Randy McFab

Census Violence

2010-03-27T20:52:00.006+06:30

Fort Braggart, East Carolina. The Census Bureau. 0930 hrs.
"So what brings you in today?" asked the man across the desk from me.
"Well, Mr.--" I glanced at his name tag. Gonzales. "José. I saw your ad in the paper for part-time census takers, and it said it was a perfect job for retirees, students, and out-of-work mercenaries."
"I see," José said. "And how long have you been retired?"
"I'm not retired. I'm a mercenary. Un hombre de action."
"My apologies," José said. "It's just that you're so old and fat, I naturally..."
"No apology necessary; I get that all the time. Just tell me about the job."
"Certainly." He adjusted his glasses. "As you may know, it's believed that our minority and immigrant populations have been under-represented in previous censuses. Censii? Whatever. And we're sending out extra census takers to go into minority neighborhoods and identify these citizens."
"Smoke 'em outta their holes," I said, nodding.
"Um...I guess that would be a way of putting it, pendejo. It's been hard to find enough workers for these roles, because the neighborhoods involved are terrifying. But for you, a mercenary...No problem. Basically you go door-to-door and find out who lives there along with some basic demographic information." He raised an eyebrow. "Does that sound like something you could do?"
"Sure," I said. "Re-con areas suspected of harboring minorities. Locate, identify, and interrogate suspected minority and or immigrant residents. Communicate to these suspects the policy of the United States government vis-a-vis census procedures and participation in same."
"They're not suspects, cabrón. They're people. We're trying to help them."
"Sure, José. I'll help them...and then deal with targets of opportunity as they present themselves. So what does this gig pay?"
"The starting rate is fifteen dollars an hour, but in your case we're willing to pay considerably less."
"How much less?" I narrowed my eyes like George W. Bush staring down a polecat.
"Minimum wage," José said, half-smiling.
"Fine."
"Mexican minimum wage," José added.
"Even better," I said, though later I would find out my mental conversion of pesos to dollars had been slightly inaccurate.
"Great, then you will start tomorrow." He scrawled my name on a badge and handed it to me along with a map. "You will be going door-to-door in my favorite neighborhood, McFab. We Latinos call it 'El barrio que no es muy mala pero es un función de a qué hora del día en que ir allí y si son mexicanos o negro o blanco, o lo que sea del tipo y, a veces, hay venta de drogas, pero la mayoría sólo la marihuana por lo que no es tan malo como sería si se tratara de crack o algo, pero aún creo que es un mal tipo de barrio, ahora que lo pienso.' Or 'West Fort Braggart,' for short."
"I know West Fort Braggart," I said. "I accidentally drove through there once on my way to East Fort Braggart."
"Then you'll have no--immediate--problems," José said. "Good luck tomorrow, my friend. Or as we say in Spanish, me cago en ti." He beamed and shook my hand.
"May cargo entity," I repeated back to him. I finally had a job.

The next day. 1330 hrs.
My job description said "part time," so after clocking in at the bureau in the morning I drove to my favorite strip club and nursed a few Zimas until mid-afternoon. One last suspiciously-long visit with the men's room, and it was soldiering time. I paid my tab, tipped Amber an extra five bucks to put towards her harelip operation, and left The Petting Zoo for my recon of West Fort Braggart.

West Fort Braggart. 1350 hrs.
The barrio. It was like Hell, only with more Mexicans and fewer Irish. Graffiti covered most of the barred, boarded, partially-burned -- yet strangely still open -- businesses. The sidewalks were littered with tortillas and discarded sombreros, or maybe just plain trash. Who could tell in this foreign world?
Luckily I blended in, having decided to wear local attire in order to build trust with the inhabitants. Even more luckily, I already owned a black cowboy hat, shiny dress shirt with rose embroidery, a dinner-plate-sized belt buckle, black jeans, and boots with silver tips. What I wore only to funerals, the latinos wear every day. Added to the outfit was my mercenary's facility with language. Most likely, no one I contacted would even suspect I was American.
I checked my field-expedient GPS -- or crudely-drawn map, as some call it -- and headed for the first address on my list.

1350 West Pine. 1400 hrs.
The house looked like any house in a normal neighborhood, a tidy little one-story with a fresh coat of white paint. A clever disguise if one were an illegal alien attempting to blend in. I knocked on the door.
He was older than me, maybe sixty, and wore a sweater and khakis.
"Good day sir," I said, and then leaned closer, lowering my voice. "It's okay, I'm Mexican, too. I know we all secretly speak English." I pointed out my Stetson and belt buckle.
"Ah. Welcome then, brother." He held up a hand. "Not inside. Just the porch. Welcome to my porch."
I held up my clipboard, the symbol of authority held in awe by all cultures. "I'm here with the Cens--Ceen-sus Bureau. We're making sure everyone, even illegal immigrants--like myself, brother--gets counted. It will help us collect welfare and take jobs from American mercenaries. I mean fat cats."
"Ah, yes. Our plot to take jobs." He winked and nodded. "So what do you need to know?"
"Let's start with name," I said. "Not your street, or 'gang' name. Real name please favor."
"Abraham von Ribbentrop-Sanchez," he said. "And by the way, you are...?"
"Please forgive me," I said, writing his name in the boxes on my form. "I am Señor Don Jefe Ronaldo McFabuloso."
"Your accent," von Ribbentrop-Sanchez said. "You must be from southern Mexico?"
"My family swam here many years ago," I said. "And to my shame, I have picked up the accent of our superiors, the Gringos."
"Ees no problem. It suits you," said von Ribbentrop-Sanchez.
"Great. Next question." I pretended to consult my papers. "You're an illegal alien, aren't you?"
"What? May I see that form?"
"No, uh...That question was later, sorry. Um..." This time I did check the form. "How many people live in this household?"
"Seventeen. No pets."
This guy was dirty, I could smell it. Then I realized I hadn't showered in days. Still, if I could apprehend an actual illegal immigrant and turn him over to ICE, they might just make me an agent, or at least give me my passport back. I just hoped he didn't put up a fight. I had a water gun filled with urine in a hideaway holster behind my back, and I didn't want to have to use it again that day.
"So Señor von Ribbentrop-Sanchez," I said,"these seventeen people, as we'll call them, how are they related to you?"
He thought for a moment. "Well, let's see. Eleven are illegitimate children I've spawned with white women, four are Columbian drug lords, and then there's the wife and me."
My God. This guy was dirtier than I could have imagined. Drug lords. White women. Nailing this guy would make me the most famous unemployed mercenary in the world.
"Look, mi amigo," I said. "I know you're illegal, and ees no problema. Actually, for every illegal immigrant in the household, you get a...free goat. So let's just round up the household and head to the Goat Wagon--" I pointed to my mother's minivan, parked at the curb, "--for some free government goat."
"Mr. McFab," the suspect said, "I believe it is Randall McFab? Did you not appear at a Fort Braggart City Council meeting in October of last year, demanding an ordinance be passed outlawing, as I recall, 'People Talking Funny, Like with Accents and Stuff.'?"
"Uh...Yes, but..." How could he possibly know about that dark day in American politics?
"And do you remember," he continued, "being ridiculed particularly harshly by Councilman von Ribbentrop-Sanchez? Perhaps not, because you were quite obviously drunk at the time."
"I...I..." How could I have failed to identify him? I'm a trained mercenary, a graduate of Patriot Mercenary Training Internet University. Then again, I was drunk when I went before the Council and proposed what I now concede was a slightly racist law. And besides, they do all look alike...
"Seriously, McFab," he went on, "how many von Ribbentrop-Sanchez's do you think there could possibly be?" He shook his head slowly. "I'm going to do now what I wanted to do at the Council meeting," he said. "I'm going to punch you."
I reached for the water gun, but I was too late.

The McFab compound. Sometime the next day.
I lay on the couch in our double-wide, a bag of frozen peas to my forehead. Momma flopped down in the recliner, shaking the trailer, and delivered the latest news.
"Well, honey," she said, "I talked to Sheriff Peeler and he says there ain't much point in pressing charges, on account of that dirty Sanchez fellow is a councilman and the whole town hates you. Oh, and he asked if ya'll is still goin' fishin' at Troutworm Lake next Saturday?"

"Yeah, I reckon," I said. "Did he say dynamite or electric?"

