The Finisher Series: Psalms

By Bert Marshall

The casual word around town is I’m wasting my education, especially after I got out of the Army. The Army. I can say for a fact the Army shaped me, both for good and for bad, but I imagine everyone can make that same claim.

Since I was a child working in my dad’s machinist shop, I have been inventive and helped my dad develop many marketable products and this trailer could sell if I cared enough to go into mass production. I was named after my dad and after the recession and the closing of his shop, he handled it by shooting himself in the forehead with his favorite handgun, a Colt Model 1911 .45 ACP. He carried one just like it through two Special Forces tours in Vietnam with MACV.

He called me Trap since I first showed interest in running a trap line for the extra cash I made selling furs, but my entire name not only reflects my dad, but our Jewish German heritage - Rutger Manfred Goldschnieder III. With all the Mexicans and Anglo's living in Fort Davis, Trap seemed the logical choice.

The Finisher Series is book fifteen, titled Psalms (Harris County code term) and features reoccurring characters along with a bevy of bag guys and gals and adult situations. Trap lives in the violent underbelly of society and will take you along with him, if you dare to follow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bert Marshall
• Release date: May 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463171660

Bert Marshall

Bert Marshall lives in Baytown, Texas and is a Baytown Sun Columnist, Blogger, martial artist, geocacher, PC repair specialist, Jeeper, hiker, indoor cycling instructor, past Texas State Emergency Care Attendant, Hunter education instructor, and a USAF Vietnam Veteran with two tours (651 days in-country).

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The Finisher Series – Psalms

By Bert Marshall

Published by Bert Marshall at Smashwords

Copyright 2019 Bert Marshall

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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The Kawasaki KLR 650cc motorcycle never fails to impress me as I push it deeper into the Davis Mountain trails north of Fort Davis, Texas. I was born and raised here and at thirty years of age and a degree from Texas A&M in my resume, all I want to do is hunt, fish, camp, and explore and my custom-designed and built single wheel trail trailer has everything on it that I need to stay out of people’s way – and opinions indefinitely.

The casual word around town is I’m wasting my education, especially after I got out of the army. The army. I can say for a fact the army shaped me, both for good and for bad, but I imagine everyone can make that same claim about their individual experiences.

Since I was a child working in my dad’s machinist shop, I have been inventive and helped my dad develop many marketable products and this trailer could sell if I cared enough to go into mass production. I was named after my dad and after the recession and the closing of his shop, he handled it by shooting himself in the forehead with his favorite handgun, a Colt Model 1911 .45 ACP. He carried one just like it through two special forces tours in Vietnam with MACV - Military Assistance Command, Vietnam.

He called me Trap since I first showed interest in running a trap line for the extra cash I made selling furs, but my entire name not only reflects my dad and grandfather, but our Jewish German heritage - Rutger Manfred Goldschnieder III. With all the Mexicans and Anglos living in Fort Davis, Trap seemed the logical choice.

Dad caught mom in the arms of the lone gym fitness pro and dad gave her the boot when I was thirteen. She called a number of times and dad always intercepted it until she just quit calling and I haven’t heard a word from her in almost ten years. I don’t even know if she’s in the state of Texas and to be honest, I don’t care one way or the other. I am living the life I choose. Dad’s depression hit him when the economy tanked due to our dependence on foreign oil. We all saw it coming, but he was so heavily in debt, I got nothing from his death but an eight thousand dollar bill to cover funeral expenses.

I paid it off two weeks ago by selling close to twenty of the bike trailers, which took me almost 6 months to build. I have about a thousand bucks left for my own expenses. I guess that’s why I am so far up into the mountains that it actually feels cool. It’s hotter than hell back in town and always is in August. I stop the bike and look to the west. El Paso is maybe one hundred miles west of here and on a clear night I can see the lights from the city reflected kind of ghost-like in the sky.

I am at a crossroad. I have very little back in town and Gabe let me work behind his auto shop to build the trailers. I am finished with trapping animals also. I just don’t want to do it anymore. My on again off again girlfriend got knocked up by someone other than me by her admission and moved to Arizona with the guy. She really hurt me by making a joke of it all. The worst part of all is she barely knew the guy. It took him just two weeks to get into her panties and I had been trying for years. I guess being the preacher’s daughter didn’t prepare her for a flash in the pan type of tinhorn. He was flashy alright, but I wonder how things will be for her down the road. I miss her, but I try not to think about it.

