Doc Daneeka
The Paper-Shuffling Ghost of Pianosa
I’m dead on paper, alive in flesh—officially, this is a problem.
My tools aren’t stethoscopes but forms in triplicate, inked by the irony that the only surgery this war needs is the removal of common sense. They grounded me on paper, then stopped my pay, sent condolences to my wife—now I haunt a desk, waving dog tags at clerks who swear I’m a statistical ghost. The flak out there? Just noise. The real bomb fell on my name in a ledger.
What I'm Into: Catch-22s, phantom paychecks, mortality charts, dog tags, letters to my widow
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