Dear Family and Friends:

"The Return of the King"

...

"Hammurabi, what on earth is that you're wearing?"

He looks himself over incredulously. His puffy, cotton-stuffed black jacket hangs to his knees. Mind you it's in the 80's today.

"What, man?"

"You look like Tupac, Hammurabi," I say flatly. "Nice Corn-rows, by the way."

There is a moment of silence. A camel spider, mutant-space-alien-looking camel spider, is skittering manically accross the tarmac. It is as large as the palm of my hand-- not the largest I've seen, but I can still count each of it's teeth from 5 yards away. I'd shoot it or stomp on it or run it over with a TRAM but I remember quickly what company of Marines I'm part of, and that makes me remember I'm expected to behave like a pacifist eunic with no stronger desire than that of self-preservation. The spider skitters on, unmolested by hostile fire, boot, or rubberized tire.

"If you must know," Big H begins, "I just got done working as Tupac's stunt double for "Fear and Respect," his new video game."

My right eyebrow cocks mechanically like the charging handle of an M-16. My mouth opens but words escape me in an unintelligible mumble.

Why not?

"Hammurabi," I begin. "First off, no one is going to recognize you without your telltale beard. The beard, man. It was classic."

And I am actually disappointed. I can no longer point to the 25,000 Dinar bill-- the new circulating Iraqi currency-- and say 'I know that dude' and then prove it by pointing at my imaginary friend. I have a lot of those bills, and I'm going to keep them in case the Iraqi government ever stabilizes and the value rises over time. It could be a nice investment. Either that or my grandkids will have lots of funny-money to play with. Sure enough, there Hammurabi is on the bill-- right next to Stan or whoever it is who's taking dictation-- the creating of his fabled "code" immortalized in print yet again.

"It had to go," he shrugs. "Tupac dug it, too, but it was no good for the close-ups. Skydiving, flipping cars, jumping through fiery explosions-- I was good for those. It was the drama scenes, and the love scenes, that clinched it."

"Love scenes!?!" I roar. "You body-doubled for Tupac? I didn't know you were that scrawny. And your eyes are nowhere near as buggy!"

"Movies are illusions, my friend," Hammurabi says.

"You mean games, right?" I ask.

"If you know what I meant, why'd you correct me?" he whines. "I hate it when you do that!"

He's a king, or at least he was. Now he's a video-game star, or some day could be depending on sales, and he whines. I understand, though. I hate being "filled in" for correction myself. I look down at the shadows cast by my own oil-stained boots and wonder why I did it at all.

"I missed you, man," I admit at last.

He sits on the oil drum next to me, sloughs the jacket. He doesn't worry about getting it greasy because he's immaterial. All the flash, none of the trash. It's a good way to be.

"You still got that stash of Vodka out here?" he asks.

"Yep," I say. "Wanna mosey on down to the helo pad?"

"Yep," he says.

We go. There, underneath the eave of the bunker, about two meters from the reinforced concrete wall, about six inches beneath the sand, there's a box full of Vodka. More than I'd ever drink by myself. I bought it from the Russians who fly in here once in a while. I'm a light weight, a cheap date, however you want to cut it. Hammurabi is not.

We dehydrate ourselves. Don't worry-- I'm off duty by then. Even when I'm on I don't do work these days. There's tons of replacements here who need the experience. I look at Big H, who looks back briefly. An old King, a young Corporal of Marines, sharing the rule of all we survey. We talk a while in the dusk about being replaced.

...

:D