Doom
Fleet: The Boot Camp Years
By Cheezey
Private Cossack wrinkled his nose as he poked at the strange substance on his tray with a fork. “Ugh,” he remarked with noticeable disgust. “Even a half-starved gladiator beast wouldn’t eat this. In fact, I bet that old witch Haggar could make a good robeast out of it.”
“Yeah well she can have mine to experiment on if she wants it,” his bunkmate Yaklitz replied, equally repulsed by the vile fare before him. He shoved his tray back and took a swig of ale from the stein beside him. “The mess hall food’s never been great—hell, it’s never been good—but this crap has to take the record.”
“Maybe this is their sneaky way of trying to force some of the guys in the unit to lose their beer guts.” Cossack then looked around and saw the rotund Lieutenant Vardash polishing off the last of his double portion a few tables away. “Then again, the fat guys are the only ones eating it, so maybe not.”
Yaklitz followed Cossack’s gaze and winced. Vardash had just finished his meal and stood up, only to have his too-small pants slide down his backside in an unflattering manner. “Gah! Well I wish they’d ration him some new pants instead. Ones that would stay up.”
Cossack snorted. “Yurak probably won’t approve it.”
“‘Cause he’s cheap with our supply requisitions or because he likes his men in tight pants?”
“Both,” Cossack sneered, to the amusement of himself as well as his bunkmate.
Once his snickers calmed, Yaklitz watched Lieutenant Vardash leave and he shook his head. “Yeah well if he doesn’t get a bigger pair or a better belt soon, someone ought to super-glue ‘em on. The only crack I want to see is the crack of a whip across a cute little slave chick’s—”
Cossack however stopped paying attention to the rest of Yaklitz’s babble once he mentioned what he thought was the hilarious—and necessary—idea of super-gluing Vardash’s pants on. That was just too priceless a prank to let go, and he was going to make sure it came to pass. After a quick glance at the door to confirm that Vardash had indeed left and that there were no ranking officers who would give them a hard time present, Cossack stood up while Yaklitz was still talking and shouted to the entire mess hall, “Hey everybody! Yaklitz is going to super-glue Vardash’s pants on!”
Immediately the room went dead silent, and then erupted into a chorus of laughter, whoops, and cheers. Yaklitz also laughed, until it sank in that Cossack had just volunteered him for the job. “Hey, wait a minute! I never said I would be the one to do it!”
Still grinning, Cossack clapped him hard on the back. “Buck up, soldier. You have a mission, and a room full of men are depending on you to save their vision! Don’t let them down, soldier. You can do it!”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“Because I don’t want to get that close to his ass.”
“What makes you think I do?” Yaklitz retorted incredulously.
Cossack frowned for a moment in consideration and then brightened. “The free beer.”
“I’m telling you Cossack, there is nothing on this or any other planet that could make me… wait, did you say free beer?”
“All you can drink, on my tab and any of the other fine men in here, my friend.” He waved to those around them. “Isn’t that right, guys? You’d spring for a night out for a guy that goes above and beyond the call of duty to spare our eyes, right? Not to mention seeing that weenie get knocked down a few pegs?”
His answer came in the form of a second chorus of cheers and hollers and a few enthusiastic shouts of “hell yeah!”
Yaklitz looked around uncertainly, and then sighed resignedly. “Ah, what the hell. But you better not be cheap with my beer.”
* * *
Later that evening, Yaklitz stood outside the officer’s quarters that housed Vardash with a large tube of super-glue in his hands wondering again why he let Cossack talk him into doing what he was about to do. The idea of gluing Vardash’s pants on was amusing in theory, but he knew if he got caught he would be the one with something glued to his ass—namely the boot of his superiors. Cossack was with him, as both moral support and to make sure that he actually went through with it and didn’t chicken out. The plan was to sneak in after Vardash had fallen asleep and do a stealth gluing on him when he was in bed. Yaklitz just hoped that the lights were low enough to see nothing and that the lieutenant slept on his side or his stomach.
Cossack pressed his ear to the door and listened for several moments. “I think he’s asleep. I don’t hear anything…” he paused, and then added, “except his snoring.” He carefully opened the door, at first only a crack to make sure they did not wake Vardash up, and then wider once it was certain they had not. “The coast is clear… let’s head in.”
Cossack crept in first, and Yaklitz tiptoed in behind him. “Man,” Yaklitz muttered under his breath, “I need to make an officer rank one of these days. Look at the size of these quarters. It’s bigger than our quarters that we gotta share.”
