Dust

Petulant.  That's what she'd called him.  Some sort of dog-like analogy that through a haze of bile and gut-wrenching echoed between his skull and the down-town office of the military recruiters.  From there, passed around, his sallow skin pinched and poked and weight and bones checked and rechecked, there was finality in the Salvation Army.  God-bless the less-fortunate, and with guns after measure 4-0-5b R passed. 

It was discovered that among the donations of older people, entire estates often left arms.  One family, victims of monorail collisions, goddamn monorails, an entire crate of grenades left behind.  And for all the regimentation of the regular-standing Army, the Salvation operated with it's own autonomy.  Victim of circumstance, and lifetimes collection of arms more fitting for a museum.