Sunday, October 30, 2005

A Fisher of Men

Every fisherman has a secret spot where a bite is virtually guaranteed, and I'm no exception. I don't like to fight the crowds and game wardens at our local Lake Limiculous, and had long ago quit fishing the stream behind my mobile home when I found out my toilet flushes into it.
That's why I was on the road at 0300 hours, fishing gear strapped to the top of the war wagon and NVGs strapped on my face so I wouldn't have to use headlights. I wanted my secret spot to remain just that--secret. It's a little difficult to drive with the night-vision goggles, and I did embarrass myself a bit when I pulled into someone's yard to fill up with gas. After apologizing for using what I thought was the station's bathroom, I waved goodbye to the homeowner and was back on the highway.
I checked my GPS unit. Three miles to target. The infil would be the hardest part, so I finished my last beer and started checking my preparations. Soldiers have a saying--Proper Prior Planning is, uh, Good. I couldn't agree more.
I was finishing up my mental checklist when a glowing giant squid appeared in my NVGs, his massive tentacles hovering twenty feet or so above the road. I locked the brakes, putting the wagon into a skid as I clawed desperately for my urine-filled water gun--not that the gun would do any good against a squid that size, especially a hovering one. I was debating my next move when I realized they had left the sign on. SeaWater Adventure Park, the lettering under the squid read. I was there.
I calmed myself down with one of the wine coolers I had brought with me and cruised slowly past the main entrance and the squid, looking for my point of entry. A ten-foot chain-link fence surrounded the park, razor-wire stretched across the top to keep the fish in. Immediately behind the fence was a sensor array and a mine field--though the park had disguised the killing zone as a sidewalk. I scanned with my NVGs, and finally found the spot where I would infil. I parked the wagon across the street from the target, grabbed my gear off the rack, and covered the vehicle with a camouflage tarp to make it disappear among the other cars parked outside the 24-hour diner. The mission was a go.
I had left my night-vision gear in the war wagon--I didn't want the loud buzz of their Jamaican electronics to give away my position as I crept through the site. My eyes would need time to adjust to the darkness, so after belly-crawling across the road and up to the perimeter fence, I paused ten seconds to become one with the night. I checked my face in the Revlon compact I carry, making sure I hadn't missed any spots when applying the black shoe polish. I hadn't. My hair was covered with a dark watch-cap, and my BDUs were of course blacker than a Friday night fish fry. I was one with the night.
I squirmed closer to the fence, and found my spot--a gap I had cut a few years ago and cleverly disguised with toothpaste and silver spray-paint. I pulled the fence apart and slid through, pulling my rucksack in behind me. Now the hard part. With the heavy pack held close to my chest, I took two quick steps and jumped for all I was worth, hoping like hell I would clear the "sidewalk"--a.k.a. the minefield. I hit the ground and rolled. I had cleared it, but just barely. I crouched behind a trash can and scanned the darkness, orienting myself with my mental map of the park.
The silhouettes of various rides were visible against the stars, along with large auditoriums and the buildings that housed the exhibits. My target building was the largest of them all--the Aquarium. I knew the route I would take to it, past the Jellyfish Farm and the Eel-Petting Zoo, but before I could make entry I would need to locate the security guard. My instincts, honed to a sharp edge from years of covert ops, told me exactly where the guard would be.
I knocked on the door to the guard shack, and could tell from the sudden thump inside that I had woken someone up. Good.
"What--who is it?" a voice from inside called out. Now it was time for deception, and a little bit of applied knowledge of human nature.
"It's television personality Jay Leno," I answered, doing my best impression. "I'm here with some hookers and booze."
"Oh! Wow!" He sounded happy, and the door swung open. "Jay, it's an honor--"
I grabbed him, shoving a chloroform-soaked bandana into his face. He didn't try too hard to fight--after years of me doing this to him, he had learned it was best to submit.
"But, Jay..." he murmured through the cloth, "where are the hookerrrsss..?" He collapsed, unconscious.
I left him handcuffed him to his desk and closed the door behind me, feeling very relaxed with security out of the equation. I strolled away from the guard shack, singing the SeaWater jingle to myself. "If you don't see water, you're not at SeaWater..." The park was mine.
I was a little disappointed to find the doors to the aquarium unlocked--I had a pound of C-4 in my rucksack and I hate to see explosives go to waste. Oh, well, I could always blow something up on the way home. I entered the building, leaving the main lights off so as not to attract attention from the street. The aquariums were lit from inside, and I knew where I was going anyway--Endangered Reef, a sectioned-off part of the massive tank where they kept the good stuff. Thousands of fish eyes watched me through the glass as I made my way down the hall, so close I could almost taste them. I'd be tasting them soon enough.
