1

***** PART II:******

Is that all there is? The Death of Billy Pilgrim Vonnegut.

LETTERS FROM A DRAFT DODGER AND THE UNSUNG COWARDLY FUTURE PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE RETURN OF THE EX-WIFE FROM HELL..... We are given a break since our first outing was training mission, and then it's six months in country. Meaning we will be stuck in the jungle, the villages, the fields, rice paddies for six months so that we become a well-oiled fighting machine. Chow is now down for Marine Corp personal. The voice comes over our loudspeaker as strangely our food is much better than one would imagine being stuck in a jungle, a swamp I called Commie Disneyland. After chow, we go back to our bunks and smoke, drink and start hunting for letters from home. I see a strange letter with postage stamps from France. Who the hell in France is writing me a letter? Wait, I found myself remembering that my lucky as cousin the Mormon had sent me letters and pictures of how cushy he had it. Yes, that cousin of mine Ricky Monaco, a Mormon convert weaseled his way out being drafted to go to a missionary mission in friggin France. He mentioned that his roommate was Mitt Romney. Mitt's real name is Willard. What a bunch of squares, young Republicans and Mormons are like an insurance salesman, boring and looking for angle to bamboozle you into signing on the dotted line. It sure was the right place and right time for Ricky and Mitt.

2 It was strange; I had a friend who was Mormon, and he never clued me in how the Mormons avoided the draft, but then again. Bob Tanger, as a Mormon my have been expelled or excommunicated by then, as he became a smoker and a lover of a wild Korean exchange student, high-school girl who majored in being a tramp. This of course the down and dirty fun life leads him far away from that strict code of Mormon theology and boredom. Yep, I have all those letters stuck in a journal, I never thought they may be worth anything. It is strange, but I can remember almost all those banal letters from home, although at the time any letter brought a little smile that somewhere in the world, someone remembers me. Hi Cousin, I am here in France working my tail off trying to get these strange people to accept the Truth and light. Mitt Romney is our leader, and he is trying to keep up our spirits. To be honest, we haven't made a single convert, yet. We stuck here sharing a toilet, and it is really tough going, although the food is good, the people are mean spirited. Most of them don't even believe in God. We are trying. but most of these French commies slam the door in our faces and swear in French. The French just drink wine, smoke and complain. They really hate Americans. Hope are you doing good Coz and stay safe. Hang in there, Ricky

I keep the letter just for grins and stash it with the rest. I mutter to myself, next time those Mormons come to my door; I am going to join up since it has to be better than this crap. My cousin was one lucky bastard; he got the best toys, as a kid and could con my Grandfather out money to get a car. I can still remember the radio-controlled boat and toys all from Marshall Fields piled up for that turd. Just as my mind was flooding back to childhood, I heard the nurse step in order to check my stats. Oh yes, I am not dead yet. Just laying in limbo. Even though I am paralyzed, I can still see, but I can't move a muscle or talk to inform them that I think I have been poisoned. The nurse scans the information into her tablet and looks up as another older nurse comes in. Did his kids ever come back? We need to find out about if he has a DNR and get this all this wrapped up?" Damn those kids, just unplug me and let me go. They don't care they are just too lazy to try to find my Will. Those idiots. I try to blink, next I attempt of moving my fingers. Nothing that I can tell.

