2230 local time.

The contractor just screamed, tears streaming down his face.

Deeka grabbed him by the balls, squeezed hard, and whispered something nobody could hear into the contractor’s ear. He gave him a big kiss on the lips and turned to his fellow SEALs and said, “Now that’s what we call gator eyes down in Florida. Hah! Problem solved Chief, that guy is going to wake up a whole new man. And I didn’t even have to use my mouth guard fellas. Deeka pulled out a legit MMA style mouthpiece to the disbelief of her teammates.”

Deeka gave a bow and walked back to the pool table, leaving the contractor screaming.

“Goddamn, Gammin. That is just wrong dude. You’re packing a fucking mouthpiece?” Doug said as he put his arm around Deeka’s back.

“Damn, holmes, that’s some fucked up Tijuana shit!” Jose belted out.

They all laughed and quietly admired how effectively Gammin had handled the situation with “A Florida Man…” efficiency.

The contractor limped back to his table and fell over in pain. His two buddies just grabbed him, threw some money on the table, and dragged him outta there. They sure weren’t sticking around for round two with Deeka after what they’d just seen.

A couple of games later and Gammin was on a full tear and threatening a game of skin darts.

Everyone knew the rules. They tossed an elimination coin around to see who’d go first.

Each player would get three shots to hit the bullseye.

“Back or ass?” Jose asked the group.

Chief saw this as his signal to head back.

“Gents, I’m going in early, enjoy letting off some steam and keep Gammin out of trouble.”

“I got it, chief,” Doug said.

The night was far from over, and the students of class 220 were about to get an early wake-up, one they would remember long after leaving training. Possibly the worst third phase wake-up ever.

A few pitchers of beer later and the skin dart game was in full swing.

Part II of Incident at the Salty Crab: Skin Darts & the Wrath of Deeka

2345 local time. By the pool tables.

The rules were simple but also flexible depending on the level of drinking.

Rules

1. Nobody complains or the group decides the punishment by kangaroo court.
2. Elimination coin toss to see who goes first. Winner picks location (Bareback or ass cheek).
3. Three shots at a bullseyes. Dart must stick in place or it’s considered a miss.
4. If shooter hits the bullseye target has to chug a beer. If shooter misses, shooter chugs a beer.
5. If target cries out in pain it’s an automatic beer chug.
6. Best of three rounds top score sits out while everyone does a shot of winner’s choice.
7. Losers pay the bar tab for the winner.

Deeka won the coin toss round robin, and was unafraid to let everyone know this was her night! A night to kick ass and notch names on her belt!

The winner got to choose the first victim.

“Gammon is out the cannon you motherfuckers!” she said smacking Jose on the ass. He shook his head, smile,d and under his breath said, “Mierda”.

“Jose, get your migrant ass up there and drop trou!” she barked.

He grinned but it was a nervous grin, everyone knew Gammon threw hard.

“Go easy, cabron. That’s dumbass in case you don’t fuckin habla,” Jose said as he pulled down his camo pants baring his ass for all to see and giving it a couple of shakes for good measure.

Ruby walked over to the table and took look around with her big, “been there got the T-shirt” grin.

“Y’all are having way too much fun over here. Who asked for the black magic marker?”

“Thank you, Ruby, you’re the best,” Gunnar replied grabbing the black sharpie from her right hand.

He walked over to the bent over Jose, popped the cap off which went flying under the jukebox, and proceeded to draw a dartboard bullseye on Jose’s left hairy butt cheek.

“Well look at that, a regular Picasso Gunnar.”

Ready on the left. Ready on the right. The range is hot!”

Deeka threw the first dart and with a loud thwap it sank deep into the black bullseye in Jose’s cheek.

Blood started to trickle down.

“Goddamn! You fucking sharpen those things yourself, cabron?!” Jose yelled as he yanked the dart from his ass cheek.

“I nailed your ass on the first shot, be thankful fucker. Now chug.”

Deeka filled up Jose’s cup with beer, spilling some in the process.

“Hey puto, that’s alcohol abuse.”

They were a bit shocked when they saw Deeka did in fact have his own custom dart set on him. He grinned, wiped the blood from the dart, and slid it inside the leather pouch next to the others.

“You cocksucker, I knew it!” yelled Jose.

“At least it’s a gender-neutral insult. Anyone can be a cocksucker,” Doug “Utah” said quietly. He was definitely the soft-spoken of the group.

They all laughed and poured more beer.

Then the entrance door swung open, and one of the Rock’s base police officers approached the table. He was tall, balding a bit, and had the familiar MP belly from eating too much drive-through base fast food. Most of the inside of the MPs’ patrol vehicles smelled like a quarter pounder with cheese.

