Salmonella Men on Planet Porno

“Of course you won’t die, honey! All you’re doing is repairing rifles, isn’t it?”

“There’ll be bullets flying all over the place.”

“So just avoid them, then!”

She was completely and utterly unconcerned. I tried to explain the awful realities of war, but soon gave up. Because I didn’t even understand them myself.

“Well, I’d better get your things ready for tomorrow,” said my wife, in exactly the same tone as when I went on a business trip. She started picking over the uniform and equipment I’d been given. “Gosh, is this your identification tag?” she mused. “Wow. And hey, what’s this?”

“Don’t touch that!” I yelled. “It’s a hand grenade!”

In her surprise and panic, she hurled the grenade to the far corner of the room, ran to the opposite corner and buried her head in her arms. After a moment, she turned around with a sheepish look. “Oh. Was it a dud?”

She obviously thought it would explode if you just threw it.

She glared at me as I laughed heartily. “Honey! How could you bring such a dangerous thing home?!”

“What can I do?! They don’t have lockers in the battle zone! I have to bring it all back with me every day. The other soldiers take their guns home, you know. Some of them even have bazookas! That’s right. The other day, a child was playing around with a machine gun her father had brought home, and ended up massacring six people!”

My wife stood speechless for a moment. Suddenly, she slapped the table with her hand. “Oh yes! You’ll need a packed lunch, won’t you.”

“Meals are supplied.”

She laughed. “What? Proper meals? I doubt it, honey!”

Of course she was right. Galibian food tastes like horse feed. One of the country’s most renowned restaurants is quite near my office. But I can never quite bring myself to eat there, and always go home for lunch instead. It stood to reason that the food dished up at the front would be even worse.

My wife pulled out a recipe feature she’d found in a woman’s magazine: “One Hundred Tasty Picnic Lunches”. “Let’s see,” she said as she leafed through it. “I’ve got some chicken. Shall I fry it?”

That night, we were due for some “marital activity”. Normally, once we start, we’re at it for about an hour and twenty minutes. But I didn’t want to tire myself out for my first duty the next day. So, as soon as we’d finished dinner, I jumped straight into bed and went to sleep. Well, after all. It would be a shame to die because I’d had too much sex the night before and couldn’t run away quickly enough.

My wife shook me awake at just past seven the next morning. “You’d better get up, honey,” she said. “You don’t want to be late at the front.”

“You’re right,” I said, hurrying out of bed.

She’d prepared a stupendous breakfast of deep-fried prawns in breadcrumbs, bacon and eggs with pancakes, vegetable juice and coffee with milk.

“It’s to give you energy,” she explained with a smile. What did she have to be so happy about? “Do your best to win that prize for fighting spirit, won’t you!” she added, as if she were sending her child off to the school sports day.

I read the morning paper over breakfast. The ‘War News’ column had taken on particular significance now – seeing as my life depended on it. Things didn’t look good. The Galibian army was in retreat. I read the ‘War Zone Weather Report’: mostly fair, with a southerly wind. ‘Yesterday’s Casualties’: 18 infantry, 1 petty officer. ‘Places To Avoid Today – Fierce Fighting Expected’: Position 16, Position 19, Position 23. I felt sick.

While I was still immersed in the newspaper, I suddenly noticed the time. The fast train would be leaving soon. I got up in a panic, hurriedly donned my uniform, and fastened my helmet onto my back.

“Don’t forget anything, honey. What about your lunch box? And your hand grenade?”

“In my bag.”

“Handkerchief? Wallet?”

“Wallet? I shouldn’t think I’ll need money. All right, I’ll take it anyway.”

“Come straight home when you’ve finished, honey. No dropping in anywhere!”

“Am I likely to?!”

I left the apartment, seen off by my wife’s smiling farewell. In the main street, now bathed in morning sunlight, Galibians were making their way towards the station in streams. They must be commuter soldiers too, I thought. I joined them as they walked along. I suddenly had the strange feeling that I’d lost my identity. All the others were carrying guns; I was the only one holding nothing. What was I doing here? Why was I going to the front? My mind started to wander. Then I came to my senses with a start.

I’d forgotten my toolbox! How could I repair those rifles without a screwdriver? I did an about-turn and started running.

“Oy! Where are you going?”

“You’ll miss the train!”

“You’ll be late!”

I ignored the warnings of the others as I passed them, and just kept running until I reached our apartment. There, I picked up my toolbox before dashing out again and re-entering the main street. The stream of commuter soldiers was now a mere trickle.

By the time I reached the station, my fast train to Gayan had already left. The next departure was at 07.50. I would arrive in Gayan an hour after that. I’d have to run to Position 23 in only ten minutes to reach it by nine o’clock.

The platform was full of soldiers waiting for the next fast train. When it finally arrived, it was packed to the rafters. The doors opened and we all piled in.

“It’s the same every morning. That’s the worst thing about it,” said a little man standing by the opposite door inside the train. His face became wedged in my chest as the crowd behind me surged forwards. “We’re all exhausted by the time we get to the front. They ought to let us go flexi-time. Especially as it’s war.”

“I disagree,” said another soldier with bulbous eyes who was standing beside us. “It’s having to get there during the rush-hour that makes it like proper commuting! After all, we’re not like them namby-pamby part-timers or night workers. You should be proud of that!” A funny thing to be proud of, I thought.

“What position are you going to?” the little man asked me. “Position 23,” I answered in broken Galibian. “It’s a bit far, so I’m worried about being late.”

The little man opened his eyes wide. “You’ll never get there by nine!” he exclaimed. “That’s right on the front! Everyone on this train works at the rear!”

The man with bulbous eyes had been eyeing me suspiciously. Suddenly, he called out to the others. “Hey! This one’s not Galibian! He talks funny!”

The soldiers around us started to grow restless.

“A spy!”

“Yeah! Like that KCIA rat the other day!”

“Get him!”

“I’m not a spy! I’m Japanese!” I shouted in sheer panic.

“Why are you wearing our uniform then?”

“He must be a spy!”

“I’ve come to fix your rifles,” I explained falteringly. “I work for the company that makes your rifles!”

“Eh? So you’re the one that sold us all those duds?!”

They started getting boisterous again.

“I nearly had it yesterday!” The man with bulbous eyes lifted his rifle above his head and started badgering me. “This thing only fires once! I was nearly done for!”

“A lot of men have died!”

“What are you going to do about it?!”

“The bastard! Let’s kill him!”

“It’s not my fault! The company made a mistake!” I cried. “You’ve got to believe me!”

“Oy, you lot! Pack it in! You’re upsetting the other passengers!” yelled a man a little way down the train,