[That is... that is definitely a fucking hand, on his fucking shoulder, and he's about three seconds from batting it away or maybe for punching this guy right in his fucking face for bringing all of this up but... that's not quite right, either, is it? Because, fuck, it's not this guy's fault he's dead (no, it's the fault of that goddamned crazy fucking Kurtz, and yes, he's still going to call him fucking crazy, even if the Photojournalist isn't going to agree with him) and in some weird way, it kind of seems like...
Well, fuck, is this guy trying to help? It kind of seems that way. It kind of fucking seems that way. He's doing that thing people do, where they try to relate their own fucking experiences, and usually Chef dismisses that as bullshit because unless you've really been through the same fucking thing as someone else, how would you know if you can relate? But shit, the Photojournalist's dead, too, isn't he? Dead in a different way, but still fucking dead. It all equates the same. Death is death is death.]
Yeah, but maybe I fucking want to remember. Maybe it seems like the kind of thing I should remember, because what else is going to ever be more fucking important than that? Being here isn't more fucking important than that!
[But he has something else to say, too. He can't just leave it at that, can't just leave well enough alone and not talk about what had happened to the Photojournalist, because fuck, the way he says 'He' like he's God is just fucking insane, just fucking awful.]
It wasn't fucking right. It doesn't matter what the fuck 'He' wanted. Someone killed you, that's not fucking right, that's never fucking right, only... only, shit, it's not like I'm so much better. I don't even know how many fucking people I've killed.
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Well, fuck, is this guy trying to help? It kind of seems that way. It kind of fucking seems that way. He's doing that thing people do, where they try to relate their own fucking experiences, and usually Chef dismisses that as bullshit because unless you've really been through the same fucking thing as someone else, how would you know if you can relate? But shit, the Photojournalist's dead, too, isn't he? Dead in a different way, but still fucking dead. It all equates the same. Death is death is death.]
Yeah, but maybe I fucking want to remember. Maybe it seems like the kind of thing I should remember, because what else is going to ever be more fucking important than that? Being here isn't more fucking important than that!
[But he has something else to say, too. He can't just leave it at that, can't just leave well enough alone and not talk about what had happened to the Photojournalist, because fuck, the way he says 'He' like he's God is just fucking insane, just fucking awful.]
It wasn't fucking right. It doesn't matter what the fuck 'He' wanted. Someone killed you, that's not fucking right, that's never fucking right, only... only, shit, it's not like I'm so much better. I don't even know how many fucking people I've killed.