My sign read, “Please stand on the marks, look at this sign, and then press the button with your thumb. Thank you for your cooperation.”They lined...up like cattle to the slaughter. They didn’t question a thing. They didn’t know that I had started an Internet site devoted to up skirt shots of women.There were molded places for their feet at about shoulder width or two feet apart. When they pressed the button I got several pictures at the same time. One was of their face, one was of their actual. There’s an axe handle leaning against the wall behind him.“Thank you, Sir. I appreciate it.” There’s something about him, the way he looks at my uniform. “You served?”“1967 to 1968. Pleiku in ‘Nam.” His face darkens. “Different shithole, same shit.” He eyes my ribbon rack critically. “Guess you’ve seen a few shitholes.”“A few.”He nods toward Malone. “He said you didn’t have to do this.”“Like I told him. We all have to do this.”A terse, joyless smile. “Thanks anyway. You have a bugler?”“He’s. More

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