I reached my destination at the end of the hall and started to unpack my fishing gear. Endangered Reef was impressive--you could park a bus in there with room left over--but it had one fatal design flaw. The sides of the tank didn't reach all the way to the ceiling, leaving plenty of room for a fisherman to sit comfortably on the edge and do his business. I jumped and grabbed the top edge, pulling myself and my gear up the glass and into position. Settling on the ledge, I dangled my boots in the cold water, feeling bubbles climb up my calves as the fish swirled in the dim light below. They were beautiful, their scales flashing silver, gold, even blue and green, as they darted in and out between my legs. How beautiful, I thought, they're gonna be with a little tartar sauce on the side. I opened a wine cooler, ready to fish.
Now, I'm not a pole-and-line type of fisherman--the only pole I play with is the one I was born with, and even then I try not to enjoy it. Instead, I use the method taught to me by my Native American spiritual guide, Chief Chickenhawk Wozniak. The old ways are the best ways.
I attached two copper wires to the terminals of the AC Delco truck battery beside me, and, after removing my legs from the water, threw the leads in.
There was a loud crackle and hiss, followed by an explosion of steam as the water became electrified. I let it go on for a few seconds, then pulled the wires back out with my gloved hand. Damn, fishing is relaxing. I took another sip of wine cooler as I waited to see what I'd caught.
The little ones floated to the surface first--I would leave them so the park could use the carcasses for feed. The bigger game I was after finally made its way up, and I spotted a good one floating upside-down towards the middle of the tank. A coelacanth--now that's good eating. I was about to swim out for him when something caught my eye.
Floating up from behind the coral reef was a huge creature; black, with twin rear flippers and a scuba tank. What the..? No fish I knew of had twin rear flippers, and very few wore scuba tanks. It hit the surface and I realized what it was. A diver! The only kind of diver who would be in the tank at this hour was a terrorist frogman, no doubt planting an explosive device to detonate tomorrow when the crowds showed up. I had read that the Jihadists had learned to swim, and here was proof. Crafty bastards. I dove in.
I approached carefully, my Marine fighting knife in hand. The tango appeared to be dead, or at least unconscious, but I would have to make sure. I was about to strike when he spat out his mouthpiece, flailing wildly.
"Jesus Christ!" he gasped. "What the hell happened?" He was American, which made it even worse. I don't like traitors.
"Calm down," I said, "I'm just going to stab you." I held the knife up for him to see. He was faster than me, what with the flippers, and swam away faster than I could swim towards him. We faced each other across the tank, treading water.
"What--what is this?" he asked. "Who are you? What are--" He noticed all the dead fish clogging the surface. "My God! What have you done?"
"Don't worry about the fish, Jamal," I said. "Your bomb would have killed them anyway."
"Bomb? What bomb? What the hell are you talking about?"
"You're a terrorist," I said, "and you're about to ride the yellow submarine to Hell." I swam towards him, the dagger held out in front of me. "Now, how 'bout some Alaskan stab legs? " I grinned.
"I work here, you idiot!" he yelled. "I'm a marine biologist! Did you kill my fucking fish?"
Damn, he was good. Very convincing. Too bad for him he was dealing with a pro.
"No stab legs for you, then? How 'bout some nice...Uh...How 'bout I just kill you?"
"I don't think so," he said, and I noticed he wasn't swimming away anymore. "I was a Navy SEAL, asshole," he added. That sounded even more convincing, and the diver's knife that appeared in his hand added credence to his story.
"Oh, well..." I began propelling myself away from him as he circled me like a shark. "I'm sorry," I said, "natural mistake, you know...No harm done, right? Hoo-Ya?"
"You killed my fish." He was still coming.
"Well, I...I just meant to stun them," I tried. "I was just gonna eat one or two."
"Stun them?" He noticed the truck battery on the edge of the tank. "You idiot," he said, "that battery puts out too many amps. You fish with a field telephone, for God's sake."
"Really?"
"Yeah." He swam closer. "You just run the wires in and dial. Stuns 'em--you grab the ones you want and the rest eventually recover." He sighed. "People just don't care about fishing responsibly with electricity."
"I'm sure sorry, Mr. Navy SEAL, sir," I said. "I didn't know any better. I'm more of a hunter than a fisherman, really."
"A hunter?" he grinned. "Hey, me, too!" He put away the knife. "What's your favorite spot?" he asked.
"Well, the National Park north of Fort Braggart ain't bad," I said, "though the Protected Wildlife Area down by the shore is better."
"Oh, man," he said, shaking his head. "You're missing out! The zoo downtown is the best! I took a giraffe just last week, big bastard."
"Yeah?" I put away my own knife. "Hard to sneak into?"
"Hell, no! The guard's an idiot, always falls for the ol' Belgian takedown. Say, let's get outta this water--I've got some beer getting cold in the turtle tank."
"Sounds great! I've got some wine coolers, myself."
My new friend clapped me on the back as we swam towards the edge. "My man," he said, "you've gotta try the zoo sometime. They're getting pandas, you know..."

