Blind Hate

The War Wagon. 1900 hrs.
I was in my mom's station wagon, on my way to the most important R.V. of my life. I sped down the road oblivious to the scenery and traffic laws as I continually re-checked my mustache in the rear-view mirror. I had spent years preparing for this day, and I was as nervous as a democrat at a Fourth of July celebration. I had a date.
My mom had set it up--she'd found an ad in her church's singles' newsletter, Desperate 2 Desperate. Single Christian Woman Seeks Attention, it read. There was some more crap, like what she enjoys doing and all, but I skipped that bit. It was the part at the end that had the crotch of my jeans looking like a pup tent. Not horrendously ugly, her ad said. She was perfect for me.
Chicks dig me--hell, they practically worship me, but sometimes that can be a bad thing. Most women are so attracted to me they're afraid of their own longing, and thus turn me down rather than risk rejection. I tried to not look too handsome, but of course I did.
I was decked out in my hunting gear--hunting beaver, that is--and ready to score some big game. I was wearing my best BDU trousers, with a camo pattern found only on French canteen covers. My blouse was a form-fitting khaki number, purchased from an E-bay auction of discontinued Nigerian military gear. I tied it all together with a red ascot and my best black wingtips, which matched my Navy SEAL diver's watch perfectly. My mustache was triple-waxed, and my hair looked full and rich since I'd coloured in the bald spot with a Sharpie. It still looked like there was a carrot struggling to escape from my pants, but no outfit's perfect. She would like it, that much was certain. The only question was how much I would make her beg to get it.

Lowrent Arms Apartments. 1930 hrs.
I parked up outside her place and scanned the darkness for threats. Even in mating mode, I'm alert to danger. I noticed a kid on a bicycle, turning lazy circles in the courtyard of the stucco building. A little late to be bicycling. I reached in the glove box for my tire iron, but he rode off before I could take him out. Another day, then. I added some marker ink to my bald spot and headed up to her flat.
My mom said she was in 20B--I hadn't actually talked to the chick, as I wanted to remain mysterious, and didn't have the kind of directions I like--long and lat. The complex consisted of four buildings as it turned out, and thus it took me twenty minutes to find the right one. That's why men of action leave early. The unexpected is just what mercenaries expect. I re-checked my mustache in the signaling mirror I carry, adjusted the cruise missile about to launch out of my pants, and knocked. The door opened.
"Oh! Hi," she said. It was the perfect thing to say, "hi." I was gonna like this broad. "You're...Wow, you're early. I thought we said nine."
"I do everything prematurely," I said. "I'm a mercenary."
"Uh...Okay, well, come in. I'll get ready." She stepped aside and I looked her over. She was a tight package. A brunette, maybe forty, maybe sixty, but definitely less than seventy. Her 180-or-so pounds looked great on her five-foot frame, and her mustache was like a feminine version of mine. On a scale of one to ten, she was hot.
"Just make yourself at home," she said, indicating a couch I was sure we would later make love on. "I'm gonna get dressed. I..." She looked me over. "Wow, that's an interesting outfit."
"The blouse is Nigerian," I said. "Supposedly stripped from a body, but you know how they lie to sell stuff."
"Um...Yeah. Well, I'll just be a minute." She turned towards what must have been the bedroom, where we would be spending the next few days.
"You're beautiful!" I said. "My pants feel funny." I don't know why I said that, but it must have worked, because she gave me the response I was looking for.
"I'm gonna get dressed," she said. "Be right back." She disappeared and I stood up to check her place out, get a feel for who I was dealing with.
She was back in a few minutes, decked out in an ultra-hot ensemble from the Katie Couric collection at K-Mart. I'd describe it, but I can't type while having an orgasm.
"You know," she said, "I didn't introduce myself."
"No need," I said. "I went through your bills while you changed. Nice to meet you, Bertha."
She paused. "Well, uh...Nice to meet you...Randy, right?"
"McFab. Randy McFab." I stuck my hand out. "Man of action."
"Well," she said as we shook, "what's on the agenda tonight, Randy?"
I hoped she was prepared to be impressed.

Sin Pantalones Spanish Grille. 2030 hrs.
"Senor Randy," the host greeted me. He looked confused. "You are not alone, Senor Randy."
"That's right, Domingo," I said.
"You...You are with a woman. At least, it is dressed as a woman dresses."
"That's right, goddamnit, I have a date."
"Forgive me, senor...I..." He turned to a waiter nearby. "El maricon tiene una mujer--llame CNN!"
"Grassy ass," I said, showing off my language skills to Bertha. "Uno table for dose, poor favorite."
"Si, pindejo," he said, sucking up to me as usual, and led us to our booth.
"So," I said as we settled in, "tell me about yourself."
"Well," she said, "I was married once, but it didn't work out what with the hookers and all, and then--"
"Fascinating. I once killed a man with a tortilla chip." I took a bite of one. "Stuck it in his jugular. Bet he can eat just one," I added, chuckling.
"Um...What do you do, again?"
"I'm a mercenary," I said. "A man of--"
"Your mom said you're unemployed. I mean, that's okay--"
"My mom's been co-opted by the feds. Of course she says that."
The waiter came, and I ordered fig daiquiris for both of us.
"But enough about me," I said. "Let's talk about what books I read."
"Okay." She was turned on, alright. I noticed sweat dripping off the ends of her mustache, and thought briefly about licking it off.
"I read action books," I said. "Basically, anything written by an ex-military guy with no other literary qualifications. That's what made me realize, Taco Bell wasn't for me. I needed to be on the front lines like those guys, fighting the good fight."
"So you're ex-military?" she asked.
I laughed. "Hell no. The military has something called 'rules of engagement.' Guys like me scoff at that crap. Also, they wouldn't take me. I'm a mercenary."
Our drinks came before she could get any more turned on, and I ordered for both of us despite her interruptions.
"We'll both have the goat fajitas," I said. "Extra goat." I leaned across the table, putting my mustache so close to her she could smell the wax. "Tell me, Bertha," I said, "what do you think of the war in Iraq?"
"Well..." She sighed. "I think it's wrong."
"Me, too!" Shit, she was perfect. "It's totally wrong," I agreed, "that we haven't nuked those bastards."
"NUKED them?" She seemed upset. "Why...Why would...We lied about--"
I put a finger on her lips to quiet her. "Shhhh...." I said. "I shouldn't have asked you about men's issues. I'm sorry, sweetie."
"Men's issues?" Now she looked pissed. "How is a war a man's issue? What the hell--"
"Honey, sweetie," I said. "Don't let that big bad war get you down. You need to worry about makeup, fashion, that kind of--"
A fig daquiri suddenly landed on my face, and Bertha was up and heading for the door.
"Sweet cakes!" I called. "What's the matter?"
She answered with her middle finger. Did she not like mexican food? I rose to chase her.
"Senor." It was the waiter. "Your goat, senor."
I let her go. I'll trade one steaming pile of goat for another any day, I guess. I sat back down and sipped my fig daqiri.
I loved Bertha...And I still do. But war comes first, just like me, and no woman's gonna change that.