With a nervous look in his eyes, he took in the bizarre scene and didn’t know what to make of it. Especially the brutish-looking man woman grinning with the dart set in his/her hands.

Jose was still wiping the blood from his ass cheek, starting to pull up his pants, and getting ready to chug his beer when the officer walked up to them. The jukebox just starting to play Let’s Dance by David Bowie. With Deeka swaying back and forth to the beat with his dart pack in one hand and applying red lipstick with the other.

It was quite the scene to take in.

“We got a call from one of the island contractors that claim his friend had been assaulted by a woman that fits the same description as her, the officer said, pointing to Deeka. I don’t want any problems, just need you all to clear out soon so this doesn’t escalate to the base commander. Deal?”

Gunnar, being the soberest, told him not to worry, he’d handle it.

“I’ll get them out of here, don’t worry. Time to go gents. Gammon, Doug, and Jose, I’ll get the check, you guys bring the van around the front in five.”

“You got it,” said Jose with a devilish smile.

“Thank you,” the officer said as he walked back to his partner who was standing at the front entrance.

“My pleasure officer,” Deeka blurted out with an awkward curtsy.

0055 local time. Salty Crab parking lot.

Doug, who was the quiet one of the group, just nodded and walked out behind Gammon and Jose to the white GMC van parked on the steep hill outside of the Crab.

“Look at this fucking guy? Sleeping on the job.”

“Let’im be Deeka,” Doug said with a serious look on his face.

“Alright, alright.”

Doug grabbed the sleeping X-division kid and with a crisp smack on the face, he awoke him. He told him to start the van and pull it up to the stairs of the Crab for Gunnar.

The poor kid was more terrified than ever because from the moment she sat down in the back seat behind him, Deeka, smeared lipstick on her face, kept eyes on him like a rival gang prison yard staredown.

“Just keep your mouth shut and drive the van. Maybe he did have a career in the navy after all,” he thought to himself.

The tired GMC engine roared to life, headlights reflecting back because of the thick fog which had started to roll in. The X-division kid whipped the van around to the front stairs stopping with a jerk.

“Watch the brakes kid,” Doug said.

Gunnar walked down, holding the old unstable wooden railing for balance. The railing barely held in place, battered by years in the salt air. He hopped onto the torn cushion of the front seat and slammed the door with a creaky thud.

“I’ve got a great idea gentleman. I’ve got the 5 am PT with the students but why not get an early start? Let’s give them a combat wake-up,” Deeka declared more than asked.

“Let’s roust those fuckers. I’m in,” said Jose.

“Doug’s in.”

“Chief is going to have our asses but fuck it, I’m bored and the class fucked up majorly today. That loudmouth Hively got caught with an underweight pack on the morning 14-mile ruck march. They got it coming,” said Gunnar.

Suddenly, with the words of Gunnar like bloody chum in the water, the sharks started circling.

0117 “The Rock” SEAL student training compound, northwest harbor.

Sssssssss… BOOM! The first stun grenade went off with a loud thunder in the enclosed barracks space of class 222.

The instructors had battery-powered Peltor hearing protection on which silenced sudden loud noises and amplified voices.

Whop whop whop… whop…. whop whomp whomp whomp… Deeka was on the M-60 machine gun. It was firing blanks but the sound was still terrifyingly real.

“Get the fuck up for PT you cheating sacks of shit,” Deeka screamed.

Jose grabbed a bull horn and started yelling instructions.

“Hively you fat piece of shit, get over here… no, crawl over here like the cheating pig you are,” he yelled.

Hively was still sore from the private beat down on the beach he’d had earlier trying to shed five pounds from his ruck to save his knees. It seemed more punishment was still forthcoming.

Doug had a high-powered flashlight and was shining it into the rapidly awakening confused class.

Gunnar was rolled in another crash grenade yelling, “Fire in the hole assholes!” Sssss… BOOM!

There were no unprotected ears in that room that were not ringing at high pitch. And there was nowhere to hide.

“Look at you guys, how you goin’ to last in combat, bunch’a confused putos in here. Sheeet… ballsack and bung hole everywhere I look. Out of your racks. Drop down and give me a hundred push-ups,” said Jose rather calmly amid the chaos.

Ty had his trousers on and, ever the grey man, and was in the corner executing all commands to perfection.

JJ slept in UDT shorts and shirts because the barracks were mixed and she was right besides Ty banging out pushups.

Mission accomplished.

Most of class 222 was in total disarray.

All their senses were in a state of conflict thanks to the thud of the machine gun, the light from the flashbangs, Doug “Utah’s” high-powered flashlight, and Jose’s bull horn.

Just before the instructors arrived Olga had gotten up to use the bathroom and had just sat down on the cold toilet seat. She had the piss scared out of her when she heard the instructors gathering outside.

