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103 Fifteen Easy Minutes Beetle Bailey Goes Home Donald Illich The sarge, irate, red-faced, looks for me in the usual places—in the wide hammock, forming letter Zs in the air; behind the green barracks, rolling lucky sevens in dice games and taking bets from the officers; in the kitchen, eating all the pizza for the recruits’ lunches, when all they needed was a taste of home. Sarge, I’m not loafing, but I’m also not cutting your potatoes or toting a machine gun in an oil-stained desert. I’m on a bus home, chatting up an ex-con with a dragon tattoo; we’ll buy shots at the Blue Mariner, sleep in each other’s muscled arms. You missed your chance, Sarge. If you’d stayed your fists for just one second, all you had to say was, “Love me.” ...

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