“Well keep your voice down, or the only new quarters you’ll see are the ones we’ll be scrubbing if we’re caught in here.”
“Yeah, I gotcha,” Yaklitz whispered back, and carefully closed the door behind them. Cossack meanwhile sneaked over to Vardash’s bedside, where their loathed lieutenant was fast asleep on his side, snoring heavily. Bending over carefully and quietly, Cossack took the edge of the blanket and peeled it back slowly so as not to disturb him, and he had to fight hard to stifle a snicker when he saw what Vardash wore to bed—an obnoxious pair of brightly colored shorts with a tropical pattern on them.
“I’m not sure which is uglier,” Cossack whispered to Yaklitz as he joined his side, “his ass or those shorts.”
Snorting with amusement, Yaklitz replied, “You can’t talk, man… I’ve seen your glow in the dark skull shorts.”
Cossack frowned indignantly. “Those are my lucky boxers, and at least I look good in ‘em. Besides, this is about Vardash’s ass, not mine. Now get gluing, Private!”
“Yes sir, Private Uglyshorts,” he snapped back in retort, complete with a mock salute. “Operations to glue on Lieutenant Lardass’ lingerie will now commence.” Flipping open the cap on the tube of glue, he leaned over. As he gingerly reached for the elastic waistband of the shorts, he winced again and looked up at Cossack with a vain hope of a reprieve or at least an offer to hold the shorts while he glued.
He had no such luck. Cossack only
grinned back impishly at him and gave him an encouraging thumbs-up.
“I don’t believe you’re making me do this,” Yaklitz grumbled.
“Think of it as going above and beyond the call of duty for your fellow soldiers.”
“I think you’re full of it.”
Cossack shrugged, blowing off the insult. “Think of it as a great way to buy your way back into Quackers’ good graces then.”
At that Yaklitz let out a curse under his breath. “Ah, take your duck and quack it,” he muttered as he carefully pulled back the sleeping Vardash’s shorts.
Both privates were startled when Vardash stirred and mumbled in his sleep. “Mmmm… in the stockade your ass is mine…”
“Shit!” Yaklitz mouthed in a silent panic, nearly squeezing all of the super-glue out of his tube.
Cossack recovered first and shook his head. “He’s still asleep,” he whispered with more than a small bit of relief. “I don’t want to know what he’s dreaming about, but he’s still asleep.” Vardash then let out a loud snore to confirm the private’s statement.
Yaklitz steadied himself and took a deep breath. “It’ll be us in reality if we screw around in here much longer.” Determined to get the distasteful chore over and done with, he pulled back on the elastic, inverted the tube of super-glue, and gave a mighty squeeze. Beside him, Cossack started snickering despite his best efforts to stay silent.
“Boy, if he finds out you did this, he’ll really stick it to you.”
“And if he does, yours will be next… you and that friggin’ duck.”
Cossack rolled his eyes, mostly because he refused to take the threat seriously. Not because he didn’t think Yaklitz could do it, but because he knew that he wouldn’t. He was a jackass—heck, that was why Cossack liked him in the first place—but he knew there was no way on Doom, Gloom, or any other planet in the Denubian Galaxy that Yaklitz would risk his comic porn collection being turned over to his battle-ax of a wife. And of course, that was precisely what Cossack would do if Yaklitz messed with Quackers. Well, that and kick his ass. That was a given.
“Oh calm down, Yaklitz,” he said as he watched the other private fill their lieutenant’s shorts with a liberal amount of super-glue. “You’re almost done. And it’ll be worth it come tomorrow morning’s drill, with Yurak doing a monthly inspection and all.”
“Correction, I am done.” He dispensed the last of the glue in the tube, and then released the waistband of the loud tropical shorts and stepped back. The motion caused Vardash to stir again and roll over on his back, which in turn caused both Yaklitz and Cossack to jump back a good ten feet. Fortune smiled upon them again however, for he still did not wake up, and only settled into the new position which would ensure the glue would have ample time and pressure to get a good grip. “Now let’s get out of here.”
“Right behind you,” Cossack replied with a nod, following the retreating Yaklitz to the door.
“Aw man, did you have to say ‘behind?’” Yaklitz grumbled, and pulled the door shut behind them.
