"Get down!"

Company B, 4th Battalion, 21st Infantry, 11th Light was ordered out on routine patrol.  Everything was calm until hill 56, about 70 miles southeast of Chu Lai.  Then the shit hit the fan.

Sniper fire erupted from a nearby field.  The group, moving through long grass, was completely exposed.  Bullets whizzed by Auron's head and he was suddenly spattered with blood.  He pressed himself flat to the ground as his squad leader screamed out orders. 

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

The radioman went down to his left – a bullet exploded out the back of the man's head like it was a ripe melon.  To Auron's right, his friend James took a bullet in the thigh and went down screaming.  It was a hairy fucking furball.  No one had expected Charlie to show up for a dance this morning.

Son of a bitch! 

Auron was pretty sure, when his squad leader took a bullet in the chest, that he wasn't gonna get out of this one alive.  Over half the squad was dead and the bullets were still coming.  He'd only been in Nam for two months and it was a nightmare.  He turned eighteen and got a draft notice.  He'd never even been laid.  Now his ass was pinned down under enemy fire with no radio, no commander, and shit for ammo.

That's it.  I'm a dead man.

Suddenly, the bullets stopped.  The sounds of moaning injured men filled the vacuum of sound created by the cessation of gunfire. 

I have to get to that radio.

Slowly, Auron began to scrape his way to the nearly headless radioman.  Keeping as flat as possible he belly slid to his left, holding onto his M-16 and saying "Hail Mary" in his head even though he wasn't Catholic.  When he got close, the gunfire started again.

Shit!

Swallowing hard and squeezing his eyes shut, Auron wondered why the hell he hadn't gone with the guys to that whorehouse last week.  He was gonna die, face down in the dirt of Vietnam, without ever having come outside of a hand job. 

I swear.  I get out of this alive and I'm not waiting for the right girl anymore.

There was a lot of other shit he wanted to do before he died.  Sure, he wanted to see the Grand Canyon, visit France, and go to college – but having a proper orgasm seemed to be so much more important that all the rest of it right now.   Fucking was a rite of passage – like smoking your first joint or getting hung over on shit beer and throwing up in your boots.

Well, two outa three ain't bad.

The gunfire came to a halt again.  Auron lay still, trying to control his breathing and keep a cool head.  He was only a few feet from the radio now.  It didn't look damaged.  If he could make it to the radio, he could report in and get the rocket jocks up on patrol to fry the Sumbitches with napalm. 

Light up Charlie's ass.  See how he likes it.  Mother Fucker.

After a few minutes, Auron figured it was clear – or as close to it as he was going to get.  He took a deep breath and got ready to make another move for the radio.  That's when he heard voices.

Only two things happened when Charlie decided to investigate after an attack – you took it execution style in the head, or you were a POW.  Auron didn't think either option sounded very good.  Not that he had a lot of choice.  If he could keep still, the long grass might hide him.  Charlie might overlook him.

That's when the radio rang.

What the fuck?  There's no incoming on that thing!

Auron started to panic.  This wasn't supposed to happen.  It didn't make sense.  The radio wasn't made to ring.  However, that was beside the point right now.  It was ringing and about to give away his position.  He jerked a hand down, pulled out his M1911-A1 sidearm, and aimed for the radio. 

I do this and it's over.  No backup.  Nothin'.

He pulled the trigger.

-----------------

The tiny wind-up travel alarm clock went sailing across the room when Auron's hand shot out and connected with the molded plastic exterior.  It connected soundly with the far wall of the bedroom and shattered into small pieces of glass, metal and abused plastic.  This, however, did not stop the ringing sound that had jolted Auron awake.

Damn.  Another alarm clock busted.

Groping to the right a bit, Auron fumbled with the phone receiver.  Dragging it under the covers to his face he growled, "What!"

"Fuck you too."  Jecht sounded amused.  "It's after twelve.  Get you're ass up.  No amount of sleep will ever make you look good."

Auron mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "SOB."

"I heard that."

"I don't care."

Jecht laughed.  "Am I comin' over tonight?" 

"Yeah."  Auron popped his neck and stretched.  "I gotta do some housekeeping first.  How's seven?"

"Sure."

"You gonna walk or ride the bike?"

The incredulous tone of Jecht's voice made it clear that the question was stupid.  "Ride."

