The Ranch Hand's Babies, Part 2 of 3

Sixties Secret Agent In black and orange inks some wag had stenciled, "no need for tests - for use on dinks". Gung-ho. Can-do. Make war, not love. You hit puberty, and find you're the biggest kid on the block. Time to throw some weight around. Buy yourself a Glock. Damn this forest. They don't play fair. We'll catch 'em in the open with our phosphorescent flares. We invented cocaine drinks, electric chairs, chop suey - let's have us a little think: claymores, napalm, hueys. If only we could find a way to murder all these trees: if all this life were scalded, flayed, and shriveled till it dropped away, poisoned, sickly, palsied, grey, then Charlie, skulking somewhere out there would show up in our lenses' stare and we could bring our guns to bear. So. Get it done.