No Stinking License

2008-05-08T22:37:00.003+06:30

Fort Braggart, East Carolina. The Department of Motor Vehicles. 0800 hrs.
The place was packed, but I was first in line. I had been second in line until the old bat in front of me decided to go home and nurse her severed hamstring, and as they opened the doors I congratulated myself on never forgetting to travel without a knife.
I shouldn't have to be here anyway, I thought, looking around at the motley crowd assembled to renew--or gain their first--driving priviliges. I've been driving my entire adult life--often with a license to do so--but that didn't matter. The liberal judge I faced last year decided to "interpret" the Constitution as liberal judges do, and I ended up with a year's driving suspension due to some technicality about operating a vehicle while drunk and bleeding. Now I had to take the driving test all over again to get my license back, like some common sixteen-year-old. Speaking of which...
"Hey there honey," I said to the teenage girl behind me in line. "You familiar with the mercenary position?"
"Predator!" she yelled, pointing. Luckily my name was called just as the crowd moved in on me.
"Randall Nathaniel McFab?" I walked up to the counter and faced the DMV worker. He was young, maybe 30, and suspiciously tan. That usually meant gay, foreign, or...both.
"I'm McFab," I said. "Just give me my license, and a helicopter rating while you're at it. I learned to fly 'em watching Rambo."
"Oh, it's not that easy, Mr. McFab," he said, chuckling.
"I wasn't joking, Pedro. If you watch Rambo one frame at a time you can actually learn to fly a Cobra. Maybe you should try it."
"My name isn't Pedro," he said, a bit huffy in my opinion. "I am officer Saddam Al-Qaeda Bin Laden of the East Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles." He pointed to his badge, which just read, Holy Fuck! That's really your name?
"Holy fuck," I said, "that's really your name?"
"Yes, yes, I know..." he said. "When my parents named me, your government was giving weapons and money to all of those people. Seemed reasonable and patriotic at the time. You may call me Jihadi of Allah if it makes you more comfortable, or...Brad. I also go by Brad."
"Brad sounds kinda gay, Jihadi. Let's get on with this. I need my license back."
"Of course, just a few preliminary..." He inspected my birth certificate, apparently surprised it was printed on blood-stained camo. "You are Randall Nathaniel McFab, son of Nathaniel Randall McFab and 'Mama' McFab, correct?"
"Yes."
He typed into a computer. "And your date of birth?"
"I'm 27."
He looked at me and chuckled. "Oh, sir, we have it all here, and your bald head..."
I told him my date of birth, and he shook his head sympathetically.
"Very very good, sir," he said. "One more formality before the driving test. You just need to look into here," he said, pointing out a device on the counter, "and read aloud the letters you see."
"What, are you saying I'm illiterate?" I demanded.
"No sir, it is for vision, you know...a man your age..."
I put my nose up against the device and peered into the eye-holes, hoping it might at least have pictures of naked chicks or something. Instead, it was filled with bizarre, blurred characters...almost as if...
"You bastard!" I stepped back from the counter and levelled my gaze at Jihadi. "You're testing Americans with Arabic letters? It's come to that now, has it?"
"No sir, I--"
"People!" I said, turning towards the long line behind me. "America has been co-opted by the Islamo-facists. It's not enough that we have to suck up to the A-rabs for gas, now we have to read their pagan language just to get a driver's license!"
The crowd indicated they were with me by their silence, though I did hear a "shut the fuck up" and a "you're holding up the line!" from the liberals in attendance.
"Sir," Jihadi said, "perhaps if you tried again with your glasses...The glasses specified as necessary on your last driver's license."
So that's how it was. He wanted to see a handicapped American. Fine, let him get his kicks. I pulled my glasses out of my ankle sheath and peered into the device again with the specs on.
"Hmm..." I said, "It's in English now. Must have switched it on me...Okay, 'I..A...M...'"
"Keep going," Jihadi said.
"'A,'" I said, still reading, "'P...R...I...C...K.'"
"Yes!" Jihadi said. "You have passed the vision test and I daresay demonstrated a healthy self-awareness. All that is left, " he said, lowering his voice, "is the driving portion."
"You're not the driving tester, are you?" I asked, hoping against hope.
"No sir," Jihadi said, "the driving tester is an American just like you. Meet her outside in the parking lot." He handed me a slip of paper and I headed outside.

Fort Braggart, East Carolina. The Department of Motor Vehicles. 1100 hrs.
I waited outside for two hours with no tester and no vehicle in sight. I was about to go back in and demand an explanation when an early-nineties Mercury Cougar with 20-inch rims drove up to the curb, a bass beat from its stereo shaking both me and the windows of the DMV office. I would have assumed the car was being turned in as not roadworthy were it not for the "DMV Test Vehicle" signs magneted to the doors.
The tinted driver's side door opened and a large black woman stepped out, her fishnet-clad ankle the size of my thigh. Though the cheetah-print skirt and black half-top slimmed her some, she easily went a good two-and-a-half bills.
"'Sup, Playah?" She asked, or said...I wasn't sure which.
"I...I'm supposed to take a test?" I held out the form I'd been given.
"I'm Tykeesha," she said. "I be testin' you." She took the form and stuffed it into her ample cleavage, where it disappeared. "Ah-ite. Let's roll." She waddled to the passenger side and I got in the driver's seat.
"How do you adjust this?" I asked, fishing for the lever to bring the seat forward. It was so far back and down, I was practically in the back seat and could just see over the dashboard.
"What?"
"How do you..." I turned the music down, too late for one of my fillings which I swallowed politely. "The seat, I--"
"You don't wanna look like a bitch, do you?" she asked. "Drivin' all up on the windshield like a gram-mamma?"
"No, I guess not."
She made a note on her clipboard and I glanced over. Doesn't wanna look like a bitch, she had written. "Ah-ite," she said, "start it up and pull up in the skreet."
I started the car and turned left onto the skreet.
"Now," she said, "what's the first thing you look for?"
"Prostitutes," I answered honestly.
"That's a good answer," she said, marking the clipboard, "but I mean before you start lookin' for ho's. You look for the five-o."
"Ah, the police," I said, making sure to maintain a safe speed. "Yes, I wouldn't want to get a ticket."
"Nah, nah," she said, "you don't wanna get caught rollin' dirty."
"Rolling dirty? You mean with the illegal firearms and explosives I often carry in my mom's vehicle?"
"Yeah, playah, dat shit." She scribbled on the clipboard some more.
"No worries," I said, "the police don't even know I've been driving around drunk without a license virtually every day since my D.U.I."
"Word, mofo," she said solemnly. "Word."
"Word to your mother," I grinned. This was going to be easy. "Word to your mother."
We carried on down the road a bit and she pointed ahead. "Construction zone," she said, "what do you do here?"
"Get my crunk on," I said, pulling a Zima out of my trousers and opening it with my teeth. I drained the bottle in two or three swallows.
"'Das what I'm talkin' 'bout, playah," she said.
We drove on, approaching a school zone. "Ah shit," I said, speaking her language. "Fifteen miles an hour up in here. I gotta be high to drive that slow!" I took a tube of toothpaste out of my trousers, squirted some into a pyrex pipe, and set my lighter to it.
"Goddamn!" Tykeesha exclaimed. "You smokin' toothpaste?"
"Hell...yeah..."I said, as the Crest hit me, hard. The road up ahead turned sharply, and merged into a yellow-brick rainbow in the clouds so pretty color fast now...

Fort Braggart, East Carolina. The Department of Motor Vehicles. 1700 hrs.
I woke up handcuffed on a cold concrete floor, Tykeesha standing over me.
"Damn, bitch..." I murmured..."'dat was some shiznit..."
"Can it, asshole," Tykeesha said. "You didn't really think they hire uneducated people with ghetto mentalities to work for the D.M.V., did you?"
I noticed she was wearing a tasteful pants suit now. "Well, I..."
"I fail more drivers than anyone in the department," she said, "though I rarely get to charge them with D.U.I. involving toothpaste."
I looked up helplessly, wondering whose puke I was laying in. "So I don't get to drive?"
"You'll be lucky if you don't go to jail," she said, her huge thighs blocking out the overhead lights.
"I, uh..." I slicked my hair back with some spare puke. "I don't suppose, after I'm arraigned and all..."
"You and me?" she asked, scowling. She picked me up then, effortlessly, and cradled me to her bosum. "Let's roll, playah," she whispered.

