I only hold reservations for fighting one kind of man…
Old men.
Old grinning men, chuckling softly to themselves with their arms lazily hung in front of them as if this fight was all just fun and games.
The sort whom, if you look into their eyes, you can see they’ve fought tigers for their breakfast and ate them for lunch.
The ones you know who turn the shower to cold just before getting out to remind them of their edge.
The kind that pick their teeth with field knives, and drink coffee that smells like black powder from a tin cup.
The breed that woke up one day and drank Normandy Salt Water and washed it down with sand for breakfast, or found themselves in a sauna sipping Malaria and swatting at the mosquitoes or bullets; they weren’t sure which. All in the name of Duty.
Skin like thick raw-hide leather, fists of granite, and the wisdom of sages.
I want to be one of these men.