"Can you stop by Sal's and pick up the pizza?"  Auron reached a hand out an pulled the covers off his head.  "It'll be on my tab.  Ya won't have to pay." 

"What am I, a goddamn delivery boy?"  Jecht sounded annoyed.

"Fine."  Auron's tone was flippant. "I'll just drink the import beer and smoke the joints by myself, dick." 

"Ok," Jecht sighed.  "I'll pick up the pizza."

"Thanks."  The reply was suspiciously like a grunt.

"No prob, Sleeping Beauty," teased Jecht.  "Catcha later."

"Ja."

--------------------

Auron felt like shit.  At least once a week he had a nightmare about Nam.  If it wasn't the firefight that got his ass put in a POW camp, or the torture that followed, it was visions of the final days he spent in Saigon during his reup.  Getting Braska and Yuna the hell out of there had been a nightmare all its own.  The dreams left him feeling pissed off, frustrated, and generally out of control.  And when Auron felt out of control, only one thing put his world to rights – cleaning his weapons.

Sliding out of bed, Auron ran his hands through his long hair and headed for the kitchen.  Coffee was the first order of business. 

Once the Maxwell House was brewing, he moved to the stereo and flicked the power.  Auron only spent serious money on two things besides drugs – weapons and music.  Though he could use just about any type of weapon with deadly accuracy, when it came to music Auron was less than proficient.  In other words, short of air guitar, the man was inept – tone deaf and couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.

This fact didn't stop Auron from enjoying the hell out of singing with his albums at the top of his lungs.  If someone didn't like his voice, they could kiss his ass.  Turning the volume on the Pioneer main up over the halfway mark, he flipped through a bin holding his treasured LPs.  Frowning in concentration, he finally found what he was looking for.

Oh Yeah!  Mr. Clinton, drop da bomb!

Auron had eclectic taste in tunes.  His library included everything from Charles Mingus to Led Zeppelin, and the Stones to Peter Paul and Mary.  Kimahri had turned him on to Parliament Funkadelic recently and he was absolutely in love.  Tales of Kidd Funkadelic and Hardcore Jollies" were in heavy rotation.  This morning, Auron felt a need to get his funk on.  "Tales" was placed on the Technics turntable and he headed for the bathroom to take a shower.

Bass started to thrum in the small two-room efficiency.  Auron bounced with the beat as he moved through the apartment.  Turning on the shower, he whipped off his BVDs and brushed his teeth while the water got hot.  As soon as steam started to rise from the stall, Auron hopped in.

It wasn't long before he was humming along with the music.  The song "Butt to Butt Resuscitation" gave way to "Let's Take It To The People" while Auron washed his hair and applied cream rinse.  His attitude was beginning to improve.  He sang along with the chorus to "Undisco Kidd" as he ran a bar of Ivory soap over his body.

"Move, your sexy body.
Baby let me see you move it all across the floor.
Move, your sexy body.
Every time you wiggle you hear the men holler for more."

By the end of the song, his shower was finished.  He hopped out of the enclosure and ran a towel over his body as the next song started.  It was his favorite.  He darted, naked, into the front room and cranked the sound.  The walls started to shake.

"Yeah, they call me the kid,
Sexy man,
But I know nothing about the great big H…"

Auron was singing at the top of his lungs while he poured himself a cup of java.  His next-door neighbor was banging on the wall and shouting for him to shut the fuck up and Auron couldn't hear a damn thing.  Even if he had, he wouldn't have cared.

"If you ain't gonna get it on,
Take your dead ass home! (Now light my fire, baby!)
If you ain't gonna get it on
Take your dead ass home (a-flick-a my Bic, even!)…"

Shakin' his 'thang, Auron took a sip of his coffee and then left it on the counter.  The people in the building across the street got a fantastic show as the man got down with his bad self in his living room.  Auron had never bothered to get curtains for the huge windows that covered the far wall of his apartment.  He just didn't care.

"There once was a man from Peru
Who went to sleep in his canoe
He was dreaming of Venus
And took out his penis
And woke up with a handful of goo …"

Wet hair flicking around his head, Auron danced his way to the coat closet.  He'd done a bit of 'modification' to the place after moving in.  Pushing on a panel on the left sidewall of the storage area, a small passage revealed itself.  Turning sideways, and still singing, Auron slid into the opening and flicked a switch.