Arms and the Armed Man

2008-01-27T06:41:00.000+06:30

Fort Braggart, East Carolina. Outside Myopic Mike's Precision Rifle Range and Gun Shop. 1300 hrs.
A mercenary's arsenal of firearms is like an Asian's car--sure, you can function without it, but how are you gonna kill people? I had spent the previous evening cataloging my personal weapons cache and wasn't happy with the results.
I have two water guns which I fill with urine--one with my own and the other from a donor. They're great for blinding your enemy but sometimes a bit more is required. I also have the shotgun I acquired in typical mercenary fashion--I took it off a dead man. I'm sure Grandpa understands. And I have seven knives, but that's two less than the experts at Soldier of Fortune suggest you carry for everyday protection.
And that's it. I've not been allowed to purchase any guns since that incident at Chuck E. Cheese seven years ago, and the lack of firepower has seriously hindered my ability to perform as a merc.
But now I had hope. I had just received a letter from my attorney letting me know I was authorized to go out in public without the genital bracelet, and I hoped my firearms ban had ended as well.
I parked my mom's car outside Myopic Mike's and headed in with a very large purchase in mind.

Myopic Mike's Precision Rifle Range and Gun Shop. 1305 hrs.
"Howdy, Mike!" I said, walking up to the counter. I was a regular visitor, stopping by often to oggle the guns behind the counter.
Mike squinted at me behind thick, almost-opaque glasses. "Aunt Stella?"
"No, it's me, Randy McFab."
"Oh." His face fell. "I guess you want to talk guns."
"No Mike, this time I want to buy guns!"
"Well..." He looked at his watch, holding it mere millimeters from his face. "I was gonna hit the rifle range for some shooting, Randy."
At that, a stream of men poured out from the door to the range.
"Just taking a break!" one of the men said. "You've got it all to yourself, Mike!"
"Why do you all always leave when I want to shoot?" Mike asked, addressing a display of hunting jackets on the sales floor.
"Don't worry about it," I said. "I really do have money this time."
"Not--"
"No, not Costa Rican postage stamps. This is real money." I fanned a wad of cash close enough to his eyes for him to see it. "My momma sued Mountain Dew on account of it making me Republican. I've got some spending money now."
"Well, alright then..." Mike gestured towards the gleaming steel displayed on the wall behind him. "What do you want? That Remington 700 you keep asking about? Larry Pitts down at the Circuit City swears he hit a gnat at 1000 yards with one the other day...'Course, the gnat was on a horse's abdomen..."
"Nah, Mike. I need concealed carry." I pointed at a .44 magnum revolver with an eight-inch barrel in the case between us. "Something small," I said. "A pea-shooter."
"Great!" He took the pistol out of the case and handed it to me. The grip felt like warm bone in my hand, and I could almost taste the gore this piece could create.
"I'll need hollow-points, of course," I said.
"Sure, won't be much use without it." He turned towards a computer terminal on the counter. "I just need to run a quick check...Liberal law, you know..."
"No problem," I beamed, my genitals riding free in my BDU trousers.
"Just need your driver's license."
"Yessir," I said, handing him my learner's permit.
He eyed it carefully. "You're...You're forty-two, aren't you?"
"Yes. I had a regular license, but then I ate some mushrooms a few years ago and forgot how to drive. Minor thing really, they're fixing it."
"Alright. Be just a couple minutes." He typed into the the terminal, and I walked around to check out the merchandise in the rest of the store.
They had some good stuff. For hunters like me they stocked both Uncle Jon's Old-Timey Deer Poison and Boar in Heat Sportsman's Cologne. For personal protection, they carried armor-penetrating ammo and other necessities like Israeli-issued gas masks. Damn, I'd have to come back with more money.
"Um...Randy?" Mike was calling from the counter.
"Yes? Do you need my holster size?"
"No, Randy, the...the background check came back, uh..."
Shit. "What, is there a waiting period?"
"Well, no, it..." He pulled a printout from the computer station, folding the twenty or so pages into a neat stack. "It says..." He put his nose right on the paper, reading carefully. "It says...'No fucking way.' Then it says that again. For twenty pages."
Damn damn damn! "It doesn't say why?"
"No, but..." He squinted at the printout. "There's a note from the head of the ATF...Just says 'You've got to be fucking kidding me.'"
So. That's how it was. Despite the Second Amendment, a patriot can't bear arms if said patriot has committed a few gun-related felonies. The liberals win again.
"Have you seen this, though?" Mike asked, and produced a large purple-and-yellow plastic rifle from behind the counter. "This is the Super Soaker 9000," he said. "You fill this baby with urine, and..."
"You had me at urine," I said, and handed him the cash.

Caucus Sucker

2007-11-24T05:11:00.000+06:30

DeerTick, East Carolina. The E. Howard Hunt Convention Center and Jai-Alai Courts. 0900 hrs.
I couldn't believe I was really here. For a small-town hard-case like me to be hanging out in downtown Deer Tick--our state capitol and chief beef-jerky exporter--was one thing; to be attending our Republican caucus and helping to pick our Presidential nominee was the thrill of a lifetime.
Welcome Reactionaries, the banner hung across the hanger-sized hall proclaimed. As huge as the words were, they were almost lost in the sea of American and Confederate flags that symbolized our conservative virtues--loving your country, and sentimentally glorifying a genocidal racist past. This was my kind of convention.
I had already noticed some hot Republican chicks checking out my camo tuxedo. The ballot box might not be the only thing getting stuffed tonight, I thought, winking at a redhead over my complimentary virgin martini. She winked back. This was truly the best day of my life, and I'd only gotten here by sheer luck.

Fort Braggart, East Carolina. The McFab compound. Three days before the convention.
I rushed to answer the phone before it quit ringing, struggling to pull up my pants and hide my Mike Huckabee calendar at the same time. I tossed the calendar under my bed and got to the phone on the sixth ring.
"I can't believe it's not butter consumer hot line," I answered.
"Um...Randy McFab please?"
"Maybe. Depends on who's calling." I never give away my identity without good reason--a mercenary is always aware of operational security.
"You don't know me, but--"
"That's good enough for me. This is Randy McFab."
"Well, yes sir. I'm calling on behalf of the East Carolina Armed Republicans."
Ah, ECAR. I'd been a member since Hector was a pup, whatever the hell that means.
"Continue," I said. "This line is secure."
"I'm happy to tell you that you have been selected to represent Parish County at the East Carolina Republican Presidential Caucus, Mr. McFab."
"I--what? Why?" I couldn't believe it. All my hard work, all the times I stood up for what was right by 1950's standards--had it finally paid off? It had.
"Yes, Mr. McFab. We chose from among all the people in the county who still support George Bush...And you were that person. We'll be happy to cover your expenses, and we're sure you'll support whichever candidate is most dangerously out of touch with the majority of Americans."
"You bet I will," I said. "Semper fuckin' Fi."
I started packing immediately.

DeerTick, East Carolina. The E. Howard Hunt Convention Center and Jai-Alai Courts. 1100 hrs.
I had been mixing and mingling, sharing my political views with my fellow patriots and getting high on virgin drinks and second-hand cigarette smoke, when an important-looking fellow in a Brooks Brothers suit thrust a microphone in my face. A younger, more casually dressed man behind him pointed a video camera in my direction.
"Welcome to the caucus," Brooks Brothers said. "What issues are most important to you?"
Holy Shit. I recognized him. Brooks Brothers was none other than Guy Testoral, the weatherman for the local Fox affiliate. He never predicted sunshine, because sunshine is for liberals and pansies.
"Well, Mr. Testoral, I--" Strange. My voice was echoing throughout the convention center. I glanced up and saw that our interaction was being displayed on the huge video screens that adorned each wall of the building. They had been interviewing random attendees, but I never expected I would be one of them. This was no time for stage fright, so I put on my game face and answered like a pro. "You're really cool, Mr. Testoral. I...Hello everyone."
"Very good sir. But tell us about your views," Testoral said.
"Well...I'm a simple man," I said, and everyone applauded at that. "I know that you don't need no book learnin' to plow a straight line or govern a nation." The applause was louder. "I am against terrorists, especially when they attack America." The response was deafening, and I was shocked to see that the thousands of people present stood rapt, watching me on the screen.
"I can see you're a man who has thought out his positions," Testoral said. "Why don't you tell us your name."
"McFab," I said, speaking into the mic. "James...I mean, Randy McFab."
"McFab!" someone yelled from across the room.
"Mr. McFab," Testoral said, "what would you do if you were President?"
"I would free G. Gordon Liddy, sir."
"He, uh, he's been free for years."
"Then I'd free him again!" The place erupted in cheers. Damn, this could get addictive.
"And what should be done about Iraq?" Testoral asked.
"Kill 'em all," I said, "and let Reagan--i.e. God--sort 'em out!"
Someone else shouted McFab! and it became a chant. McFab! McFab! McFab!
"Quiet, please," Testoral implored the crowd. "What about health care, Mr. McFab? Which candidate has the answer?"
"None of 'em. If people without insurance are unhappy with their health care, they should complain to their doctors. And as for gun control..."
Guns! Guns! Guns! the crowd yelled.
"As for gun control, " I continued, "gun control just means staying on target when you're emptying a clip into a Puerto Rican who's trying to steal your bike." More applause. "Not that a real man would exercise or ride a bike, " I added, and the shouts and applause went on for nearly a minute.
When it finally died down, Testoral asked me one more question. "What about the majority of Americans who don't agree with our small-town, uneducated beliefs? What place do they have in a democracy that doesn't actually count a majority?"
"Mr. Testoral...It only takes three people to make a majority. God, guns, and guts. And two of those ain't even people."
The convention center got louder than the end zone stands at a Georgia Bulldogs game.
McFab! McFab! McFab! McFab! McFab!
Testoral thanked me and I headed towards the bar for a virgin scotch on the rocks.