I look back at that pivotal moment when I thought about the giant flop my life had became and I made the decision to join the marines and see the world... I went army instead because they promised more. What I got was sand and desert and no wine or women like they promised. I also learned skills that are not necessarily a good thing in civilian life.

After Texas A&M, I went straight into officer training and it was the best thing I’ve ever attempted. It was either go in the military or get a job in town and that was and still is a street with no exit but the way you came in.

----

Captain, what do we do sir? I sit up and my brains are scrambled from a mortar round that would have killed me if it weren’t for the four foot hardened wall beside me. My ears are ringing and the platoon I’m leading is looking at me, wild-eyed. Sarnt Newman is fucking dead sir, the nineteen year old corporal screams in my ear and I can see he and the others are scared shitless. It is their first time to see one of us dead, but sure as hell not mine.

I look at the AN/PRC-152 radio on his shoulder and he has no idea it is dead weight with a bullet hole through it. These rag head mother fuckers have had us pinned down for hours and something comes over me that I can’t explain and I yell, Covering fire! and as my soldiers begin to shoot, I leap up and over the wall. I can’t explain the feeling, but I know I am invincible and run unscathed one hundred and fifty meters across open ground and come up by a needle-eye door. In my hands is the corporal’s M249 light machine gun and I have no memory of grabbing it from him.

No sooner have my grunts stopped shooting and return fire and mortar rounds begin again. I am wild with adrenaline and taking a huge lungful of dusty air, I charge through the narrow opening shooting. Later that night I pondered what I was feeling and came to the conclusion I was living my life to the absolute fullest. This is where I belong and like the wild animals I used to trap, I am leery of everything around me, but ready to take on all comers.

Directly in front of me are five Iraqi’s with a small tube and I spray them with deadly sixty-two grain full metal jacket bullets, compliments of the American people. Not twenty meters past them are a row of fighters and I do a Sergeant York on their asses and all but one had their hands raised. Fuck their surrendering! Fuck them all and the last man attempts to run, as I whip up my Berretta 92FS 9mm and give him three in the back. It is over and I step back through the needle and signal my men.

I step back through the needle and crumple over. As my men rush up to me I hear one say, Aw shit, sir. You are fucked up bad.

For this crazed moment of perceived bravery, I am awarded the Silver Star and Purple Heart and ultimate respect from my men.

----

The words hurt; I won’t lie. Hearing the pretty VA psychiatrist tell me that the Army deems me too violent to continue stateside and Congress has cut funding for the military Major and that means you will be retired. I am sorry, she very carefully explains and watches my reaction to decide the course of rehab she will pursue. The worse possible way he can present himself is to bottle it up, contrary to what people believe. Most would say becoming angry and throwing stuff would denote the worst case scenario. It’s not true though.

What she gets from Major Rutger Trap Manfred Goldschnieder III is silent resignation and under her breath, she curses. She looks again at his paperwork and sees an exemplary career, including Airborne, Ranger, Special Forces, and the school list is more than normal, even for over achievers... but he has been disciplined by Article 15 three times and all for excessive force.

I walk out of the Michael E. DeBakey VA Medical Center in Houston, Texas and walk in the cold rain all the way to my Jeep Wrangler JKUR and mull over the facts as she presented them and they are all true. First she pointed out that I had over one hundred and fifty leave days I hadn’t taken and they will pay me the balance when I exit the Army. Next, the Article 15’s and that cut me out from being promoted. I sincerely wig out when the shit hits the fan it seems and that got me both the Bronze and Silver Stars and of course being wounded twice in the process. Fuck it. I’ll get a job somewhere. I have enough money squirreled away that if I go back to the Davis Mountains, I can live a good five years. Five years from now I’ll be thirty-three. Five years ago I joined the army as an officer and a gentleman. Five years of killing turned me into a killer with no conscience.

