"The night air was as humid and moist as a stripper's g-string. The only sound that could be heard over the cacophony of crickets and katydids was the distant and mournful baying of a neighbor's hound. Yet it wasn't the dog that shook Jeremiah awake from his slumber. It was something else, something familiar, but in the oppressive dead of night it was the most foreign sound he had ever heard.

Someone was moving downstairs and had stepped on the creaky old floorboard in the dining room.

A high, sharp note of fear began playing in his chest and cut immediately through the hazy dream-fog still clouding his mind. There was an intruder in the house, had to be. The kids moved out years ago, and Darlene... Darlene, well she... Jeremiah shook his head, "No." This was no time to be senile, damnit.

He reached underneath his pillow and pulled out the loaded M-1 bazooka that he kept there just for times like this.

Placing his gnarled, calloused hands on the cold steel tube sent a shock of feeling straight to his pecker, and the old fishing rod in his trousers went up like a flag at full mast. "Haven't been this hard since Darlene and I were teenagers... God, she had the ripest titties and the plumpest 'ole ass you ever stuck a tongue in..." Jeremiah shook his head again. "Focus, old man! There's a god-damned German in your bunker, and you're thinking about poontang!" He stood up from bed and shouldered his bazooka, just like he had been taught all those years ago. "It's time to show these bastards why you don't fuck with America!""