* * *
Early the next morning, precisely on the hour as was expected of them whenever they had an inspection, the entire unit was assembled in formation right on time. The entire unit, that was, except for Lieutenant Vardash. Their sycophantic superior was mysteriously missing and their force captain was none too pleased about that. Yurak paced in front of the line of soldiers eyeing them with a critical glare between glances at his timepiece. Finally when Vardash was a full ten minutes late, Yurak turned to the first soldier in the lineup.
“Private, do you have any idea what’s keeping your lieutenant or where he is?”
“None, sir,” he replied dutifully. “I haven’t seen him all morning.”
“It was a good morning,” Cossack muttered quietly from the line behind him.
Yurak’s left ear twitched in the direction of the wisecrack. He had not heard it clearly, but when he turned to see who the culprit was and saw the first son of Aldar’ach standing in the general area from where the remark had come he had a pretty good idea. “Private Cossack, did you say something?”
“Just ‘good morning,’ sir!” he replied cheerfully.
Yurak was not amused, and took a step toward him, staring him down harshly. “Do you have any idea where Vardash might be?”
“Not really, sir. I try to avoid Lieutenant Vardash whenever possible.”
The force captain frowned. “I’m sure the feeling is mutual. But you haven’t seen him? None of you have? He’s never been this late to an inspection before.”
“Perhaps it was the meatloaf they served in the mess tent last night, sir,” Cossack volunteered. “Rumor has it that anyone who ate it was glued to the toilet all night.”
At that, Yaklitz and several others—who had all heard about the duo’s escapade the night before after they had returned while buying Yaklitz the promised beers—began snickering despite their best efforts to remain at attention.
Yurak’s withering glare then fell on Yaklitz. “Do you find that funny because of personal experience, or simply because you’re a witless idiot, private?”
“No sir,” Yaklitz replied, lapsing into a serious tone again as he faced his force captain. “It was the beer that glued me to the toilet last night. I didn’t touch the meatloaf.”
That remark in turn inspired another cascade of snickers which only irritated Yurak further. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword as he addressed the assembled soldiers as a whole. “So none of you know where your lieutenant is?” He paced in front of them. “I find that rather suspect considering he’s never been late for one of my inspections before.”
“Maybe he got held up, sir,” one of the other soldiers piped up.
“Stuck in an elevator or something,” another chimed in.
The commanding officer’s natural yellow eye narrowed. “Well I won’t tolerate being kept waiting. My time is too valuable to be wasted like this.”
“You’re absolutely right, sir,” Cossack agreed. “That was very rude of him to stand you up.”
Upon hearing that, Yaklitz let out a half-snort, half-cough that was a poorly disguised laugh.
Yurak’s glare was on him again in a flash. “Did you have something to say, Private?”
“Just, uh, just thinking that he should be punished for jerking you around, sir,” Yaklitz backpedaled. “I mean, you’re a force captain and all, you’ve got a lot to do. Anyone wasting an officer’s time like that ought to be put in the stockade or something.”
“Which is where you’ll end up if you don’t shut up.” He whipped his head around in Cossack’s direction to preemptively cut him off. “Both of you.”
“Yes sir,” they replied in unenthused unison, and fell silent as ordered.
Once he was satisfied that they would stay at attention and that there would be no further outbursts, Yurak decided that he’d had enough and he was going to track Vardash down himself. “All right, privates, I want you all to stay here and stay at attention until otherwise directed by me or a similarly ranking officer. In the meantime, I’m going to find Lieutenant Vardash personally and ream him out.”
“Oh, he’ll enjoy sticking around for that,” Cossack murmured under his breath as the force captain departed, much to the amusement of the fleet men around him. Fortunately for Cossack, Yurak was not one of them.
* * *
A few minutes later Yurak was at the door to Vardash’s quarters. Using his metallic fist he banged loudly on the door a few times. “Vardash, are you in there?”
The sound of clumsy shuffling from inside could be heard for a moment before Vardash’s nasal voice replied, “Just a minute!” That was followed by what could only be described as panicked grunting.
Frowning impatiently, Yurak pounded on the door again. “This is Force Captain Yurak, Vardash, and you have exactly ten seconds to open this door and explain why you didn’t show up this morning on time and why you’re still lounging around in bed while I’m waiting for you before I break it down and beat it out of you, Lieutenant!” he hollered angrily.
