to think about the kind of shit that would have to go wrong before I'd draw it. The bullets were so god damned expensive. God, why is everything so fucking expensive these days? Every time I turn around these bullets cost more and more.

Rambo turns to help check my gear, and I check his in turn. He had a modern version of an M60. It was lighter, shorter, and the belt fed from a detachable box magazine, rather than just a belt on its own. I respected it's power and his ability to wield it, but I didn't like the gun. A big clunky vietnam throwback that kicks too hard and tracks too slow. I preferred my snub nosed AK, for personal reasons. But having Rambo and his big gun on the team made me feel better about my decision to join up.

The force was divided primarily into four man fire teams. Each squad has two fire teams, one squad to a truck, with three trucks meant six fire teams. Each team had tailored their individual soldiers to compliment each other, and could be divided into two man pairs on short notice. Rambo assured me we'd never be divided further than that, so I would never be split from Rambo. That is unless he bought it, then I would do well to stick to someone else, preferably after finding the medic. So each squad leader had two fire teams, along with two specialists. The lead truck had two guys to handle our anti-armor weapon. The second truck had a medical team, which we hopefully wouldn't need. And finally team three had Gerald and Parker, our scout snipers.

Of course what's really special about our group was how our squads coordinate. Turned out our squad leaders were psychically linked to home office, with our commander receiving battle data and giving commands accordingly via the mental link. Our commander back home never had to leave the office, the link didn't care about distance once it was established. Or so Parker told it. It had sounded like the kind of thing the army would want, and of course I was right.

The commander had been in the army, and they'd studied every inch of him to try and reproduce his abilities. But they failed to do so, and if there was anyone else with his abilities, they weren't in the army. To top the whole fiasco off he couldn't be linked to more than three people without severe mental strain. Over six and he couldn't remain conscious, and the link failed as soon as he passed out. I asked why he didn't just shift the link around, connect with only three at a time. But it wasn't like that, he had to make the link in person, and it took a fair bit out of him to establish it. Not something you'd want to do regularly in the middle of a battle.

But there were a number of advantages. A single squad could operate nearly as one, with no spoken words, since the link connected all four people. And since he'd left the army and formed our band of mercenaries, he'd been linked to the squad leaders. He could peer into their minds and gather data at will, while the squad leaders could in turn view what he showed them. At least that's what I was told.


Five minutes out, I loosened up and tried specifically not to focus. Too much focus and I'd get rigid, tense. Most of the others were doing the same. It often amazes me how light we were traveling. I wonder how army grunts do it, humping all that gear all day. But then again, army grunts have to haul entrenching tools and nuclear biological suits, shit we weren't getting paid to carry. We rolled off of the grassy plains and out of the stiff breeze that had been chilling everyone without a fur coat, the trucks rumbling down into a wooded valley that made me think of Tolkein. I half expected elves to start singing in the trees.

The trucks pulled into a clearing just off our humble dirt road. I was glad to disembark, and I think everyone shared the sentiment, even if they weren't so dramatic as to show it. One thing you learned as a soldier, no one wanted to hear you whining, even if they felt like it themselves. We grouped around our squad leader, a middle aged man by the name of Kerns. He gave us a few minutes to collect ourselves, piss, shit, take a swig or two off our canteens or flasks. Of course it seemed only one man actually had a flask, and he only took one swig before leaving it his pack with the truck. I half wanted a drink myself, but I had a rule about drinking on the job. A rule that had stemmed less from moral fortitude and more from personal experience.

I met with my fire team leader, Jennings, while Parker and Gerald met with Kerns. I overheard in spite of my ear plugs. They were going to scout ahead and find a good spot to set up, report what they saw. They prepped their guille suits, tearing up the nearby underbrush to attach to the unconventional burlap uniforms. When they were done they both looked like plant monsters, marching off into the thick woodland to find sacrificial virgins. I went to speak with Kerns.

"So, fuzzball, what do they call you by?"
"Tristan, sir."
"You don't have to call me sir unless you forget my name, this ain't the army."
"Good to know."
"You gonna be okay for this?"
"I'm good, this isn't my first time."
"Not gonna do anything stupid now are you?"
"Hell no, I'm gonna keep my head so low it's on the ground."
"Good, just don't forget to watch Rambos back, he's got a bit of a blind spot."
"Blind spot?"
"Man couldn't check his six if his life depended on it, and it does."
"So long as he does his job I'll do mine."
"Trust me, he will. Just keep your head and you'll do fine. Oh, and Tristan, one thing."
"What?"
"You're the only man here to have gone through ExOps training. Everyone else got government training."
"Yeah, I trained with ExOps. Unfortunately they cut the training program, too much money."
"Is it much different from the army?"
"In a way. Everyone was very quiet."
"Quiet?"
I scratched the back of my neck."Yeah, all the banter you get in army barracks, I never heard any of it at ExOps."
"Harsh training eh?"
"No, it just everyone there... Well, people who don't know what to do with their lives often join the army. People who signed up to be trained as mercenaries, most of them just wanted to kill people. Caged psychos who wanted a legal outlet but didn't like the rules the army threw at them. Essentially a bunch of criminal thugs who wanted to learn how to kill better. Part of the reason they closed down that division, half of the guys were section 8 and the rest washed out."
Kerns gave a strange look,"and what kind were you?"
"Actually I was one of the few who qualified. I didn't give a shit about killing either way, I just wanted the money."
Kerns smiled a devilish smile," I think you'll fit in. Now do something about that fur."