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Crackwater

Crackwater U.S.A. Security Center, Fort Braggart, East Carolina. 0900 hrs.
They finally responded. Over the past three years, I had sent the infamous private-contracting firm over 200 resumes, 600 letters, twelve videos of me putting my mom in various compliance holds, and ten mix tapes of my fave country songs. I was beginning to consider giving up when they called me for an interview.
"Interview's tomorrow at 0900," the man who called had said. "We won't give you directions."
"But...I get lost easy," I'd replied.
"Good. We don't need know-it-alls. I'll fax you a Mapquest printout. One more thing..."
"Yeah?"
"Bring your balls. You'll need 'em." And that was that.
It sounded like my kind of interview--the kind where you show your testicles to another man. I would be dealing with fellow hardcases, badasses, and thus I would be right in my element. The job was mine to lose. I don't lose.
The Crackwater offices were in a strip mall, sandwiched between a TCBY and a Christian bookstore. I parked where they could see me from the office window, hoping they would notice the 45-m.p.h. J-turn I executed. I doubt they heard the thump--I had slid a bit more than I intended to and nudged a black S.U.V. sporting the Crackwater logo. No damage done. That quarter panel would pop right back into place, and their side-view mirror looked loose anyway. I smoothed out a few wrinkles in my custom-made mauve BDUs and patted down my crotch to double-check. Yep. They were still there. If Crackwater wanted to see cajones, I was gonna show 'em a bucketful. I exited the car and secured it, hoping again that they were watching as I pivoted and in one swift move slashed the front left tire, thwarting any would-be car thieves. I stood as erect as possible--or rather, I stood as well as I possibly could considering how erect I was--and walked into the office.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. Sweat, cordite, and counterfeit Hugo Boss cologne. It was a man's world, all right. Just in front of the walnut-and-carpet reception desk was a life-sized cardboard cutout of famed ex-commando Andy McNab, unshaved and staring off into space with a rifle in his hand and military gear spread around his feet. You must be this macho to ride, the sign warned. I was.
"May I help you?" She appeared from behind the desk like an angel appearing from behind a desk, a hot little number with blonde hair and a rack you could balance a beer on.
"McFab," I said. "Randall Nathaniel. Reporting." She checked her papers.
"Oh, Randy McFab," she grinned. "Yes, glad you could make it. Mr. Bryan will be with you shortly." She motioned towards a chair and a coffee table spread with magazines. "You can have a seat and enjoy the latest Soldier of Fortune."
I paused. I'm a ladies man, after all, and couldn't resist. "You're hot, baby," I said, "and I haven't had sex in years."
"Oh, thank you," she said, chuckling. "I'm a total whore. A military whore. Spec-ops only. Well...Sometimes I gain weight during the holidays," she admitted, "then airborne's okay, too."
"So...Maybe..." I tried.
She glanced at her paperwork. "But you're not military," she said. "Have a seat, please."
I sat. I realized I was important to them when after only three hours she called me.
"Mr. Bryan will see you now," she said. "Third door on your right. Tell him he's hot," she added in a whisper.
Chad Bryan, the plaque on his door read, and then it hit me. Chad Bryan! He was the ex-British Special Forces guy who had escaped certain capture in Iraq by Rollerblading 1200 miles across the desert until finally finding safety in a Syrian fusion restaurant. He was a hero to every soldier who shopped at The Gap, and here I was about to meet him. I took a deep breath, hoping I was ready, and knocked.
"Come," a voice called from inside. It took a few minutes.
"Almost...Almost there..." I panted.
"I meant come in!" he shouted. I entered the office.
"Sorry," I said, wiping my hands on my shirt. "Randy McFab."
"Chad Bryan." He ignored the handshake I offered. "Have a seat, McFab."
I took one of the chairs across from his desk and studied the man. He was huge, by British standards, which meant he went about 5'6" and 130 pounds. Due to inadequacies in the English diet, it's been proven that the more they lift weights, the smaller they get. Sort of like how, the more the limeys brush their teeth, the quicker their mouths end up looking like a piano keyboard painted by Dali. Poor bastards.
"I just want to say before we start," I said, "I respect you poncing limeys."
He suddenly looked angry. "Are you calling me a poncer?" he demanded.
"You're hot," I said, remembering the advice. "I love what you've done with your hair."
"Oh, thanks, mate," he said, smiling. "Can't have too much gel, now can you?" He opened a folder on his desk, studied it a few seconds, mussed his hair with both hands, and then fixed his gaze to mine. "I see your experience entails reading books and magazines, and watching movies about war," he said.
"Hell yes," I said. "I've read every book on Special Forces out there. I particularly liked your book, " I added, "The One Who Ended Up Being, Well, Rather Irrelevant."
"Ah, good, mate," he beamed. "So you have taste. The question is...Have you seen combat?"
"Combat?" I choked back the bitterness. "In fourth grade, a guy kicked my ass every day for a month, until finally my mom had to come to the school and demand they let me leave early, so he couldn't catch me."
"Interesting..." He cleared his throat. "Look, McFab, I'll be honest with you. We don't need you in Iraq, Afghanistan, or Syria...OOPS. Scratch Syria. We need men with actual combat experience in those areas, and we sorta-kinda," he winked, "try to keep those guys alive."
"I see," I said, tears forming in my eyes.
"But..." He pointed to a map of the U.S. behind his desk. "We DO need armed men with no sense of social obligation to operate here in the States. New Orleans, for instance." He smiled, and played with a calculator for a few seconds. "200 kills in New Orleans, is what we achieved," he said.
"Looters? Criminals?"
"We prefer to call them 'kills.' Pays the same." He produced a chart. "This," he said, indicating a line on the graph, "is the likelihood of a natural disaster, say, a snowstorm in Buffalo, occuring..."
"Right..." I tried to follow him.
"And this," he said, indicating yet another line, "is the number of blacks in the area where it might occur."
"Er...I see..."
"And this," he said, grinning triumphantly, "is how much money we'll make by taking over their neighborhoods."
I was a little confused. "I'm not sure I follow," I said. "Do you mean--"
"We'll issue you two pairs of Oakleys," he said. "And a mustache."
"But, I already--"
"An even bigger one."
"But, you're saying...It sounds kind of..."
"Racist?" he asked. "Yes, you are, if you hate white people, which I am beginning to suspect."
I was confused. "Mr. Bryan," I said, "I'm a patriot...I want to fight America's enemies, not Americans."
"Most poor people aren't American," he said, "in fact--"
I had had enough. "Your hair looks shit and you'll NEVER be a male model!" I screamed. "I grew up with poor black people, you racist, pale, veins-showing-through-your-skin fucking limey." I stood up.
"Are you questioning my tan?" Bryan demanded.
"Yes, and FUCK you and your inbred Queen!"