Although Yurak didn’t notice or particularly care, his loud outburst caught the attention of an officer emerging from the showers—which were still not fixed, much to his annoyance—Captain Mogor. Upon seeing who it was causing the disturbance and where, he backed up slightly against the bathroom door so as to not be noticed. Whatever was going on, he wanted no part of it, and that included any incidental involvement as a witness.
Meanwhile, inside the room Vardash whined desperately as he struggled with his glued-on boxer shorts. He had no idea what was going on, but he had spent the last half hour trying in vain to get his shorts off. He had awoken on time as usual, and when he sat up he had noticed a strange pulling and itchy sensation all around a massive wedgie. Naturally he sought to fix the uncomfortable shifting of his clothes immediately, but to his horror they had not budged, and when he tugged on them it was as if his skin was glued to them. In a panic he had tried everything he could think of—water, soap, Vaseline, even his secret stash of butter packets stolen from the mess hall—but it was all to no avail. The shorts were stuck and the clock was ticking.
In a final moment of desperation he had decided to just throw his fleet uniform on over the wedgie-glued shorts, but alas his pants had gotten tighter with all the yummy deserts they’d had in the mess hall as of late, and they wouldn’t button over a wedgie that size, or if they did by some miracle, there was a serious risk of it popping at an inopportune moment. By that time he was officially late and he knew he would be in for it when he did show up for the inspection, but he had no idea Yurak would come and find him. Even worse, now he was demanding entrance into his quarters while he was trapped in such an immodest state! But worst of all, he really had to use the bathroom to boot.
“Lieutenant Vardash, don’t make me force my way in there!” Yurak’s furious growl was louder and more insistent that time, as was the impatient clang of his fist on the door.
Whimpering in defeat, the humiliated lieutenant opened his door wearing nothing but his glued-wedgie boxers and looked up at Yurak’s angry countenance with a baleful look. “Good morning, sir.”
Yurak hit the roof when he saw that not only had Vardash not shown up for the inspection on time, but he was now fifteen minutes late and not even dressed yet. Shoving the door open and barging past the lieutenant, he glared at him in disgust. “I am extremely disappointed in you, Vardash. What is the meaning of this? Do you know what time it is?”
Vardash glanced sheepishly at the clock. “Er, fifteen minutes late by the looks of things, sir.” He lowered his head. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me!”
“You’re damn right you’re sorry,” Yurak snarled. “What do you have to say for yourself? What’s your explanation for this?” He shook his head in disgust. “Those aren’t even standard fleet issue shorts.”
“No sir. They’re part of my personal collection.”
“They’re very… interesting,” he said, unable to come up with a better way to describe the obnoxious bold patterned underwear, “but why are you wearing them and not your uniform?”
Vardash shifted nervously, debating whether he should come up with a cover that was less embarrassing than the actual truth, but Yurak was pretty good at telling when he was being bullshitted so he decided against risking his ire further. Besides, if he had to be stuck in his shorts, there was no one he’d rather help him get out of them than his favorite force captain. “Actually sir,” he explained meekly, “that’s why I’m late. I’m kind of,” he tugged on his shorts, “stuck in them.”
“What?”
“I’m stuck in them, sir. They’re kind of… well… oh sir, they’re adhered to my ass. I can’t get them off, I can’t get pants on over this big wedgie, and worst of all I can’t get rid of the wedgie, sit comfortably, or even use the bathroom!” The pathetic whine crept back into his tone. “Please sir, will you help me get them off?”
Yurak frowned. “Are you telling me your shorts are stuck to your body?”
“Yes, sir. Please help me!”
The ranking officer sighed. “Do I need to do everything around here?” he complained loudly, enough so that Mogor could hear him. “You can’t even take off your shorts by yourself? Vardash, I know I said I’d give my men whatever they need, but this is ridiculous.”
“Please sir!” Vardash begged. “I need a strong pair of hands and no one’s are stronger than yours with this on,” he said, referring to his cybernetic gauntlet.
Down the hall, Mogor winced where he stood. Although he could have left once Yurak went into Vardash’s quarters, morbid curiosity compelled him to stay. He was now cursing that curiosity after the horrible mental images that the conversation he was hearing bits and pieces of inspired in his mind.
“Maybe you should try going to medical for this… problem,” Yurak suggested in a lower tone.
Vardash shook his head in wild protest. “Oh no sir, I couldn’t. If those fools in the unit saw me like this, they’d never respect me again.”
“I don’t think you have to worry about that, Vardash.” That was true enough, although not necessarily in the way Yurak meant it.
