Arrington took another bite of his fried egg. He fired at another Spaniard who was trying to crest the rather sizable pile of bodies which had been piled up around Arrington’s trench. As the shell turned his insides into a slimy, bloody goo, he tripped and landed on top of the pile.
How many hundred coalies had already tried to interrupt the Animal’s breakfast? He didn’t know. But the great pillar of corpses stood as a mute testament to his adamant ideals about the sanctity of breakfast.
Suddenly a friendly lieutenant stumbled into his trench. Arrington pointed his AS gun at the man. The Animal knew he was an Englishman, which was why he hadn’t squeezed the trigger. Yet.
"What are you doing?" the lieutenant asked
"Eating," Arrington replied with perfect repose.
"Aren't you a soldier?" the junior officer said, glancing at his badge of rank.
"No," Arrington said, allowing not a drop of sarcasm to seep into his voice, "Now I'm a farmer."
"Sir, we’re in the middle of battle!” the lieutenant screamed in exasperation.
“I know. I’m in the middle of breakfast.”
“Sir, it can wait.”
“No, it can not,” said Arrington harshly, and he removed the safety from his gun.
The lieutenant slowly and surely backed away. Arrington resumed eating. He took a sip of tea.
“Needs more sugar,” he astutely observed.