Forever Wars

Tommy The Hamburger is in The Loop. This is the part where the trap already knows your fucking name. The hour, the smell, the excuse, the reach for the same poison. The same shit, the same job, the same fight, the same goddamn turn back into the motherfucking grinder. Listen closely while I crack open the cycle, show you where it hooks right the fuck in, what it takes, and why people keep feeding the system, even when they know exactly how it ends. I sell freedom with napalm, the same patriotic horseshit speech echoing through generations, and the military funeral smell hits me like a goddamn punch to the gut. Jet fuel fumes mix with wet grass, and that sharp metallic tang of gun oil hangs heavy in the air. The flag draped coffin gleams under the overcast sky like a polished trophy while the honor guard's boots crunch rhythmically on gravel. Taps wails through the cemetery, that mournful trumpet cutting through the misty drizzle like a knife through fog, and I stand there in my damp suit that's starting to chafe at the collar, watching my buddy's mom collapse against her husband, her sobs muffled against his shoulder. Another hometown kid fed to the meat grinder of endless war, another folded flag clutched like a lifeline by trembling hands. The preacher drones on about honor and sacrifice, his words bouncing off the headstones like cheap echoes, but all I can smell is the inevitable cycle cranking up again, the same goddamn machine that's been devouring boys since before I was born. It starts with the recruitment pitches that promised purpose and glory, those glossy posters plastered on every telephone pole and bus stop shelter showing ripped soldiers grinning under desert sun, their uniforms crisp and heroic, slogans screaming "defending freedom" and "being all you can be" like they're selling the American dream instead of cannon fodder. My high school buddies signed up one after another, lured by the adventure, the college money, the chance to be heroes in someone's fucked up story. I watched the commercials during lunch period, the marching bands and fighter jet flyovers making my teenage blood pump hot and urgent, convincing me this was my path to manhood, my ticket to respect. The recruiters showed up at school assemblies, their pressed uniforms smelling like fresh starch and false authority, their smiles wide and predatory, telling me I'd be saving lives and making history, that I'd come back changed. Then deployment news cycles through like a bad flu, the talking heads on T V announcing "precision strikes" and "surgical operations" while defense stocks climb like rockets on Wall Street, CEOs rubbing their hands together in boardrooms. I watch the embedded reporters in their flak jackets, their voices urgent and dramatic as they describe the action from air conditioned vans parked miles from the actual fighting, their cameras capturing the safe parts while the real horror unfolds off screen. The contractors snag the no bid contracts, their CEOs smiling on magazine covers while the death toll ticks up like a fucked up scoreboard. My friends' letters come back censored to hell and back, their voices on video calls sounding hollow and distant, talking about "serving their country" while the news shows drone footage and presidential press conferences that reek of staged business. Then they return broken or not at all, the VA hospitals overflowing with ghosts in wheelchairs, prosthetics clicking on tiled floors like mechanical insects, the air thick with antiseptic and despair, and new recruits already lined up at the mall recruiting stations like they're shopping for futures. Some buddies come back with eyes that don't focus anymore, jumping at truck backfires and slamming doors, their marriages crumbling under the weight of nightmares that wake them screaming in the night. Others don't come back at all, just notification teams in dress blues knocking on doors at midnight, their faces solemn as they deliver the news that shatters families. The community throws parades and hangs yellow ribbon banners, but the contractors are already bidding on the next round of equipment, their profits fattening while the grief counselors work overtime trying to patch up the pieces. I remember the recruiting station downtown, how it smelled like fresh coffee and printed brochures, the posters showing smiling soldiers in pristine uniforms promising a future that wasn't just minimum wage and dead end jobs. The sergeant behind the desk had that thousand yard stare, his handshake firm but his eyes telling a different story. "You'll see the world," he said, "make lifelong friends, come back a man." But he didn't mention the sand in your boots that never washes out, or the friends who don't come back at all, or the man you become who's always looking over his shoulder. The wars keep coming, don't they? Each one sold with the same patriotic horseshit speech, the same flags waving and anthems playing while the coffins get loaded onto cargo planes. Vietnam was the last good war, they said, then Grenada proved I could still