Kellar, Kowal and I were young second lieutenants together. Twenty-five years ago, stuffed full of Hemingway, we ran the streets of Pamplona one hot night, all night long. Wine-sacks banging against our backs we ran and ran and laughed like wolves, so full of youth and freedom we were. We were lucky and we knew it.
A few months later, back in Germany, we went to the PX so I could buy a new mountain bike. As we loaded the bike into the trunk of Kellar’s beater BMW, I took exception to the effect that Kellar’s lack of delicacy was having on the shiny new paint job on my bike--that I was literally intending to ride off of a cliff or two.
“Dude, watch it.” I said. Kellar took his hands off my bike, stood up and said “Dredd, if you’re worried about a paint job, you picked the wrong guy.”
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