"Peppermint" by J.S. O’Keefe
- roifaineantarchive
- 3 hours ago
- 2 min read

The first thing I notice the ammo room smells peppermint; normally a soothing scent but now I find it offensive.
“Who’s the asshole?” I murmur.
“What are you jabberin’ over there?” a cracked hoarse voice barks from the dark. It’s the old sergeant, Half-Brain Marc, he’s probably taking his usual afternoon snooze in this godforsaken place.
I sniffthe air again. “Some clown must’ve sprayed peppermint here. Who’s got the twisted mind to do something like this?”
“Peppermint!” Marc exclaims. “It’s jus’ musty, rusty, gunpowdery stench, nothin’ else.”
“Could be my fault. After ‘shrooming in the latrine since lunch and popping double ketamine, all odors are pretty offensive to me right now.”
“Mushrooms? C’mon, Frank, you’re a holy roller, never do drugs. I can’t recall seein’ you with anythin’ stronger than green tea. No buzz, no hall’cinogenic for you.”
The geezer is right. I’ve been imagining myself snorting cocaine, cursing at a colonel or higher rank in front of others, cutting off my right index finger to become a tuco — anything that would throw me in the stockade for a couple years. By then this hurly-burly should be over. I’ll emerge as a phoenix from fire, a peace warrior, write a best seller, go on talk shows, maybe run for office.
Back to reality, I hate being the regiment’s sniper. Especially now that my spotter is out of commission on account of the neck wound he received last Friday. And of course I can’t trust any of these yahoos to take his place. Definitely not Marc who, I suspect, fills his canteen bottle with cheap bourbon, instead of the mandatory alertness potion that keeps you awake for fifteen hours, guaranteed. The old son-of-a-bitch also reeks of peppermint.





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