From some war-blogger:

16 September 2005
action crack
We could be in a ville on a thunder run. An entire clustergaggle of us mauling our way down the street. Trashing everything in sight in a mad raving fury of intoxicated exuberance. Weekend. Furlough. Parole. Freedom. Asses. Tits. Lips. Wasted out of our skulls. Boozing and whoring our way through the third world. We could be. But we're not.

We're barrelling our way through Raqi traffic. Tail-end Charlie in a small string of vehicles and we've lost the rest of 'em somewhere up ahead and we can't see shit anymore through the snarl of battered vehicles and Haji-trucks and a nervous exhilaration rides us cause we're not really sure where we're supposed to be heading and we start spurring on our driver to speed-it-the-fuck-up already.

We see no friendlies anywhere and are gripped by an accute paranoia and visions of those Blackwater dudes takin' it hard in Fallujah and those fuel trucks we saw couple-a-weeks back burned-to-fucknot and the drivers melted to the seats and no one wants to say it and no one has to. Our lone Humvee stuck in traffic dreck.

We become insane with fear and rage and the rush of power run amuck. Our gunner in the turret spinning round and round, pointing that gigantic metal finger of death at everything, everyone. Accusing. As if he's saying, you? You? You? You? Waiting for it, almost begging for it. Daring someone to take a shot. Scared shitless and dreading every threatening vehicle, wincing and recoiling and shouting and furious and raving mad and spoiling to cut loose all at once.

"Can't you see? We're NATION-BUILDING here motherfuckers! GET. THE FUCK. OUT. OF. THE WAY. FUUUUUUUCK...." our drivers hollers at the very end of his.

Giggling maniacally, we all chime in. Shaking from laughter, hollering at the top of our lungs, "NATION-BUILDING MOTHERFUCKERS!"

"Yeah. Nation-fucking-BUILDING!" Hardwell screams and swivels violently in the turret, throwing the .50 at a vehicle behind us, accusing, "Where the FUCK do you think YOU'RE goin'?"

The radio crackles with our call-sign. LT way up ahead. "Bring up the rear. You're falling back. We can't see you."

"Roger that sir," our driver says and shouts at Hardwell in the turret. "MAKE A HOLE."

"ROGER THAT," and Hardwell swings the big gun forward, levels the barrel and fires off warning shots across the vehicles in front of us. Great Sadist Deity only knows where the rounds will end up, but that's not our concern. The vehicles in front of us scuttle like drunken ducks getting kicked in the ass. We accelarate through the snarl of cowering motorists through the jagged gap of bumpers and tail lights fighting their way to the shoulder of the road, into oncoming traffic even, anywhere but to not have to be in front of the Americans gone insane.

"I swear, these people can't drive worth-a-FUCK," our driver gasps, swiping a bumper as he jams us forward.

I'm crying from laughter. Hysterical. Too tired, too frightened, too burned-out to care anymore. Just soaking up the whole thing. Drowning in it. I imagine the L.A. commute bumping along the 405 through exploding sidewalks, suicide bombers, insane soldiers and running gun battles and laugh till I gag in a coughing fit. "Why do they even drive? I mean, would YOU be in traffic if you knew WE were coming through?"

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck NO," our driver affirms.

"Cause they're fuckin' imbeciles, 's why," Hardwell says and we all laugh and nod and shake our heads, but we all know it's bullshit and balls doin' the talking.

We plow ahead and I snatch fleeting glimpses of dark faces and frightened eyes. Catch the fear, the hatred, the indifference. Just people. Going about their business in their little town. A town at the edge of hell. Despair and brutality and random death are all in a day, and them just shuffling through the mess, trying to make it from one day to the next. Struggling to inject normalcy into a world gone mad. And me just sitting behind my weapon. Waiting for it. Cause I know it's coming. Sometimes you can almost smell it...