The Violent Society

“Ambush!”
         Quickly, Johnson propped his mounted machine gun and sprayed bullets along the rocky street. The insurgents ran for cover, only to get their intestines blown out, their heads liquefied into red mush, and their arms shredded beyond recognition. Their screams were definitely not human. Nearby, a group of students cried in horror, shielded their eyes, and ran for cover.
         “Mow the fuckers down!” Sarge shouted.
         The tank kept moving forward slowly, so Johnson could get a good view of the ambushers. Another terrorist popped out of nowhere with an RPG, and Johnson blew his head off too. He felt no remorse. Kill or be killed, he thought.
         Then, the street got quiet.
         “Clear!”
         “Great job, Private!” Sarge gleefully replied. “We’ve made it this far! Let’s get some hookers and booze before we go home tomorrow!”
         Such a relief, thought Johnson.
         And so Johnson went back home to the States.

         Six months later, Johnson and Sarge were sitting in McDonald’s eating burgers.
         “It’s so great to be back in America,” Johnson said in relief. “No more blood, or Muslim fuckers killing each other over useless shit.”
         “Yeah,” Sarge replied as he took a bite into his burger, a bloody carcass that was brutally slaughtered by a minimum-wage worker in New Jersey, followed by an intricate packaging process to cover up its death. “I agree.”
         Suddenly, the familiar CNN theme started playing, and they turned to the TV next to them.
         “This just in!” the reporter proclaimed. “Six students have been reportedly shot and cut to pieces in a violent school shooting. Police are still surrounding the building, and are starting negotiations with the alleged shooters, who are holding twenty students hostage.”
         “That’s depressing. Change the channel,” Sarge said.
         Johnson got up and changed it to Die Hard, and watched in delight as Bruce Willis killed swarms of bad guys. After being hypnotized by excessive blood, they switched their attention back to each other.
         “This is wonderful,” Johnson said. “I love America! No worries! I can chill, sleep, and eat fuckin’ McDonald’s instead of that Iraqi ethnic shit.”
         “And those damn Muslims are insane, killing people and stuff.”
         They suddenly overheard a loud conversation next to them.
         “Did you hear that someone was stabbed right outside this restaurant last night? The police picked up the body really quickly, so McDonald’s wouldn’t lose business,” a blond-haired woman said to her colleague.
         The two stopped listening, finished their burgers, and got in their car. As they were driving back to the base, they encountered heavy traffic and came to a halt.
         “Damnit!” Johnson exclaimed as he turned on the traffic report.
         “Shh!” Sarge replied.
         “And for the daily traffic report, the I-55 is backed up due to a road rage incident in which one man was impaled with a pole and another was stabbed through the eye. Authorities are currently cleaning up the mess as to not disturb passer-bys and to get the traffic moving—”
         Sarge turned it off and reclined his seat.

         The next morning, Johnson picked up a newspaper at the barracks’ front door. The main headline read, “SIX SOLDIERS KILLED IN BAGHDAD AMBUSH.” Right below that, another headline said, “SIX STUDENTS DEAD IN NYC SHOOTING.” His eyes completely missed the latter, only to glaze the text of the former. Terrorist cocksuckers, he thought.
         It was 7 a.m., so he dropped the newspaper and got in formation with his unit. Sarge was at the front, giving a speech.
         “Men!” he shouted. “In two weeks we are being shipped to Iraq for another tour of duty!”
         “Damnit,” he murmured to himself. “Back to that fucking hellhole.”
         The soldier next to him, whose mother was killed in a triple murder, heard the whisper. Out of the side of his mouth, he quietly replied, “I don’t know about you, but I think America is definitely more barbaric than any rogue state.”
Johnson giggled under the impression that he was joking.
         “In this country, you’re more likely to get killed within five miles of your own home than in some far-off battlefield. Pathetic.”
         Johnson realized he was serious and felt offended.
         “Privates!” Sarge quickly interrupted Johnson and the soldier.
         The two men jumped to even greater attention.
         “Why are you talking while in formation?!”
         “Permission to speak freely, sir!” Johnson replied.
         Sarge, whose friendship with Johnson stretched back many years, gave permission.
         “This soldier was spewing anti-American propaganda, sir!”
         Sarge walked up to the soldier, to a point where he could feel the body heat and the moisture emanating from his sweat palms. Face-to-face, the sergeant exclaimed, “Is this true?!”
         “No, sir. I was simply—”
         “That is bullshit, private! Johnson never lies to me!”
         Johnson added, “He said that America is a terrorist state.”
         Sarge got infuriated. “Private, that is punishable under military law! You are hereby dismissed!”

         To make a long story short, the soldier was tried in military court and dishonorably discharged. Thanks to the black mark on his record, he served Big Macs to obese customers in business suits who pushed papers for a living and watched soap operas in their free time.
         One night, when he was getting ready for closing time, three masked men ran in, beat the shit out of him, then took $200 from the cash register. The poor ex-soldier lay their as a bloody pulp for hours, with only thoughts of misery to accompany him.
         Land of the free, home of the brave, he thought. And you better damn well be brave in a country like this.
         He died of his wounds later that night. But Johnson and Sarge didn’t give a shit. To them, he was just some Anti-American prick.