I pull my lifted Jeep Wrangler out onto Holcombe Boulevard after checking both ways when like a bat out of hell, a red Corvette zooms up behind me and blowing the horn, shoots past on my right and... flips me the bird? In a millisecond my temper erupts through the fiberglass roof and seeing I am running 5.13 gears and have the Hemi model, I am on the cars ass like white on rice. Traffic impedes the person’s getaway and I am one inch behind them and bump-tapping her rear bumper just enough to scare the shit out of her.

I now get a good glimpse of the female driver. She has long brown hair, sunglasses and she suddenly darts to the left on Old Spanish Trail and floors the car. Up goes her right hand and again I get the manicured middle finger. I am over it now and laugh for a solid minute. Wow, what a release that was. It was almost as good as sex. Fantasizing over the ballsy woman, I head toward La Porte and my temporary digs.

It’s a one room everything place for a bachelor and the price is right. At least the VA gave me a one hundred per cent disability rating and I’ll be damned if I put that license plate on my Jeep. My mind drifts back to the woman in the convertible. The Jeep is running thirty-eight inch BFGoodrich MT’s and has Dana 60’s front and back and I could have drove over that Corvette if I wanted. Man, I bet she shit a brick when that seven-slotted grill and Warn winch were in her rearview mirror. A rare smile crosses my face and I rub my crotch thinking dirty things about the lady.

The truth is Mimi Trevino is a thirty-four year old psychiatric doctor at the VA and is the replacement for my doctor who is taking a leave of absence to have her first child. Mimi is pissed off at her Rice University daughter Alishanee for skipping class and this is what was on her mind this morning when that asshole pulled out in front of her. The truth is he didn’t pull out in front of her; she zoomed up on his ass and then took out her aggression on him. She parks at her designated spot and looking at the back of her car she almost screams! That big fucking cable thing on the front of his damned Jeep has ruined the back of her custom eight-nine thousand dollar Corvette!

I fucking hate men and I really hate those insecure asshole men who drive Jeeps! she all but screams, even as two old wheel chair-bound Korean War veterans roll past her and glance at each other. They know her type and inwardly dismiss her as just another dumb-ass unthankful angry woman. They’ve both seen their share and know inquiring about her problems would have the same results as the man she’s angry with.

Mimi’s first order of business is to get in her new office and call a wrecker and then get a rental car and then drag her errant daughter’s cute ass on the carpet. She hides the key fob under the rear fender after glancing around and angrily stomps off to her new work place.

I arrive at my shack, which I rent for five Benjamin’s a month – no lease and inspect the front of my JKUR. JK is the designation of this model Jeep, the U means it is a four-door, and the R makes it a Rubicon model. The Warn winch has a bit of red paint on it, but otherwise is fine. I think back a few minutes ago and every time I bumped the back of her car, her head came back and in my sick way, I envision putting the meat to her with the same reaction and I adjust my boys as I feel them come to life. Yeah, I bet she’s just as active between the sheets, but probably needs to be reminded of that. I have no idea how true that is.

I chose La Porte as a quiet place to stay instead of Pasadena or Deer Park. Pasadena is trashy-looking and Deer Park too sterile and this quiet little area seems to be forty years behind all the development and peaceful both day and night. As I walk up to my front door, I observe the woman across the street come out and get her paper. When she bends over and her house dress blows up it shows she’s not wearing panties. I chuckle because I’m not really attracted to women in their eighty’s.

After five years in the army everything I own fits in the back of my Jeep. What I brought away as an army ranger major was baggage that can’t be stored in a vehicle. My psychiatrist suggested I gain lawful employment and inwardly I was on the verge of rage, but I think I did a very good job of hiding it, even when she pushed a recommendation toward me in the form of a name and phone number. I slid it in my pocket and haven’t bothered to look at it. Maybe I am rebellious. Maybe I don’t want to hear I am being riffed out of the Army. Dumped the fuck out like a loser after all the years I gave them...

How in the fuck would this woman know where I would fit in?

I toss the paper on the kitchen table and decide I’ll take a nap. I don’t sleep worth a shit and quite often in the last two months since my separation, I am up most of the night.

As I fall asleep in the communication room chair,