3 Get those kids on the phone and make sure they bring in the documentation. I want to shout those idiots are most likely out with their friends; my daughter will be at the pool getting a tan, and my son will likely be hung over from a night of drinking. Both nurses now walk out and left back to let my mind float downstream, upstream from past to present. Just as I was slipping away, I hear footsteps, narrow and tiny steps creeping toward my room. My eyelids are stuck open, so I can see. Damn it is my ex-wife carrying some papers. That bitch is most likely here to gloat. I figured it out, she will claim that she is still in the Will. Her skinny body is peering it at me, and she thinks I am near death. I see her smirk; she is such a evil, con-artist, that I am hoping that I can get out of this friggin bed and scare her to death. Come on Jesus, one break to get even with her. Get me out of this bed to put the fear of god in her. Hey God, she emptied my checking account, forged documents to get a loan using my name, cheated then ran off with some younger idiot. Now has come back to try to take the pennies off my grave. I can see her in her cheap dyed blonde hair, broken Roman nose staring down at me. She is decked out in her skinny jeans and top that tries to make her C-cups bigger, most likely she will try and sweet talk the staff for information on my status and claim we are still married. She never did her homework, as my life insurance was dropped, when I lost my job. I had to cut down and figured, that if I am dead, the life insurance was only going to help the kids lie around the house even more than they do now. My nurse comes in while my ex-wife, Tara is sniffing around to run another of her scams. Tara now puts on her actress face and turns to the nurse. This is my Husband, and I was out of town, do you have a status on his condition? The bitch puts on a sad face which is totally fake, but the nurse most likely be conned. She turns to my exwife, and states the obvious, Well. It doesn't look good, no movements, but his vitals are still solid. Now, I am pissed and want to scream: SHE IS NOT MY WIFE; SHE IS MY EX-WIFE AND A CON-ARTIST. Tara now staggers up to the nurse, as she always has a snoot full of her morning cups of Vodka and smiles. Could you please give a status on my dear husband. The nurse now turns and sadly says. He hasn't made any progress yet, and we are wondering if you have his documentation on his final wishes. Tara now staggers up to the nurse, as she always has a snoot full of her morning cups of Vodka and smiles. Could you please give a status on my dear husband.

4 The nurse now turns and sadly says. He hasn't made any progress yet, and we are wondering if you have his documentation on his final wishes. Just then I watch as she pulls out my old Will from a Coach knock off hand bag. That Bitch, I feel my anger rising, and I am trying to scream. NO! She is conning you! I was trying to will my body to get up. Tara stared smiling and pulling out the sections of the will that said do not Resuscitate, and she was the beneficiary. The nurse nodding and asked to make copies, and as she took the paperwork, the exwife smiled that evil smile of hers. This was the last straw; she already stole all the money out of the joint account. I feel my muscles burning as I try to lift my hands to move my arms. My blood pressure monitor is beeping and out of the corner of my eye, I can see that my blood pressure is now at 180. Tarsa's mouth is open, and her little reptilian brain is most likely thinking that I am making a comeback. As she moves over to my bed, I am certain she is going to unplug my monitors, but my luck did hold, as the Nurse comes back my Monitor wakes her up. The nurse looks at the monitor and writes down the number, then pages my Doctor, who most likely is golfing or at meeting on hedge funds for the Uber wealthy. Is he going to have a stroke? My ex-wife chimes in hopefully. The nurse shoots her a disgusted look. No, but I am getting the doctor involved. I don't have a watch or a cell-phone, but it seems to be an hour later for the doctor to show up. My blood pressure is still at 180, as I have been trying to move my hands and mouth. Something is changing, but for now. I am still stuck. I feel a tingling sensation in my hands and am starting to feel my lips. The doctor sauntered in looking perturbed that he was disturbed. Nurse, what is his status? His blood pressure is staying at 180. The doctor walks over, grasps my wrist and checks my pulse. Hmmm? Pulse is strong. Do you have his chart? The nurse hands him my chart, which on this day, age should have been electronic, but scrawled on paper. Tara, the she devil is looking on, hoping that this means the end. Before, the doctor speaks he looks at my ex-wife. Miss, are you related to the patient? I am his wife. Doctor and was here trying to get a status. Our children are so worried. What a lie! The kids have seen me once while I have been here. My lips are tingling, but nothing comes out as I try to form the words, SHE IS A LYING, NO GOOD THIEVING .!

