Zaragoza

Mr. Kline was sitting in a dusty cafe, still talking to Mr. Blythe. It wasn't the fault of the owner; the sun was shining so hotly and brightly it must have been giving the airborne motes the power to defy gravity. The road hugging the patio itself seemed lazy, not even bothering to stretch out the well worn wells dug into it by wheels passing over. But so did the wind. And so did the coffee in their cups, cooled now to a tepid temperature and flavor as if to match the tenor of their conversation.

The mindless mumbling of the radio, turned to some news channel or other, had been mocking their own blathering for a while now, until, suddenly, for a brief second the smeared sound waves coalesced into a recognizable word. This jolted him into recall and he clambered at it, grabbing at the topic like a parched man at water.

"Have you hear of The Atrocity?"

Mr. Blythe stirred, an imperceptible motion better seen not by observing him but the dust disturbed by the air around him shifting. Kline's voice had hit his ear brimming with the sort of excitement that would pour out and fill at least 20 minutes. His ear told his voice to respond carefully.

"Hmm?" Mr. Blythe asked, his voice raising a worried eyebrow.

"The radio just mentioned it."

Kline's eyes were no longer looking through the patio but had now turned fully sideways to look expectantly at Mr. Blythe. They were awaiting signs of recognition, or dejection, or, bless the Lord, the tiniest interest finding itself piqued. Their imaptience did not last long. They broke their gaze, for he had already begun to continue.

"Just reading another army press release."

"Oh, what did they say? I didn't catch it."

They waited a moment, listening to the radio's continued buzzing stream to see if anything related coagulated from it. Nothing did.

"I'm not exactly sure, I wasn't listening carefully. But it's all the same as those times I've listened. They don't even mention the Sergeant."

At this, Blythe almost furrowed his brows.

"The sergeant?"

"The Sergeant, who gave the Order!" Kline said pleadingly.

Blythe leaned back slightly. "I'll be frank with you, I'm not fully informed."
Kline feigned surprise and masked joy. He had grasped at the radio's reminder so desperately because he had hoped as much.

"Down at one of the bases, 3 young men pretended to make a delivery. Once they got close enough they began throwing something at the soldiers. One hit the Sergeant in the eye."

"Uncivilized bastards."

"All the soldiers hit the ground, so they got away. The Sergeant ordered the soldiers to search the village and they found one of them. The army report said they interrogated him in the house and got the location of the other two. One was in the same house, and when he tried to run, the Sergeant ordered him gunned down."

"Why?"

Kline's voice was getting surer, quicker.

"They called it elimination of an insurgent terrorist threat following an attack deploying a fragmentation device."

"He got hit in the face with a grenade? How'd he live?"

Mr. Blythe's head had turned now, his  eyes slightly open in the direction of the conversation. Kline leaned foward for his grand reveal, creaking the table.

"He got hit by an egg. The Sergeant says a piece of the shell cut his eye. So because the shell broke, it made fragments." His fingers drew airquotes during 'fragments.'

A brief exhale of air by his nostrils later, he continued.

"This bastard killed a prankster and called him a terrorist."

Kline was getting slightly red.

"The report wouldn't have even come out if the dead kid's parents hadn't gone viral."

"Oh, right."

"And it wouldn't have been picked up if the first kid's sister hadn't recorded the interrogation. They waterboarded on the kitchen table. The Sergeant ordered it done right there. Just disgusting."

"Very true."

Kline was quite red as he continued. "Then our Army goes on to defend this guy with their "insurgent" bullshit? Who's making these decisions? No one ever asks that."

"No accountability."

"Why are we even There anymore? We're always somewhere." Kline had fully turned to face Blythe by now. "And there's no one to complain to. Just gotta wait for the system to do whatever."

"That's it."

"Doesn't it just en- rage you?" He said enrage with a pause. "Isn't it infuriating?" Kline snarled. His face was now scrunched up as if he smelled something nasty. His upper lip was curled, baring the teeth he growled through. "Doesn't it absolutely make your blood boil? It's fucked!" His fist slammed onto the table to punctuate just how fucked it was. It made the two cups of coffee jump into the air, the one in front of Blythe tipping over as it landed.

Immediately the two men each grabbed a napkin, one dabbing at the table and the other checking his pant leg and shoe for any errant droplets. As Kline was apologizing he looked up at Mr. Blythe's face, who was looking at his pants. It looked preoccupied with the conversation more than the coffee.  His mouth was slightly agape. His eyes were looking somewhere beyond the pants, beyond the cafe. The gears in his head were turning. They'd always been turning. They'd ground against each other until any teeth they might once have had were now smooth. Filed down. They just slipped past each other now, spinning in place, toothless.

Kline ordered two more coffees. The radio's smeared words pushed the dust back into place. They were too hot to drink, so Mr. Blythe and Mr. Kline waited until they were once again tepid.