bitch really is as crazy as they say. But he might have called me instead of shouting.
“I don’t want to see you,” the Colonel said.
Jackson had entered the room and stood before him at a semblance of attention.
“I’m tired of seeing you, because you worry and you don’t have fun. For Christ sake have yourself some fun.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You understand what I said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Repeat it.”
“Ronald Jackson, T5 Serial Number 100678, will present himself in the lobby of this Gritti Hotel at 1100 tomorrow morning, I don’t know the date, sir, and will absent himself from the Colonel’s sight and will have some fun. Or,” he added, “will make every reasonable attempt to attain that objective.”
“I’m sorry, Jackson,” the Colonel said. “I’m a shit.”
“I beg to differ with the Colonel,” Jackson said.
“Thank you, Jackson,” the Colonel told him. “Maybe I’m not. I hope you are correct. Now muck off. You’ve got a room here, or you should have, and you can sign for chow. Now try and have some fun.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jackson.
When he was gone, the Gran Maestro said to the Colonel, “What is the boy? One of those sad Americans?”
“Yes,” the Colonel said. “And by Jesus Christ we’ve got a lot of them. Sad, self-righteous, over-fed and under-trained.