5 My blood pressure monitor goes off again, and doctor reads the test results. Well, Mrs. Vonnegut, your husband's blood pressure going up is a good sign. Tara, now tried her best acting, since our first dates. Oh THAT IS GOOD TO HEAR. Nurse, keep in an eye on his blood pressure and if stays evaluated let me know, if continues to stay elevated, then give him five milligrams of Lisonpril until once a day until we run some more tests. Tara now exists stage left. I didn't know if she was behind my condition, but I had a feeling that I had been poisoned; it was either her or those damn co-workers that were pissed at me for turning them in. My tingling muscles stop and I am exhausted, if only I could speak. A caregiver walks in and is hiding out from their boss. The woman turns on the TV and sits in a chair located in the corner of my room. Since she knows I can't talk; she feels golden. Hey, this schmuck can't complain about her using my room to avoid work. She flips through the channels until she hits about that show with Kelly whatever her name is? The one that worked with that ancient guy Regis Dilbert. She permanently perky and very annoying. I try to close my eyes, but can't. Son of a Bitch. I must have just fallen asleep and dream away from this crappy show. Could somebody please give a sponge bath? It is my one thought for now, but no one in the hospital seems to be bothered by the patient who can't talk. Stuck in this white-room with the crappy paintings from China and a TV droning on like white noise; I feel my brain slipping backward into a dream-like state. The caregiver turns the channel to the News, and it is Mitt Romney on pushing his love for America and his ability to confront and defeat Iran. Mitt you are a privileged kid who escaped your duty nicely, in France no less; most of my friends headed for Canada. I flip back to my last days in Vietnam, the day I almost bought the big one. We had been in country for the full six months, and it was sometimes days of boredom, mud, bugs, heat and rain then crazy bat-shit operations from a foe, an enemy who was fighting on his turf with a dedication that proved to be deadly. We were trying to track down VCs buried supplies and ammo. My platoon captured six VC hiding in hole and rousted them all out, except for one guy, who clung inside the tunnel shouting at us.

Our unit had a Vietnamese interpreter who shouted at the guy to come out. The skinniest guys in our unit were the tunnel rats, and once we fragged the tunnel, by dropping in a grenade they were supposed to go into the tunnel to see what is left, ammo, men. It is a very dangerous job that incredibly seemed to go to skinny Hillbillies who used to work in coal mines. You have to be somewhat crazy and dearanged to drop yourself in the hole where the enemy may still be residing. The last VC would not come out so we dropped in a grenade. Kaboom. Now, our Tunnel rat, PFC, Jeff Boyer a true hillbilly coal miner entered the tunnel. HOLY CRAP! Boyer shouted as he entered deeper into the tunnel with just a flashlight and a pistol. Boyer scrambled out yelling That guy is still... still alive! We now started digging around the hole to pull the Viet Cong out of his hole. We hear some swearing in Vietnamese and see a grenade pop up from this damn hole. That little gook threw up a grenade. Sadly, he didn't understand the meaning of gravity, as he threw the grenade straight up in the air and like a Wily Coyote cartoon, it came back straight down on that dumb son of a bitch. We all dropped and dived for cover. The noise seemed to shatter my senses and stop my hearing. I was dazed and confused when rocks hit me in the hip and backside. I was bruised, but not badly wounded. Once we got our bearing, we pulled the Gook out to see his legs gone and that SOB survived forty-five minutes. Before the guy died, he shouted us his theories in Vietnamese stating that the VC were number one, and the Marines number ten, then he finally died. The Interpreter had laughed, but we were all getting sick of this routine, an enemy that would give his life and then blend away or who changed clothes and was now a farmer. We changed, no longer the helpful Americans spreading democracy and stop the spread of communism. After a while standing in the mud, you say to self, fuck it, let'um turn Commies. We had tried to keep on the good side of the peasants, but the VC was paying them for booby trapping are paths back to base. It was a frustrating mess. I saw men of my unit get blown apart by just taking one lousy step. I got back to the base to decompress and read letters from home. Thankfully, Ma and Dad still wrote diligently trying to keep my spirits up.