Vardash fell to his knees before his superior. “I know you’re angry with me sir,” he said, his voice rising enough to carry once more, “but I’ll grovel, beg, plead, whatever you want. See, I’m even on my knees—I’m desperate! You’re the only one I can trust, and I promise I’ll make it up to you later.”
Resigned, Yurak let out another sigh. “Oh fine, if it will get you moving,” he said with obvious aggravation. “But you will indeed make it up to me, this nonsense and all this wasted time. Don’t think you’ll get off easy.”
“I know better than to expect you to go easy on anyone, sir, even those who do their best to please you.”
“It would please me to get a move on—so bend over already, and brace yourself,” he ordered gruffly.
“Yes sir!” Vardash squeaked, and immediately assumed a suitable position using his bed as a heavy object to brace himself against while he waited for the inevitable painful yank of the stuck shorts.
Taking hold of the waistband on either side of the lieutenant’s wide wedgie, Yurak gave them a rough tug. Nothing happened except a yelp from Vardash and a loud squeak of the bed against the concrete floor as his weight pressed against it. The shorts remained intact and in place. “You really need to lay off the desserts in the mess hall, Vardash.”
“Oh no sir, not my desserts! The cream puffs didn’t do it, I swear!”
“Don’t tell me it was the meatloaf?”
“What do you mean, sir?” Vardash asked as Yurak gave them another fruitless pull.
“Oh, that idiot Private Cossack said that anyone who ate the meatloaf last night was glued to the toilet or some nonsense like that. I hate to give the fool any credit, but he might have a point. I ate a few bites of it and my ears stood up straight for half an hour.”
“Cossack!” Vardash seethed venomously. “He’s responsible for this, I know it!”
Yurak frowned as he repositioned his hands, thinking that perhaps pulling from a different angle would yield better results. “Private Cossack is a loudmouth and a troublemaker, but do you honestly think he could manage to glue your pants on?” He shook his head. “That toad pond born fool can barely tie his boot laces. The only reason he hasn’t been booted out of this unit yet is because if we point him in the right direction, he can blow things up with amazing efficiency. But to pull off something like breaking into your room and stealth gluing your boxer shorts in the middle of the night? Please. He can’t even stand at attention quietly.”
“You don’t know him like I do, sir! He’s a crafty little weasel. Him and his bunkmate—they’re nothing but trouble.”
“Trouble perhaps, but idiotic trouble nonetheless,” Yurak said dismissively. “Frankly I think you’re paranoid.”
“How do you explain the glue on my ass then?” Vardash whined, his voice hitting a particularly sharp note on another sharp yank from his force captain.
Yurak shrugged. “I still blame the meatloaf. That stuff isn’t fit to feed a half-starved arena beast.” That time when he pulled on the super-glued shorts he used even more force, and it caused the lieutenant to squeal loudly as his raw skin tore in a couple of spots. The shorts tore as well, but only a part of them. The part that was loose had given way, leaving Vardash with only the glued wedgie remaining on his now quite sore and otherwise naked body.
“Yeeeeow!”
“Relax, Vardash, or it’ll only hurt more!” Yurak exclaimed with obvious exasperation, loud enough that it carried down the hallway. “Take it like a man!”
“But it hurts!” he whined pitifully.
“Well if you kept some cream or oil in here, maybe you wouldn’t have had such a rough time with it.”
“I already tried butter, sir, and you can see how well that worked!”
Down the hall, between the bed-squeaking noises and that last round of indiscreet conversation between Yurak and Vardash, Mogor turned as green as the towel in his hands. Somehow seeing the stamp of “Made with pure cocoa butter” on his bar of soap only made it worse after the last statement and the mental image it inspired. Realizing he could never look at Yurak, Vardash, or even a slice of buttered toast the same for quite some time, he decided to take his chances and run back to his building to preserve his sanity and purge the whole thing from his mind with a nice pile of reports that needed signing off.
Back in Vardash’s room and unaware that anyone had overheard and misinterpreted the exchange, Yurak finally thought of a solution to the problem. Releasing his quivering lieutenant, he drew his light sword from its sheath and held it carefully over Vardash’s wide behind. “Hold very still, Vardash.”