The McFab compound. 1400 hrs.
"It still hurts," I said.
"That mean ol' Englishman," my mom said, applying more ice to my black eye. "You did the right thing, honey."
I wondered. I could have been an independent contractor--that's new-fangled for "mercenary," and I could have wandered the poor neighborhoods of America with an Uzi, making up laws as I went along...
You know what, though? Even I have standards.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

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.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Kill a Swami for Mommy

Fort Braggart Public Library and Rifle Range. 1500 hrs. Yesterday.
Fort Braggart's a small town, and probably wouldn't exist at all if not for the semi-secret military base that houses the Army's 3.1415th Extraordinary Forces Unit, "The Fighting Fascists." We do, however, have a public library that rivals any I've ever seen--over 200 books, and all of them action thrillers by the big names you find only at Wal-Mart and gun shows. I'd read them all, of course, but I still liked to stop by the library now and then to check the community bulletin board for lost pets I could recover and collect a bounty on. I had just torn down and pocketed the flyer for "Giblet," a missing poodle. He'd be worth a hundred alive; we could negotiate if I had to take him out to capture him. I turned my attention back to the corkboard and was shocked by what I saw next.
A Tantric Prayer for Peace, the flyer read. Join Illustrious Swami Varahishnu Gomez for an evening of peace and Tantric sex. My terrorist-sensitive radar started pinging like mad. Peace, huh? That's tango slang for "car bomb." I read on. Release your hatred and bodily fluids at our prayer meeting, and join your sacred chi to ours as we chant the war away. Single women admitted free. 7:00 p.m., The Pinto Being Vegetarian Cafe and Kabbalah Water Bar.
Swami? Vegetarians? Peace? I was 90-percent sure they were tangos, and the fine print at the bottom clinched it. Printed on Recycled Paper, it read. I tore the flyer down, my hands shaking with rage. You can hate America all you want, but...Well, no, you can't hate America. I headed to the payphone and did what any good patriot would do--I called Homeland Security.
"Is this Randy McFab again?" They know all the real Americans by name.
"Yeah, and I've got a fastball for you. There's--"
"Sir," she interrupted me, "we've asked you not to call this number again."
"But this is a fastball!" I said. "There's a jihadist swami on the loose in Fort Braggart, and--"
The line went dead. Shit. Swami Gomez's people must have had the local lines tapped. They had cut our comms, which meant Homeland Security probably wouldn't have anyone on these people. I hung up and took a deep breath. It was up to me.

The McFab compound. 1700 hrs.
If I was going to infiltrate the tangos, I'd have to look like one. I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, trying on various bits of my disguise kit until I had it just right. Terrorist groups are notoriously hard to infil, and you have to be perfect if you want to stay alive. I was perfect--buckskin jacket with fringe and rhinestones, jeans that hadn't even been ironed, combat boots without my usual Airborne-style lacing, and a tee-shirt that I altered to read "Don't Kill a Commie for Mommy." I left my mustache uncombed and unwaxed, just like a stinking hippy would. One more item, and my wardrobe would be complete.
I opened up my gun safe, opened up the safe I keep inside it, then opened the strongbox inside that, which held my weapon. I ran my finger lovingly along the barrel of Thunder God, my name for my Wankmaster 5000 air pistol, and thought about all the action we had seen together. T.G. had saved my life more times than I could count, most recently when that squirrel...I shuddered. It's bad luck to revive old combat memories just before a mission. I slammed a CO2 cartridge home, checked the action, and shoved the gun down the front of my pants, taking my time with that part. I was ready.
"Momma," I called towards the living room, "Can I use the car?"

1900 hrs. The Pinto Being Vegetarian Cafe.
It was the kind of place I would usually avoid. A down-at-the-heels converted house nestled in the liberal section of town, the Pinto Being was a haven for peaceniks and lesbians, two groups whose members would never, ever have sex with me. Beyond that, the place reeked of patchouli and coffee, both drugs in my book. Getting into character wasn't easy, but I did it. I swallowed back my outraged vomit and walked in.
"Welcome, brother." It was a broad's voice, barely audible over the bongo beats coming from an unseen drum corps. I searched through the haze of incense and found her.
"I come in war," I said. "I mean, peace. Don't eat the brown acid. Groovy." I knew the lingo.
She stepped closer and I couldn't help noticing she was hot--maybe the hottest tantrica I'd ever seen. A little blonde number, couldn't have been more than nineteen. Old, yeah, but not quite over the hill.
"Welcome to our peace party," she said. "I'm Vagilis. These are our loved ones." She swept her arm in a grand gesture, and as my eyes adjusted to the smoke I saw more figures, mostly female but a few nancy-boy hippies thrown in for good measure. I noticed all the chicks were hot. So were some of the guys.
"Right on, baby," I said. "Kill whitey."
"You're funny," she said, and I admit she had a nice smile for a terrorist. I was on a mission, though.
"I'd like to groove with Swami Gomez," I said. "That cat's the most!"
"Of course...But you will see me and my friend Clitora after, won't you?" She pointed to her friend, who was...Well, even hotter.
"Hoo-Ya! I mean, roger! I mean..." I composed myself. "I mean, yeah, sistah, we'll groove."
"You're so funny!" she said, and grabbed my wrist, leading me towards the back of the cafe.
The incense smoke got thicker, almost as if by design. Swami Gomez materialized out of the haze like some sort of haze-materializing-from wizard, seated on a couch of cushions and surrounded by four chicks who were, amazingly, even hotter than Vagilis and her friend.
The Swami himself was not what I expected--he looked like a cross between the Dali Lama and Benjamin Disraeli. In other words, he was a looker. Dressed in Speedos and a turban, he sat buddha-style on his cushions, smoking a cigarette through some weird apparatus full of water.
"Welcome, Officer," he said. Vagilis bowed and retreated.
"Officer?" I asked.
"The mustache," he said. "You're either a cop, or you're gay."
"I'm a man of fucking action!" I shouted. "A man without a mustache is only half a man--look it up in Army Field Manual F-2.71828." Shit, I'd slipped. "I mean, man, look it up if you were a warmonger, which neither of us is."
He laughed. "My dear friend. Come, partake with me. You mean no harm." He gestured towards his funny pipe. I'd come this far. I wasn't gonna let a little tobacco come between me and a successful infiltration. He lit the fresh, green tobacco, and I inhaled deeply. I'd always wondered what cigarettes were like.
The water in the weird pipe bubbled.