7 Dear Son, Hang in there Meatloaf. You don't have to worry about anything when you get home, as we want to get home and just rest and relax. Most of your friends have escaped the draft or are now are protesting. We do have some sad news, as one of your friends Andy Crapper, drowned. His drunken Father Ralph, finally came back from Florida after ditching the family for all those years. Andy's mother thought he would be a good influence on the family, but was she wrong. In a drunken rage, he kicked Andy out of the house, and Andy went with his friends. They lost control of the boat, and it dipped over and he drowned in Fox Lake. Sorry about the bad news, but since Andy lived at our house... I thought you would like to know. We want this damn war to end and get you home safely. We will see you soon, Kido. Love Dad, Mom and Granny I was shocked but not really shocked. Andy I was best buds, but his father was somebody who should have been locked up. My Mother helped with money, when the infamous Andy's father, Ralph went on the lam to Florida. Andy spent his many nights eating our food and hanging out. Now he was dead even though I was the one being shot at. I met Andy when I was six, and he was five. He was a nice kid, who was skinny and hungry. He could be a great friend or at times a rotten bastard. I still remember one of our fights. Andy kicked me in the nuts, when I told him, his Father was no good. I never forgot that kick in the nuts. However, even though, I was only six when he kicked. However, even though, I was only six when he kicked me in the nuts, that pain is something you never forget. My little brain was right about his Father. I had enough information about that son of a bitch to prove that even a little tike knows when adult is a total scum bag. Ralph, the Father to all the Crappers was a full-time drunk, a con-man and a salesman with a great pitch if you could believe his lies. Stories abound about his drunken escapades when the kids were small became the thing of gossip, but truthful gossip. He was like one of those scummy TV preachers, as he went to college at Wheaton and then married his teacher Helen Wagner, a bookish drab lady, who was bible thumper, incompetent teacher, overwhelmed mother and someone who possessed no logic, or common sense about men. Her husband of choice was a useless, sponge of a man who dishonored her and the kids, as if he had created cockroaches not kids. Once Father Ralph came home so drunk that he even pissed in his own living room. It was that Christmas when he took off with a drunken girlfriend after emptying the family bank account. Poor Andy lived to dream of this man coming back and being a great father. Ralph finally came home years later realizing that he could con his abandoned wife out of money. I meet the great man a couple of times, the first time he was drinking out of a flask and driving his new Audi, a posh car he got, for coming back to his long suffering dumb wife. As a man, he was bag of brags and a constant snootful of booze.

8 I shake my head thinking how Andy's father had no right to kick anybody out of the house. I am sad and depressed, but slog through and found another letter. Oh, it is my damn cousin Ricky. Maybe he overdosed on french-food. Dear Couz, Thankfully, we have moved to a much better building. We have very big rooms, Very comfortable. The building had beautiful gilded interiors, a magnificent staircase in cast iron, and an immense hall. I feel we are in a Palace. It is an impressive structure and makes our tough job a little better. Now we even have a Spanish chef called Pardo and a house boy, who prepared lunch and supper five days a week. We have made a few converts, but the French our stubborn. Plus now, they are protesting the War, and Mitt considers them draft dodging hippies, not like you Coz. They all have that long-hair, constantly smoking cigarettes or worse yet pot right in the open. These hippies make us sick, as they are so UN-patriotic. I have told Mitt how you guys are beating the Commies, and he wishes you the best. In a way, we feel a bond, as being Mormons, we are like the army of righteousness and have a strict code, just like you and your fellow Marines. Best wishes all of us in France, Rick. I felt that Credence Song, Fortunate Son now playing inside my head. The one that has these lines. Ooh, they're red, white and blue. And when the band plays "Hail to the chief," Ooh, they point the cannon at you, Lord, It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no senator's son, son. It ain't me, it ain't me; I ain't no fortunate one, no, Yeah! Some folks are born silver spoon in hand, Lord, don't they help themselves, oh. But when the taxman comes to the door, Lord, the house looks like a rummage sale, yes,