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Midsouth shooting school is where a lot of combat Special Ops guys go to hone their close-quarter shoot house skills, but it’s a well-known insider secret that just outside of town has a lot of poontang.

The local strip clubs are frequented by men and women because, let’s face it, what the hell else are you going to do in bum fack Lake Cormorant, Mississippi? Especially when word hits the dirt back road that the local Special Forces or SEAL unit are in town?

Usually, it was up early for a ten-mile run, shoot all day, hit the gym around sundown, head to the local steak house, and then off to chase some tail.

Most of the married guys and I would call it a night after dinner and a whisky, and on this particular trip, I was being a good boy and headed back to the main bunk house.

The houses are great and sleep about four to a room, similar to the bunk house life in the tv series Yellowstone.

So around 10 pm, my head hit the pillow until I was rudely awakened.

It felt like an earthquake was shaking the whole house, but after rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I realized there were not too many quakes in Ole Mississippi.

That’s when my eyes started to adjust to the red light that was blasting me in the eyes every half second.

It was Sean’s (name changed to protect the guilty) red lens headlamp shining in my face like a lighthouse warning seafarers of impending rocks ahead.

Then my eyes focused from Sean to two tiny fists grabbing onto the rails of my bunk and this tiny gal who winked at me and whispered; I shite you not she said this!

“Don’t tell your friend, but he’s not doing me hard enough.”

It felt like it was half statement and half invitation.

As a platoon member, I’d seen a lot of things, especially in Thailand, but this was the first time I was woken up at 0300 to this!

I assessed the situation and thought my marriage would not survive this encounter, so I rolled over in an attempt to go back to sleep.

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Note: I can sleep through almost anything, including JDAM bomb drops in the middle of the Afghan night. 

I ain’t going there. 

Then as I was counting terrorist’s bodies (stack them high, God says to me) to get myself back to sleep, that’s when my bunkmate below me apparently took her whisper as 100% invitation as he jumped out of bed buck naked with his tic tac and rat brains on full display and tried to get in on the action.

You’ve got to be shitting me. 

“What the fuck are you doing, Dozer!” Sean barked.

“You heard her; she wants it harder.”, Dozer said with a wounded face I could make out under the dim light of Sean’s headlamp.

“Get the fuck off, man, this is my rodeo, and I’m close to finishing!” said Sean as he kept pounding away.

I said, “Gents, both of you shut the F up so I can get some shut-eye.”

Sean grabbed this little gal by the arm and marched her off to the kitchen to finish their shenanigans and left poor Dozer (his nickname because he was built like a bulldozer).

I could hear the farm animal grunting coming from the kitchen, but somehow it put me right to sleep.

Needless to say, we had a good laugh the morning after.

Sean was a little slow the next morning in the shoot house and on the range.

If you miss your shots or place one on a hostage, you have to pull this big F’ng tractor tire 100 yards. Sean had quite a few tire pulls the next day as he clearly carried on with his missed shots from the night before.

You can’t make this stuff up! Hope you enjoyed it!