Flu off the Handle

Last week. 2330 hrs. Quang Troc's Mexican Restaurant and Notary Public. The men's room.
I was in the head, tapping a kidney, when I noticed the guy at the urinal next to me was looking at me funny. There's a cardinal rule about taking a leak next to another guy--don't look at him unless he farts. And I hadn't.
I looked right back at him, sizing him up. He was Asian--probably one of Quang's employees--and as such would know karate. Then again, he was watching another guy drain the lizard, and was therefore a pansy. I figured I could take him.
"What's the matter," I said, "haven't you seen a guy sit down to pee before?"
"Not at a urinal, no," he replied. Smug bastard. I was three-Zima drunk and hadn't noticed.
"Well...If you're window shopping, this sausage ain't on sale," I said.
"Look like vienna sausage," he said. "You sure you not Asian?"
I would have kicked his ass right then had I not been busy shaking the last drops from Herr Kommando. The Asian laughed as he finished up, and called over his shoulder as he left the john.
"You pee like girl," he said. "Funny man pee like girl." His laughter continued as the door closed behind him.
I couldn't stop him--I always take the time to wipe and apply hygiene spray, and by the time I finished he was gone. Oh well. I wasn't really in the mood to kill, and having just survived internment at Gitmo, I didn't need any dramas with the police. I tucked Herr Kommando away and pulled the handle to flush. As I left the bathroom, I coughed.

The Next Day. 1300 hrs. The McFab compound.
"MOM...Momma, please..." I couldn't finish the sentence. I was too weak to cry out. I had been coughing and sneezing since I'd left Quang Troc's, and my military training told me that when you think you have a cold, you probably have a rare and virulent disease that's going to kill you. I had been in my bed since I got home, and couldn't leave it if I wanted to. I didn't want to.
"Mom, please...Come here...I'm dying..." I knew my mom couldn't save me, but I figured it would be nice to say goodbye before I met my heroes in Hell.
"Randy?" She tried my bedroom door, but of course it was quadruple-locked. "Honey, I can't get in, your door's locked. Should I use my key?"
"Your key?" Jesus, a man can't get any privacy. "Sure...key...Only--Mom! Don't come in yet. There's a gasmask and ABC gear in the pantry." The military issues NBC suits for protection from Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical attack. I couldn't forgive them for ending Seinfeld, though, and thus used the alternative ABC gear.
"Oh, honey," she said, and I heard her key turning a lock.
"No, Mom, really! I'm contaminated...Dying...Please, suit up...Please..."
My bedroom door opened fifteen minutes later, and my mom walked in with full protection on. She's a large woman, bless her, and looked like a camel stuffed into a very bright yellow condom.
"Oh, Randy," she said, her voice muffled through the gas mask, "Your nose is running!"
"Yes," I said, "I've got the...Sniffles." I'm a hard man, but I broke down crying. Lord Suffering doesn't care how much of a bad ass you are, He dispenses pain equally.
"It's probably just a cold, honey," Mom said. "At least you're laying in bed, as usual."
"But I coughed, too!" She didn't want to accept what was obvious. I was on the red-eye flight to Valhalla, and she couldn't stand to see her son go.
"Randy," she said, "let me take your temperature. I know how you get when you have a fever."
A few minutes later, I pulled the thermometer out of my mouth and read it.
"Why's it say 'rectal,'" I asked.
"Don't worry about that, Randy. I rinsed it. Now let's see...You don't have a fever, honey. I bet it's just allergies. You haven't been eating paint again, have you?"
"Not a lot, no, but..." Holy shit. It suddenly came to me. I knew where I'd gotten it.
"But what?"
"Don't worry about it, Mom. If I recover, you'll read all about it in the papers...The Pentagon papers, that is."

