(DECADES EARLIER)
It was decades earlier. Earlier than when, you may wonder? Why, earlier than the moment when the disgusting sound of Raymond Eawest's fart would be heard through seven feet of flan by the undercover operative known by his current employer as Ralph Smith, but known by his friends and bandmates as Ralf.
It was 1979, and it was the goddamn 4th of July. Again. Ray Eawest was furious. He was THIS close to grabbing his M-1 Garrand and a couple of grenades from the closet and showing those inconsiderate sonsofbitches what real ordinance sounded like. He knew he should be used to it. Fact was, for years he'd been meaning to leave town on the 4th, maybe go camping in the Porcupines as far away from civilization as possible, but he procrastinated and the "holiday" always caught him off guard and he'd be sitting there at midnight on July 3rd and the idiots would start "honoring the brave soldiers who fought and died for our independence" or some bullshit like that, and there he'd go again, almost shitting the bed with reflexive horror.
"I can't believe this! Did I catch jungle rot and malaria, sleep in the muck, and kill dozens of crazy fucking Nips and stack 'em like cords of wood, knee deep in shit for three fucking years in the Pacific to come home and have my neighbors scare the fucking hell out of me once every goddamn year for the rest of my sorry life!? No! And where the hell is Joe?!" Ray shouted, sweaty and shaking as he sat on the edge of his bed. He started to take another sip of his rum and Coca-Cola, but just as it met his lips, another M-80 went off outside, this one very close by. His glass immediately twitched a good three inches and sent half the drink flying onto his face and neck. Even though he didn't even need that drink anyway, it was the last straw. Visions of bloody faces struck by mortars, Japanese faces screaming, rushing toward him, his bayonet thrusting--
He roared.
"God-DAAAMMNNIT!!!"
Ray jumped up from the bed and whirled around toward the closet. The next moments were a flurrying montage of rage. The Bacardi and Coke shattering on the wall, his closet doors flying violently open, rummaging and boxes flying open, the sound of boxes of bullets being dumped into the pockets of his threadbare plaid bathrobe, clink-clink-clinking as they rained down on the two grenades he had already placed therein, and then he was on his way merrily down the hall and down the stairs. His slippers silently paced toward the first floor as he slung the bolt back dramatically and loaded the Garrand, whistling the theme from Bridge Over The River Kwai.
He got to the front door and stopped. He breathed slowly, trying to center himself.
"Fucking rude assholes. I have connections. I can make these pricks disappear!" he snapped as he turned the deadbolt.
Then a floorboard creaked right behind him, and Joe Eawest spoke to his father.
"Aren't you forgetting something, Ray?"
Ray Eawest whirled on his son, raising the barrel up to Joe's face instantly. His finger did not go to the trigger however. He'd learned the hard way to make sure who you are killing before you squeeze off the round. He gasped.
"Joe! What the hell--"
"You may have better luck," Joe smirked, "if you put some pants on, and maybe your rug?" As he said this he looked at his Dad's bald head, which usually was topped with the most annoyingly fake looking toupee. He had underestimated his father, though, and hadn't realized how far gone Ray was into his episode, call it a flashback. He figured it out about a half a second before the butt end of the M-1 clocked him right in the forehead, knocking him out cold.
"Good evening," his father mumbled, "and God Bless the United States of America."
Raymond Eawest went outside.
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