Hero Delta Operative Shot in Head Second Time & Survives

By George Hand IV,

I awoke this morning and lay on the couch where I slept. It was cold in the room, as the sliding back door was open to let the dog out during the night. Wouldn’t you know the dog stayed in all night, and so did the cold.

The back door is covered with a curtain of louvered slats that are supposed to do a fancy quarter-turn twist to open and close at the tug of a draw. Of course, the system is broken, like almost every single thing else in this single-room studio apartment that the First Daughter and I have shared for two years now.

The draw system is fouled, and even two slats are missing; they broke and fell out too many times to try to repair again. Now a strip of daylight shows through that void, and I can see into the back yard… through that narrow crack in the louvers…

I thought immediately of Chainsaw. He has a single narrow crack of sight in just one eye, one that represents a mere 13% of the overall vision potential of that one eye. He constantly swivels his head when he sits in front of you and chats. He moves his head to adjust that 13% so it shines on your face, or your hands, or whatever it is you have to show him while you talk, grinning all the while, that Chainsaw does.

He came to Las Vegas NV one year while I was still living and working there. He came with his wife and daughters to celebrate his youngest “Peanut” daughter’s birthday; his own Small Daughter. We coordinated loosely via Facebook texts, and I admit when the day came… I got cold feet and decided I would wave off.

It had nothing to do with Chain; it was me and the beginning of my withdraw from society. I had already done it to a half dozen brothers who were passing through town. I would have to do it to Chainsaw too. Vegas is not a great place to live if you want to withdraw and die; just too many mother fuckers (BKSE) going there all the time. I hated it.

Chainsaw played dirty back then; probably still does. In fact I know for a fact that he still does. He called me, that inconsiderate yankee-ambushing-fuck called me. Of course I didn’t answer my phone. I never did, you know. But he played even dirtier by leaving a message. He intentionally made it so that I would have to turn my back on his voice, something I would not be able to do.