DeerTick, East Carolina. The E. Howard Hunt Convention Center and Jai-Alai Courts. 2000 hrs.
Wow. Since my interview, I'd been congratulated by hundreds of people, even people with jobs who normally don't talk to me. I had four or five fat, ugly chicks to choose from for tonight's entertainment, and some of them were only fat or ugly--not both. I was on top of the world, and the virgin boilermakers I'd been drinking only added to my elation.
"McFab?" It was Testoral. "I need to speak to you in private."
I discarded my O'Douls and followed him through a door and into a smoky room.
It was dark and, as I said, smoky. Seven or eight men sat around a table, looking very serious and smoking even more seriously.
"So...McFab." He was at the head of the table, and was fat enough to be the obvious leader.
"Yes sir. Randy McFab." I stood at parade rest, just like I'd been taught from books and movies about the Marine Corps.
"The people love you, McFab," he said. "Do you know that?"
"Love is an emotion common to liberals and hippies," I said.
"And that," he said, pounding the table, "is why we want you!"
"Want me? " I didn't get it. "What, you need someone killed? I should tell you I charge seven bucks an hour plus expenses, and I expect a back rub and--"
"No, no," he laughed. "Maybe you don't know me. I'm Boss Balltoucher," he said. "Don't ask how I got the nickname, it's a long story. The fact is, McFab..." He paused to cough violently and light another cigarette. "I've been running the Republican party here since Hector was a pup. Who the the hell is Hector? I don't know either. The point is, the people here love you, and I know a candidate when I see one. We want to nominate you as our...Well, nominee."
Heads nodded around the table.
"Nominee for what?" I asked. "I don't understand."
"For President," Balltoucher said. "For President of the United States."
My head swam. This was way beyond even my most extravagant dreams, the ones involving Ann Coulter and a loofah.
"I don't know what to say," I said. "Except that...Yes, I should clearly be President of the United States."
"Very gut." The voice sounded foreign, and it came from a small, skinny man at the table. "There is only one thing we require, Mr. McVab," he continued. "We require..."
Boss Balltoucher interrupted. "This is Dr. Heinrich Tang, Randy," he said, indicating the little man. "He worked for the East German family planning police. Until being fired."
"Um, hello doctor."
"Ja," doctor Tang said. "I was let go for...How do you say? Breakfast fetus? Anyway..." The doctor pushed himself back from the table, and I saw he was in a wheel chair. "I am quite certain, Herr McFab...I am quite certain you are electable...Unlike the serial adulterer Giuliani, or the Baptist Huckabee who thinks man lived with dinosaurs, or the stinking, filthy MORMON!" He screamed the last word, and shook violently for a few seconds before composing himself. "And as for that McCain," he continued, catching his breath. "Herr McCain got captured, didn't he? The wehrmacht does not get captured!"
"I agree, I guess," I said. "But as for what you require, I'm not sure what you mean."
"Yes!" Balltoucher took over again, and pulled down a world map from an overhead display. "This is the world, McFab," he said. "And as you can see the weather sucks."
There were indeed little sad faces over various countries.
"What we need," Balltoucher continued, "is a candidate who will listen to real science--scientists like Doctor Tang here--and realize global warming is a good thing!"
"Sehr gut," Doctor Tang added.
"But--global warming isn't real," I said. "It's a liberal lie."
"We all thought that," Balltoucher said. "Doctor Tang?"
"Ja." Tang wheeled himself towards the world map. "This is antarctica," he said, pointing towards the map. "The ice there is melting. Also here, in the nord pole. The warming is real, and even my research has failed to prove otherwise. Though I tried. Oh mein Gott I tried!"
"It's okay, doctor," Boss Balltoucher said, patting the German's shoulder. "His guilt crippled him," Balltoucher whispered towards me.
"So..." I didn't know what else to say.
"So, Mr. McFab," Balltoucher said, "we need a candidate who will say this is all for the good. Even the idiots out there now acknowledge that it's happening. We need someone who will say it's for the good, so we don't end up with a country full of sissies driving cars no bigger than what we need. So we don't end up turning off a light when we could leave it on for no reason. So we don't stop equating a large pickup truck with masculinity. So we stay American!"
"Ja," Doctor Tang said. "Weitzer zu American!"
"We can get you elected," Balltoucher said. "I mean, they have to count Florida."
I felt all my happiness drain out of me. The elation was gone, and even though I had been picked out to be special I knew the really special thing was to be right.
"You sicken me," I said. "All of you." I looked around the table to make sure they all knew they sickened me individually as well as as a group. "How can you be so blind?" I walked to the map and did some pointing of my own. "Alaska!" I shouted, thumping the map. "It's cold there! Russia!" I said, pointing to the southern hemisphere. "Cold there, too. Gentlemen," I said, leaning on the table, "there is no such thing as global warming, and anyone who thinks there is is a commie, a liberal, and probably much worse--a democrat!"
"But Randy," Balltoucher said, "the science--"
"The science? The science?" I got right up in his face. "Science is the liberal philosophy that claims gun deaths are caused by bullets; that murdering murderers doesn't solve the murder problem; that gay marriage isn't the reason my wife left me for a breakdancer! I spit on your science," I said, and spat on the coffee urn in the center of the table. "I'm not your candidate. If I'm running for anything, I'm running because I have warrants out for me. Not for this pack of lies."
I swept out of the room, pausing only to fill a cup of coffee from the urn and fill my pockets with a few of the Ba-Lack Obongo pins they had on the table.

Fort Braggart, East Carolina. The McFab compound. 0 900 hrs. The next day.
"So," Mama said, a good bit of breakfast in her mouth, "I heard they nominated you for President."
"Yeah, they did." I took a bite of deer sausage and washed it down with Zima. "But they weren't real conservatives, Mama. They were closet liberals."
"Well, I hate that you had a job and didn't take it, but..." She handed me the morning paper with a few items circled. "Burger King is hiring."

