Seeds and Stem Cells

0900 hrs. The McFab compound.
I was right in the middle of my favorite erotic dream when the hot phone rang. The only thing I hate more than being woken up is being woken up right when Ann Coulter takes her pants off, but...duty first.
"Lorenzo's Geletaria," I answered. I never use my real name on my mercenary line, just in case.
"I'm sorry, I was looking for Randy McFab. Wrong number I guess."
"Don't hang up! This is McFab...maybe."
"Well, uh, I'm calling about your ad...'Mercenary for hire.'" The accent sounded southern, which was good. Meant he wasn't gay.
"Which ad?" I asked, wary. "The one in the back of Barely Legal or the one on Sean Hannity's show?"
"The one in Glamour, actually. Next to the herbal breast-enhancement ad."
"Yeah, they're both mine. So which do you want-- a merc, or bigger tits?"
"Just the mercenary," he said.
"You get a discount if you buy both," I said. "So keep that in mind. Now, who are you and why do you want larger breasts?"
"My name's Jack Often," he said. "I'm the president of PANS. You know, People Against Nature and Science."
I had heard of them. PANS was a religious organization that fought against all the so-called science that's been ruining our culture for the last 500 years, the secular-humanist crap like climate research, carbon dating, and the ability to reason. I had heard that Ollie North was a member, and that George Bush had their newsletters read to him. My kind of people.
"So far so good," I said. "Tell me more."
"Well," Often continued, "the other PANSies and I are really against this stem-cell research, on account of it kills embryos. As you probably know, we respect all life that isn't actually an adult, living human being. And Randy," he said, tears in his voice, "there's some sweet baby embryos that need saved from this pogrom of death."
"Don't you mean program?" I asked.
"No."
"Then you're serious," I said. "Good. I'm interested. But I thought Jesus--I mean Bush--vetoed the bill allowing more stem cell research."
"He did," Often said, "but they've still got them embroyos frozen up, waiting for a liberal to be elected President."
"I see. So where are the EIQ's being held?"
"The what?"
"Embryos In Question. Where are they stored?"
"They're at Nogod Genetics, the new 'research'"--he spat the word--"facility outside of town. We need you to break in, take the little embryo babies out in a cooler, and bring 'em to us PANSies so we can impregnate our teenaged daughters with 'em."
I like a well-thought-out plan. "I'll need a dossier on every security guard at the place," I said. "And a deposit--twenty bucks in unmarked bills, a six-pack of Zima, and three heavily-lubricated condoms."
"Well, uh, sure...But what are the condoms for?"
This guy obviously wasn't used to spec ops. "I'm not gonna carry the dossiers in my arms, mister."
"Oh, I...okay."
We set up a secret meet, and I hung up. I smiled, something I usually only do when a cat licks me. A mercenary is always happy to have work, especially work he believes in. This one would be fun.
I checked the clock. I still had time to get back to my dream. Get naked, Annie, I thought, snuggling my pillow. Limbaugh's about to join us.

