Excerpt from a war story I’m not writing, translated from English to Korean and back using Google Translate

Before:

Branson tells me nobody’s girl is waiting around for their man to come home in a flag-box. He tells me he left his girl before he went to basic. Unceremonious as he is, he’d slept with her best friend three days before delivering the bad news.

“Always need to give her a reason to hate you,” he chuckled. “I’m coming over here expecting death. Ain’t nobody’s chances are good these days. Where she would’ve felt sadness, now she’ll feel redemption. Hell, I’m a fucking martyr. Not a fucking martyr, but a fucking one!”

We all aspire to be real fucking heroes like Branson. He speaks with an extinguished cigarette hanging limp and wet between cracked lips. The silence that follows his sermon is broken by the secretary-bell from the other room. His whore was finished with the previous customer. He rises and walks quickly through a beaded-curtain doorway.

“Name on list?” The large Slavic woman shouts at me from behind a plexiglas window. I shake my head no and leave the shadowless halogen waiting room to try my luck at lighting a cigarette in the cold, early-winter damp.

Branson was not my first choice in friend, but he is what’s left. Death passed around the company like kindergarten strep this September. The moral ones went first. They were the ones who believed in the cause — maybe in war itself. I guess that’s why I’m still around.

I see a weeping mother carrying a legless boy across the street, and I think about how everything is shit.

After:

Branson says no one is waiting for her man to come home to the flag box. He tells him that he left his daughter before he went to base. He was not embarrassed, and he slept with his best friend 3 days before the bad news.

“I always need to give her a reason to hate you.” “I will come here in expectation of death.Isn’t anyone good nowadays? Where she felt grief, now she will feel redemption.Damn it, I’m a damn martyr.Not a fucking martyr, Person! ”

We all are eager to become a true fucking hero like Branson. He talks about an evolved cigarette that has torn or wet legs between broken lips. The silence following his sermon was broken by the secretary in another room. His prostitute finished with the previous customer. He ascends and walks through the beaded curtain doorway.

“The name on the list?” The big Slavic woman yelled at me from behind the Plexiglas window. Instead of shaking my head, I leave the shadowless halogen waiting room and smoke in the cold early winter dampness.

Branson was not the first choice of a friend, but there is something else left. He died in a company like Kindergarten chain sterilization in September this year. Moral people went first. They were people who believed in the cause – it would have been in the war itself. I guess that’s why I’m still around.

I see a foster mother burning a legless boy across the street, and I think everything is a shit.

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