Dying Pet Sounds

2007-11-17T03:29:00.000+06:30

Fort Braggart, East Carolina. Starbucks. 0900 hrs.
Well, shit. When I'd heard there was a "Starbucks" opening downtown, I naturally assumed the place had something to do with the guy from Battlestar Galactica. I realized I was wrong as soon as I joined the crowd packed inside for the grand opening--I was the only guy there dressed as Count Iblis, and what I first mistook for a Cylon turned out to be an espresso machine.
I decided to stay anyway. I could use a coffee, and I was pretty sure some chicks would want to explore the interior of my mysterious space-vampire costume regardless. I spent my thirty minutes in line deciding which woman would win a fantasy date with me, and had decided on the fat one when my turn came up.
"Welcome to Starbucks!" He was skinny and pale in the way that liberals and junkies are. "I'm you're barista, Zane."
"You ain't gonna be my barista in this state, Zane," I told him. "We passed an amendment banning that sort of thing."
I eyed the menu but couldn't make sense of it. "I don't speak German," I said, "so I'm gonna order in regular english like I do at Big Jim's Breakfast Barn...I'm here for coffee, not some fancy shit."
"Sure," Zane said, recognizing a dangerous mercenary when he saw one.
"Right, then...Gimme a venti quad mocha valencia with soy. And make it quick, son."
I checked the place out while I waited for my order, and noticed they sold subversive CDs from punk-rock acts like John Mayer. I made a mental note to report it to Homeland Security.
"McFab!" A worker handed me my coffee, and I spat my wad of chewing tobacco into the spittoon on the counter. Jesus, I thought, looking where I had spit. Some idiot put money in their spittoon. Oh, well. You can't outlaw dumb. I was headed for the door when the bulletin board caught my eye.
Stand up and fight!, the flyer read. I looked around me. Just who in here wanted to fight me? I didn't spot an obvious threat so I took a closer look at the poster. Join PETTA tonight at the Fort Braggart Public Library, it read, and bring your self-righteousness.
I had heard of PETTA and their desperately unattractive leader, Ingrid Oldgroddy, and I actually agreed with a lot of what they said. I knew, for instance, that they were against testing drugs and chemicals on animals-- and I am, too. Why test on animals when we have criminals and Mexicans available to us?
I decided to attend the meeting and find out more about this group. If they were on the up and up, I could maybe do some mercenary work for them, take out some of their rivals. If they were anti-American, I would do what I always do with those types...I'd take them down. Take them right down to Hell.
I sipped my mocha, careful not to burn my mouth.

The McFab compound. 1800 hrs.
I had spent the afternoon researching PETTA, and I hadn't liked what I'd found. They were a splinter group of PETA, the terrorist group that tries to disrupt the American economy by slowing down sausage and mink production. Apparently the difference between the two groups was that PETTA felt it was okay to eat kidney beans whereas PETA still insisted the name sounded "too much like viscera" to be humane. The split didn't matter to me anyway--they were one and the same in my book and if I didn't like what I saw at the meeting they'd have one angry mercenary too many on their hands.
Still, though, I love animals, and was willing to keep an open mind. Besides, its a known fact that activist chicks are easy...and I was long overdue.
I started getting dressed for a night with the ladies.

Fort Braggart Public Library. 2000 hrs.
I was ready for action, decked out in my mauve BDU trousers, All Merc and No Play T-Shirt, and a good quarter-cup of mustache wax. The ladies would be on me like ants on an old, dead grasshopper.
I was ready for another kind of action, as well. I had a knife hidden in one combat boot, a sharpened spork in the other, and a urine-filled watergun tucked down the back of my pants. If I needed any other weapons, I could use my training to improvise. I had once made a working crossbow out of an empty beer can, a hot dog, and two handfuls of my own pubes...and that weapon had nearly blinded me. I'd be ready, no matter what.
The PETTA group wasn't hard to spot. They had commandeered a round table over by the Hobbies and Vivisection shelves, and they were dressed like typical liberals. Lots of sandals, no mustaches, and hemp where a gold chain with an eagle or anchor should be. I counted eight of them, six broads and two people. I liked my odds should it come to a fight, and the weight of the water gun reassured me. I had enough urine to go around.
"Howdy ladies," I smiled, approaching the table. I gave the guys a look that let them know the term "ladies" included them, too.
"Hi," one of the girls said. "I'm Morningflower. Please, join us."
I took a seat between a girl with a purple high-and-tight and a guy with what appeared to be long, braided feces growing out of his head.
Morningflower introduced me around. Besides her, there was a chick named Oracle Goat and four broads named Dawn. The guy with the braids was Colt, and his "partner," as he put it, was a black guy named Hondo who had decided to be deaf and mute as a form of protest when pancake-wrapped sausages were first introduced into the frozen breakfast foods market.
"Pleased to meet you freaks," I said. "I'm Randy McFab. You might know me from various media accounts...The failed hostage rescue ..." Blank stares. "The assault on Lane Bryant?" Still no recognition. Christ, did these people ever get out? "American mercenary prosecuted in subway groping?"
"Oh, yeah!" They knew me, and I admit it's an ego boost to be famous.
"Welcome, earth brother," Colt said, and his partner Hondo waved his hands around in a peculiar pattern. "He's signing 'welcome'," Colt explained.
"That's funny," I said, "I know ASL, and it looks to me like Hondo just signaled in a double steal."
"Well..."Colt got a little defensive. "Hondo hasn't had time to learn ASL since his protest. He's just using what he learned in the minor leagues."
Holy dogshit. It dawned on me. "Hondo" was Hondova Mojito, the Dominican slugger who had been a top major-league prospect before he spent a weekend with ex-Dolphins running back Ricky Williams in Amsterdam and came back insisting no strike should be called when one hits the "imaginary" ball. He was out of baseball shortly thereafter, and hadn't been seen since.
I wasn't going to embarrass him, so I just signed for him to lay down a bunt and concentrated on the ladies.
"Randy," Morningflower said, "we were just talking about what we can do to stop the cruelty going on at Fishco."
"Fishco?" I knew Fishco, it was the store out at the mall where they sell tropical fish, aquariums-- all the stuff you need if you're too cold and impersonal to own a dog or cat. I certainly hadn't seen any cruelty there.
"Yes, Fishco," Oracle Goat said. I noticed she was kind of hot, and stroked my mustache at her. "Fishco," she went on, oblivious, "are modern-day Nazis. They intern fish and then...then..." She broke down.
"It's okay," One-of-Four Dawns said, holding her. "What they do Randy, is...They sell them. They sell the fish."
"They sell the fish, man," Colt said, and Hondo added an indignant "take the next pitch."
"So..." I was a bit lost.
"They sell them," Morningflower said, regaining her composure, "into slavery!"
"Slavery?" I was against some forms of slavery, but had no idea the institution could involve tetras.
"Slavery, Randy," Oracle Goat said. "Just like the white man selling Africans to the highest bidder. That's what pet stores do."
"So...Let me get this straight," I said. "Selling pets is the moral equivalent of enslaving human beings?"
"Yes!" They all nodded agreement, except for Hondo, who tugged his left ear and brushed an elbow.
"That would be ridiculous," I said, "if you weren't kind of hot, Oracle Goat. So what do you want me to do?"
"Well..." She batted her eyes at me. "I see you're a..."
"Man of action?" I suggested.
"Yes...I mean, Colt here obviously can't do anything. No offense, brother Colt."
"None taken."
"And Hondo," she continued, but didn't need to. Hondo was chasing an imaginary fly ball down the third base line behind his eyes.
"So you need a real man, a mercenary...You need me."
"We need you, Randy."
With the way she looked right then, there was no way I could say no.
"Tell me what you need, my sweet, sweet goat."

Debtor's Square Mall. 0200 hrs. The next day.
The mall was pitch-black, deserted. I had infiltrated by crawling four hundred yards through a pipe filled with raw human sewage, exiting in the parking lot. I then used the key to the entrance door I had from when I worked at Taco Bell. The lone security guard never heard me coming--he smelled me, but by the time he turned around I had swung a sock filled with Hummel figurines at his skull and dropped him where he stood. I left him unconscious outside Hot Topix and headed for Fishco.
It was an easy break-in. I'd done so many black ops, gaining entry to the gated fish store was no problem. Four hours with a hacksaw and a pound of C-4, and I was in.

Fishco. 0600 hrs.
The tanks glowed blue in the darkness, the captive fish casting shadows on the walls as they swam back and forth in their tiny prisons. I pulled some plastic bags out of my combat pack and began filling them with water.
"Free at last," I whispered in the darkness. "Free at last."

The McFab compound. 1900 hrs. The next day.
I had gotten Mama out of the mobile home by telling her the dollar store was having a 99-cent sale, which left me and Oracle Goat to ourselves.
I lit the candles on the table, and noticed that she, like most women, looked even better in dim lighting.
"Randy, " she said, "freeing those fish was so brave...You're my hero, do you know that?"
"Of course I am," I said. I took her salad plate away and headed for the kitchen for part two of our romantic dinner. I was gonna get laid, and this time I wasn't going to pay for it or find out she was a dude.
I returned with the platter and pulled back the silver cover with a flourish.
"Dinner, my dear, is served."
She squinted at the entree. "What--what is that?"
"Ah, it's french, my angel. The cychlids are sauteed in garlic butter, while the mollies are lightly breaded and--"
"OH MY GOD!" She appeared to be turning green.
"What is it?" I said. "You don't like garlic? The goldfish are steamed, very light. They'll go great with the frogs..."
Oracle Goat threw back her chair and ran out, crying.