0200 hrs. The railroad tracks outside of town.
"Camptown ladies sing this song, doo-dah, doo-dah..." I walked along the tracks, the kudzu-covered trees barely visible in the darkness. "Camptown racetrack five mile long, oh, doo-dah day..."
I'd been singing for a few hours, and loving every minute of it. Swami Gomez had obviously poisoned his green tobacco with some sort of nerve agent, because for the first time in my life I was happy and wanted no one dead. I vaguely remembered the two chicks I'd met--they said I had a small...Hell, I can't recall. My last real memory before walking the train tracks was urinating on what appeared to be, but obviously couldn't have been, an American flag. It was probably a Syrian flag--very similar to ours, after all. It occured to me that terrorists could actually be pretty fun, and that a Mars bar dipped in ice cream would be freakin'--SHIT!
I had forgotten to assassinate the Swami. I considered going back to do the job, but realized I had no idea where I was, and that "Thunder God" probably needed repair since we had turned it into some sort of weird pipe. I decided to just keep walking, let the nerve agents wear off, and find a place that sold candy and ice cream.
The Swami and his tango cohorts had won this round, but it wouldn't happen again. I got suckered in by love and fun, and I had learned my lesson. I'm a man, not a person who enjoys love and fun.
You hear that, terrorists? McFab's still on your tail, and next time we meet you'll be the ones getting high and having a good time.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Women's Issues

The Fort Braggart Community Outreach Centre gymnasium. 1800 hrs.
Just when I thought I would never find a steady job, I had come across an ad in my local newspaper for a position I was born to fill. Volunteer Self-Defense Instructor Wanted, it read. Teach women the basics of self-defense, brag about fights you've never been in, and avoid having to prove yourself against a fellow male. No experience necessary.
After a brief interview during which I described the secret ops I'd been on and the bodies I'd left in my wake, I was hired. I showed up for class the next day.
I stood in the middle of the basketball court, surrounded by a circle of nine broads eager to learn the way of the warrior. They were all amateurs, dressed in sweats, tights, standard workout gear. I was wearing my CQB rig--black BDUs, body armour, respirator, and bandoleer of 12-gauge shells. They were about to learn what self-defense is all about.
"Welcome, pukes!" I said. They looked up expectantly. "Defend yourselves!" With that, I pulled the pepper-spray from my tactical pouch and gave them all a good dose. As they coughed and cried I continued. "You failed, didn't you? You failed to defend yourselves not because you are weak but because you are women. That's what I intend to fix."
I gave them a minute to finish vomiting. "My name is McFab," I said. "And I'm a mercenary. To you little girls, that means I shoot bad men. In fact...Defend yourselves!" I strode towards the nearest one, a slight drink of water who looked like a soccer mom on heroin, and kicked her under the chin, sending her reeling.
"You failed again," I said, as the others went to her aid. "You are victims, and you spend your time just waiting to be victimised again. Let me demonstrate." I paused. The soccer mom was coming to.
"Defend yourselves!" I barked, and threw a flash-bang grenade on the lap of the biggest one, a fortyish woman with bleached-blonde hair. Belay that. She had bleached-blonde hair until the grenade burned it off. Too stupid to cover their ears and look away, the ladies were all stunned and blinded by the explosion. My orderly circle of students became a pile of writhing victims.
"Why? Why?" someone moaned. One of them, a cutie in pink sweats, rose drunkenly to her feet and began staggering away, her sneakers still smoking from the grenade blast. I grabbed her ankles in a classic Belgian Takedown and drug her back into the pile. She was screaming something, but I cut her off.
"Everybody relax," I said. "You have nothing to fear but fear itself--and me attacking you. Now take five and sort yourselves out. Your vision should return shortly." I pulled a Snickers bar from my ankle holster and enjoyed it while the ladies recovered.
After a few minutes of general bitching and moaning--and a couple of more escape attempts--I got them back into some sort of order.
"Listen up, pukes," I said. "You're probably all thinking, 'wow, that guy's macho--I want to have intercourse with him.'"
"NO!" the blonde said. "We just want to leave...Please."
"That's just your burning scalp talking," I said. I helped her pat the flames out. "Now, are you gonna be a quitter every time someone savagely assaults you for no reason?"
"Yes!" they said in unison.
"And that is why you fail." I shook my head sadly. "Look at yourselves--crying your worthless guts out just because a little grenade went off nearby. You don't think muggers use grenades? And what about rapists? They all use grenades, it's their M.O.--that's Modulus Operatic, ladies."
"Muggers don't use grenades!" It was the hottie in pink.
"Say again? Did you say, 'I want another taste of pepper spray'?" I brandished the canister.
"No! No...I just...We just want to learn a little self-defense, not...Not this."
"You're hot, baby," I said. "So I'm gonna put this to you gently: Your attitude's gonna get you raped, stabbed, disemboweled, and eaten one day. Someone's gonna end up cutting your breasts off and making eyeglass cases out of them. I've seen it done."
"You're crazy!" another one said. I saw some nods of agreement.
"How many of you chicks have been to war?" I asked.
"I have," one said. She was a latina number, and the fittest-looking of the bunch. "I was in the Gulf--Marine Corps," she added. "Were you?"
"I couldn't get in!" I barked. "Medical--they said I cry too much. That's not the point anyway. The point is--"
"I say we kick this guy's ass," the latina said. She looked serious.
"Now, listen, broads, there's no reason--"
"Defend yourself!" she said, and was on me before I could get to my baton. I could have easily taken her, but the others distracted me by standing around laughing while she applied some sort of arm lock. I was about to counter it and over-power her when she punched me.

