Mind in the Gutter

McFab compound. Recently. 1400 hrs.
I had just finished my daily PT--38 jumping jacks, five minutes of Jazzercise, and a long cool-down--when I got the call.
"Randy," my Mom yelled. "Pick up in there, it's Josh."
"Damnit, Mom--opsec! Call him The Falcon." Some people never learn. I didn't chastise her further--she had never lived at the sharp end, and God willing, she never would.
"You have the wrong number," I answered in my usual manner.
"Hey, dude," the voice at the other end said, "it's Josh--I mean, the falcon, or whatever. How's it goin'?"
I waited.
"Hello? Randy? You there?"
I waited.
"Helloooo?"
"This line isn't secure," I finally reminded him. "Use my call-sign. And you didn't say 'over'. Over."
"Oh, yeah, right, uh, Darth Spock. Listen, I heard you got fired at Taco Bell, and I might have a job for you. It's--"
"Not over the phone! What's your location, Falcon? Over."
"I'm home, but, look, it's just--"
"I'll be there in twenty. Over." I hung up. Long goodbyes just mean a better chance for the NSA to run a trace.
The Falcon--Josh--and I went back a long way. We had met at a karaoke bar shortly after our wives left us and shortly before I moved back in with my Mom to protect her from potential terrorist threats. We found we had a lot in common--as it turned out, both of our wives had been cheating on us for years. We were also both hard drinkers when the mood struck us, and after a long night of wine coolers and Zima, a friendship had been formed. The Falcon wasn't a man of action, like me, but he had read Andy McNab's first two novels, so I trusted him just as I would a fellow warrior.
As I changed out of my PT gear, I wondered where the job was. Afghanistan? Maybe. I knew it was only a matter of time before I got the call to take down OBL, and this could be it. Then again, the commie rebels in Columbia had been making a lot of noise, and my experience in that region--I once took a cruise to Cozumel--might prove invaluable in that volatile situation.
Really, it didn't matter. As long as I spent the day wading knee-deep in blood and spent the night picking enemy skull-bone out of my teeth, I'd be in my element.
I dressed in normal civvy gear--black BDU trousers, tactical boots, and my "Mercenaries Do It Cuz You Paid Them To" tee-shirt. I wasn't expecting trouble on the short drive to Josh's apartment, so I carried only my light weapons load--two knives, a garrote, pepper spray and mace (one can each), and a water pistol filled with my own urine.
It took five minutes to convince my Mom to let me borrow the war wagon, or "car," as she calls it, which meant I had to comb my mustache in a hurry. Another six minutes, and I was on my way.
The Falcon's compound. 1425 hrs.
I knocked on his door in morse code. "Tap tap TAP...tap tap tap-- tap tap tap..." I tapped out our code phrase: "It is with heavy heart, dear Rebecca, that I write to you. Young Strawthorne has perished with the scurvy, and..." I continued tapping. "...I have little hope for our salvation. The camels are sick as well, and of an evil disposition--"
The door opened.
"Damnit!" I pushed him back inside. "Are you crazy, Josh? I wasn't finished with the code-phrase. It could have been anyone out here!"
"Oh, yeah, sorry, dude," he said, oblivious to the danger, as usual.
I slammed the door behind us.
"Have you swept for bugs recently?" I asked as Josh settled his 280-pound frame on the sofa and bit into what I knew was his third or fourth pork roll sandwich of the day.
"Mmm. Yeah. Say, that reminds me," he said, setting the sandwich aside. He pushed his thick glasses up and cleared his throat. "It's none of my business, Randy, but..."
"Five inches," I said. "But any chick'll tell you, it ain't the size of your pencil, it's how you sign your name."
"Actually, I was gonna ask if you had been to see that...you know, the psychiatrist dude...are you still seeing him?"
"Negative. He was working for the chi-coms. I saw a package of green tea in his office. Besides, I only went because my Mom made me. She's better now."
"Ah. Good, okay. Anyway, about this job...They asked me to do it, but, I'm a little heavy right now and I can't really climb a ladder. I'm on a diet, though," he added, and went back at the pork roll.
"Ladder? So is it a covert entry, or just sniping?"
"Mmm..." He chewed. "It's gutters. The landlord wants the gutters cleaned on all of these buildings. There's five of 'em, fifty bucks a piece."
"Gutters cleaned? You're saying he wants someone killed?"
He chewed, swallowed.
"No, dude. Just gutters."
"Ah, gotcha. Stabbed. I can do it, but I can't guarantee it'll be quiet if there's five of 'em."
"Mmm..." He finished off the sandwich and licked his fingers. "No, Randy. It's really just cleaning the gutters. That's it."
I almost laughed.
"You're gonna hire a professional mercenary to clean gutters? What, are you kidding me?"
"Well, uh...They're three stories up, you know. Kinda dangerous. A lot of people, you know--afraid of heights and all."
I thought about it. Sure, I specialize in military action, but when you're packin' ten pounds of cajones you get asked to tackle all sorts of dangerous jobs, and if you don't take 'em--if you don't take 'em, some amatuer might, and that amatuer might get a one-way ticket to Toe-Tag Town for his efforts. I didn't need that on my conscience.
"I'll need rapelling gear," I said finally.
"No, dude, there's a ladder. It's no sweat."
"I'll need rapelling gear."
"Well, uh, okay, sure. I've got some rope, I think."
"And assuming I make it down alive...I'm gonna need a Zima. Hell, make it three Zimas. We haven't gotten shit-faced in a while."
"You're on," Josh smiled, and just like that I was on another job...
When Danger places a "help wanted" ad in the Deadly Daily News, it's men like me who answer them--our resumes written in blood, and our references so many cold corpses. Nice work if you can get it.