The McFab compound. 2100 hrs.
I still couldn't figure it out. She wanted the fish freed, I freed them. There's two kinds of animals, eatin' and pettin', and if those fish weren't meant to be pets...
Oh, well. I had done my job, that was all that mattered. A merc can't help it if his clients are crazy. I took a last bite of gourami and headed for bed.

Stalled

2007-09-23T03:07:00.001+06:30

0945 hrs. Fort Braggart Multi-Cultural Airport. The Men's Room.
I sat on the crapper, wishing like hell I could just get this business over and done with. The whole thing smelled dirty, but it wasn't the first time this mercenary found himself in the shit. I grunted, straining...and finally got the top off the bottle of Zima in my sweaty hand. Might as well relax while I wait for this piece of shit...
A sound outside my stall. Someone had entered the bathroom. I came to combat-alert and peered under my door. Black wingtips. Pinstriped trousers.
This was it. Action time.
I sat the Zima aside and pulled my pants down to my ankles.

1100 hrs. The McFab compound. The day before.
I knew I would be in combat soon. Call it a sixth sense, call it a warrior's instinct, but I knew this mercenary had a job coming as soon as I read the post-it note my mother had left on the fridge.
You'll be in combat soon, it read. Client will call back later. Mama.
Those pansies among you who are new to my adventures may wonder why I allow my mother to live in my compound. It's simple. After my wife left me and Taco Bell fired me, I moved my headquarters to my mother's mobile home in Festering Springs, just outside Fort Braggart proper. I allowed her to stay because I love her, and I even let her continue paying the bills so she wouldn't feel useless. It's called family values, for you liberals out there.
I peeled the note off the fridge and stuck it in the waistband of my camo briefs. Like most men of action, I don't wear pants unless it's necessary--and it's necessary a lot less often than you'd think.
"Mama!" I yelled into the living room while I pulled a breakfast Zima out of the fridge.
"Yeah, honey?"
"When did this guy call?" I sat on the couch across from her.
"Hang on, honey." She raised her easy chair up a bit and did something to the remote control on her stomach, muting The View on our 17-inch Sanyo. "Barbara Walters looks old, doesn't she?"
"Yeah," I agreed. "But still do-able. Very, very do-able." I forced my mind back to business. "So this guy..."
"Well, honey, I think it would take a lot less exposition if he just called back now," Mama said.
The phone rang.

"This is the hot phone," I answered. "Identify yourself."
"Hey, Randy," a weary, familiar voice greeted me. "It's Sheriff Peeler."
Christ. Sheriff Jimmy "Spud" Peeler wasn't exactly my best friend in Hangdog County, though we had certainly spent a lot of time together.
"Listen Sheriff," I said, "I've been a good boy on probation. If this is about that thing at the mall, I ask you to define 'grope' for me, because to me, I was just being friendly."
"No, no McFab, the D.A.'s still looking at the video on that. I actually called to...It wasn't my idea, but I'm callin' to offer you a job."
A job? I'd set him straight about that.
"I already did my community service, Peeler. At the Adonis Inn."
Peeler sighed. "Uh, yeah McFab...We were gonna tell you, the guy who runs that place lied to you. It's not a charity and it doesn't count as community service."
"What? I gave out tug jobs at a gay bath house for nothing? Oh, for--"
"It's alright, McFab. We'll wave the community service if you do this job for us."
"Okay." I was willing to listen.
"It's funny you should mention gays, McFab," Peeler said. "This job...It involves going undercover and catching a...Well, it's kind of a long story."
Sheriff Peeler spelled it out for me, and what he had to say shocked me just as much as if he'd told me that George Bush wasn't the most intelligent man in America.
Peeler's news flash involved the Republican congressman representing Hangdog County and parts surrounding, Representative Richard Tickler. I had voted for Tickler five times, mainly due to his anti-gay and pro-family platform. That he supported a peremptory war with Costa Rica only made me like him more.
Apparently, though, Dick Tickler was a phony, as Peeler had good intelligence that led him to believe Tickler was a closet gay--and one who preferred his forbidden love in public restrooms and other places sacred to normal men. The local G.O.P. had contacted Sheriff Peeler, hoping he'd catch Tickler before he ended up on To Catch a Predator and really hurt the republican cause.
Problem was, all the local deputies were staunch right-wingers and refused to participate in Tickler's downfall, so the sheriff needed a third party to set up a sting. Tickler's upcoming flight to Thailand, where the congressman was going to tour orphaned boys' homes, was a perfect opportunity to catch him in a public restroom--as long as someone would take on the job.
As a mercenary, I take on the hard jobs that no one else will.
"I'll take on the job," I said, "even though it pains me to bring down such a staunch supporter of traditional values."
"Good man," Peeler said. "At the very least, you might get a blowjob out of it."
"Whatever, Sheriff. A man's got to be straight to blow me. I'm not a faggot."

0700 hrs. D day.
I dressed for action, going over the instructions in my mind. As soon as Tickler went for my wee-wee I could take him down, but not a second before. I was also not to kill him, but I took that particular instruction with a grain of salt. I would do what had to be done to protect my weiner, period. If Tickler died choking on trouser snake it wasn't my problem.
I dressed like a turd-burglar, since I was going undercover. I knew that faggots like pink, so I wore a pink oxford shirt. I put on a pair of khaki slacks, instead of the macho leather pants I would normally wear at this time of year. I even shaved off my mustache, because having no mustache is an obvious sign of a gay guy. I simply dried my hair after showering instead of spiking it up with gel like cops and other bad-ass heteros do. I was ready.

0945 hrs. Fort Braggart Multi-Cultural Airport. The Men's Room.
Tickler was outside my stall. The pinstripes and expensive shoes gave him away. All I had to do now was lure him in. I had already slid my pants off; now I just needed to get his attention.
I was about to sing a Streisand song when Tickler stuck his head under the stall door.
"Hellooooo..." He said, smiling like he did that time when he explained why gays are ruining America on Fox news.
"Hi there, sweet butt meat," I said, speaking gay talk to lure him in.
"Mind if I join you?" he said.
"Sure, come on in." I unlocked the stall door and readied the tire-iron I had in my hand.
There was a sickening crunch as I brought the steel down on his skull.

0950 hrs. Fort Braggart Multi-Cultural Airport. The Men's Room.
He started coming to as I cuffed him.
"What...?" he groaned.
"You've been caught," I sneered, pulling the plasti-cuffs tight and slamming against the stall. I jerked him around and rammed his face into the toilet tank. "You lied," I said. "You were anti-gay, and even though the evidence suggests that most anti-gay republicans are gay themselves, I was shocked. And appalled. You're lucky I'm not just gonna kill you."
"But wait," Tickler said. "You're republican...I can tell by your belt buckle."
I looked down at my pewter confederate flag and couldn't argue with him.
"The thing is, " Tickler went on, "we Republicans look at gay differently. To a liberal, being gay is just something you are...You either want to fuck men, or you don't. To a republican, it's a temptation that every man wants, a forbidden fruit that can only be avoided if we point out how evil it is. It's easy for a liberal to not fuck men--he just doesn't want to. For us, though...It's such a powerful draw we have to fight the desire to fuck men constantly, and sometimes..." He sagged against the tiles. "Sometimes it's too much," he said.
My God. He was right. Liberals think it's fine and dandy to be gay, so confident are they that they won't catch it. Conservatives know better. Any opportunity to suck a dick, a real man can't resist. The only way to stop gays is to keep them away from macho guys like me, lest they turn me and mine.
I released his cuffs and kicked the stall door open.
"Go, my friend," I told the congressman. "Go and keep up the good work protecting us from faggots."
He didn't go immediately.

1700 hrs. The same day.
"Goddamnit, McFab!" Sheriff Peeler screamed into the phone. "We saw him go into the bathroom--what the hell happened?"
"He wasn't gay, Sheriff," I answered. "Though I did get that blow job you mentioned."