0100 hrs, the following night. Outside Nogod Genetics.
I crouched outside the chain-link fence, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. The genetics facility was a low, concrete structure, lit by floodlights at the corners. A security guard would appear in one of the puddles of light now and then before disappearing into the night as he continued on his circuit around the building.
The guards would be a problem. I had read their dossiers, hoping to find one I could bribe or blackmail, but they were clean as a whistle--former Marines, all of them. How good Leathernecks ended up protecting embryo-killers was beyond me. It made me sick, the thought that a Marine could have such disregard for human life. Oh well. They weren't Marines now-- they were enemy sentries, and my only concern was defeating them.
I knew I couldn't take out the guards by force, so I did what any good mercenary would do and used deception. I took the cellphone out of my assault vest and dialed the guard shack.
"Guard station, Holmes," the man answered. He sounded professional, like a Marine. Good. Even a Marine gone bad has enough Marine left in him to play to type, and that's what I was counting on.
"Hiiii..." I said, trying to sound as effeminate as possible. It was difficult as I'm so macho, so I just pictured Ryan Seacrest. "My name's...er....Ryan Seacrest," I said, lisping. "I'm totally gay, and me and my gay friends are down at Exton's Pub, being gay."
"Yeah? So?" Holmes growled.
"We're proud of being gay, sugar," I said. "And haven't been taught a lesson."
"You dirty little..." I heard a walkie-talkie click on. "Guys!" Holmes barked. "Leave your posts! We're goin' down to Exton's for a boot party!" He spoke to me again. "You and your fag friends wait there, we're comin' down to stomp you," he said.
"Sure, we love it rough," I said, and hung up.
The front gate opened less than a minute later, and I slipped through as a pickup truck full of guards roared out, tires screeching on the tarmac. I watched them until their tail-lights disappeared down the road, knowing they wouldn't be back any time soon. Exton's was hosting a reunion of ex-Army Special Forces from Fort Braggart tonight, and I doubted the Green Beanies would appreciate being called queer by a bunch of security guards.
I strolled up to the front door of the facility, no longer worried about detection. The door was smoked glass, secured with a basic electronic keypad system. Easy to defeat, for a trained mercenary. I smashed through the glass with a crowbar and walked in.
It looked like a normal office in the dim emergency lighting, and I followed a carpeted hallway towards what I hoped was the lab. Eventually I found it, a glass-walled clean room packed with exotic-looking equipment. Everything in the lab was white--walls, equipment, floor--except for the huge stainless-steel freezer that undoubtedly contained the embryos, or "people seeds" as I call them. I sat my rucksack on the floor by the freezer and pulled my Igloo cooler out. I'd have to drink the Zimas to make room for the embryos.

0600 hrs. The lab.
I was slumped against the freezer, my sixth Zima spilled on the floor beside me. Oh, God...so drunk. I wiped some drool off my chin, trying to remember why I was there. Maybe I should call my ex-wife. She never really loved me, and someone needs to put her in her place. Shit, some music would be good. I pawed at my rucksack, hoping some music was hiding in there. The door to the lab flew open.
All the lights came on, bright enough to make me cringe. I staggered to my feet, using the freezer for support, and tried to remember where my knife was.
"What are you doing here?" He was an big guy, in a lab coat and glasses.
"I'm drinking embryos," I said. "Rescuing Zimas. You know..." I slid down the freezer, my ass hitting the tile hard.
"What? Do you work here? Where's security?" He reached for a phone on the wall.
"Touch that phone and you're dead," I said, pointing my weapon at him. "My trigger finger gets itchy around baby-killers."
"Oh, God," he sighed, turning to face me. "You're one of those loonies. I should have known, after all the phone calls we've been getting."
"That's exactly what kind of loony I am," I said. "Now put on some music! Maybe some Creedence." I held the weapon on him as I sucked the last drops of Zima from one of my empties.
"Son," the scientist said, "quit pointing that canteen at me. You look ridiculous."
"What? Oh." I tossed the canteen aside and closed my eyes, trying to remember where my gun was. Not good. The floor spun and tilted beneath me, and I opened my eyes quick to keep from puking.
"Look, son," the man said. "You're obviously drunk. I'm a doctor, I can see that."
"A doctor of death!" I snarled. "Just like that guy...that guy who's a doctor of death!"
"Kevorkian?"
"I'm American, you asshole!" I managed to stand again. "And I'm gonna save these little baby Americans, and no one's gonna stop me!" I yanked the freezer open and stared in, peering through the fog. It was lined with row after row of petri dishes, all labeled with some weird code.
"What the--where the hell are the babies?" I demanded. "What have you done with them?"
"Those are the embryos. They're in the dishes."
"What?" I grabbed a petri dish and held it up to the light. All I could see was some yellowish, wax-like substance. "This one's sure as hell empty," I said.
"No, no," the doctor chuckled. "They're in there, they're just too tiny to see. They're microscopic."
"Microscopic...Poor things, my aunt had that once." I sat the dish back in the freezer. "I'm not here for microscopics," I said. "Nothing can save them anyway. I want the embryos like in the brochure I got at church, the ones with the smiley faces and angel wings."
"They aren't like that," he said. "These embryos are like cells, or seeds."
"Yes, people seeds! With smiley faces...and angel wings. Now where are they?" I was getting angry.
"Look, mister," the scientist said. "You're stone drunk. I can call the cops, kick your ass, or just let you pass out in here. But I'd prefer to reason with you, because I know you're probably just really, really stupid. So how do you want it?"
I thought about it. He was pretty big. "I want that part about drunk and reasonable," I said.
"Good. Now, I'm gonna guess you're a right-wing nutcase. Am I right?"
"You bet your ass," I said.
"And you support the war in Iraq?"
"Of course. Except for the us losing part."
"And why," the doctor asked, "is it okay for us to tell other countries what to do?"
"Because we're bigger!" I said.
"And why," the doctor asked, "is it okay to kill Iraqi civilians?"
"That's obvious," I said. "If they wanted to live they'd be able to defend themselves."
"And why," he asked, "is it not okay for us to invade, say, China, even though they aren't democratic?"
"Easy, because they're big and can defend themselves."
"So," he said, "do you see now? We can better our lives with these embryos because we're fully developed and they're not. Embryos are like the Third World of life, and we humans are like the U.S."
"My God!" I said. "That kind of makes sense. I guess maybe I was--"
I hadn't noticed the scientist inching closer to me. I saw two hands coming for my throat, KILL KIDS tattooed on the knuckles. Everything went black.

