Egg drop soup, the beat drops. Skrillex and dubstep at some outrageous music festival, complete with laser light show. A million dollars a ticket. My worst nightmare. Butterfingers, dropsies, company must be coming. “This is the drop,” the paratrooper yells out. And little green men fly out of a large military helicopter, jumping to the fields below. It is a beast so loud, the blades of the chopper become a deafening drone. Infiltration must be silent if possible. The sky is awash in the deep blue black that is the dead of night. Moonless, starless, agnostic nature. Things are just so; unmysterious. No wonder, no calling. The men yank at their parachutes and gently glide down. Deep down they are nervous, but simultaneously giddy. Night goggles switched on the approach their position and do their best not to tumble, but land at a light jog.
Roe Knows Best 