Not exactly the kind of chewing out I expected, no bullshit authoritarian lines about keeping my shit wired tight like my drill sergeant would have done. He'd never been a drill, and did a bad job of it. He was hard on us, too hard. It was good that most of the others got washed out, not as many people to watch you get whipped. I don't know about regular drills, but he pushed us so hard he literally broke us. A number of strenuous activities with no warm up, being forced to skip multiple meals in a row. Essentially it was all the stuff he'd seen in the movies but never understood. We starved, we broke bones, pulled muscles, one guy nearly died from a combination of heat stroke and severe dehydration. By the end of it we were a bunch of scrawny malnourished lightweights rather than the hard asses he'd planned to make.

But this group, this was my idea of a band of mercenaries. A bunch of cold blooded professionals who were all smart enough not to need authoritarian bullshit, real soldiers. I took the time that was given to take a piss and replace the lost moisture from my canteen. I went about following Kerns' orders. The whole place was moist like it'd just rained, so I found some mud and rubbed it on my exposed fur. It quickly went from white to a dirty red, perfect. After that I noticed the three squad leaders were standing in a circle with their eyes closed. I asked Rambo what that was about.

"They're communicating with the boss man."
"Any idea what they're saying?"
"You're the one with the ears."
"They aren't talking in any way I can hear. I was asking for a good guess."
"Probably going over the plan, looking at the map."
"I don't see a map."
"The boss has the map."
"Back at HQ?"
"Yep, he can let them look through his eyes just like he looks through theirs."
"Damn, that's slick."
"Yep, the boss has all the info they need back at base. Probably has the army intel guy there too."
"Feeding them all the data the army has in real time, probably got a laptop with a satellite feed too. Fuck that's slick!"

Kerns stepped aside to listen to his headset. From what I could tell it was Parker reporting in. Kerns conversed verbally with the other squad leaders and they dispersed. Kerns called us together and went over the plan, all new stuff to me. There was a town up ahead, our target. First squad heads up the road, apparently to conduct preliminary negotiations. Third squad, that's us, cuts through the woods and comes around the side of an overlooking hill, right into their back door. Meanwhile second squad cuts the furthest route and comes around the far side of town. We stay hidden until first gives the go ahead, meaning negotiations have failed and it's turned into the expected shooting match. Second will do the same.

We dove into the trees and started our march. Parker couldn't give us much on troop concentrations, but there were sentries and a few patrols. I wished we didn't have to open negotiations. According to Kerns these were poorly trained religious radicals. That meant they were likely to do a number of stupid things that may or may not maim us all horribly. I'd rather just start taking knives to throats while they still didn't know we were here. If they went hostile, first squad could get fucked up pretty bad before we got there. But the army spooks wanted to talk first.  And to think conspiracy theorists accuse army brass of being hard hearted monsters. Then again, they sicced a bunch of well trained, well armed mercs on a bunch of idiots with guns, so they couldn't all be pussies, just enough of them to get us killed.

Rounding the hill as far out as we could, I caught sight of the town. It was small, log cabins and not much else, couldn't be more than a couple hundred residents. I'd have preferred something more urban, at least for my own masochistic reasons. I didn't bother trying to spot Parker and Gerald, but Kerns talked to them. We belly crawled in as close as we dared and I was glad Kerns had advised me about the fur. I'd have stuck out like a sore thumb with my greasy white pelt.

We waited on our bellies for the better part of an hour, watching the amalgam of buildings roughly referred to as a town. I was considering how well the logs would eat up enemy fire when the order came. There was no radio chatter, Kerns got his orders anyway. We jumped to our feet and sprinted towards the cabins, nothing but trees and underbrush in our way. Kerns hit the wall of a large cabin and we stacked up on him. He checked round the corner in a flash, then gestured a move order with his left hand, his right on his rifle. "Bravo, there!"