1100 hrs, the next day. The McFab compound.
I guess I was lucky. The scientist had held me until the Marine guards showed up, bloody and bruised, to take some revenge on me. They were too badly beaten themselves to do much damage to me, though, and they dumped me beside the highway when they were done rather than turn me in to the cops.
I had to give the twenty-dollar deposit back to the PANSies, but I was six Zimas up on them and couldn't complain. A mercenary knows he can't win every battle or complete every mission, and that's why a smart warrior lives with his mom, just in case money gets tight. Besides, I had learned something. If God loved embryos, He wouldn't have made them so small and defenceless. I opened a Zima and turned on the t.v. to catch The 700 Club.

Red Beans and Ricin

1600 hrs. Downtown Fort Braggart. Fartbaker's Pharmacy.
I set my purchases on the sales counter and flipped through a Newsweek, waiting for Old Man Fartbaker to finish with a customer at the soda fountain. Few drug stores had the old-fashioned soda fountains anymore, and Fartbaker's was particularly special in that it served only beer. I was considering ordering one myself when a headline in the Newsweek caught my eye. U.S. soldier charged with rape.
It was an obvious, bold-faced lie. I mean, who wouldn't willingly sleep with a soldier? I was instantly sickened, and swallowed back a hot glob of vomit. There are only two things that make this mercenary puke: the liberal media, and German scheisse films. I had seen too much of both today.
"Fartbaker!" I yelled towards the soda fountain. "Hurry up here, I'm sick!" Fartbaker finished up with the drunk at the fountain and ran up to the counter to help me. At ninety years old, unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough. I bent over and did the psychedelic yawn, barfing like a sorority girl after twelve mojitos and a gang-bang.
"Here, son," Fartbaker said, thrusting a waste-basket across the counter. "Be sick into this, not the..." He glanced at the get-well-card display I was throwing up on. "Not there, please."
"It's okay," I gasped, pushing the basket away. "I'll be fine. Oh, God!" I puked again, filling the "leave a penny, take a penny" tray to overflowing.
"Here, quick," Fartbaker said, "drink this." I grabbed the bottle he handed me and chugged it, the foul-tasting liquid calming my nausea almost instantly. I took a couple of deep breaths, regaining my composure.
"Whew. Man, that really helped," I said, handing the bottle back to him.
"Yessir, castor oil--best thing for ya. Say, that reminds me, son. Ain't you some kind of mercenary or something?"
"Fuckin' A," I said, puffing up my chest in my I'm Some Kind of Mercenary t-shirt.
"Well," Fartbaker said, wiping puke off the counter with a small squeegee, "there's something I think you oughta should look into. See, my new neighbor out route five, he's planting castor beans. " He paused, waiting for me to react.
"Castor beans can be used to make ricin," he continued. "Not much other use for castor plants these days." He paused again. "Ricin's a deadly poison."
I'd never heard of it, and the old man was beginning to bore me.
"My neighbor's an A-rab," he finally added.
"Holy hell, man! Why didn't you say so?" I whipped out my PDA (a crumpled bar napkin and a pencil), and went into mercenary mode. "First things first," I said, "I need a name."
"Aamir Faiz."
"I doubt it's a mere phase. These terrorists are dedicated types."
"No, that's his name, he--"
"I can't spell anyway," I said. "Just tell me where he is and I'll go waste him."
"Well, son...I really just thought you might look into it, maybe check his place out like those secret ops boys on the teevee do. Find out if he's guilty or not before you hurt anyone."
"Good idea," I said. "Now, did you say this Faiz character is of Arabic descent?"
"Yessir, looks it anyway, and wears them funny clothes."
"Great. Phase one complete. He's guilty. Now what's his address, so I can take this bastard out?"