Two days later. 1400 hrs. Quang Troc's Mexican Restaurant and Notary Public. The bar.
I'd been on the stakeout since they opened. It was obvious to me that I'd gotten the deadly virus from the urinal handle at Quang Troc's--after all, there were foreigners in there, and where there's foreigners, there's terrorists. Someone had left a dose of bio-terror for the unlucky bastard who used the pisser after them, and that unlucky bastard was me. I had recovered due only to my superhuman constitution, developed from years of hard Jazzercise. That I survived didn't matter, though. I would find the bastard who left the germs, and when I did, I'd kill him. Twice.
Three hours and two Zimas later, a likely suspect headed for the crapper. He was Arabic, or at least dressed funny, and that spells tango to the educated eye. I followed him in.
He was already at a urinal when I entered the head. I took the urinal beside him and watched his hands for any moves. With any luck, I'd catch him in the act of planting his deadly seed.
He finally noticed me watching and stared back, trying to hide his fear.
"Dude," he said, "are you watching me piss?"
"Damn right I am, Mr. Jihad." I'd brook no bullshit from this bastard.
"What? Leave me alone, you perv!"
Oh, he looked and sounded American...He was crafty as heck with his blonde hair, California accent, and teenaged appearance.
"I'll leave you alone, alright," I said. "I'll...Well, I have no witty comment that goes with that, really. 'I'll leave you alone...In Hell?' Does that work?"
"No," he said, "you freakin' weirdo." He finished up and zipped. I pounced.

Later that day. 1800 hrs. The McFab compound.
I held the ice-pack to my blackened eye, thankful that it didn't hurt as badly as my busted lip did. Seems the virus that tango unleashed was deadlier than I thought, because it had slowed me down to the point that I couldn't fight properly. He had gotten away, and chances are he has spread the germs all over America by now. You're probably all dying as you read this, actually. If you're not dying, let me give you a piece of advice that may well save your life: Don't flush. Ever.

Suspect Suspect

Fort Braggart Multi-Cultural Airport. Gate 12. 1330 hours.
I yawned and checked my watch again. Damn. Two more hours until my flight left. As usual, I had gotten to the airport early, at 0900 hours--the day before. The only thing a merc shows up late for is a peace negotiation, and I had war on my mind.
I was on my way to yet another hot spot, in this case the terrorist-friendly confines of Encino, California, where my cousin Rafe, the choreographer, lived. He wanted me to watch his compound while he took some R&R in Hawaii.
Encino's a suburb of L.A., for those of you who aren't world travellers, and like the rest of the City of Angels, it's dangerous. I'd heard Michael Jackson's mother lived there. I hoped it wasn't true.
Airport security was out and about, doing recces of the passenger lounge. I drew no attention as I was dressed conservatively in my desert camo, leather vest, and ascot. The security guys kept checking out the bar, where they'd pretend to drink shots while keeping an eye out for terrorists. They were pros--some of them even appeared drunk after a few hours of their charade. I yawned again and turned back to the Gentleman Survivalist magazine I'd been reading. Two hours.
"Flight One-Niner-Eightish-Seventy...four...hundred..." The PA woke me up. "...to Encino, now boarding at gate twelver. "
I stood, stretched, and picked up my combat bag. I travel with only a carry-on, and I've done it often enough to know to pack light. For the week's stay I planned, I knew I could get by with twelve sets of BDU's, four ascots, a couple of cans of mustache wax, and a pair of underwear. As for socks--I'd learned long ago that fishnet stockings were the hosiery of choice for professional operators, and I had plenty of those tucked away in my ballistic-nylon rucksack.
I got in the line for the security checkpoint and began taking a close look at the other passengers around me, checking for tangos. I saw two possibles--a kid about nine or ten with a suspicious-looking package attached to his wheelchair, and a female, mid-twenties maybe, who didn't look as nervous about flying as a woman should be. I'd keep a good eye on both of them.
The guy in line in front of me kept muttering to himself in what sounded like German.
"Bismilla-Hir-Rahma," he said, and then something about Muhammed Ali, all the while passing a string of beads through his hand. Catholic, then. I nudged him to get his attention.
"Hey buddy," I whispered, leaning close to him. "Keep an eye on that kid in the wheelchair. That oxygen tank he's got could be holding anything."
"What?" He looked surprised, obviously not used to spotting terrorists. He clutched his bag tightly to his chest, his eyes wide. Poor guy. I had probably scared him.
"Don't worry," I said. "If that kid's a tango, he'll be dead before they turn off the seatbelt sign."
This seemed to reassure the German, and he went back to his prayers, his voice a little bit shakier than before. Sometimes I forget that not everyone's as hard as me.
The line moved slowly, each passenger having to stop at the metal detector, remove his or her shoes, and get the ol' magic wand treatment before stepping through and sending their bags down the x-ray belt. With any luck, they would strip search someone, preferably the hot blonde I had noticed giving me the eye earlier. As we got closer to the checkpoint, the German turned around to face me, looking even more nervous than before.
"Ah...Maybe...Maybe you go first," he said. He stepped aside, eager for me to take his place.
"Why would...? Oh." I smiled. The kid with the suspicious respirator was right in front of the German now, and it was obvious the Kraut was scared turdless. "No problem, Fritz," I said, and traded places with him.
The kid, who I had designated Tango One, was let through the checkpoint with barely a glance. I hoped the screeners wouldn't end up regretting that. My turn.
"Remove your shoes, please," the TSA guy said, and I began unlacing my combat boots. The guy seemed to get a bit impatient as I worked at the laces--my mom had double-tied them, and they were a bitch to get undone. I didn't care--the rent-a-cop had probably seen about as much combat as I've seen opera. What would he know about war wear? I got the boots off and he gave them a good look.
"Sir," the screener said, "can you empty your pockets, please?" He handed me a little plastic bowl, and I began filling it with the contents of my BDU pockets. Keys. Cigarette lighter. Flint and tinder. Hexy blocks. Compass. Back-up compass. Pepper spray. Combat knife.
Someone grabbed me from behind. Another TSA guy helped him out, and they held my arms pinned behind my back.
"Don't fight us!" one of them barked, and they started walking me away from the gate.
"Guys! It's okay, it's okay," I said. "I'm a mercenary."
I noticed the German being waved through the gate as they drug me away.

