Fact or Fiction #5 - A Night at Bullwinkles (Part 1)

Sgt Randall Berge (Call Sign: Iceberg)
Artic Survival Specialist

As Randall stood there at the urinal, one hand on the cool tile wall supporting his balance and the other on his equipment supporting his aim – he knew that he had surpassed his limit of alcohol consumption for the night. He marveled at how the ammonia disc in the urinal looked just like snow, but yet it didn’t melt like snow. He told himself it was time to start drinking water or coffee or perhaps he should have something to eat… like chicken wings – mmmm, those would be nice right now.

As he peed, Randall lowered his head, and his chin rested on his chest - he closed his eyes. He thought about his last mission (near the Beaufort Sea, part of the Artic Ocean), his next mission (only described as “you’re in for a real treat”), how he had surpassed his limit of alcohol consumption for the evening and how he should get something to eat… perhaps chicken wings.

Randall was so lost in inebriated thought; he didn’t hear the other gentleman walk into the restroom. Randall’s first realization that he wasn’t alone was tap on his butt – apparently from the other guy’s cowboy boot. Randall turned his head to look at his butt, and then he followed the floor with his eyes to the boot, and then forced himself to lift his head and focus on the boots owner, some local hick.

“I said,” The cowboy (the term cowboy in this context could be replaced with “hick in boots”, “cowboy-wannabee” or “asshole”) sounded annoyed “are you in the military or something boy?”
Now to Randall, even in his drunken state, this was a ridiculous question. Randall’s hair was high and tight, his dog-tags were dangling outside of his green tank-top shirt and his BDU pants were still bloused over his boots. But Randall had assessed the situation and felt that this confrontation was not to determine his vocation. Confrontations with the local men have been escalating for years - usually over the allotment of local women. Randall knew that he was impaired, and in a “fair” fight, would only have “fair” odds. But Randall also felt since the question had been so rudely asked, it was his obligation to answer.

Randall finished his business with the urinal, shook, stored and zipped. Then turned to the cowboy and replied, “I’m not just in the Military – I’m in Survival.” Randall then reached into the urinal and removed the hockey puck shaped disc. “And this…” Randall began to explain, “is a Survival Cookie.” As Randall began to raise the ammonia disc to his mouth, the cowboy could only stand there in shock. When Randall took a bite of the disc, the cowboy felt a gag reflex in the pit of his stomach. When Randall spit the chunk of white rock out of his mouth, the cowboy looked down and moved quickly to avoid the object from striking his boots. And it was at that moment that Randall chose to disarm the situation.

Randall washed his hands and looked at himself in the restroom mirror. He stepped over the cowboy and headed back to his table in the bar, determined to order some wings – and perhaps a beer.