A song is playing. A song about a policeman who does drugs. I smile, and look around me, knowing that my colleagues have no idea why I’m acting like this. Oh, how awfully fitting!
We’re packed into our uniforms, ready to deal with “the folk upstairs” as our Chief Officer has christened them. I’ve got my bag ready next to me, and the extra pocket in my uniform is prepared.
“Steady. We go in 5,” is whispered around. I look at my firearm, my lovely little MP5. A 9mm, fully automatic, hand-sized portion of hell for those on the business end of her, but a real darling for those handling her.
“This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine,” the words come unbidden, but ever welcome, comforting me, and reminding me of days where life was simper, and I was handing out bigger portions of hell to more people.
“My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life,” They continue, leading me on, killing the time, before the time for killing.
“My rifle, without me is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless,” these words however echo around, and I look up. My fellow ex-marines are mumbling along, our words almost in prayer, and the rest are watching warily. We jarheads continue our prayer.
Now the song switches. Hail and kill. I smile again. Ironic really. At the moment, we jarheads, who are now police, are hailing our weapons. We are preparing. Soon, we will kill.