Squelch Juice (Tri-Blend)
Your fingers tremble as you range-walk past the ammo point towards the commo truck at the edge of the parking lot. The stillness of the crisp morning air broken only by the occasional crack of a rifle behind you and the crunching of the frozen ground beneath your boots. In the distance you see SFC Goings leaned against the front of his humvee, a cloud of steam rising from his tan paper cup of gritty coffee. You close the distance quickly, SGT Hernandez told you to be back ASAP. 'What's up Private?' SFC Goings asks as he chews on another sip. You snap to parade rest and do your best to relay the message you were given: 'Uh, Sergeant, I need a Pricky Seven and a can of Squelch Juice for our radios'. You exhale, relieved that you were able to remember the details of what you were sent to get. 'What did you call me?' SFC Goings asks. 'Sergeant?' you reply, your pucker factor rising from a very comfortable 1.4 to a concerning 4.6. 'Start pushing Mother F*****!' You immediately drop to the frosty earth and begin to knock 'em out, confused at how your perfect execution of the given order has gone awry. 'So I'm a Prick E-7? Eh, Private!?' SFC Goings hollers with a fresh square dangling from the corner of his mouth. At this moment you realize you've been had. Berghdal'd by SGT H. Led like a lamb to slaughter for the entertainment of the rest of the platoon who were no doubt mocking your struggle from back at lane 6. SFC Goings lectures you on the finer points of customs and courtesies as you knock them out on the frosty grass, and eventually telling you to 'recover' as he finishes his cup. 'Get out of here' he grumbles as you rise to your feet, but instead of range-walking back, you hesitate. 'What Private??' he leans in. 'Sergeant? what about the Squelch Juice?' you don't want to piss off Sergeant H. His eyes open a little wider as he stares at you for a second or two. 'Oh yeah, Squelch Juice...go ask First Sergeant for that, he keeps it in the back of his truck'.....
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