iGO TO AFGHANISTAN
Chapter 1: Fredward Benson wants to die.
The recruiters office was plastered obnoxiously wall to wall with various posters, sporting phrases like, "Be all that you can be," or "there's strong, and then there's army strong," along with pictures of proud young men and women striking dynamic poses in their ACU's. The air condition was blasting, making Freddie Benson shiver as he sat across from the ribbon and medal bedecked recruiter.
"You ok son? You look like you're trembling over there. There's no reason to be nervous about joining now, I'll get you squared away and ready to go."
Freddie tried to politely smile, but the effort to make a positive expression would just hurt too damn much he thought. Just get this over with so I can go fight.
"No Staff Sergeant," he replied smartly, "not at all, it's just a bit cold in here."
"Oh, my apologies son, I'll go turn it up a bit." The recruiter got up from his swiveling chair from behind his desk and adjusted the icy thermostat up a bit.
The recruiter returned to his chair and got back to business with his prospective recruit, hopefully, another check off towards his monthly quota, and a step towards his Uncle Sam funded check.
"So why do you want to join the army son? As I'm sure you know, we do have a variety of great benefits, health care, adventure, money for college, job training, but why do you-" he glanced down at Freddie's enlistment papers to remind himself of the brown haired 18 year olds name, "Fred-Ward Benson…is, is that how you say it?"
"You can just call me Freddie, sergeant," replied the unfortunately named youth somewhat curtly.
"Ok, that works, Freddie, why do you want to become a warrior and a part of a team?"
He couldn't say the real reason why, or else he'd be immediately thrown out of the office, his psych evaluation not even being worth doing, he'd be considered insane and a danger to himself. The truth was painful to him, so much so that Freddie didn't even want to think of it, for just the mere thought of the causation of his anguish, the thing that had wrent all his heart strings, was just too much to bear. Betrayal. That's what had happened.
The summer before, all the years of antagonism between Freddie and Sam had come to a strange state of detente. He had been accepted to the University of Chicago, hoping to achieve a double major in Sociology and Computer Science, perhaps one day to use his tech savvy to help better understand criminal behavior. The deviant mind of Princess Puckett had given him the idea. Carly, who for the last two years had been in a serious relationship with her old bad boy fling, Griffen, was moving away the two of them attending UCLA for film school. Sam was staying at home working a new job (most definitely not at Chili my Bowl though, she'd been banned from the chain since her freshman year, and her first misadventure with employment,) and attending one of the local state schools near Seattle. With the old iCarly gang fragmenting, the childish antagonistic flirting that had previously been the hallmark of Freddie and Sam's relationship fell to the wayside, (mostly, that is, not even the Jaws of Life could pry the affectionate teasing out of Sam,) the deeper emotions that the two held for each other had become unveiled. After an intimate encounter at Gibby's going away party, who after getting into shape had joined the Army, Sam and Freddie first had their tenderness manifest, a long night of drunken lovemaking was enough to prove to them that they were past the ribbing and mutual "hatred". Of course at first, the two had wanted to blame it on the alcohol, but they both knew that was their strange deep mutual passion could not be squelched, and needless to say, when it came time for Freddie to go away to the U of Chicago, Sam, despite her best efforts to mask it with humor and insult, and the usual quips of "who's gonna give you tick baths now Freddork?" or "Hey Fredwierd," they both knew what they shared could only be described as an abiding, passionate, albeit secret, love. Months passed like this, emails between them, she said she'd wait for his return. It was unbearable to be apart, but worth it. Then out of the blue, she met that dipshit, Chris, at a Cuttlefish concert, and she was happy with him, or at least that's how it seemed.
Freddie couldn't admit his sorrow to Carly, she couldn't know that he had feelings for Sam, it would just be too , she didn't even know that the two had been seeing each other. There was no one in whom he could confide, Gibby was in Afghanistan, Spencer, though a true bro, was not secure given his proximity to Carly, and his proclivity for inadvertent indiscretion. He couldn't even imagine telling Sam how much he loved her, but also how much she had hurt him, his heart blackened. He didn't want to ruin her happiness, though it felt as if it came at the expense of his own soul.
So he resolved, with no chance left for love, without further causing unhappiness to the one woman he desired more than any riches or Galaxy Wars collectible, he would follow in the footsteps of Gibby, throwing away his full scholarship at the U of Chicago, hopefully to be target practice for some Taliban Mujahideen. Of course, Ms. Benson had objected strongly, making up stories to the recruiter about Freddie's homosexual tendencies, incurable heart murmur, or schizophrenia. Thankfully, the recruiter smelled the bullshit of an astronomically protective mother. During the time he told his mother that he was joining, he ended up having to rent the room by the elevator winch from Lewbert as he had done many years before during his first insurrection against the iron will of Marissa Benson. Furthermore, Freddie was 18, and in his eyes, a man now, and free to get killed if he wanted to.
"Son, son, you still alive in there? You wanna come back down to earth?" the recruiter asked Freddie confusedly. In a daze of thought, Freddie had been distracted, not even realizing that the recruiter had been trying to raise him from his melancholy reverie.
"Oh, sorry, just thinking of a good answer sir." Freddie replied, embarrassed.
"Its fine Freddie," replied the recruiter somewhat suspiciously, "Now what did you think of? Why do you want to become a soldier?"
Freddie looked the recruiter dead in the eyes and gave him a maniacal smirk, running his hands through his hair as he said evenly, "I wanna kill fuckin' hajji's. Sir."
A month later, Fort Benning, GA
"uh ten-HUT!" screamed the Drill Sergeant fiercely, prompting the platoon of nervous looking recruits to all snap to attention. His ACU's bearing the name 'Benson,' on its nametape, Freddie stood at the front of his platoon, holding the tall guidon sharply at an angle in front of him, its red and white banner flapping in the early morning breeze at Fort Benning.
"Pla-TOON! Whadda we do?" screamed the Drill Sergeant interrogatively to his crowd of nervous young recruits before them. Of the answer they were confident, especially Freddie.
"KILL! KILL! KILL!" replied the platoon forcefully.
"Damn fuckin straight we do. Though seeing the state of you pathetic fucks I'd say that ya'll will be doing more of getting killed, killed, killed, than anything. So let's work on it ladies!"
"Whats the word sergeant, whats the word?" the platoon ritualistically called out in unison.
"Five mile fun run!" he replied with ardor, "Left face, and one, two, three,…"
The platoon took off running, chanting cadences as they went. Freddie felt good as the cool morning air entered his lungs, his legs feeling the burn of hard running, but he couldn't slow down. Holding the guidon showed that he was in a position of leadership in his training platoon, and the better he did here, the better his chances of getting the tough job of a Cavalry Scout that he wanted. More chance of enemy contact, more chance he wouldn't have to think about his pain. However, maybe he didn't want to die just yet. The army life was rather to his liking, and his lifelong self discipline that his mother had inculcated into his fiber of being, from tick baths, to room inspections, Freddie had the whole personal responsibility schtick well under hand. Get some, he thought to himself, his warrior brain ticking away underneath his newly shaven head. If Sam could see me now, he thought, cocky and blood drunk on the warrior ethos of basic training, I think she'd leave that fuckup loser boyfriend in an instant anyway.