Me and Rambo were in bravo team, so we followed our team leader, Jennings, towards a cabin across and down the road. We hit the wall, spotting first squad. They were engaged with a few guys in a cabin, along with two just off the road. Three people lay in the middle of the street, too far away to tell who they were. Jennings and our grenadier opened up on the two off the road, eliminating the threats. Jennings then ordered Rambo to watch our flank, so I followed. Rambo took a position at the other corner of the house, while I watched the alley behind us. Another two cabins made a nice clean corridor for me to watch, and sure enough, a sentry ran right into it. I cut him in half just before Rambos' M60 started barking. I heard a muffled thud, and though I didn't see it, first squad had just zinged a grenade into that occupied cabin.

Second squad showed up and I nearly shot one of them. Of course it was over in about three minutes. We were down a few grenades and a couple hundred rounds, but that was the worst of our casualties. The ride there had been harder than the actual fight. I was almost disappointed. As usual the few sparse moments of conflict would be followed by a tense, yet uneventful clean up. Women, children, and anyone who hadn't come out to fight would have to be rounded up, just to make sure. Our job was to end hostilities, and that meant securing the whole damn town.

Everyone else began clearing houses while me and Rambo stayed in the street to stand guard. Rambo was left in the street so his pig could lay fire on any prisoners trying to run. I was left because of my unproven status, and the fact that I was assigned to stay with Rambo until that changed. This was really the most dangerous part of the job for our little group. And untrained force with no real command structure means unpredictability. Many were just as likely to hide rather than fight, so they could be anywhere, hoping against hope that we skip their house and move on, all the while holding onto some old rifle that could lift your head quite cleanly off your shoulders.

So the cleared houses, and kicked the residents out into the street, patting each one down before doing so. I prayed no one got stupid, on the other side just as much as our own. Even if they didn't shoot back, anyone found holding anything even resembling a weapon would be shot. Didn't matter if it was a potato peeler, we weren't cops, if you had something that looked like it could inflict damage, we shot you first and negotiated with your corpse.


Despite my fears, most of these people didn't want to die. They may have talked big enough to draw attention, but when a jack boot kicks down the door to your home, big words start to seem very small. Even the people who had weapons were smart enough to lay them on the floor long before any of us got to their house. Of course my fears didn't really encompass what was going to happen. Of all the thing that those people could have had access to, they pulled out on thing I would never have expected.

I heard the door to a shed break open. I didn't know what it was at the time, but we later found out it was a shed door. Me and Rambo were the first ones to see it lumber into the street, but the M-60 gunner didn't know what he saw. I did, though I'd only seen one twice before, the second being the police version, and the first being an older model ExOps had familiarized me with.

What I had been shown was a Gallus military Exosuit, which was what we looked upon. Nearly 10 feet of hardened chobham armor wrapped around a heavy duty framework, with high torque electric motors capable of lifting up to half of its ponderous weight. The bipedal suit could deliver a shock force ratio similar to a human, over twice its weight. Meaning one punch could deliver over a ton of force despite it's lightweight construction. Operated by a human operator using brain waves and physical movement, the Gallus was designed as an infantry support unit. With a .30 caliber dillenger gatling gun on its arm, it could provide more firepower than any weapon we had on hand.

As it stumbled into the street, the pilot obviously inexperienced, I noticed its shoulder mounted missile launchers were missing. That was a plus, but if it's gatling gun was loaded we were dead meat out in the open. Parker warned us over the radio around the same time it's main camera spotted us. There was no obvious sign it was watching us, but I knew the Gallus as well as Rambo didn't. He couldn't have known what it was, because when I turned to him, he was still standing there watching it. He obviously was of the persuasion that the Gallus was a slow giant, easy to outmaneuver. Of course if that mech was anything it wasn't slow, and it did not lumber.

It turned toward us and all hell broke loose. Rambo hadn't moved so I tackled him, carrying his bulk for a moment before we collapsed behind the nearest cabin. All other cover would shred under the withering fire of that dillenger. I didn't see it happen like Rambo did, but I saw the aftermath of the short burst the Gallus had let off. The hostages we'd been watching were torn apart, a whole swath had been cut through the group where the gun had tried to hit us. An when I say shredded I mean hamburger meat was all the remains left. The rounds did not make any distinct noises as they hit the cabin, too many rounds at once, it was a constant noise that was indescribable.

I didn't know the status of the others, all I knew was I and Rambo had to move. He tried to ask me what the thing had been, but I ignored the question and dragged him to his feet. I yelled at him to move, that it would be on us in seconds if the pilot knew anything about what he was doing. I think my snarling muzzle scared him into moving, people underestimate how frightening a growling wolf man can be, but I couldn't really put enough fear into him.  We were facing a machine that could outrun every single one of us, something immune to small arms fire, that could tear through most cover with only the power in its arms. A machine thats primary defense against things like guided missiles is dodging them. I know that sounds stupid, but you've never seen a Gallus Exosuit in action. To say they're quick for their size would be an understatement, and that's why they're so frightening. You never expect something that big to move so goddamn fast.

