...the sun sets on the Tomb of the Unknown Solder as a solitary
figure in a patch-adorned flight suit slowly paces out his lonely
path of anger, J-38 in one hand, bayonetted surplus USMC soldering
iron in the other. Pre-recorded marine marches softly fill the
air, interspersed with beepings of a few PCTA morsebirds not
yet extinct. The Tomb of the Unknown Solder is a lonely place,
deep in the Wannabe Valley, full of neuroses, anger, and
frustration. The single sentinel counts cadennce to himself,
muttering "flux you, flux you" between the slow steps. His fists
are clenched, eager to do bottle but only sipping a cup of
unkindness. Sadly the sentinel at the Tomb of the Unknown Solder
keeps going. There is no rosin for what he does and that is the
tragedy. The sun slowly sets on the Tomb of the Unknown Solder
leaving only the red light of fire in the eyes of the muttering
sentinel. Those glow in the dark like demon pilot lights.
Hatred lives on in his twilight of despair.

Temper fry.