Homeland Security office. 1800 hours.
The interrogation room was tiny, with barely enough room for the scratched linoleum table and two folding chairs. I sat in one of the chairs, my hands cuffed behind my back. The airport's head fed sat in the chair across the table from me, projecting a dark scowl from his weathered, angular face.
"One more time, McFab," he said. "And if I don't hear some truth real soon, we're gonna search your rectum again. With two hands this time."
"I've told you the truth!" I said. I was getting angry after hours of the same questions. "I'm not a terrorist, I'm a mercenary. I'm an American patriot, damnit, and if a real American can't take dangerous weapons on board a commercial airliner, then who the hell can?"
"No one can!" the fed barked. He began putting on a fresh rubber glove. "I guess we're just gonna have to do this the hard way," he said.
"You've been up my rear three times," I said, "and my wallet was the only thing in there. I have rights, you know."
"Rights? You've got the right to go to Federal prison, you bastard. Now, let's just have another look-see..." Just then, his cell phone rang. "Goddamnit,"he muttered, and picked up. "Agent Proctor here, what the hell is it? Say again?" His face went white. "Shit...What do you mean, we waved him through? Well, we were busy dealing with this McFab prick...Yemen! Aw, shit...No, no, I'll be right there." He hung up and parked his face inches from mine.
"McFab," he said, "your partner hijacked the plane. He's demanding they take him to Yemen and drop him at a Starbuck's. You've got less than five seconds to start filling me in with the details."
Hijacked! Jesus Hotel Christ, that kid really was a tango. I should have taken him and his wheelchair down as soon as I'd spotted him. The fed looked like he was ready to kill me, so I reached out for the only ally I had.
"I'd like to call my momma," I said.

Two months later. Festering Springs Trailer Park. 2300 hours.
I lay on our couch, halfway listening as my mom talked to her friend Alma on the phone.
"That's right," Mom said, shaking her head sadly, "Guantanamo Bay. Poor Randy...Yeah, I know, he's a forty-year-old baby, in there with all them terrorists--"
"I'm not a baby!" I said.
"Shh Randy, I know you're not honey...What's that Alma? Oh, yeah, poor thing. I didn't think them Arab men was into that sort of thing, but..."
I sighed, got up, and went to my room. Thanks to God, an attorney, and my psychiatrist--who lied for me, saying I was "incompetent," I'd gotten out of custody a lot quicker than the twenty years I'd been threatened with. Still, the episode had left me scarred.
I lay down on my bed and stared at the poster of Dick Cheney on my ceiling. For the first time, my Dick didn't seem to have the answers.
Would I ever be the same?