The McFab compound. 2100 hrs.
I was in familiar territory, nursing wounds earned in battle while the rest of the world basked in their own weakness. That Marine could really punch--I was still seeing double, but didn't mind since I was watching the new Pam Anderson show and figured four of those lovely funbags were better than two. Unlike most men, I respect chicks, and the hysterical broads at the Outreach Centre couldn't change that. I just hoped they'd all learned a lesson.

Friday, October 07, 2005

Body Guard

The McFab compound. Ops Centre. Recently.
I was stretched out on my army-issue cot, checking out the latest issue of Soldier of Fortune and...Well, doing what came naturally. I was thoroughly engrossed in an article about armour-piercing ammo when the hot phone rang. I didn't want to, but I stopped, cleaned myself up, and answered--the hot phone is my mercenary line, used only for calls from people responding to my ads in various military-related publications. Duty first.
"This is the Colonel," I answered. "Talk."
"Uh, yeah...Hey there," a strong southern accent said. "I'm callin' about your ad in Cat Fancy. Mercenary for hire."
"Never heard of it," I said.
"But...The ad had this number..."
"Correct. I was testing you. What's the job?"
"Well, my name's Ham Rasher, and I need me a bodyguard."
Ham Rasher! The bacon king of East Carolina! The man owned over forty hog-processing plants, and had recently opened a restaurant chain, Saturated Pat's. He was loaded, and then some. This could be big.
"You called the right man," I said. "If you want to stay alive, that is."
"Well, yeah, I was considerin' it. Y'see, they's some folks out there--believe they're called E-co terrists--don't like the way we do bidness. I been gettin' way more death threats than usual."
I had heard all about it. Rasher's processing plants had come under fire from terrorist groups like PETA and the SPCA because of the methods they used for slaughtering hogs. Unlike traditional processors, Rasher had pioneered the method of playing Christian rock music to the animals until they voluntarily commited suicide. It was cruel, yes, but it was a hell of a lot cheaper than traditional means, and had made Rasher rich. I'm a merc, though--my morality is money, and I wasn't gonna let a little animal cruelty keep me from a big score.
"I don't come cheap," I said.
"Money ain't no object," Rasher said. "I got plenny o' that."
"Ten bucks an hour," I said. "Plus meals."
He haggled me down to seven, and it was agreed. I was back on the job.

The Rasher estate. 1400 hrs.
The name of the mansion was spelled out in the intricate wrought-iron of the gate: Hog Heaven. I pulled the war wagon (my mom's Saturn) up to the speaker and requested permission to enter.
"This is Enrique," I said. "I'm here to deliver the foetus you ordered."
There was a pause, and then a voice crackled over the intercom.
"Er...I'm waitin' on a Mr. McFab."
"That's me," I said. "I was testing you." The gates swung open.
The Rasher estate was impressive: twenty-plus acres of rolling East Carolina hills with a mansion set smack dab in the middle of it. The driveway was tiled with melted-down quarters-- money that could have gone to welfare cheats but instead was used to make stuff shiny. I'm all for that. I followed the drive to the main house and parked by the front door. Ten minutes of mustache-combing, and I was ready. I exited the war wagon and knocked on the door.
"Welcome to Hog Heaven," Rasher said, grinning. He swung the doors open and let me into the most impressive home I've seen since the barracks at Fort Stewart. The floor was marble, and probably Italian marble if the faint smell of garlic was any indication. Alcoves along the walls held statues of pigs in period costume--mostly cowboy gear but a few hogs in armour, as well. I was in awe.
"Nice place you have here," I said. "Too bad it's gonna be your tomb."
"Well, now--" he seemed taken aback. "I thought that's why I hired you, to keep me alive."
"Oh, yeah. Right."
He insisted on giving me the grand tour before we got down to business, and frankly it was worth the time. I learned a lot about the man by watching him waddle his 400-plus-pound frame around the mansion, opening doors to rooms full of pig-related antiquities and lecturing me about the history of bacon grease. I learned he was fat. Really, really fat.
"So whadda ya think?" he asked when we finished the tour. "Can you protect me?"
We had settled in the library, a strange name for a room that contained no books by Andy McNab or Dick Marcinko.
"I can protect you," I said. "Even if God himself wanted you dead."
"But?"
"I'll need some tools...Standard stuff, for executive protection work."
"Sure," he said, his jowls flapping. "Whatever ya need."
"Six pounds of C-4. Det chord. An M61A1 Vulcan cannon. Two puppies, preferably labs. Some soy milk..."
He started a list, and two hours later we finished.
"...Make that four suitcase nukes, and we're good to go," I said.
He scribbled some more.
"Done."