Hot Tip

I may not be military or police, but I do my part to fight the war on terror--and not always on secret ops with guns blazing, either. Take the other day, for instance.
It was 1100 hours, and I was woken from my second combat nap of the day by the sound of the landscaping guys mowing the perimeter of the McFab compound. I'd slept only sixteen hours the night before, so I wasn't too happy about my "wake-up call." I had given the property manager orders to never mow before 1300, and one thing I don't tolerate is willful disobedience. Someone was about to get a size-8 combat boot in the ass.
I rolled out of bed and threw back the camo curtains at my window, ready to hurl some verbal grenades at the lawn-mowing puke outside--and then I stopped cold. This wasn't just some innocent landscaper. He was clearly an FN (that's Foreign National, to you pansies), and by the look of him, an Arab. He was mowing like a pro, obviously having been trained to blend in with real, less sinister landscapers, and he was making a point of not being too obvious in his surveillance of my quarters. Smart, but not smart enough. I grabbed the Crossman Wankmaster 5000 air-pistol I keep by my bed, tucked it in my belt, and headed outside.
I wouldn't waste him right away. First, I'd have to interrogate him. Was he Al-Quaeda? PLO? Al-Jazeera? And how had they found me? My ad in the back of Soldier of Fortune, or had someone tipped them off? I wouldn't know until I had my Vietnam-era field telephone wired to his jewels and dialed "T" for "talk."
"Just going out for a sec, Mom," I shouted over my shoulder as I exfil'd our double-wide. I didn't hear her response, as I was re-checking the Wankmaster, making sure there was a BB in the chamber. I was ready to confront this bastard.
He was small, only a few inches taller than me, but stockier. A look of surprise crossed his swarthy features as I placed a boot on his lawnmower and signalled him to shut it down. He was sweating, I noticed, his thin mustache wet with fear. Good. I like 'em scared. I decided to speak to him in Arabic to let him know who he was dealing with.
"Aloha, Admiral Ackbar," I said, using the traditional Muslim greeting.
"Que?" I wasn't sure what that meant, but it sure wasn't American.
"Mirbat tahini--falafel!" I shouted. "You will talk--now!" He tried the confused act.
"No...no ingles...no comprende..."
"It's your mother tongue, you bastard! Now, peshiwar! Urdu! Islamabad!" Unless my Arabic isn't what it used to be, I'd told him to give me answers, and quick.
"Tu loco...Chingas tu madre," he said. He was speaking an Arabic dialect I wasn't familiar with, probably something tribal, but his meaning was clear. I had broken him. He was ready to talk.
"Hummus baksheesh?" I asked (who do you work for?).
He took a deep breath. I could see he was weighing his loyalty to his terrorist handlers against his desire to survive this encounter with a real American. He leveled his gaze at me.
"Chupa Me Verga," he said.
"Are you sure," I asked, though I knew he was too frightened to lie to me. "Arafat couscous?"
"Me Verga," he repeated. "Chupa Me Verga."
I decided to let him live. He was young, probably recruited as an orphan by one of the Wasabi schools of strict Islam that poison the minds of the children of the middle east. Besides, I had what I wanted, the name of his terrorist leader. I let the kid go, and with any luck, he's now working at a convenience store as the real, peaceful Islam would have him do.
I went back inside and speed-dialed the local FBI office. "Chupa Me Verga," I said, and gave them my address. Soon, the Feds will show up and debrief me, then they'll go out and catch that bastard, wherever he is.
As you can see, fighting terrorists doesn't always require shooting them down like dogs (though of course that's how I usually do it). Gather your intel, and share it with the proper authorities. Together we can lick terrorism just like we've licked Me Verga.