"Well, flick-a my Bic, baby!
If you ain't gonna get it on
Take your dead ass home …"

Auron smiled as he sang the chorus.  He was feeling much better now.  Turning a dial on a rather large gun safe, he entered the combination and unlocked his armory.

"Well, light my fire baby, flick-a my Bic
I'll cum if you call …"

The arsenal was pretty impressive for a personal cache.  The M-16 he'd had when he left Nam for the second time was housed next to a Marine issue M40A1 sniper rifle with a redfield 3-9x accurange mounted scope.  He slung each weapon over a shoulder and reached in to pick up a pair of  M1911-A1 .9mm hand guns.  He left the two Remington shotguns – a police model 870 and a Wingmaster – and his cleaning kit along with a Colt .45, an array of switchblades, and a remarkable amount of ammo on the shelves.  He moved back to the living room, singing as he went, to place the weapons on a folding card table.

"There once was some freaks from L.A. (and what'd they do?)
Who came to New York to play (yeah?)
They was busted by the pussy posse (pussy who?)
And the prosecutor popped them in the pen …"

First load deposited, Auron danced back into the closet to retrieve the cleaning kit and the two shotguns.  He hadn't shot the .45 recently and sharpened the knives last week so he shut the safe and boogied his way back out to the card table.

"Get off your ass and jam!
Oh they call me the kid
Let's get it on, y'all …"

The song was nearing an end.  Parliament Funkadelic had done its job and Auron's spirits were much improved.  He went into the bedroom, put on a pair of black cotton drawstring pants, and came back out.  After closing up the entry to his stash and shoving the coats up against the wall, he went to thumb through the LPs while the tune wound down.  It was time to take it down a notch. 

"It's only rock n' roll.
If you ain't gonna get it on
Take your dead ass home
If you ain't gonna get it on
Take your dead ass home …"

After some consideration, Auron plucked a Pink Floyd album from the bin.  Nothing too downer, but something much more mellow.  He had meticulous work to do now and it wouldn't do to rush it.

"(turn the drums up a little for me...yeah!)
(We're gonna do it one more time, and I want everybody)
(Y'all ready?)
(Are you ready? I'm ready?)
(Hit it!) …"

Normally he listened to Beethoven's 3rd Symphony in E-flat Major, "Eroica" when cleaning his guns, but he just wasn't in the mood for classical.  He'd be getting high later - might as well start getting in the frame of mind for it and the Doors just didn't sound all that appealing at the moment.

"If you ain't gonna get it on
Take your dead ass home
(come here, ladies. Move in close!)"

The song was over.  Auron picked the tracker needle up off the LP and swapped out Funkadelic for Wish You Were Here.  The ethereal strains of "Shine on You Crazy Diamond" began to fill the apartment.  Auron could now hear his neighbor banging on the wall and shouting, "Turn that shit down or I'm calling the cops!"  He grinned, turned down the volume and went to the wall.  He banged back and shouted, "OK! It's down!"

Auron went to the counter, picked up his coffee, and pulled a chair to the card table.  Seating himself, he took a long drink of java and decided to start with the riffle.  He opened the cleaning kit and took out some cotton patches, Tetra Gun spray, Brichwood Casey Gun Scrubber, an acid paint brush, a bronze wire brush, a nylon brush, a brass cleaning rod and jag, and Shooters Choice bore cleaner.  Arranging the products in a row down the right side of the table for easy access, he picked up the M40A1 and got down to business.

With swift practiced motions, Auron took out the bolt, stuck a pad on the end of the brass-cleaning rod and prepped it.  Running the rod through the bore of the gun, he wiped it with every pass.  Once he was satisfied, he used the brass jag to push clean cotton patches through the bore until they came out spotless.  He picked up the pressurized scrubber solvent and gave a hit to the action.  The repetitive nature of the work was almost comforting.

"Remember when you were young,
You shone like the sun.
Sine on you crazy diamond …"

He went back over the rifle with trained eyes, inspecting to ensure he'd missed nothing.  A light coat of the Tetra Gun spray was next.  He meticulously removed the excess and then took up the paintbrush.  A thin film of oil was then carefully painted onto all the working surfaces.  Auron didn't rush himself.  A working weapon meant life and death.  He wasn't about to have his ass handed to him because of personal error.

