( Felt like writing... here ya go. It'll come in a few parts, just to give yall an idea about Charlie. 🙂 )

[Approximately 1 Year Ago]

"You fucked up Gunny, no doubt about it. You shouldn't have punched him." Major Thompson said, his uniformed shoes clapping heavily on the tiled floor of the 2nd Recon Battalion headquarters at Camp Lejeune, NC.

"Sir, he gave`n order that would`a killed the entire team. He didn't give me much choice." Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Feld said, or at least he had been a Gunnery Sergeant, up to fifteen minutes ago when his command decided it was best to just see him out of the Marine Corps instead of charging him for assault on an officer.

"It stays Gunny...you have 48 hours to gather your things and clear base. The paperwork will be filed, you'll have a seperation package of $30,000." The Major replied, stopping in his tracks. The man turned, the colorful display of ribbons upon his chest recounting his heroics over the years spanning back to the first Gulf War. "Look Gunny, lots of us know it was fucked up over there ok, but you can't go around punching at Captain just because you think he has bad judgement. They are giving you an honorable discharge, take it, and go use all those skills the Marine Corps gave you to make some money. Go take a few weeks vacation, you need it. Call me when you get back, I have a friend who could use your experience."

Charlie watched the Major walk off, his anger was boiling in that moment, almost enough to turn his skin red. The years of combat he had endured as a member of the Force Recon company and this is how he was being treated?

"Fuck ya'll sir. Every single fucking one of you." He called out, his southern voice booming down the pristine hallway, gathering the attention of all the Marines that were walking around the headquarters building, all freezing in a moment of hesitation.

[1 Month Later]

Empty beer cans and nearly empty bottles of whiskey decorated that dingy hotel room in Tijuana, the sound of Mexican fanfare heard outside the window as sunlight began to pour in through the blinds. A knock at the door had Charlie's head spinning, a reminder to the reality of drinking too much the night before, coming in the form of an instant headache that had him groaning in displeasure.

"Go the fuck away!" He called out, only to get a bit of chatter in return. Charlie was fluent in sevearl languages, Russian, Arabic, Pashto....but Spanish he knew only enough to order a beer and ask for the bathroom...he obviously had his priorities in order. The door opened and an older Mexican woman came in, obviously having the intnet of cleaning the room, her shrilling voice driving into Charlie's head like broken glass. He looked down to see that he was completely naked, the used condoms hanging over the lip of the trash can reminded him of the whore from the night before, causing him to groan as he laid back into the bed.

The phone rang, somehow competing for attention over the maid's constant nagging, especially when she picked up that trash can to find the rubber decoration hanging on the lip.

"Hello...?" he said into the phone after bringing it to his ear, his gravled voice holding a dire tone of frustration in that moment. All he wanted to do was sleep, that was apparetly too much to ask.

"Gunny... Major Thompson told me I shoul..... is it a bad time?" The voice on the other end presented, pausing probably at the sound of the Maid.

"Go the fuck out!" He yelled at the woman, his hand gesturing for her to go to the door.

"No no, not you.. not you. Who is this?" Charlie asked, putting the phone back to his ear to hear the man wanting an explination for the sudden outcry.

"My name is Reed, Daniel Reed. I run a... eh, small outfit that practices the finer arts of warfare for those who..."

The man was cut off as Charlie rolled over some, his voice picking up as he interrupted, "I'm not a fucking Mercenary, Reed. I fought for my country, that's it. I'll fight for what I choose to fight for, and it won't be money." That phone was slammed back down onto the craddle as he swung his legs off the bed, his bare feet pressing to the dirty floor as he hunched forward, bringing his face down to his palms to rub at his stubbled skin, a low groan escaping him as he blindly reached out to the table, his hands curling around something glass and drawing it to his lips.

He felt his chest tighten, his throat constrict, and the instant desire to hurl as the taste of stale ashes and warm beer washed into his mouth, having used the bottle as an ash-tray the night before. He lurched forward, that vile mixture pouring from between his lips to splatter on the grungy wooden floor at his feet, his voice calling out in prayer to the dinosaurs as his body revolted in protest to what he had tried to drink.

He reached out again, this time looking where he reached, though his focus was blurred from his watery eyes. He grabbed that half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels and greedily brought it to his lips, chugging back a few heavy pulls of whiskey to wash that vile taste out of his mouth.

He stood, somewhat shakily, completely naked as he stumbled to the wall, his hands pushing open that door that would let him step out into the morning light on the balcony, not seeming to care that the whole city could see his limp manhood hanging between his legs, "Fucking Mexico..." He muttered under his breath, that bottle being brought back to his lips for another heavy chug.