There something that just can’t be replaced about being one of those poor sons of bitches down there with two tanks of kerosene strapped to your back, liquid fire pouring all over the vc, the man in the dark pyjamas a formidable opponent indeed, popping out of one of his spider holes or rice paddy there ain’t no human harder to ignite with your flame tosser than one that’s been seeping himself in that deep rice paddy wearing on of those triangular hats, like it’s supposed to keep the rain of when you're that deep in muddy, maggoty malaria ridden water you poor some bitch i’ll send you straight to hell with my hellfire, fight fire with fire look both ways when crossing the streets don't you take any wooden nickels you little vc tic

North-bay