0100 hrs. Route five.
I drove slowly down the deserted highway, not wanting to miss my target in the darkness. The farm houses out here were set far back off the highway, mud driveways and battered mailboxes the only indications of their presence. I caught the numbers 770 on one of the boxes, and slowed the war wagon (my mom's '96 Saturn) down even more. I was close.
I killed the high-beams, mentally auditing the equipment I'd brought with me as I scanned the roadside for the target. Flashlight. Check. Two canteens--chocolate milk and Zima. Check. Combat knife. Check. You and Your Combat Knife, by Rick "Razor" Radnick. Large-print edition. Check. Rope, hanging for the use of. Check. Watergun, filled with urine. Check.
I had almost completed my checklist when the numbers 678 appeared in the glow of my headlights. I shut them off immediately and pulled over a few yards past the mailbox. Going up the driveway would be suicide, as most tangos are on alert 24-7. I killed the engine, said a brief prayer to George W. Bush, and got ready to gear up.

0200 hrs. On target.
I crept slowly through the deadly bean field on my stomach, kind of like Stephen Hawking jogging. The low plants provided little cover, but luckily there was no moon, and the flashlight held between my teeth emitted a very pale glow as I had forgotten to change the batteries. I stopped every few inches to prod the ground ahead with a drinking straw, wary of land mines. It was rough, slow going, but when you're a man of action you embrace challenge like less macho men embrace women. I just kept going.
The farm house was about thirty yards away now, a ranch-style home with white shutters and trim, the kind that has "terrorist" written all over it. There were no lights on, but that meant nothing. Muslims have excellent night vision, just like cats and homosexuals. I willed myself invisible as I crawled closer, praying my black BDUs and balaclava would keep me hidden.
I got to the side of the house and peered around the corner towards the front door, checking for sensors and trip-wires. Seeing none, I crawled around to the porch and finally stood beside the front door, my ear to the wall to listen for any movement inside. Nothing. Dark interior, no movement--I might have just gotten lucky and caught this bastard in bed. I checked that my urine-filled water gun was in place down the front of my pants, and thought for a moment about which lock-picking device to use. The doorbell rang.
Shit shit shit! I had brushed the doorbell accidentally reaching for my entry kit. A light came on inside, and then the porch too was lit up as I heard footsteps approach the door. I scrambled for my water-pistol, but it was too late. The door opened.
"Hello!" I said quickly, thinking on my feet. "Did you know that Jehova wants you to live forever in paradise on earth?"
I looked into the barrel of a shotgun, and the slight, swarthy man behind it looked ready to use it. "Who are you?" he demanded.
"Uh...Amway," I said, pulling off my balaclava to look less sinister. "It's opportunity knocking, and--"
"Bullshit!" He pumped the shotgun, chambering a shell. "I call the police now. You come in with me." I was in no position to argue, and followed him inside.
"Sit!" he commanded, gesturing towards an armchair with the shotgun. "I call police now. Hummus and chapati while we wait for them?" He nodded towards the kitchen.
"Yeah, right," I said. "I think I'll pass on the poison, Chef Boy-Am-I-Crazy."
"Poison?" He asked. "Why I poison you? Police will take care of you, robber of innocents!"
"Look here, mister," I said. "I'm no robber and you're no innocent. I know you're gonna call your jihadist buddies over here to behead me, and I know the whole thing will end up on youtube. And I'm not scared, even though I just urinated on myself. That's just something I do from time to time."
He looked puzzled. "What are you talking about? Are you drug man?"
"I'm talking about your ricin factory, mister. I'm talking about your 'Allah's Little Acre' of castor beans."
"Castor? What? You mean my red beans?"
"Red beans? So you're a commie, too, are you?" This guy was even worse than I'd thought.
"I grow red beans! My family owns an organic cajun restaurant in Tampa! What are you, some kind of bad man with hate for Pakistanis?" He pointed the shotgun right at my head.
"Hey, hey, calm down," I said, spreading my hands. "I'm cool. Paki-man, right? Wokka wokka wokka. Look," I said, "I'm an American patriot...I heard there was a raghea--a suspicious person out here, and that he was making ricin. What would you have done?"
"Exactly what I'm going to do now," he said, and held the shotgun on me with one hand as he picked up the phone.

