Brain Drain
Sergeant Kristof checked his flat top in the rearview mirror of his car. As always, it was perfectly level with a hint of the landing strip peeking through. Still, it didn’t hurt to check. He didn’t make it this far in his military career without being sure about everything. And yet, here was full of doubt.
He had a reputation for being one of the top recruiters in the service. One of his superiors joked that if it weren’t for him, there wouldn’t even be a Marine Corps. He had a knack for finding the boys who needed guidance, the firm hand of the United States military to give them purpose, and convincing them to enlist. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he got to shave their heads. After all, that was his favorite part. Watching an undisciplined young man with shaggy hair lose all those wild locks as he began down a path of extreme discipline on his quest to become a well-trained soldier in Uncle Sam’s military? Who could resist!?
But now he was full of doubt. He always brought in these young athletic men, straight off the football team or baseball team but now his division was facing what his superiors called a “brain drain.” All these hot hunky soldiers were good, but there was barely half a brain cell between all of them. Sergeant Kristof was tasked with finding someone who could actually think. And that’s how he found himself parked outside the aerospace engineering building of the local university trying to find the next perfect victi–errr–recruit.
There were certainly plenty of potentials. The campus was awash in scrawny, brainy types who would almost certainly bring up the average IQ of his unit but how to pick which one to target? Usually he sought out boys with rippling physiques (and long hair) but how do you know which spindly nerd to turn into a Marine? He got out of his Hummer to stretch his legs, go for a walk, and do some thinking.
Sergeant Kristof had barely taken a step when he collided with one of the student. The student, a tall, lanky creature, bounced right off of Sergeant Kristof with his tree trunk physique.
“Excuse me, sir,” the young man stammered as he struggled to find his glasses amidst the giant pile of books he had been carrying. “I’m so sorry! I was preoccupied with one of my textbooks and I wasn’t watching where I was going. I don’t mean to be so clumsy!”
The sergeant watched this pathetic excuse for a man flail helplessly on the ground and a grin spread across his face. The boy was a wimp, that much was clear. But he was clearly a devoted student, exactly the kind of brain his superiors wanted. And he was tall, too, had to be at least 6’5” though he couldn’t weight more than 160 pounds sopping wet. That was OK. That was what basic training was for. But what really got Sergeant Kristof going was the boy’s hair: an unkempt mess of ginger locks, greased and sideparted clumsily with a cowlick in the back. The hair was beautiful and messy… and boy would it look good shaved off on the floor.
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