Jocko Willink - Final Spin: A Novel

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the authors copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy. For Jeff Lang How did I end up here? Im smart. Im funny. I look pretty damn handsome if I do say so myself.But here I am.Nowhere.And it seems this is where I will always be: nowhere.

---

Bedroom.

It is not an apartment, but it looks
like one. Cheap furniture. Well-used carpet. Not clean, but not
dirty. The bedroom is not unique in its wares. Desk. Chair. Dresser. Dresser.

Small bedside table with lamp. Overhead light. Janky ceiling fan, spinning at a low speed. Then there is the dcor. Pictures hung neatly on the walls. They are strange.

Or at least indicate a strangeness that is hard to interpret. Harmless, but different.

---

Johnny walks in. Twentysomething. Leaning toward twenty. Pretty damn handsome for an unkempt young man who stays up too late and eats the wrong foods and drinks more beer and whiskey than he should.

He looks at his brother. Johnny is frustrated. He tries to remain restrained, but it can be hard after all these years. What the hell, Cleaner? Man, I told you about these shirts. Arty looks distraught. Johnny sees.

Johnny cannot stay frustrated. After all, this is Arty, his brother. And no one could really be mad at Arty. What? Is it not clean? Arty replies, earnestly concerned, wondering if he has somehow failed his brother. No, Arty. Its clean. Its clean.

But its just a T-shirt I know, Arty cuts in. Its a hundred-percent cotton T-shirt. I used a warm-warm cycle. It shouldnt have shrunk at all. Im always careful about that. Its not shrunk, Arty.

Thats not it. Its just never mind. Forget it. Forget what, Johnny? Whats wrong? This is killing Arty. The one thing he was supposed to be good at. And it seems like he messed it up.

Arty, Johnny replies as kindly as he can, its just that its a T-shirt. You dont press T-shirts. You dont put starch in T-shirts, buddy. But the creases are sharp, arent they? Arty replies, wondering what on earth the problem could be. The creases are sharp, Johnny concedes, but thats not the point. You dont put military creases in T-shirts.

Ive told you this before, Arty. But why? Cotton holds the starch really well. Johnny starts to get frustrated again. Hes been down this road before.

---

Many, many times.

---

Look, Cleaner, I know that.

You always tell me that. And I always tell you: You just dont starch and press T-shirts because because you just dont do it. Mom likes hers pressed. Johnny lets out a sigh. Arty realizes hes gone too far. Listen, Arty, I get it.

But Im not Mom. And I dont want my T-shirts to be starched and pressed. Its a Black Sabbath T-shirt! I just wear it out with a pair of jeans, okay? Can you just give them a simple wash and dry from now on? Please? Low heat, tumble dry? Arty asks, wanting to get a good procedure locked down. Johnny smiles. Yeah, Arty. I think that would be perfect.

Thanks, bud. I can do it now, Arty offers. I have to go. Okay. It wont happen again, Johnny. Thanks, Arty, Johnny says with a gentle smile.

And Johnny? Arty asks. What? Im sorry. Its okay, bud. Its okay. Johnny feels a little bad as Arty walks away. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Blue eyes.

Pronounced eyebrows. But that is where the similarities end. After all, Arty is: different. A little pudgy. Glasses. It is possible to tell from looking at his face that something isnt quite right.

There are medical names that could be assigned, but most of those wouldnt quite hit the mark. He is older than Johnny by six years. But his peculiarities keep him living at home. Johnny, on the other hand, doesnt have an excuse to still be living at homeother than Arty and his mom. They both need him around. Thats what he tells himself, anyway.

Johnnys bedroom is the same room he has always had. Mattress on the floor. No box spring. No bed frame. Posters of rock bands on the wall from when he was younger. Motrhead. Motrhead.

Led Zeppelin. AC/DC. Some muscle cars too. He hadnt bothered to take them down as he outgrew them. He also hadnt bothered to clean his room very often. Clothes, remnants of food, and beer cans on the floor.

This is all a stark contrast to Artys room: clinically clean with the bed tightly made. And then there are the walls of Artys room and their curious dcor. The walls neatly display pictures of clothes, washing machines, and dryers. There are brochures about various lines of laundry equipment on his little desk. Some of the more colorful ones are also hanging on the wall. There are also coupons for laundry detergents, fabric softeners, and stain removal products on the desk in an envelope.

The source of his nickname, Cleaner, is no mystery at all. Arty likes to clean. Laundry, to be exact.

This is it, I guess.This is as good as it is going to get.Where did I go wrong?Where was the misstep?Was it one? Or was it many? A thousand little errors landing me here.Landing me nowhere. Nowhere but here.

---

Nice shirt, man, Goat says with a smile as he sees Johnnys starched Black Sabbath T-shirt, its military creases running from each shoulder down to the waist. Up yours, Johnny replies.

That cotton really holds the crease, doesnt it? Yeah it does, Johnny says. You couldnt iron them out or anything? I tried, but damn. He uses an industrial press. And he looks at me like Im ripping his heart out. What can I say? My brother is crazy. Yeah, but that son-of-a-bitch can iron some shirts, cant he? He sure as hell can.

You want another one? What time do we have to be at work? Goat asked. Not until ten thirty. Sheeeit. Lets do this. Two more, Lucy, Johnny says to the barmaid. BBs Bar.

Dingy working-class watering hole. Cheap vinyl seats. Even cheaper drinks. Goat is about the same age as Johnny, though he looks a little younger. His dark skin has an almost childlike texture. His black hair looks as if it is always organized, regardless of what he has been doing.

His eyes are dark and deep. He is handsome. He too has that look about him that says he shouldnt be here. Shouldnt be in a dead-end job. Shouldnt be in a dead-end bar.

---

But he is.

---

Arty enters the bar.

---

Arty enters the bar.

He is not comfortable in this place. Dirty. Dark. Bad smells. He tries to think of other things that smell good: Fabric softener. Lemon detergent.

A clean load of linens. But this place does not smell those ways. It smells other ways. Beer. Smoke.

---

Arty sees Johnny and Goat and makes his way over to them.

---

Arty sees Johnny and Goat and makes his way over to them.

Whats up, Arty? Johnny asks. Hi, Johnny. Hi, Goat, Arty responds. Hows it going, Cleaner? Goat asks. Good. Fine.

I mean good, Arty says nervously. What are you doing here? Johnny asks. Is everything all right? Everything is fine. Good. But. No starch. No starch.

No creases. The way you like it. Arty hands Johnny a nicely folded T-shirt. Johnny takes it and holds it up. It unfurls as he does, revealing a Motrhead logo. Johnny smiles and nods.

Its perfect, Arty. Perfect. Thanks. No problem. Im sorry about that one, Arty replies, pointing to the starched Black Sabbath shirt Johnny is wearing. Its cool. Its cool.