Two weeks later. The McFab compound.
"I'm sorry I couldn't bail you out sooner," Mama said. "I didn't have much money left after buying you that autographed Condoleezza Rice Hustler centerfold."
"It's alright," I said, sipping a Zima. "They dropped the charges down to trespassing, and I learned a lot from being in jail. I'm a 'bottom,' did you know that?"
"No, honey, that's great. I just hope you'll stay out of trouble for a while."
I looked around our living room, the banal confines of a less-than-impressive mobile home. My warrior spirit could not be contained in such a prison.
"I'll stay out of trouble," I said, "when the whole world is as American as I am."

Costume Jewry

1400 hrs. The McFab compound.
I was on the crapper, reading the daily intel reports while I released some hostages into the care of the septic tank. I subscribe to all the major security-related publications, and always read the most important ones while I take my morning constitutional. I was just getting into The Star article on Britney and Kevin when my mama knocked on the door.
"I'm really using the bathroom this time!" I yelled, angry.
"Well hurry up, honey. There's two men here to see you."
"They can wait."
"They're wearing suits."
I flew off the toilet and pulled my trousers up, not bothering to wipe. This could be big.

They sat on the couch, two black men in dark pinstripes, one of them holding what could be either a folder or a dossier, depending on the contents.
"Mr. McFab?" one of them said as they both rose.
"Maybe," I said, walking a bit awkwardly into the room. Probably should have wiped.
"I'm Jackson Jessums, and this is my associate, Maleek Shabazz Abajindu Smith. We're from the East Carolina Anti-Discrimination and Other Fucked-Up Shit League. We fight against racial discrimination."
"And other fucked-up shit," Smith added.
"Sounds great, guys. I gave at the office."
"Oh, we're not here for money," Jessums said. "In fact...Well, this is rather sensitive..."
"I'm gonna leave you gentlemen alone," Mama interrupted. "The less I know, the better." I nodded my approval as she went outside to tend her hemp garden.
"Cop a squat, men," I said, and sat across from them in my favorite recliner, the one an actual Army Ranger had once peed on. I took a deep breath, knowing what was coming.
"You probably know this already, Mr. McFab," Jessums said. "But we have a serious problem here."
"Oh, c'mon guys...I didn't burn their house because they were black! They cut me off in traffic. I'm not the least bit racist, in fact I once paid good money to sleep with a--"
"That's not why we're here," Jessums said. "We're here to hire a mercenary."
"We heard you're the best," Smith added. "And by best I mean cheapest. Good God, man, what's that smell?"
"I didn't wipe," I said. "Sorry."
"Yes, well...Anyway, the Ku Klux Klan has been making a bit of a comeback here in the Fort Braggart area, ever since that discount sheets-and-pillowcases outlet opened on route ten. So far, they've just been demonstrating at farmer's markets and burning crosses here and there, but we have reason to believe things are about to get worse." He opened the folder in his lap, which as it turned out was a dossier, and showed me a picture.
"This is Claude Hopper," Jessums said, "the local Grand Lizard of the Klan."
"Isn't it 'wizard'?" I asked.
"No, a rival Klan group copyrighted that. At any rate, Hopper is tired of mere demonstrations and has formulated a plan to hurt the black community in the worst way possible. Maleek?"
Smith pulled some papers from the dossier. "These are transcripts of conversations we intercepted," he said. "It seems Claude Hopper and his men are planning to cut off the malt liquor supply to Fort Braggart. That means no Olde English--"
"Ol' E 800, G!" Jessums interjected.
"--no St. Ides--"
"S-T Ides, beeyatch!"
"--no Colt .45--"
"Wazzup, Billy Dee?"
"--no forties, period."
"No forties, man! Oh hell nah."
"As you can imagine," Smith continued, "this would have a devastating impact on the morale of the African-American community...And that's just the beginning of their plans."
"Of course," I said, "but why don't you just go to the police?"
"We tried," Jessums said, "but they told us that without hard evidence of violent or criminal acts on the part of the Klan, they can do nothing. That's where you come in."
"You want me to infiltrate them?"
"No, we er...We've heard about your infiltration skills. We need you to act as bait, actually."
I considered this. "You mean...You want me to get them to attack me?"
"Yes. We'd do it ourselves, but I don't want my testicles nailed to a tree stump."
"You get used to it," I said. "But alright, makes sense so far. I get them to attack me, we have the proof we need."
"Exactly. And of course, if you want to fight a few of them off...say, with a shotgun...that would be fine, too."
"My fee is sixty dollars an hour," I said. "I'll dress in blackface and get started next week."
"Five bucks an hour, you dress as a Jew, and get started today," Smith said.
"Deal."

