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fictoid: trophy exchange

1/12/2016

heimrich-kley-gator-and-gal-2“This was my dad’s.”

“What is it, a snake?”

“No, an alligator.”

“Where are the legs?”

“The rest of it got away.”

“How did your dad get this?
I thought he only had one hand.”

“Well, the alligator got a trophy, too.”

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art by Heinrich Kley
text © Buzz Dixon

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fictoid: I know we are but what are you

3/11/2016

nightmare-inducers-150203

The circus parade came to a full stop when Oscar halted his giraffe unicycle to peer in through a second story window.  “Holy cow, wouldja look at this!”

Margot, the nimble tightrope walker, ran up a telephone pole guy line then walked along the phone line to peer in as well.  “Now there is something you don’t see every day!”  She yelled down to the lead clown:  “Ferdinand!  Come up and take a look at this.”

Ferdinand’s head shot up on his accordion neck.  “Well, I’ll be damned.  Last time I saw anything approaching that was in a Barnes & Noble in Bangkok.  Spring of ’87 — no, ’86.”

By now the spectators on the sidewalks were yelling and hollering:  “Stop peeking in windows!  Respect their privacy!”

“Oh, yeah, like you don’t gawk at us,” said Margot.

“Well, it’s your job for us to look at you, to gaze on you superciliously with mockery and contempt for our own amusement,” one of the philosophers in the crowd said.

“And it’s your job for us to look at you with mockery and contempt for our own amusement,” Ferdinand said.  “The only difference is, we know it.”

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text © Buzz Dixon

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War Trophy

31/08/2016

Private First Class Wilbur killed his first German at 19 years of age. He was a seasoned combat vet at that point, wading ashore a month earlier at Normandy.

He never killed a man before though he fired his rifle in anger countless times and chucked his fair share of hand grenades.

But never at a human target, only at puffs of gunsmoke in gaping windows or furtive movement in bushes and trees. He’d seen plenty of dead Germans, of course, dead and disfigured by American small arms fire and artillery but never anyone he aimed at, never anyone he shot.

He’d seen plenty of dead Americans, too.

First Lieutenant Kyle had just led the patrol to the outskirts of Saint-Michel-de-Livet when they heard the bitter chatter of an MP 40 submachine gun and screams abruptly cut off. Lt. Kyle fanned his men out to enter the village down three narrow winding streets, signaling Corporal Dugan and Pfc. Wilbur to take the right flank.

The GIs on the left flank encountered the Germans first, and the air filled with the dull barks of Mausers dueling with the loud pops of M1 rifles.

As the battle raged two streets over, Pfc. Wilbur kept his eyes and ears focused straight ahead so that no Germans could encircle his position.

He turned the corner of the small street at the same instant a German turned it in the opposite direction. Pfc. Wilbur was so startled he jerked his trigger finger without thinking and, more by chance than design, put a bullet through the German’s heart at point blank range.

The German staggered back as if struck in the chest with a baseball bat. He fell on the street, cracking his helmet hard on the cobblestones.

He was dead but still conscious, at least for the moment. He looked at his chest in dismay, realizing his injury was fatal, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness and the last bit of life seeped from him.

The shooting on the other street stopped and Lt. Kyle began checking his men’s status. The patrol had been lucky: No dead, no injured, and three Germans killed.

Four, counting Pfc. Wilbur’s.

Pfc. Wilbur’s dead German seemed to be in his mid-thirties, husky with sandy brown hair. He was an unteroffizier, the rough equivalent of an American buck sergeant, and he carried an MP 40.

Cpl. Dugan, the platoon scrounger, stepped up and began rifling the German’s uniform. “Good shooting, kid,” he said to Pfc. Wilbur. Cpl. Dugan was 21.

Pfc. Wilbur stood there, somewhat dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to think, much less what to do. The possibility of killing a man face to face had always been present in his mind, but the possibility was now a reality and he didn’t know how to process it.

Cpl. Dugan handed Pfc. Wilbur the MP 40 submachine gun. It was a valuable souvenir and by right of combat, Pfc. Wilbur’s trophy.