The next day. On the job.
We were at Hog Wild, the annual meeting of pig farmers and those who go to meetings about pig farmers. I'd tell you where it was, but my lawyer said to leave that part out. The only hint I can give is, it was in Vegas, at Circus Circus, on 5 October 2005, 1700 hours. I wish I could tell you more, but I can't. Opsec.
I'd been to a few trade shows in my time, but none of them had smelled like breakfast in the way Hog Wild did. It seemed every booth had a fry-up going, and the aroma of burning pig was making me both hungry and very hungry. I never eat before a kill, and since I assumed I'd need to kill someone today, I was starving. The only thing that helped my mood as I shadowed Rasher around the various trade booths was the sweet little firearm he'd requisitioned for me--a .40-calibre Glock that had once belonged to Rush Limbaugh. That little baby felt great in my groin-holster, and I couldn't wait to get my hands down my pants.
"Randy," Rasher said, turning to face me. "Let's go check out the Rendering Arts booth--heard they done got 'em a new use for hog fat. They makin' cow fat outta it!"
"Roger, boss." I followed dutifully, walking in circles around him to match my pace to his corpulent crawl. We were halfway to the Rendering Arts booth when it happened.
I don't know how I spotted him--operators develop a sixth sense after a while, I guess. Guys like me get a feeling--misinterpreted as the need to urinate in civvies--and we know something's wrong. The tango was wearing a suit, hanging out by the People for the Eating of Terrestrial Animals booth, all slicked up and looking like a typical Yuppie. He was trying to blend into the crowd, and would have looked innocent even to me if not for one thing...He was smiling. Like snakes, terrorists smile just before they strike. This rattler wasn't gonna bite my boss.
"DOWN!" I screamed, and pulled the Glock out of my crotch holster. I hit Rasher on the back of the neck with the pistol, to make sure he was out of the line of fire. He went down and I lined the tritium sights up on the tango.
I was about to dispatch the would-be terrorist to Hell when something obscured my sight-picture. Shit! It was Rasher, trying to stand. I hit him again, this time with the barrel of the Glock. He wavered, but remained on his knees, accidentally coming between me and the assassin. I brought the pistol down again, harder, and followed up with a garrote.

Later that day.
The tango got away. I ended up having to pepper-spray Rasher after the Taser didn't work, and by that time the terrorist was nowhere to be seen. As usual, the hardest thing about executive protection was the stupid client. After the crowd had subdued me (mistakenly thinking I was a threat myself), I was taken to hospital to get my wounds treated. A few cc's of morphine later, I left my hospital room to visit Rasher, who was in the same wing.
He looked bad, with the full body cast.
"Hey boss," I said. " We lost the battle, but we'll win the war."
"Yrgh...mntrfrker!"
The poor man couldn't talk--it had been necessary to hit him across the teeth with my pistol in order to clear him from the line of fire.
"Shh..." I said. "Thank me later. We'll get that bastard eventually, boss, I promise."
"Yrgh frktng ifdit! Frk ugh!"
"Yes, I know. Damned tangos. Sleep now, I'll be right here keeping you safe."
"Nargh! Narhgh......!"
He seemed to be saying "yes," so I left him to sleep and recover.

The McFab compound. A few minutes ago.
My mom brought the mail in, and there was a strange letter among my renewal notices from SWAT and Penthouse...A letter from a legal firm, claiming to represent Mr. Rasher.
I'd quote it, but, my lawyer said I need to stop typing and visit Belize for a while. No idea why.

Saturday, October 01, 2005

Board to Tears

Friday night. The McFab compound. Late.
I'm often asked what mercenaries and ex-special forces types do with their free time. Many people seem to think we're always sleeping with spec-ops groupies, base jumping off of French landmarks, and beating up skateboarders outside our local malls. Sure, we beat up skateboarders, but most certified badasses like to take a break now and then and do what we're best at--we hang out in chatrooms and on message boards, telling other badasses how bad our asses actually are.
Case in point: Friday night, and for some reason I'm without a date. I was a little bit amped after a long day of knife sharpening and Tae Bo, and had to unwind before I settled down for my sixteen-hour combat nap. We have two computers in our mobile home--the one in the ops centre (what wussies call my bedroom), and the one in the living room, which my mom uses to email baby pictures of me to her friends. I of course use only the secure computer in the ops centre, as the NSA has a nasty habit of spying on mercs. I had set it up for maximum security--I use Windows 98, and I avoid questionable software like firewalls and anti-virus programs at all cost. Windows is American, friend, and an American program doesn't need any help to keep me secure. I surf with the same confidence I kill with, and was thus as relaxed as ever when I logged into AMERICA Online and logged onto my favourite message board/chatroom, shownomercenary.com.
A few of my favourite fellow warriors were online, so I joined in the fray, using my call-sign, Darth Spock.