2100 hrs. Illiterate Jimmy's Pool Hall and Lending Library.
The old garage-turned-bar was Klan central, where all the local rednecks and racists gathered to drink beer, play pool, and sound out the big words as they perused Jimmy's library of Mack Bolan novels. I would have been afraid to go in there under any circumstances, but in the role I was playing tonight it was even worse. I stood outside a few minutes, gathering courage by stroking the grip of the urine-filled water gun I carry for protection while reciting various Dick Cheney quotes to myself. All right, fuck it. My costume was perfect, I had the dialect nailed, and, well...sometimes you just have to jump in the deep end and hope for the best. I walked in.
Every eye in the place focused on my long black bekishe and fur hat. I stroked my fake beard nervously as I took a seat at the bar.
The bartender was a giant, and the look on his face told me he both hated Jews and had at some point inhaled paint thinner for pleasure.
"Mazel tov, compadre," I said in Jewish. "Manneschevitz con limon, por favor."
"What the hell funny talk is that?" the barman demanded, leaning his huge forearms on the bar in front of me. I noticed his tattoo, If you ain't white, you ain't rite.
"No hable Jewish, amigo?" I asked. "Okay, I'll speak your gentile language. I'm a big time Hollywood producer, and I want a goddamned manneschevitz before I go manipulate the media and impregnate Protestant girls. Oh, and throw some matzah balls in with that."
"We ain't got yer filthy Jew drink here," he said. "We got beer. We do have matzah balls, though. Do you want 'em in chicken stock or vegetable?"
"Tell you what," I said, "maybe I'll just have a beer and eat a gentile baby later."
By this time a small crowd had gathered around me, and I saw that Claude Hopper himself was in the group. They had four pool cues and three teeth between them, and looked ready to use either. I steeled myself, remembering I was making five bucks an hour.
"I see the goys are back in town," I said, staring directly at Hopper. "You don't happen to need a loan at a morally-reprehensible interest rate, do you? Because I can help you out with that."
The bartender interrupted before Hopper could respond. "Here's your beer, Jewboy," he said, and sat a Heineken down in front of me.
I hate to admit it, but it was such an affront I actually lost character.
"A Heineken?" I demanded. "A goddamned Dutch beer? You know why they call 'em 'Dutch,' don't you? Because they suck, that's why. They legalize heroin and fag marriage and outlaw normal stuff like people owning machine guns. Take this shit away!" I shoved the Heineken back at the barman. The crowd murmured a bit, wondering if the bartender would kill me.
"Well here, then," he said. "Have a Corona if yer gonna whine about it."
Now I was so angry it was impossible to stay in character. It was just me, Randy McFab, against this asshole bartender.
"A Mexican beer?" I said. "They piss in this stuff, you know. Mexicans drink pee like normal folks drink Yoo-Hoo. If I wanted to drink pee I'd go down to the public pool and take a sip after the black kids are done swimming."
"Well damn man," the bartender said. "Here, have a Pilsner."
"What? The only good Czech is a cancelled Czech, by God. I wouldn't drink..."
By this time, the crowd was talking amongst themselves, and Claude Hopper was trying to make a point.
"Jesus, boys," Hopper said, "that guy's a fucking biggot."
"He shore is an asshole," someone agreed. "He thinks he's better than everybody, I reckon."
"Won't even drink Mexican beer!"
"Oh my Lordy," Hopper said. "Don't you see? We've been acting like this here asshole, goin' against the blacks just because they look different and commit crimes all the time. Are we no better than this here filthy Jew?"
The racists hung their heads, thinking.
"Hell goddamned no I won't drink a Budweiser!" I was yelling at the bartender. "Stinking Krauts invented that crap! Give me an all-American Zima or just go watch some damned soccer, you Euro-trash ass-wipe. Speaking of which, I haven't wiped my ass in a while...You don't happen to have a pre-moistened towellete, do you?"

