There once was a man from Nantucket. His story has nothing to do with Sticky Bombs. Sticky Bombs-A standerd government issue sock filled with composition 8 explosives and covered in axle greese.
In my youth I fought for severl causes. Causes I found noble but only told them I was a hired hand. These causes all accepted me, most paid me very well. My reputation as a soldier earned me alot of money. I would kill, and I was good at it. But, I hated it, I hated everything about it. Was I killing for fun? Did I enjoy it? Was I saving more lives than taking? Take...What gave me the right to take?
I did not know why I did it for so long. But it was not a bomb, a bullet, a loss that made me stop. It was a weak young man who was pointing his un-fired automatic rifle at me while I stood 30ft away with a field knife. His hands shook and he started to cry. I ran at him and he just shook more. With one motion I took the rifle and cut open his abdomen. The boy was very quiet when he asked for his mother. holding up his bloody hand at me he repeated, "Could you find my mother?" I cut his throat and took his dog tags. I ran from the field never to fight again.
Then I found a sticky bomb and disasembled it.
After telling such a powerful and disturbing story I feel the need to tell my favorite joke.
A horse walks into a bar. The barkeep says, "Why the long face?"
