A friend of mine was telling me a story the other day about his little cousins who had this really neat place to play just down the street from their house. Imagine an old dusty street in West Texas, boarded up windows and gates the only remnants of the boom years when those rustling cattle ruled, Indians could attack at any time and the law was all but the enemy. A once-dusty road was now a pot-holed oasis for hiding spots and where a broken wagon once sat on the side in the olden days, an old Ford pickup now provided cover for the mini cowboys awaiting oncoming Indian hostiles.
"Bring it on you filthy Indian," the leader of the rag tag band of brothers would cry out as he pointed his toy gun at my friend approaching in the distance. "You'll never take us alive!" Ducking behind another decrepit vehicle, my friend avoided the pretend pistol fire, even faking a wound to the shoulder.
"I hit I hit, have mercy. I lowly Indian, you powerful cowboys."
"No way mister, you'll never bother us good folks around these parts again," another cousin shouted as a spray of fake bullets whizzed by my friend's head. Having played the same game as a child, he quickly faked his death and walked by the group of cowboys and into the house, patting on the head the one cousin who wasn't agile enough to get out of the way.
Now imagine the friend is me and the same scene takes place in Iraq... somehow it's different; although the reason makes me sad.