win quick ones, then Panama, then the Gulf War with its smart bombs and surgical strikes. Then nine eleven happened and the machine got goddamn hungry, gobbling up two decades of Middle East adventures, the same tactics recycled with new names and updated equipment. I think about my uncle, how he came back from Vietnam with shrapnel in his leg and nightmares that kept him up nights, how he drank himself to death trying to forget the things he saw and did. The VA hospital smelled like piss and defeat, the waiting rooms filled with men whose bodies and minds were broken by the same government that sent them there. He showed me his medals once, pinned to a faded uniform in a box in his closet, told me they gave him a piece of paper and called him a hero, but the real medal was the lifetime of pain that came after. The cycle spins on, the same script with different actors. New enemies get invented, old allies become targets, the defense budget grows like cancer while schools crumble and bridges fall apart. I remember the Bush years, how they sold Iraq with tales of weapons of mass destruction, yellow cake uranium, mushroom clouds over American cities. Congress authorized the war with solemn faces, the news anchors nodded along, and they invaded with shock and awe, the explosions lighting up the night sky like fireworks. But then the insurgency started, the IEDs and car bombs, the body counts climbing while the mission kept changing, liberation, then stabilization, then counterterrorism. The contractors built bases the size of small cities, their workers making six figures tax free while soldiers got combat pay that barely covered the bills. The news showed progress reports and liberation celebrations, but the reality was mud and blood and families torn apart. And now it's Afghanistan, the forever war that outlasted my entire adult life, the one they promised was almost over a dozen times. The Taliban retreated, then regrouped, the allies trained armies that melted away, the corruption ate the aid money like locusts. Presidents came and went, each one announcing progress, each one leaving troops behind. The farewell ceremony smelled like jet fuel and ceremony, the last soldiers boarding planes while the embassy staff burned documents and the Taliban marched into Kabul like they'd never left. The machine doesn't care about victory or defeat, it just needs the cycle to keep spinning. New wars get brewed up like bad coffee, Iran, North Korea, Russia, China, each one with its own set of threats and justifications. The military industrial complex that Eisenhower warned about has become the beating heart of the economy, defense contracts spread across fifty states, jobs and profits depending on the next conflict. I think about the kids at the high school now, how they get visited by recruiters who promise video game adventures with real guns, how the JROTC programs make war look like an honor society. The commercials show diverse soldiers jumping out of planes and driving tanks, the reality of P T S D and amputations carefully cropped out. The poverty draft keeps filling the ranks, kids from broken homes and dead end towns signing up because it's better than the alternatives. The VA system is a joke, underfunded and overwhelmed, veterans waiting months for appointments while their conditions worsen. The suicide rate climbs, the homeless camps fill with men in camo jackets, the families struggle with medical bills and emotional wreckage. The government throws parades and discounts at stores, but the real support never materializes. Flags wave, coffins follow, repeat till someone screams enough. But the screaming gets muffled by the next recruiting ad and the next speech about national security. The fear manufactures more fear and the violence begets more violence. I drive home from my buddy's funeral with the rain streaking the windshield and some patriotic song on the radio making me want to punch the dash. The highway is black and slick. My suit still smells like cemetery mud and jet fuel. I think about how close I came to signing up at eighteen, how the recruiter smelled like aftershave and stale coffee and promised I'd come back with skills for life. Now I see the men who did come back. The hardware store guy with the prosthetic arm and the woman at the coffee shop who jumps when the espresso machine screams. Then there is the panhandler on the corner with the Vietnam Vet sign turning soft in the rain. The system chews them up, spits them out, then hangs a flag over the mess and calls it duty. By the time I pull into my driveway, I already know how this goes. Another election and another speech, then another batch of scared kids getting sold courage and college money and manhood in one glossy brochure. Fuck me sideways, the funeral dirt is still on my shoes and somewhere a recruiter is already straightening his tie for the next school visit. That's the Loop. You don't beat it by naming it once. You beat it by catching the click before the next turn, but most poor motherfuckers never do. The trigger is already warming up.