The Weary Old Heroes of a Forgotten War

And the band played Waltzing Mathilda.  And the old men still answer the call.  But year after the year, the numbers grow fewer.  Some day no-one will march there at all.

An army of wind-warping lead, to the clatter of innumerable casings, ricocheted from pavement and brick facings through the broad window panes of shop-fronts and high-rise apartments, as the police pressed their assault. The venerable Ms. Other, concealed in the cover of the rear seat loaded another magazine and racked the slide, grinning maniacally.

“Really makes you feel alive, eh Richard?”

Richard was practically dislocating his every joint to flatten himself into the very bottom of the passenger’s seat, babbling incoherently for his mansioned mother, while Poena only laughed, and hoisted him again into the rear seat.

“Get your shit together, little man! How many times in life do you think you’ll have the opportunity to be shot at?! You might as well enjoy it!”

One day we’ll all be in the ground.  Make sure you dance while you’ve still got your legs, still got the wind in your lungs–nevermind what others may think.

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