The Therapists Win

2007-09-04T02:55:00.000+06:30

0945 hrs. Fort Braggart, East Carolina. Downtown.
I parked as far away as I could without having to walk far enough to get me sweaty. The southern summer heat was stifling, and the last thing I needed was my mustache wax running when I was embarrassed to be here anyway.
The sign on the building said it all. Odd Horizons. Recovery for Addicts and Rage-aholics.
According to my court-ordered assessment I was both the former and the latter, with a bit of "sexual delusions" thrown in for good measure. Shows how much the liberal justice system knows.
I'd been doing just fine drinking Zima all day, settling personal vendettas with a urine-filled watergun, and demanding marriage from chicks I'd come to know only by intensive stalking. The only reason I had to come here at all was because of the damned incident with the ostrich, which I don't care to go into right now. Suffice it to say, my probation demanded this "treatment," and I wasn't going to jail again after what happened last time.
I put the "Black-Owned Business" sign on the windshield of my mom's car to keep it safe, and shuffled reluctantly towards Odd Horizons.

1000 hrs. Odd Horizons.
Someone tried to hug me as soon as I opened the door to room 219.
"Welcome," he said. "Welcome home!" I pushed him away with a move I learned from Hardcore Self-Defense 3: When Well-Meaning People Attack.
"You must be Randy," someone else said, and I stepped into the room to face him. He sat in the open end of the semi-circle formed by the chairs laid out for the participants. "Don't mind Trevor," the man added. "He was touch-deprived as a child and he's just trying to make you feel loved."
I gave Trevor another shove towards an empty chair and addressed what appeared to be the leader. "Let's just keep Trevor touch deprived," I said. "I didn't come here to catch gay."
"Oh, Randy," the leader chuckled, "you have a lot to learn!" He indicated an empty seat (luckily not next to Trevor), and I sat down, joining the group of five or so. The leader stroked his mustache (a Saddam mustache, I noted, not a Magnum P.I. mustache like an American would wear), and addressed us.
"Welcome, welcome, welcome," he said in an accent I couldn't quite place. "For our newcomer, I would like to introduce myself. I am Doctor Hamas al-Shiznit. I know you will wonder about my name," he added, "and yes-- I am Persian." He beamed at me, his teeth white like tracer rounds against the night sky.
"Pear-shaped?" I asked.
"Per-sian. I am from Iran." So. We had us a Mexican on our hands.
"Let us please now to introduce ourselves to this newcomer," he said, and gestured towards a fat red-haired guy in the corner.
"I'm Bo. I've been here three weeks and my drug of choice is pork rinds."
"Hi, Bo!" Everyone said as one.
"I'm Toby," another guy said. "I've been here seventy-five times and my drug of choice is alcohol, marijuana, cocaine, pills, ecstasy, unprotected sex--"
"Yes, Toby, very good," Dr. Shiznit said. "Next?"
"I'm Ed. Ed Undy." He looked around the room with dead blue eyes, like the eyes of a shark whose eyes were both dead and blue. "I'm here because...Because Mother made me come." He paused. "Mother makes me do things."
"Hi, Ed!"
"Very good, Ed," Dr. Shiznit said. "You're communicating. Next?"
A couple of more feebs introduced themselves and then it was my turn.
"I'm McFab. Randy McFab. Mercenary, private investigator, bean-man at Taco Bell until I was fired without cause. I'm here because the U.S. justice system has been co-opted by liberals and a real patriot can't get a fair shake anymore. Especially when an ostrich is involved."
"Oh, Randy," the doctor laughed, "don't worry about what you've done. Here all are welcome, no matter how sickening or unnatural their crimes may be. Ashalam, my friend."
I didn't bother pointing out that I had plead nolo on the ostrich thing, so technically I wasn't guilty. It was the ashalam bit that had me worried. This Mexican was speaking terrorist.
"Now, " Dr. Shiznit continued, "I would like us please to direct our attentions to today's handout from the 'big book.' " He began passing out papers.
"Woah there buddy," I said. "I ain't no Muslim. I read the Bible, not the Korean."
"Oh, no, Randy. This is not the Holy Koran. It is the 'big book,' the book of Drunks Incognito."
I'd heard of D.I. They went to meetings, talked about God, and tried to interfere with each others' drinking. Not my cup of tea, but at least it wasn't the Korean. I'd play along.
"I will read first, " Dr. Shiznit said. "'Today's reflection: I don't have to puke today...'"

1130 hrs. Room 219.
I had zoned out during most of the "reflection," and went into my backpack for some refreshment to keep me awake.
"Mr. Randy," Shiznit said, "Please to put away the Zima. There is no drinking in group."
No drinking. Where had I seen that rule before? Oh, that's right. The Taliban. I took a long swig of the Zima and tucked it back in my rucksack.
"Thank you Randy. Now, we will each share what is on top of our minds. Any thoughts of using the alcohol or drugs...Randy?"
"I don't do drugs, Ayatollah Touchy-Feely. I'm an American."
"Hey, I'm an American!" Toby said, and slumped over in his chair. "Oh, wait..." he mumbled.
"Alcohol is a drug, " Shiznit said. "And you must accept that you're an alcoholic, Randy."
"How many alcoholics just drink Zima?" I demanded.
"He's got a point, doc," someone piped in. "He might just be a pussy."
"No, no," the doctor laughed. "It doesn't matter what you drink. It is why, and how much. Our friend Mr. McFab is an alcoholic and a pussy."
"No one calls me an alcoholic!" I snarled. If I'd had my urine-filled watergun with me, this raghead doctor would be crying for a pre-moistened towelette right about now.
"Someone needs a hug," Trevor said, but my look put him back in his seat.
"It is okay," Dr. Shiznit said. "Randy is in denial. We can skip your alcoholism for now, until you are ready, in'shallah." He kept sneaking his Muslim talk in there, kind of like...like Osama Bin Laden!
"I see what you're doing, doctor--if you're even really a doctor."
"I am trying to help," Shiznit said, "and no, I am not a real doctor."
"You're trying to prey on these losers and convert them to Muslim. Then you're gonna send them out to do your bidding like trout."
"Like trout, Randy?"
"If you were Aquaman, and they were trout. Yes. Just like that."
"Randy, you are not thinking clearly," Shiznit said. "Aquaman lives in the ocean. Trout are freshwater creatures."
"There's sea trout," I said. "And you know it."
"Aquaman talked to a dog once," someone said. "But the dog was in the ocean at the time, so..."
"Enough about Aquaman! Randy, please..." Shiznit gestured for me to sit back down. "Open your mind, friend. We are only trying to help you with your problems. We are not trying to convert you to anything."
I sat, reluctantly.
"Now," Shiznit said, "what does the Prophet teach us about marijuana?"
I lunged at him, and then everything went black.

2300 hrs. Odd Horizons.
I rolled over, trying to get comfortable. You'd think a padded cell would have more padding.
When I had come to after the injection Shiznit gave me, I'd tried to tell the staff what he was doing to the impressionable feebs under his control. They didn't believe me, and underscored the point by placing me under 72-hour suicide watch. It wasn't me I wanted to kill.
I'd be out eventually, and that terrorist bastard Shiznit would find out what happens when you cross an American mercenary. You get prank calls, that's what. Even late at night.
"Is your refrigerator running?" I whispered into the darkness of my cell.

Man Against Nature

2007-08-29T20:13:00.000+06:30

1100 hrs. The McFab compound.
I was in the living room with Mama, reading our morning papers (The Fort Braggart Herald for her, The Daily Mercenary for me). I was absorbing "Ten Things You Never Knew You Could Stab With" when Mama looked over her paper to speak.
"You know Randy," she said, "it's been over a year since you've had any adventures and written about them in your journal."
"Yeah, that's weird."
"Anyway, honey, I forgot to tell you--you got a call yesterday on your Superman phone."
"It's the 'hot phone' Mom. Or the 'merc line'."
"Yeah, honey. Well anyway you was out playing with your watergun--"
"It's my weapon, and I was training." As a matter of fact I'd been shooting "live," with real urine in the pistol.
"Well," she went on, "it was some TV producer."
"TV producer? He wasn't from 60 Minutes was he? My case is still pending, how can they do that?" Christ, if that incident with the ostrich made it to national TV...
"No, baby, he was from that science channel, the..."
"The Ascertainment Channel? Holy shit!" The Ascertainment Channel is the biggest "edu-tainment" channel around. They're the ones behind hit shows like Catching Crabs and Pram Garage. They also produce my favorite show of all time, Man Against Nature, a reality show which featured a British adventurer surviving alone in all sorts of dangerous places.
"Did he say what they wanted? It's not the cable bill is it? I mean, you paid--"
"No, no honey," Mama said, using the voice that always calms me down. "He just said to call him. Here, I wrote the number down on this dirty sock."
I took the sock. Abe Weisentraubstein, Hollywood Producer. And a number. This was hot-- it could be the break I'd been needing for so long.
"I'm gonna take a nap and then call the guy," I said, and headed for my barracks.
"Clean your room, Randy," Mama called after me as I walked down the hall, "this trailer's like to gag a maggot."
"It's a barracks, mom. A barracks."