"Welcome my son, welcome to the machine.
Where have you been?
It's all right, we know where you've been …"

M40A1 done, he moved to the M-16.  It was really a shit weapon in a lot of ways, but he was attached to it for more reasons than he could count.  It really was a filthy piece of machinery.  The only thing worse was an AR15.  The things shuttled debris from the bore directly into the bolt carrier!  Every time you fired an M-16, you had to strip clean the thing.  It was a pain in the ass.  The M40A1 was a superior weapon – yet he held onto his M-16 and fired the thing at least every other week. 

"Welcome my son, welcome to the machine.
What did you dream?
It's all right we told you what to dream …"

Auron could completely disassemble and clean the M-16 in ten minutes in almost total darkness.  He'd done it that much since the age of eighteen.  Every time he cleaned it, he wondered how his life might have been different if he'd dodged the draft.  But then, he wouldn't have met Braska and it was honestly stupid to play the 'might-have-been' game.  If he'd been white and born with the last name Kennedy he might have been fucking president too, but it didn't do shit for you to sit and wonder.

The M-16 was done.

"And did we tell you the name of the game, boy,
We call it Riding the Gravy Train …"

He moved to the Wingmaster pump action.  Auron really liked his Wingmaster.  It was one of the only guns he had purchased himself.  The M-16 was army issue.  The USMC didn't let the M40A1 off of Quantico in the hands of anyone other than a Marine without some heavy-duty authorization.  The M1911-A1 .9mm handguns were also standard issue and came with his job.  He'd obtained the 870 police model Remington shotgun from his handler when he'd moved to New York from San Francisco.  Only the Colt and the Wingmaster were all his.  If he ever gave up his line of work, they would be the only two guns in his safe that the US Government wouldn't attempt to recall. 

"And did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for the cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage? …"

"They sure fucking did, Roger."

Once again, disassembly and strip commenced.  Cleaning was swiftly completed, followed by oiling, and the Wingmaster moved to the growing pile of weapons on his left that were now ready for action.  The 870 police model joined the stack not long after and the last song of the album played out.

"Nobody knows where you are
How near or how far.
Shine on you crazy diamond …"

The turntable automatically moved the tracker head upward and back to the start of the album.  Only the .9mm handguns were left.  Auron was going to pay special attention to these.  They had seen quite a bit of action recently, thanks to that fucker Seymour.  A grim smile came to Auron's face when he thought about his last encounter with the drug dealer.  That score needed to be settled - and soon.  Taking the last two guns apart into their respective parts, Auron pondered how he was going to manage to use these two weapons to kill the blue haired little bastard. 

His shoulder wound was essentially healed.  It wasn't one hundred percent, and it still itched sometimes, but he tried to see it as a valuable lesson.  He couldn't allow himself to be distracted.  Not trusting your instincts got you killed.  And, Auron's instincts told him that something big was on the horizon.  He wasn't interested in finding himself on the wrong side of a gun.

Auron got up and got a new cup of coffee.  Sipping, he opened the fridge in search of something resembling breakfast and came up a bit lacking.  Beer, more beer, something growing mold in a plastic container, milk that had gone sour, and something he thought might have been cheese at some point all stared back at him from the white interior. 

That's just not gonna cut it.

He opened a cabinet.  Ramen, moldy bread, and some Kraft Macaroni and Cheese were the available options.  Since the milk was history and there was no butter, ramen was it.  It didn't sound very good. 

Sighing, he topped of the coffee cup and went back to the table and its two handguns in pieces.  Auron stood over the table and stared at the parts, considering options.  Finally, he scratched his head and sat down.  He swiftly reassembled the two weapons and left them, with the cleaning supplies, out on the table. 

The stack of guns to his left were taken to the closet and stowed in the safe as the Floyd album played.  Pulling a denim jacket off a hanger, he tossed it over the guns on the table and then went into his bedroom and grabbed a T-shirt.

"How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year…"

Five minutes later, Auron was out the door and on the way to SoHo.  He left the music on.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

Author note: So I'm back! Did ya miss me?
^_^
It's a long chapter for this fic and kind of a roller coaster. I also couldn't have managed it without a lot of help from Mignonne and several very detailed websites regarding the cleaning procedures for the various weapons listed here. Thanks to both of them.
Amberlee