“This not good at all. Stop, listen, evaluate,” she thought to herself.

Then the first stun grenade went off with a loud boom!

She was torn on what to do.

On the one hand, she was isolated from the class, on the other, she felt a need to jointly suffer. In the end, she decided to wait and see a bit longer, and from the sounds of things, this was the better option. Clearly, the instructors had been drinking, and she’d never seen this before.

“Wild West on the Rock. Poor classmates,” she said to herself.

Wedge was the first up, ears humming with a high-pitch ringing. He ran over to the first instructor he saw, Gunnar Egilsson, and stood at attention.

“Instructor Egilsson, what are the class instructions?” He asked, realizing embarrassingly that he was standing naked in front of Gunnar.

He smiled and looked down at Wedge.

“You can start by putting some clothes on and stop pointing that damn cinnamon tick tack and rat brains at me, sir. Then get your class on the beach five minutes ago,” Egilsson barked.

“Hooyah!”

Wedge ran back to his bunk and almost tripped when he stepped on a still hot and smoking flash grenade. He grabbed his trousers, shirt, and slipped into his boots with no socks.

The students, most butt naked, were doing push-ups as ordered and coughing because of all the smoke.

“Class 222, muster outside the barracks now!” he yelled, barely enough to make it over Deeka’s thundering M-60 machine gun.

Hot brass was all over the barracks floor.

He saw JJ already dressed, put his arm over her shoulder, and yelled in her ear about the muster. “JJ, please pass the word.”

“You got it, Wedge.” She passed the word, grabbed Olga’s clothes, and handed them off to her in the female bathroom, the only place she could be.

“You the best, JJ. I owe you,” Olga said rubbing JJ’s head.

“Don’t sweat it, Olga. I got you.”

In the distance, chief heard some commotion, popped in his yellow earplugs, rolled onto this side, pulled the navy wool blanket up over his shoulder, and went back to dreaming about retiring on the beach in Puerto Rico.

0200 northwest harbor beach.

The class was lined up at the military position of attention. However, some of the students were partially dressed, missing socks, an undershirt here, and a cap there. It was a scene right out of The Dirty Dozen.

Deeka, still with red smeared lipstick on her face and painted nails, was holding on the M60 like a boss in one hand shooting from the hip.

“Lock arms. Enter,” said Instructor Egilsson.

The students all knew what that meant. Coldwater here we come.

They grabbed onto each other and walked backward into the chilly Pacific ocean. They laid down with their heads facing the beach blind to the two feet high beach break smashing onto their heads. The surf was starting to pick up and the class could barely hold the line. Each crashing wave threatening to tear the human chain apart.

“Out now! Push-ups, begin. Eight-count bodybuilders begin. Squats begin. Line up, lock arms. Enter. Repeat!” Deeka yelled. Gunnar had handed over the megaphone, grabbing the M60 from Gammon. After all, it was technically Gammon’s PT session to run.

Then Deeka put Spotify on his iPhone and selected Stuck in the Middle with You. She piped it into the megaphone and yelled, “Y’all better dance!” The students looked confused and mortified at the same time, as Deeka started her own little dance on the dark sandy beach, with the yellow lights of the dimly lit compound in the backdrop.

This, and Gammon’s playlist from hell, went on for a little over an hour until the instructors started to get bored and sober up.

The students were shivering uncontrollably at this point. The Pacific ocean and cold island wind had sapped all heat from their cores.

The intensity and brutality of the PT session was the only thing that kept their body temps barely above hypothermia. The workout made most CrossFit workouts look like old ladies doing water aerobics in a Florida retirement home pool.

“Class secured. Sir, muster after morning chow 0730 on the grinder ready for the firing range,” Gammon said.

Hooyah, Instructor Gammon, Wedge replied standing at full attention wet and shivering from the cold.

“Two days and a wake-up, and they would be back in Coronado, ready to graduate,” he thought.

It couldn’t come fast enough for Wedge.

“Never seen something so strange than a man in lipstick. What kind of joke is this, JJ?”

“I don’t think it’s a joke, Olga.”

Olga shot her a puzzled look. “Must kidding me?”

“I wish I was, better we just focus on graduating and think about this later,” JJ said.

“Yes, you right, JJ. Becoming strange world today.”

They formed up by squads and ran back to the barracks to grab a hot shower and a few hours of precious shut-eye before morning chow.

The nightmare was over.

To be continued…

Click here to read all the installments of The Reservation.

“The Reservation” is a new experiment, a novel in progress, shared with SOFREP readers weekly and created by former Navy SEAL sniper Brandon Webb. Your thoughtful input on characters and story direction is welcome in the comments below. However, insanity will not be tolerated. Stand by for weekly updates as the story unfolds and our unit wanders “off the reservation.”