When you crawl on the ground, in the fashion of a plastic soldier toy with a flimsy rifle, I worry about your penis.
Will it be abraded by the gravel? Scarred and burned by the dingy berber we bought when we were desperate? Will it attract bloodsuckers?
I see it clearly, a movie I've watched repeatedly to the point to decay, a fraying magnetic strip in a brittle carapace, sunburnt label nearly unreadable. Your flayed phallus, and you're the only one to blame.