Limeys are People, Too, Kind Of

I get a lot of communiques like the following: "Dear Randy McFab, I've served in the British SAS for 15 years and yet I still don't feel as macho as a civvy Yank like you...Why, man, why...?
Signed, The Right Honourable Sir Percy Nigel Ian Gaz Limpdagger Pubesnifter, RSM, VD, RPG"
Well, I feel for ya, Sir Puss--I mean, Percy. It's hard to feel macho when you're a pasty, undersized, dentist's nightmare whose natural reaction to the word "Queen" is to drop to your knees. As a Yank, I was born manly, it wasn't something I really had to work at. Your best bet is to drop your Euro-style "understanding of geo-politics" and rely on Fox News to tell you what to think. That, and, quit saying things like, "I'll meet you this afty" and "fancy a brew?"
While you're at it, admit that football is something played from fall through winter in the U.S.--everything else is "soccer," which, as the C.I.A. long-ago proved, is a euphemism for "dictatorship of the proletariat."
On a positive note, you limeys have been doing well for years on the manly front by providing mercenaries for every crackpot regime that the UK isn't actively fighting. For that, I commend you. I say, follow my advice above, keep up the murder-for-hire, and soon you'll be as manly as me.

Listen Up, Pukes

I know what yer thinkin'--what's a certified bad-ass like Randy McFab doing with a blog? Shouldn't he be out wasting hippies or hunting down tangoes? My friend (i.e., my suspected commie enemy), I wish it were that simple. But it ain't. I lost my "cover" job at Taco Bell, and my Mom insists I do something constructive with my time, because if I keep looking at the websites I like I'll go blind. Well, I can't think of anything more constructive than giving you civvie pukes a rare glimpse into the world of a real-life operator, so you're fortunate enough to have this blog.
Some of you "real" military types (you know, the kind that actually enlisted and served in some sort of armed forces) may feel superior to freelancers like myself, but let me tell you something, G.I. Joe--I've read about more battles than you'll ever participate in, and I've seen even more in t.v. and movies. So I've been there, done that, and I think I know just a little bit more about warfare than one can learn from just showing up and getting shot at.
As for you peacenik liberals, if yer lucky I'll let you dip yer marijuana joints in my testosterone-laden sweat before you "toke up"--then you'll get a real high, I assure you. You might even get so stoned you quit hating America and decide to go kill someone for a change.
Now, I'm gonna be sharing a lot of "insider" info here, and I know that will piss off all my SAS contacts. I don't care. I'm gonna break that "code of silence" over my knee just like I would a smart-assed Iraqi child. I'll be teaching you everything from how to make a car bomb using only a car and a bomb, to how to convince an Arab you're speaking Arabic even though you're really speaking French. You'll learn everything I've learned in 15 brutal years as an avid reader--I just hope you have the guts to digest the truth.
That's enough for now, sissies. Keep yer pole-holsters shut and yer ears open for more knowledge, and check back here ASAP.