The next day. The McFab compound.
"I'm sorry them redneck boys beat you," Mama said, applying an ice-pack to my scrotum.
"Well, I guess it all worked out, even though I didn't get paid..."
Claude Hopper and his boys had changed their ways after meeting me, joining the Anti-Discrimination and Other Fucked-Up Shit league. I called Maleek Shabazz Abajindu Smith about payment, but he said I'd not get a nickel unless I attended Czech sensitivity training.
"Let's watch some t.v.," Mama said. "That'll take your mind off your balls." She surfed through the channels a bit. "Here's a funny show, Randy. The Chapelle show."
"Isn't that the show with the ni--" She shoved the ice-pack hard into my scrotum, and I gasped in pain.
"It's funny, Randy," she said. "That's the important thing."

The Third of July

In honor of the holiday most sacred to all the world, American Independence Day...
What follows are excerpts from the journal of my ancestor, Nathaniel "Matchlock" McFab, who lived in Philadelphia in 1776 and participated in the events leading up to the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

Kensington's Tavern and Whore Baths, Philadelphia. The thrice of July, 1776.
"Serving wench!" I called, pounding my hollowed-out cat's skull on the table. "Another cat head of watered-down ale!"
I felt the Devil's fingers in my loins as she sauntered over, her plumpness stretching her filthy smock to the very limit of decency. I smiled at her as she filled my cat's head from her leathern flask, my tooth reflecting the candle light in the dim pub.
"I await a most important man, " I said.
"Yes. You have told me this many times this afternoon."
"Mercenary work is not just for Hessians, you know. Soon I will be out of the alms house and into a cave above the river." In truth, I had already picked an excellent spot, a hole dug into the bank above the Delaware where the best sewage collected underneath in a pool. "Fine foraging where I'll be, " I said. "I have seen many a piece of cloth pass."
"Those cloths are...Never ye mind," she said. "You will always be in the alms house, Matchlock. You have not had a decent home since your dear mother passed."
"Aye." I watched the wench walk away, silently cursing God himself for taking Mother from me. Had I known one could contract the Sailor's Disease from a chamber-pot, I would never have let Mother share mine. My sad reverie was interrupted when the door swung open. Everyone in the tavern, that is to say, me, gasped at the sight of him. He was the greatest man in the world, and looked it. Spindly legs, pot-belly, and the jowls that say "I eat too much." Common men like me, with our muscles, flat stomachs, and sun tans, would kill to appear like the pale, fat figure before me.
"Mr. Franklin," I said, rising. "May I genuflect before you?"
"No, man--sit, sit." He surveyed the tavern briefly, his spectacles perched high on his ample nose. "You have not been followed, have you?" he asked, sitting across from me.
"No sir. I am trained in the ways of stealth, and rode two mules and a negro on my way here."
"Good, good. I--" he waved the serving wench off. "I'll join in the whore baths later, " he told her. He then leaned on the table, gazing into my eyes as if he were peering at me from a one-hundred-dollar paper note. "Matchlock," he said, "you have been recommended as the best soldier for hire within an acre of this place. That is why I requested this meeting."
"I see you have taken note of my advertisement in your fine almanack," I said.
"Yes," Franklin said. "'Mercenary for hire. Will work for cod.' It caught my eye."
"If machines had been invented, I would describe myself as a killing machine, sir."
"Well they won't be, but nevertheless...We need you to kill. There is a man called Jefferson who is fomenting revolution." He saw my shock. "We all talk about it, yes, but this man is serious. Our plan is to assemble, enjoy much ale, and write insulting notes to the British. This man actually wants revolution, and he is gathering many followers. He must be stopped."
"Methinks...Methought...whatever," I said. "I thought you were all for revolution. I thought that was why so many great men had gathered here."
"You say you want a revolution?" Franklin asked. "Well, you know, we all want to change the world. But not by bloodshed. We think there could be a peaceful solution."
"I have had neither food nor woman without the musket," I said. "Peace is as foreign to me as bathing."
"Good. You will then have no difficulty. Here is his likeness, so you may know him when you see him." He passed me a two-dollar bank note. "Once he is dead, we will give you two barrels of cod and a filthy smock to wear."
"You had me at cod," I said, and pocketed the picture of my target.

