I plan on doing the Malcolm X routine and tell the recruiter how I plan on radicalizing the poc troops to come home and overthrow the government.

The day I went down there, I costumed like an actor. With my wild zoot suit I wore the yellow knob-toe shoes, and I frizzled my hair up into a reddish bush of conk.

I went in, skipping and tipping, and I thrust my tattered Greetings at that reception desk’s white soldier – “Crazy-o, daddy-o, get me moving. I can’t wait to get in that brown” – very likely that soldier hasn’t recovered from me yet.

…

Suddenly, I sprang up and peeped under both doors, the one I’d entered and another that probably was a closet. And then I bent and whispered fast in his ear. “Daddy-o, now you and me, we’re from up North here, so don’t you tell nobody. . . . I want to get sent down South. Organize them n***er soldiers, you dig? Steal us some guns, and kill us crackers!”

That psychiatrist’s blue pencil dropped, and his professional manner fell off in all directions. He stared at me as if I were a snake’s egg hatching, fumbling for his red pencil. I knew I had him. I was going back out past Miss First when he said, “That will be all.”