My time in the Gulag had proved uneventful but interminable. As successive bunk-mates were taken outside into the tundra-cold blizzards, their misery was audibly terminated by the guards with the harsh chatter of an AK-47.
Our shoulders later jarred as we challenged the frozen ground with battered shovels, vainly attempting to dignify our comrades' end with a shallow grave, marked at best with a few of the areas scarce rocks.
Few words were said, few tears shed, but the Padre would join us as we solemnly bowed our heads.
His solace comforted us as he whispered in wind-whipped whispers:
"At least the poor cUnts won't ever have to endure one of Kelvy's posts again"
Come on you bastards. Admit it. That's pure frickin' poetry right there
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"I started out with nothin' and I still got most of it left" - Seasick Steve