Cpl. Dugan rolled the German over and opened his backpack. There was nothing of value in it, just a Bible in German.

Cpl. Dugan handed Pfc. Wilbur the Bible. Pfc. Wilbur slung his M1 over his shoulder and took the Bible in his free hand. It felt very similar in texture and weight to his own Bible.

He let it fall open in the palm of his hand. There was a snapshot tucked between the cover and first page, a picture of the dead German smiling with his wife and son and daughter. Father and son wore uniforms, there was a Christmas tree in the background. They seemed like a happy family and the enormity of what he had done struck Pfc. Wilbur at that moment. That particular family had now ceased to exist, and the family that survived would never know their happiness.

Lt. Kyle radioed for backup then came over to check Cpl. Dugan and Pfc. Wilbur. He glanced at the dead German without acknowledgement. Killing Germans was their profession. Lt. Kyle was 25.

“The rest of the Krauts retreated,” he said. “Company is sending up two more platoons to reinforce us. We’re going to take perimeter positions in the houses at the edge of the village ‘til they get here.”

Pfc. Wilbur, Bible in one hand, MP 40 in the other, followed Lt. Kyle. They passed a small public square where the bodies of three children and four women lay. Two of the women seemed to be scarcely out of their teens.

The four women were naked; they had been raped then shot as they tried to protect the children. Thirty-two 9mm shell casings nestled between the cobblestones, there were no 7.92mm Mauser rifle casings.

“Did anybody else carry a submachine gun?” Pfc. Wilbur asked.

“Nah, the other Krauts just had rifles,” said Lt. Kyle.

Later, Pfc. Wilbur traded the MP 40 for a bottle of scotch. He kept the Bible because it was hard to find toilet paper in the field.

WWII GIs

text © Buzz Dixon

 

 

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Fictoid: two ladies from the south

22/07/2016

Edwin Georgi - ever read Man From The South

Well, have you ever read
Roald Dahl’s “Man From The South”?
art by Edwin Georgi

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Things I Do When I Should Be Working

1/06/2016

arthur sarnoff -  want ads cap

 art by Arthur Sarnoff

That’s the title of my new Tumblr account, which I mentioned I’d be putting up back in this post.

Beast by John Byrne cap

Beast by John Byrne [tm] Marvel

This will be mostly stuff that I’ve posted on my Instagram and Twitter feeds, some here, a few (very few) on Facebook, and perhaps a few that haven’t been posted anywhere yet.

Clark Kent

The Instagram account will still be the source of most new picture posts of the kind shown here, with Facebook and Twitter getting linked from that.

who am I

But I set up the Tumblr account so it will be easier for people to share the stuff I do…and I do want you to share it.  Something I do for money, some things I do for fun.  The silly captions are fun.

hey wasnt that the generals jeep CAP

 

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Fictoid: punting

8/04/2016

Edwin Georgi - how long

art by Edwin Georgi
text © Buzz Dixon

 

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Fictoid: one night in a flop house

6/04/2016

James Avati - Im going to beat myself to death w this gun CAP

art by James Avati
text by Buzz Dixon

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Fictoid: Salome’s Ventriloquist Act

23/03/2016

Mataro da Vergato - Salomé ventriloquist CAP

“Salome” by Mataro de Vergato
text © Buzz Dixon

“It’s always nice being back
here at Herod’s Palace. 
John, did you get a haircut?”

“I just had ‘em take a little off the top.”

“Are you going to sing a song for us?”

“Yeah – ‘I Ain’t Got No Body’.”

“Hey, my eyes are up here!”

“Well, mine are down here.”

“Thenk hew! 
Ya binna wunnaful
audience!  Don’t
forget to tip your
waitress!”

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Fictoid: one night on the phone

25/02/2016

Roswell Keller - does that mean youre not coming over

underlying art by Roswell Keller

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This Week’s Superhero Movie

15/02/2016

MUTANT MIND POWER

animated imploding tanker

 

animated ahahahahahaha

 

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