“For chrissake, give me a hand with this!” I struggle to pull the tarp tight. Suddenly, my native guide runs off into the woods. Goddamn Asurians—they’re all the same, whether it’s planet 549 or 5049. A bunch of no-nose cowards.
Of course, Captain Daterape leaves me to do the dirty work. Every time! This is how I wind up out on Podunk-69, digging a massive hole in the woods and trying in vain to stretch a tarp over it. “Just trap ‘em in a hole?” Jesus. I’d like to go back in time two days and smack him in the mouth. And where is he now? Probably in some frat bar on Celestia, getting obliterated on dollar shots while mouth-breathing his story to any high school chick with a fake ID.
Finally I get the tarp stretched over the fourth post, and I start shoveling dirt onto it. Oh man, this looks like crap. Even our idiotic squad is too smart to walk on this.
God, why won’t they just kick me out of the Corps? How am I supposed to write the Great American Novel out on Bumblefuck-123? I’ve done my time!