Transcript of shownomercenary.com

[1337 h4x0r] And that's how I found out about Delta Force and the cannibals. Just google it, dude.
Darth Spock has joined the chat.
[Darth Spock] Hoo-Yah!
[jarheadjimmy] Hey, Randy! I got that picture you sent...Can you send more?
[1337 h4x0r] Hey L4m3r
[Darth Spock] Still encrypting your comms, I see, 1337. One day I'll find a program to decrypt it all.
[1337 h4x0r] sucksauce
[jarheadjimmy] Really, Randy, can you send more...Like, maybe without a shirt on?
[McFab] Sure, man, you're always trying to pull the chicks with naked pictures of me. I'd think you liked 'em yourself if you weren't ex-Recon.
[jarheadjimmy] Yeah...Recon.
[Darth Spock] Sure thing, devil dog, I've got some more of me masturbating.
[1337 h4x0r] w00t!
[jarheadjimmy] Please...Send them...now.
Notexsas has joined the chat.
[Notexsas] Oi! How is everyone?
[Darth Spock] Great...The only easy day was today, as it turned out.
[Notexsas] I 'ad a good day, too. I mean, of course it was easy...It's not like I'm ex-SAS or anything...It's not like I'm secretly a bad-ass commando who just happens to hang out on message boards.
[Darth Spock] You're a warrior, friend, I can sense it.
[Notexsas] God, no! I would hate for you to think that, rather than being an ex-clerk who was booted out of the forces for buggery, I am actually a veteran of the most elite fighting unit in the world...I'd never ever want to give that impression.
[1337 h4x0r] My mom sucks.
[Darth Spock] You understand opsec, Notexsas, I know where you're comin' from.
[Notexsas] I'm definitely denying having been on secret ops in Northern Ireland, and in fact I'm denying it before you ask. That's how not SAS I am. I want no attention. Nope, none at all.
hotwetmomma has joined the chat
[hotwetmomma] Hi guys.
[3117 h4x0r] Are you a girl?
[Darth Spock] Are you a girl?
[Notexsas] Are you a girl?
[jarheadjimmy] Are you a girl? Damn.
[hotwetmomma] Just looking for some trained officers to inspect my privates.
[Notexsas] I wish I could tell you about my vast military experience, but I can't, because that would be a security breach. I'm just a civilian, you know.
[Darth Spock] Are you a girl?
[hotwetmomma] Any of you military studs up for some action?
[3117 h4x0r] A dude at school beat me up.
[Darth Spock] Action is my middle name. Nathaniel means "action" in spanish.
[Notexsas] I know nothing about the military, hotwetmomma. It's not like I'm some pathetic loser, dropping hints about a life I've only read about. Also...I might have been in the Falklands. But I deny that. Therefore, I claim nothing. I--
[hotwetmomma] You sound kinda cool, Darth Spock.
[Darth Spock] Are you a girl?
[hotwetmomma] Yes.
[jarheadjimmy] Damn.
[Darth Spock] I've got two words for you, hotwetmomma...Let's have sex.
[hotwetmomma] That's three.
[Darth Spock] Sure, I'm into that.
[Notexsas] But, hotwetmomma...I say I'm not ex-sas...Don't you get it? I can't talk about it, I...Shit, my dad's home.
Notexsas has left the chat.
[Darth Spock] Maybe we could meet somewhere, hotwetmomma...Get to know each other and...Have sex.
[3117 h4x0r] I know C++!
[hotwetmomma] Sounds good, Darth. Last time I had sex, the loser impregnated me with a genetically-challenged freak.
[Darth Spock] God, that turns me on. I'm gonna get a soda and touch myself for a bit...brb.
Darth Spock has left the chat.
[3117 h4x0r] Some dude at school beat me up.

I left the computer and tried my damnedest to stop the throbbing in my highly-trained loins. I'm a bit of a ladies' man, but honestly hadn't had sex in years. This "hotwetmomma" was just the thing to cure my now-chronic case of blueballs. I would grab a coke, pleasure myself enough to relieve the tension, and get back online to seal the deal with her.
I left the ops centre and headed for the kitchen--and was surprised to find my mom huddled over her computer at that time of night.
"Mom," I said, "what are you doing? Searching for Pat Boone pictures again?"
"Oh!" She looked startled, and banged a few keys, making the screen go blank. "I was just chatting with...Our church group. Reverend Spock. I mean, Reverend Forrest."
Poor lady. She'd obviously been googling Pat Boone again and was trying to hide it.
"No prob, mom."
"Listen, Randy," she said. "I might have to go to Wal-Mart for a few...Until tomorrow."
"No prob. Pick up some Zima, if you can."
"I will, honey," she said. I went back to the ops centre.
I was ready to meet this chick--more than ready--but when I went back online, I found my damned Rambo 3 screensaver had kicked me offline again. Damn! A chick like hotwetmomma probably wouldn't wait for long. By the time I logged back in, it was too late.

Transcript of shownomercenary.com

[hotwetmomma] Sorry, my damned son interrupted us.
[hotwetmomma] Darth Spock? Are you there?
[3117 h4x0r] He left--he's a l4M3r anyway. Drop that 0 and get with the 43r0.
[hotwetmomma] Where can we meet?