Fifty-six draughts later.
I crouched in an alley-way, changing into my disguise. A mercenary reveals not himself, and I am a master of deception. I would appear in the guise of a British soldier, having stitched together a uniform from red-stained cotton I found outside a girl's reformatory. The clothing is not the man, though, so after dressing I began to walk like a woman and practiced using the ridiculous accent of the native Brits.
"Good eve," I said in my own voice. "Glibtechnifagenarkle barkle," I replied in British. I was ready.

Even later.
I waited outside the sporting palace where Jefferson and his men had gone to see an entertainment. Lincoln Financial Field, they called it, and it was popular among the lower types who celebrated a team of sportsmen called the Eagles. I am not one for sports, and knew only that many complained that it is exceedingly difficult to see a football by candlelight.
I caressed my gun, then caressed the musket in my hands. I had the best musket back-breaking labor could buy, a French-made weapon that was accurate to ten yards. I would snipe if at all possible.

Later still.
After a few final roars, the crowd began filing out, and I watched from the shadows as they looked around in vain to find where their mules were parked. Finally, I saw him.
He was tall, but not so tall as to be an affront to God. He was noble in bearing, in that he didn't seem to have a crippling disease like most of us. And his wig--well, let me just say that I hope sodomites are accepted enough one day so that one might comment on Jefferson's fine wig with a snap of the fingers and a "you go, girlfriend!"
He was surrounded by a pack of dandies, none of whom appeared to be armed. It was time.
I charged his group, musket at the ready, and stopped ten yards before him.
"Dibimagard, farkterd!" I screamed, saying "Die, bastard," in British. I pulled the trigger as my sight-bead fell on his face. Nothing happened.
I tried again, then realized...Matchlock.
"Er...Does anyone here have a light?" I asked. "I forgot--"
"Kill the Brit!" someone shouted, and they fell upon me, Jefferson himself delivering the first kick to the Pouch of Life.

Fourth July, 1776. The alms house.
I received the news in my sickbed, and by bed I of course mean pile of gravel.
"Revolution!" One-Legged Joe shouted. "The Crown's attempt on Jefferson sealed it!"
"Damned British, " someone added, "trying to kill Jefferson...We would have been happy to talk about it, you know."
I sank back in my gravel, not knowing what to say. Then I sat up, knowing what to say.
"Fuck the British," I said, and went back to sleep.

That was the last entry in Nathaniel McFab's diary...Apparently he woke up only long enough to choke to death on an onion. We remember him today as he would want us to, a man who by all rights should have lived in a cave. Your cave awaits, hero. Randy.