Our dear friend Reaper has been by, testing the limits, if any, of our deep, highly personal, and intimate relationship -- keeping an eye peeled to see if we will flinch, spook, or be thrown: More atrocities arriving in Afghanistan, as you know, more fallout from our going gunning-around in the world, eager to carve more notches in our gunbelts, always set to cowboy-up, war-whoop into this rodeo's lineup. True, our Grange Hall dance card of death is all full up, from all our usual and growing carnage abroad: We're dancing as fast as we can.
Something inside snaps. Then, dying time begins: men, women, kids, all ghastly. Corpses get grimly abused, set on fire. Body parts get saved as grisly souvenirs. Same old ghost stories. Burn a holy book or three, keep the place and its people gasping. This is Reaper's Magical Mystery Tour! The soldier this time in the center, atop a momentary, personal pentagram of examination and crucible of soul-testing, had already been on three tours with Reaper Magical Mystery Tour Services, in Iraq. How many rides, how many tours is enough?