This story is about my Uncle Terry. He is not a tranny. He doesn't even care for those that are. He was in Vietnam. He lives off the disability checks he got. Uncle Terry was not a popular man. We've all heard of a man deserting a battalion, but I don't know if you've ever heard of a battalion deserting a man. Well, that's what happened to Uncle Terry. One day Uncle Terry awoke in the middle of Da Nang. Everyone was gone, and they left him three bottles of Jack Daniels, and some weaponry. So, Uncle Terry downed the bottle of Jack Daniels in two slugs and smashed it into the jungle. He picked up the Kalashnikov, a Glock, the two bottles of Jack, some hand grenades, and off he walked into the jungle--his fate.
Uncle Terry came upon a village. Now, were they Charlie, or were they the people he was sent to protect from Charlie? Uncle Terry didn't know. He took a drink from the bottle of Jack and with hate in his gut, he opened fire. He took that Kalashnikov, and he let it sway like a farmer would a scythe. The people fell before him like hay would fall before a farmer. The men. The women. And by God, even the children. Finally, Uncle Terry stood in the mud, the blood, the guts, and the glory. He was perfectly alone. He took a long swig. His hand brushed against his pants and he felt wetness. He was ashamed because he pissed himself in fear. But then, he realized it was ejaculate. And the shame was replaced by pride.
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