Upon hearing the quiet hum of the light sword Vardash’s eyes went wide. “Uh, sir—”
Vardash was cut off by a swift woosh and a sudden breeze on his backside as the light blade expertly severed the portion of the cloth stuck to his blue butt cheeks. All that remained were a few scraps in uncomfortable places, but nothing that he couldn’t remove with the assistance of a mirror and some determination.
Behind him, a slight smile of satisfaction crossed Yurak’s stern features as he surveyed his handiwork. Although Vardash’s naked rear end was not exactly the most beautiful sight, he was always pleased to see visual evidence that his aim was as sharp and his control of his weapon was as precise as he strived for it to be. “There, I think that solves your problem.” He frowned slightly. “Your shorts were a casualty, however.”
“Oh thank you sir!” he gushed happily, realizing only after a moment that he was nearly hugging his commanding officer while completely naked. Knowing that Yurak was not quite that friendly with him yet, he restrained himself and instead saluted. “You have my deepest gratitude.”
“And you have my authorization to get dressed and be present for inspection with the unit in five minutes,” Yurak replied, sheathing his light sword once more. “Don’t be late this time.”
Vardash nodded in enthusiastic obedience. “I’ll be there with bells on, sir!”
“That won’t be necessary, just your uniform will do, Lieutenant. After all, we don’t need you getting near any more glue.” He started for the door. Just before he left, he added, “Oh, I have one more order for you.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“For the love of the gods, stay away from that meatloaf. It’s a creation of the witch Haggar, I tell you.” With that the force captain left to head back to the unit still assembled in the courtyard.
* * *
The rest of the day passed without incident. Although Yurak had not elaborated as to the circumstances of where Vardash was when he had returned for the inspection, he had taken the five minutes it took Vardash to show up to strongly advise all of them to avoid the mess hall’s meatloaf. No one in the unit knew the real reason why, but since most of them had tasted it they figured it was just friendly warning from someone who had been in the fleet longer than they had to a bunch of new recruits.
Shortly after that Vardash had shown up, and it was noticed by everyone there that he was walking a little strangely, and kept trying to discreetly scratch his butt. Although a few offhand remarks and puns about sticky situations and being glued to this or that slipped out during the day, nothing was really said that could implicate Cossack or Yaklitz in it—which made it all the more amusing to everyone in the unit who was in on the joke.
Finally at the end of the day plans were made to celebrate the successful prank at the Doom ‘n Gloom, the soldiers’ bar on the first level of Castle Doom. The alcohol orgy was to take place right after dinner, and Cossack, Yaklitz, and all of their boot camp buddies were ready for it. They were still discussing their plans for the evening over dessert when they overheard something rare and unusual at the food line.
“What’s dessert tonight?” Lieutenant Vardash asked the cook behind the counter.
“Pastries, sir,” he replied, and pointed to a tray full of delectable glazed treats. “Sticky buns.”
Automatically he reached for one, but in light of recent events and the unfortunate name of the pastry, instead Vardash only sighed. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
“Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” Yaklitz said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Him passing on dessert.”
With a snicker Cossack took a bite out of his own pastry and licked the gooey frosting off of his fingers. “I dunno, Yaklitz. Maybe he’s tired of sticky buns.”
Vardash had almost sat down when he overheard that remark, and after what he had been through it lit his temper immediately. “I knew it,” he snarled in outrage, and stomped over to their table with his hands on his hips in high indignation. “You’re responsible for this,” he seethed as he glared icily at Cossack.
Feigning innocence, Cossack only took another chomp out of his sticky bun. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Vardash. My seat’s been glued to this bench since we were dismissed.”
“Yeah, sir, we were stuck at that inspection all day.”
“We couldn’t have done anything but adhere to the schedule,” Cossack finished.
“I know you did it! I don’t know how you did it, but one day I’ll find out… and when I get the proof, no matter how little or how valid, you’ll be in for it! Both of you!”
“But we’re innocent, sir!” Yaklitz protested.
Cossack nodded along with his bunkmate. “Yes, please don’t stick it to us!”
Unable to take that last bit of flippancy cloaked in what he knew to be false ignorance, he only growled furiously and shook his fist in their faces. “One day… one day, you’ll get yours!” He then turned on his heels and stomped off, fuming.
With a knowing grin, Yaklitz turned to Cossack. “Man, I wonder what’s got him so upset?”
Cossack popped the last of his pastry into his mouth and slurped the final traces of sticky frosting off of his lips. “I don’t know,” he said with a mischievous laugh. “I guess he’s just had enough sticky buns lately.”
The End
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