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"Private Pyle I'm gonna give you three seconds! Exactly three-fucking-seconds to wipe that stupid looking grin off your face or I will gouge out your eyeballs and skullfuck you! ONE! TWO! THREE!"
"Sir, I can't help it, Sir!"
"Bullshit! Get on your knees, scumbag!"
"Are those... live rounds?"
"Seven-six-two full-metal jacket."
"Leonard... if Hartman comes in here and catches us, we'll both be in a world of shit."
"I am... in a world... of shit."
Blood splattered from Gunnery Sergeant Hartman's chest. He fell to the floor.
"Easy, Leonard. Go easy, man," Joker stammered.
Leonard sat on the toilet. Suddenly, he jerked up, put the barrel of his rifle in his mouth, and... nothing. Realization dawned on him.
He took the rifle out of his mouth. "I saw you that night, Joker. When you beat me."
"Leonard, please, we were just— just ribbing on you a bit. Please, let's just—"
"You all hate me. It's okay. I hate you too."
The next shot rang out. Joker doubled over, hands clutched over his stomach, blood seeping into his white USMC shirt.
Pvt. Pyle stepped out into the hall. The pale faces of his brothers-in-arms stared at him from the darkness in the barracks. He was slow, but the lessons had ultimately been learned through pain.
The deadliest weapon in the world is a Marine and his rifle.
His magazine still held eighteen rounds. He was a good shot.