The Drunken Cat

Chapter 1

The Drunken Cat

March 8, 1966

"Lock and load."

In ritual often practiced and easily remembered, Green Beret Staff Sergeant Arturo Hernandez, taps the cartridge clip on his helmet twice, slams it home into the magazine's chamber of his AR-15, and sets his weapon on full automatic.

Special Forces SEAL Petty Officer First Class, Patrick Francis Harrington, smiling broadly, in a good natured show of a comrade in arms, chuckles, reaches over and taps his cartridge clip twice on Arturo's helmet, slams the clip home into the magazine's chamber of his AR-15, and sets his weapon on three-burst mode.

Patrick: "Arturo, I didn't know the Army made a helmet that big, it's like the Eighth Wonder of the World."

Arturo: "Fuck you. You know I was overrun once on my first tour of duty in-country, yet ... here I am."

Patrick: "Here I am? That reminds me, I know this really hot, gorgeously beautiful, perfectly formed, well-stacked, girl - a girl that still gets me hard just thinking about her - who named her Siamese drunken little cat ... I AM ... poor thing."

Arturo: "Here we go, again."

Patrick: "Every morning, after a hot night of passionate unbelievable non-stop sex with me, she would get up, put her little nightie back on; fix us both a cuppa hot coffee with a shot of Irish whiskey and a couple of nice big hot buns covered in delicious melted vanilla icing. She loved vanilla icing; she used to spread it all over her buns. I digress with sweet memories. Anyway, when she would serve me my continental breakfast in bed. She would position herself on top of me and grasp me tighter than you could ever hope to imagine, like some cowgirl about to ride a raging bull. Mind you Arturo, she was going to attempt to accomplish this act of daring-do without her usual use of a rope, spurs, and her grasping hands. As I casually sipped my coffee and enjoyed one of her big buns, licked off the icing first, she would giddy-up on me and believe me it lasted longer than eight seconds. Did I already tell you her grip was amazing?"

Arturo: "Yes, I think you may have mentioned it once or twice. I am finding this hard to believe."

Patrick: "You always play the cynic. Speaking of being hard, she was quite a vision, straddled and saddled on top of me like that, thrashing about in complete uncontrollable frenzied ecstasy, with her little nightie on, balancing a steaming hot cuppa coffee in one hand and one of her nice big hot buns dripping with icing in the other. She never spilled a drop of coffee however, the tasty icing often needed to be licked off. She was quite an accomplished rider."

Arturo: "I know I am going to regret this ... what happened to her cat?"

Patrick: "Don't get your panties all in a bunch; I was coming to that part. After about an hour or two, she would get up off the top of me more than satisfied I can assure you. She would go to the front door in her sheer see-through black silk little nightie, no bra or panties on underneath, fling open the door, try to get her exhausted little pussy to come home after a night on the town, and call out, Here I Am, Here I Am."

Arturo: "I can only imagine."

Patrick: "Her neighbors thought she was crazy, but they sure enjoyed the view.

Arturo: "I bet."

Patrick: "Her cat was always drunk, blasted, whacked, wasted, blotto, always very tight day or night. It was my fault because as I used to stroke her little cat, give her fur a nice rubdown, you can only visualize in your dreams how I made her cat purr - the problem is I would give her cat a wee-nip of the Irish whiskey. After a while, her cat became very demanding, demanding more and more. You know what they say, once a pussy gets a wee-taste of the Irish there is nothing else that will ever satisfy a pussy as much ever again."

Arturo: "I have only heard you say that before."

Patrick: "Quit interrupting, you are the one that asked about her cat. Anyway, one day I AM did not come home, and my girlfriend kept calling to no avail ... she went up to her neighbors and complete strangers, still in her nightie, asking them, "Have you seen my drunken little pussy, lately?"

Patrick: "Her neighbors were astounded: the men were happily amazed and wanted to generously help her search for her little lost pussy. The women were indignant, you know how unreasonable women can be - they told their men-folk it was none of their business where their neighbor's pussy strayed and they better look after their own little stay at home pussies if they knew what was good for them."

Arturo: "Just tell me ...what happened to her cat?"

Patrick: "Well, this is just speculation, but I think her cat ran off with a tomcat or was run-over by some tank driven by a Marine with an extra-long barrel, the tank I mean ... whatever, but, Believe It or Not Ripley my girlfriend and her drunken cat disappeared as if into thin air. Tragically, I have never seen or heard from my girlfriend or her little cat since. I made a promise to myself that I will never give up my search, in every bar in the World, for a girl who owns a drunken cat."

Arturo: "That is tragic, I feel sorry for you ... you really are pathetic and I especially feel sorry for her neighbors and the people that have to listen to your sad story."

Patrick: "Thanks, I feel sorry for myself, but I will tell her neighbors you send them your condolences. You know what Arturo, what I really miss, every single day and throughout every night is my girlfriend's ..."

Arturo: "Wait, don't tell me, let me guess, what you really miss every day and night is your girlfriend's big hot buns, dripping in icing, and her always very tight little pussy."

Patrick: "How did you know?"

Arturo: "How could I not know? Is everything with you always ... women and food?"

Patrick: "Don't forget about the Irish whiskey."

Arturo: "Have you ever been overrun?"

Patrick: "Yeah, once, at the Battle of the Alamo, a bunch of overdressed damn Mexicans ran right over me."

