A tank isn’t easily taken. Most modern tanks have multiple defenses against such simplistic means as a bit of powder loaded into the slender tip of a missile. Though, basic in its form, it’s energy and excitement is almost an insatiable device longing for that single, enthusiastic thrust.

The squeeze of a trigger, a muffled “Akbar”, the ignition starts a roar that shakes the shooter’s burlap shorts floating over his member. But there’s no room for “Allah” here because in the same way the latent rocket springs to life, so does his own missile raise the canvas of his pants just like the tent hut he sleeps in each night.

Side skirts like chastity, used to provided protection for the once virgin tank, but it’s long since lost those delicate protections to the ravages of IEDs and drone bombs. The wiles of smoke launchers lay in wait to conceal the tank’s hot steel from the desert sun, but they must be activated at the appropriate time and that’s already past. The last line of defense separates the tank from the impregnating molten copper core spinning at high velocity.

The metal plating peels back like a sundress sliding up an unsuspecting leg in a warm summer breeze. The layers cannot prevent the missile from entering through the dome just below the main gun. As the missile deposits it’s core, one last push from the thruster turns inward coating the cabin in the hot sticky magma of war. The tank fissles, shakes in it’s path as if driving further towards the source of the rocket, but stops abruptly. One crew member escapes, still covered in the HEAT’s hot core. A gasp, a call out for help and to *his* Allah, “Yo, what the fuck did I just read?”