I ran, he followed, and didn't question why we were running towards it. If I was lucky we could put the cabins between us and it, moving into its blind spot. I told him we were flanking it, he didn't ask what we would do once we did that, and I didn't tell him. I didn't tell him we might as well have been holding rubberband guns. I didn't tell him that without air or armored support that mech could likely kill us all long before the guys with the anti-armor gear could get a shot off. Of course I also failed to mention what kind of bullets my revolver really fired.

When we got around it's backside it was still firing blindly, trying to simply shoot through cover rather than go around it. The pilot was definitely a moron who didn't know what he was in. I slung my AK and upholstered my .45. The revolver was no dinosaur, but I'd had to specifically request one without a silver finish. I turned to Rambo and put my finger to my muzzle. I cocked the hammer on the revolver, and began to concentrate on the bullet. A whisper drifted lightly, lovingly out of my mouth, as I said one word seemingly to my gun. I was really talking to the special made bullet in the chamber,"Gallus".

A slight glow, to small for anyone but me, issued forth from the chamber. It was a light that signified the naming of my enemy. It burned into the bullet, in brutal carved words, the mechanical monsters name. I popped out from behind my cover, Rambo moved with me, though his role was pointless. Weapon aimed, my special bullet was ready. The behemoth sensed me, and turned with frightening speed, trying to cut us down with it's main gun. The left arm lead the swivel, the gatling gun on the arm still rotating. My revolver thundered, the bullet impacted on the armor towards the middle of the upper left forearm.

What happened was completely unexpected, at least by everyone else. The single round punched the arm clean off, the edges wide and rounded as though a tank round had struck it. The disembodied arm twisted in the air as though it was made of paper, just before it impacted into a log wall and slammed half way through it. The rest of the mech was thrown haphazard to the side, blood erupting from the stump. Whatever was left of the pilots left arm was now embedded in a wall, since the bullet had seemingly dissolved the flesh up to his shoulder. The shoulder armor had actually folded upward, as though the sheer force of the over pressure had crumpled it against the frame.

I holstered my revolver as Rambo stared dumbfounded. I gave the all clear and the rest of our little band of mercenaries came out of cover to see what had killed that ungodly monster. Kerns came up and headed off all other questions.

"What in the hell did you hit it with?"
"I just shot it."
"Don't bullshit me, what did you shoot it with?"
"My sidearm of course."
"Really? What caliber is your sidearm exactly?"
".45, but the bullet's special."
"In what way?"
"It had the things name on it."

He didn't ask any more questions after that, everyone else did, but not him. I think it had to do with our commander, judging by the look on Kerns face as he left me alone. We trekked back up to the truck and started the ride home. Back at HQ I used the bathroom to wash the mud out of my fur. The white wolf in the mirror greeted me again. I couldn't think of it as my face, not really, not when I looked in the mirror. I could say "my" ears, and "my" muzzle, but they'd never been mine. This was some animals face, one that had been forced over my own.







I've often done this, stared at the man in the mirror, the one who wasn't really a man. The piercings, the tattoos, refuge in audacity, a shield to hide my real fear. Every time I look in the mirror this face looks more and more familiar. And I was afraid, I am still afraid, that one day this face will be my face, the day I forget my old face. My ears move a little and I force them back into their normal position. I don't want them to move, if they move the face becomes more real, the tongue that slides over sharp teeth becomes my tongue, the tail swishes and becomes my tail. I was a man once, I was real.

I collect my cut, and leave the building thinking of all the ways I want to spend it, all the things I need to buy. I plan to live it up, to collect enough money to buy a nice house on the coast. I think about the music, the clothes, the cars and the clubs. The drinks I'll buy, the ones I'll drown in and laugh as I feel my mind slip. I'll drink until this body stops feeling alien, until the pain in my bruised tail fades and I forget it's there again. I'll dance and hope it impresses a woman enough so that she isn't scared to touch me. I'll try to smile in a way that doesn't show my teeth, I'll try not to look like I'm going to eat the person I'm talking to.

For just one night I'll try not to be a monster, I'll try to be normal. I'll try to convince people I'm not really a wolf, I just associate with them. Because in this business we're all wolves, we're all killers, and we do it to survive. But I'll try to fool them, I'll try not to scare them. I want to make enough money to fix myself, to get my old body back. I want to live in a house on the beach.

I don't tell myself the odds I'll be dead before 30. I take a drink, and I try to smile without showing my teeth.




FIN