Arturo: "If we get out of this little predicament were in, Davy Crockett or Jim Bowie, or Danny Boy, or whatever your name is ... I am ... personally going to kick your butt."

Patrick: "One can have their hopes and dreams."

Arturo: "You really are an Irish-American jerk off."

Patrick: "Remember the Alamo you bloody wanker."

Arturo: "What's a bloody wanker?"

Patrick: "I'll tell you when we meet back in the States. I want your fiancée Isabella-Theresa present when I reveal to her all the little secrets that I know about you."

Arturo: "You really piss me off sometimes."

Patrick: "Really ... I'm shocked."

"Fix bayonets"

Arturo unsheathes his bayonet and affixes it to the barrel of his AR-15. He is experienced in hand-to-hand combat and prefers the more traditional use of the bayonet when the fighting and killing gets up close and personal.

Patrick leaves his bayonet sheathed. He is experienced in hand-to-hand combat and prefers a more unorthodox use of the bayonet or knife when it comes to killing someone up close and personal.

Patrick: "Hey Arturo, I've been thinking."

Arturo: "That is a complete impossibility if I ever heard of one, you having a thought. What do you want now?"

Patrick: "Speaking of the Alamo and Mexicans, if I remember right, you play the trumpet don't cha?"

Arturo: "I used to play in a mariachi band, but that was yesterday's news; I think I may have misplaced my trumpet and lost my lips."

Patrick: "You lost your lips, really?"

Arturo: "Just say what you are going to say. Any second now we will be up to our assholes in shit and I would like to be completely through with all your bullshit first."

Patrick: "I was just thinking, impossibility or not, if you had your trumpet, you could play the El Degüello as your kinfolk did at the Alamo and scare the shit out of all four of those NVA battalions. They are not Texans, or Tennesseans, or even Irish you know, and maybe this time you could make the enemy surrender in fear. By the way, I love that song, especially how the Mexican mariachis' play it ... it's one of my favorites."

Arturo: "You would love that song you morbid son-of-a-bitch, El Degüello translated into English means The Slaughter. Don't worry, I will find my trumpet and my lips, get my old Mexican mariachi band back together and we'll all be very happy to play El Degüello as we march over your grave."

Patrick: "Thanks, I would appreciate that. Speaking of the slaughter, don't worry your over-sized big head that contains that little pea-brain of yours about your left flank amigo, ain't nobody gettin' through, unless I am dead." Arturo: "I'm not worried. You are too stupid and ugly to die. I am sure you have many more idiotic stories left to torture me with before you or I die. Set your Browning-fifty to lay down a field of fire to your center-left. I'll take care of your right flank."

Patrick: "Wow, you must be a General Westmoreland; it sounds like it took you at least two weeks to figure out such a detailed fool-proof plan of action that is sure to work." Arturo: "Fuck you. I can feel the hair on my neck a tingling. I think maybe we are being watched and we're about to have our dance cards filled out."

Patrick: "Yeah, one of them looking at me must be a beautiful NVA woman Staff Sergeant, my dick is gettin' hard."

Arturo: "You really are a fucking moron."

Patrick: "When someone called me a fucking moron when we were kids, I use to say, I know you are, but what am I?"

Arturo: "I know ... very profound."

Patrick: That's about all the profound philosophy and in-depth psychology that you can handle, so that is all I gotta say."

Arturo: "Thank God. Before you adios into the sunset give me a light first, my matches got wet in this Goddamn rain."

Patrick: "Who's the moron? Here, take my Zippo, you can have it, I quit smoking, that shit can kill ya."

Arturo: "Wasn't that your Grandfather's lighter?"

Patrick: "You can have it anyway. If you ever grow a brain larger than the size of a pea and quit smoking, then you can give it to my mother or something."

Arturo: "You can count on me."

Patrick: "I know I can Artemus, you have the heart of a lion and the soul of a Rita Moreno."

Arturo: "Fuck you. Are you ready, my friend?"

Patrick: "I was born ready, amigo."

Arturo: "If I don't make it, promise me you will tell Isabella-Theresa that I loved her with all my heart."

Patrick: "Yeah, I promise ... we will be friends forever. Just remember to keep that enormously big head of yours down, that fat ass of yours tucked in, and do not play the hero. You can tell her yourself how you feel."

Arturo: "Mayo Dios estar con usted."

Patrick: "And, may He also be with you."

Arturo: "Do you always have to have the last word?"

Patrick: "Yes, I do. It's the principle of the thing."

Arturo: "Sometimes you really piss me off."

Patrick: "Thanks, nothing more in life would I rather do then piss you off ... well almost nothing. I would rather be searching for a drunken cat in some bar."

The two friends shake hands. Patrick will be on the East wall with his Crazy-8 Special Forces team, now seven in number, and Arturo will be on the East wall flanking Patrick's right with nine other Green Berets.

Arturo: "See you in Hell, Danny Boy."

Patrick: "See ya when I see ya, Rita."

Patrick casually walks off singing Oh Danny Boy, as if he is in Sacramento on a leisurely stroll in the park and not in Vietnam on a hot rain-drenched evening about to participate in a life and death struggle. He is a moment away from the beginning of one of the bloodiest battles ever caught on film.

"Incoming!" "Incoming!" "Incoming!"