Lefty

There was a man who lived in a house. It was a dark house, with the definition of old creeping from the house's skin; gray, whithering, and peeling.

The man had a dead hand. He had lost the use of it shortly after his return from Viethnam. He walked around town, yelling, preaching, and worst of all, making sense.

Three days in the heat, his troop had been stranded without radio contact, but there was some hope, but it came in the form of a mid-forest brothel. Just a dozen or slightly more tents propped up in the middle of the Southern Korean no man's land, with ladies waiting to offer themselves to any of their nation's troops flashing the right amount. They weren't there to harm anyone, only make some money to send back to their families.

But, Old Man and troop had orders. They showered the sex pit with bullets. He pointed towards some escapees, not because he was a monster, but because he believed was being a good soldier, and in doing so his hand caught the kiss of a .30Cal M2.

By the time his platoon reached an active radio, his hand and any hope of reafirmming any future use of it were gone. He would later dub it Lefty, not because that was the hand that had been shot, but because it was the piece of him that was left behind.