The Mexican's Weapon

"OH MY GOD!! I can't believe you just said that to me!"

That piercing shriek you hear is Robison and it raises the hairs at the nape of the neck and makes you want to turn around but she's got the keys to the gun locker and you need to get your guns so you can leave.

So you plunge head long into her domain of attention seeking histrionics called The Front Desk.

She swivels her chair, looks you provacatively in the eyes (as always) and says, "Can you believe what that guy just said to me?" She points to a drooling soldier blushing behind the raised counter of The Front Desk.

It seems obvious what's going on here. Robison is a very attractive woman. Attractive women are rare creatures in the world of the military. In the canon of military beauty the different branches fall into, a strictly adhered to, order; Air Force is the pantheon of hotness, Navy/Marines are tied for a distant silver medal and last, finishing weeks after the race was called off on a count of fugly-the Army.

So where ever you find a cute mamasita, you're bound to see the vultures circling. This soldier looks like a buzzard caught in the crosshairs after trying to pick at something more alive than he expected.

The soldier stands motionless under the point of her accusing finger.

"What did he do to you?" you ask, not really wanting to know the answer.

"He called me a Mexican" she spits out every single word as though each is shaped by it's own level of elevating disgust. She's a Puerto Rican Princessa and you don't even have to ask. You can see it all around her.

"That's quite a fucking insult" you say, holding back a smile.

"For real! I mean it's the same as . . . like . . . well, what race are you?" everyone asks because they can never tell.

"Mexican. I'm a dirty, greazy Mexican."

Her eyes and mouth stand open and motionless for several, long, drawn out seconds.

"Can I get my guns now?"