“I found Brody!”
A Special Forces soldier yells as his squad moves through the dark of an underground prison. They find Lieutenant Captain Detective Nicholas ‘Brody’ Brody on the ground, looking trampy and mental. A real, god damn Prisoner of War, an American hero.
The soldiers gently lift Brody and make their way up through the prison, out towards a waiting chopper.
“I need…my hat”, Brody mumbles.
“Forget your hat”, one soldier replies. “You can get all the hats—and ass, and hot dogs—you want when we get you home. You’re a god damn hero, Sergeant Brody”.
In their haste to get Brody home, the soldiers forgot something vitally important. Brody was ginger. Brody hadn’t seen sunlight for years. And now they were bringing him out into the harsh Middle-Eastern sun.
Within seconds, the sun had seared through Brody’s pasty, freckly skin, ripping his torso apart.
So that’s why this was meant to be a night rescue, a soldier thought. We cancelled it for safety reasons, but safety had nothing to do with it, we were meant to avoid the sun.
Brody screamed as his body tore completely in half, the sun now baking his spleen, heart, lungs. His skin blackened and crusted, a man, becoming meteorite. The soldiers watched on, too stunned to think of dragging Brody six feet back into the shade of the hole.
Brody turned to dust. The specks danced with the desert’s gentle wind, blowing back into Brody’s former prison.
Inside the hole, someone coughed. The soldiers tossed some grenades in and walked away.