1500 hrs. Barracks.
I was on the phone, rested, refreshed, and nicely buzzed from my afternoon Zima.
"Ascertainment Channel, Abe Weisentraubstein's office." She sounded hot, or at least female--and to me they're the same thing.
"This is Randy McFab, sugar. I guess you've heard of me?"
"McFab! Oh, yes." This was looking good. "The guy with the ostrich." Shit.
"Nothing's been proven in court," I said through clenched teeth. "Anyway, I got a message to call Mr. Weisenthal."
"Mr. Weisentraubstein?"
"No, it's McFab. Look, can you just--"
"One moment."
He came on the line a few seconds later. "McFab! Baby! I'm so glad you called."
"Er...Hello, Mr. Wienerschnitzel. I had a message--"
"You don't need a reason to call Abe Weisentraubstein, baby! Abe works for you! Now, remind me who you are."
"Randy McFab, sir. I'm a mercenary. Perhaps you've seen my ad in Soldier of Fortune."
He thought for a moment. "The guy who...with a..." I heard a Rolodex being flipped in the background. "Yeah, McFab! Here's what it is, McFab. See, I was looking for an adventurer type, a real meshugina, and I'm talking to this guy from 60 Minutes and he says, 'Abe, baby, you gotta check out this schlamiel we're doing a story on.' You know, the ostrich thing--how'd that work out by the way?"
"It's still pending," I sighed.
"No, physically, I mean...How...Ah, who cares baby! To make a megila short, I had my people do some research and they says to me, 'Abe, baby, this guy's gold! A real-life mercenary. This guy's gelt!'"
I had no idea what he was saying, but it sounded enthusiastic.
"Randy," he said, lowering his voice, "We want you. Hell, we need you."
"I don't swing that way, buddy." I thought for a moment. "What do you look like?"
"No baby! Abe Weisentraubstein's straight as an arrow! No, what we need you for is, we want you to appear as a guest survivor on Man Against Nature."
Oh my God. I almost fainted. Then I did faint, but luckily came to within seconds.
"Randy? Baby? You there?"
"Yeah. Sorry, I...dropped the toaster."
"Look," Abe said, "We're friends and I trust you, so I'm gonna level with you. Remind who you are again?"
"McFab. Randy McFab."
"Right, the ostrich guy. Randy, baby, Man Against Nature ain't doin' so well. We're running out of locations and Ferret just ain't drawing the viewers like he did."
Reginald "Ferret" Miles was the host of MAN and one of my heroes, right up there with Dick Cheney and Bernard Getz.
"We gotta do something, uh...Remind me who you are again?"
"McFab."
"McFab! Baby! We gotta do something, and I'm thinking--no we're thinking--we bring in some more talent, a real hard-ass from the good old U.S.A. to keep things interesting when that Brit goes off on his 'how to make a canoe' schtick. So what do you say? Do you love me? Can we do it? Can we do this, baby?"
"Yes!" I still wasn't sure if he was coming on to me, but at this point I was up for anything.
"Yeah baby! That's what Abe likes to hear, 'yes.' We can fly you out tomorrow, you meet with the producers, you meet Ferret, and we get rolling. How's that sound, baby?"
"It sounds...Fantastic." I wasn't even thinking about the money and fame. Meeting Ferret Miles, ex-SAS soldier and Eagle Scout, was more than enough for me.
"You can pick up your ticket at the airport," Weisentraubstein went on, "and don't worry about equipment because we've got all that. Oh, and one little thing...Try to get along with Ferret. He doesn't like the idea of a co-host. He doesn't like it at all."

0800 hrs. California. Pebble Beach Golf Links.
We stood around the first tee, waiting for Ferret to arrive. My new associates--a couple of young producers and the three-man crew-- made small talk while I paced around in circles, counting the seconds until my first meeting with the Ferret. I had taken my fan-club picture of him off my barracks wall and now held it in a sweaty hand along with a Sharpie, ready for his autograph. I was wondering if he'd sign it "to my friend Randy" when a golf cart pulled up behind us.
And there he was. He looked just like he does on TV, only thinner and if anything more handsome. Soon he would flash that Ferret smile, and...
"The fuck's this?" he said, pointing his chin towards me.
"I--I'm Mandy McRab, sir, Mr. Ferret." I moved towards him, hand extended.
"Don't fucking touch me, you sodding twat." He raised a bottle of gin to his lips, drained the last of it and tossed it over his shoulder. Wow. He considered me a fellow soldier, and was talking to me like all men of action talk to their comrades-in-arms.
"Who's got a fag?" Ferret asked the crew. "I smoked my last in that fucking cancer ward you made me visit. 'Make a Wish' my arse. Fucking idlers, if they was my kids I'd make a wish for 'em to sod the fuck off."
"Here ya go, Ferret." One of the producers handed him a cigarette. "I guess you know, Ferret...This is Randy McFab, the mercenary. Your uh...co-host."
"Well fuck-a-doodle do! A bleedin' merc! What, you couldn't get Dog the fucking Bounty Hunter?"
"We, uh...tried. Yeah. Anyway--"
I stepped between them. "I'm your biggest fan, Mr. Ferret. I've got all the DVDs, I've got your book about how Jesus helped you swim the Channel, I've got the shirt--"
"You're wearing the shirt, you fucking git. Christ, who designed that bone piece of shite?" He looked around the crew for an explanation.
"You did, Ferret," someone said quietly.
"Anyway Mr. Ferret," I went on, "I'm a mercenary, so you don't have to worry about me keeping up. Danger is my profession and death is my director of human resources. Cold steel is my secretary, and--"
"For fuck's sake," Ferret said, "let's get a round in." He went back to the golf cart and removed a set of clubs and a can of beer. I tucked my picture and Sharpie away, saving it for later.

1030 hrs. The eighth tee.
"Watch this drive." I swung with all my strength and watched the ball sail off a cliff and into the abyss.
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Ferret groaned. "He's shot 130 and we've not made the turn."
"These damned rental clubs," I said.
"Like the five wood you putted with? Here," he said, tossing his club to one of the producers, "I'm done. Let's just get on with it."
The crew pulled camera and audio gear from the cart and began setting up equipment.
"Randy, " one of the producers said, "take that shirt off. We've got a commando sweater for you. Ferret, let's get you in make-up."
"So this is our first interview?" I asked, imagining my friends watching it on TV after first imagining I had friends.
"What do you mean?" The producer, a hard-bodied blonde named Shia, asked. "This is it, Randy. You need to get ready."
"But...I mean, after this...Where are we actually going to you know, survive?"
"Right here. Jesus, didn't Abe tell you? Come on, off with that stupid shirt."
I started changing into the sweater but I was still confused. "I mean we're not going to survive on a golf course, are we?"
"Randy," Shia said, "we always film on golf courses. Ferret's quite the duffer."
"Yeah, when I can get a fucking decent round in," Ferret muttered while his make-up was applied.
"But..." I was still missing something. "You were in the Kalahari desert."
"TPC Scottsdale, outside Pheonix."
"Shot an 84 there, " Ferret piped in.
"Okay, then, but...the jungle episode, that was--"
"Majestic Links. Private course in the Caymans."
"Alright, well what about the arctic? Explain that."
"That was the bloody fucking arctic," Ferret said. "I had Abe's head for that one."
My God. I couldn't wrap my head around it. My hero...a fake? I guess it explained the cart paths in the Australian Outback, but still...
"Just play along, Randy," Shia said. "We're gonna get some background of Ferret rolling around in a sand trap. The real filming starts tonight."

2100 hrs. Just off the fourteenth fairway.
We were in the rough, sitting beside the campfire one of the cameramen had put together.
"Act fucking natural, you fucking wanker," Ferret encouraged me. "We can't have you fucking this up."
"And we're rolling," Shia said. The camera lights came on.
"I'm here," Ferret whispered, "in the wilds of Argentina. This place used to be called Terra Gazpacho, which in Portuguese means 'the valley of skeletons. Dead skeletons.' For the first time, I'm not alone in the wilderness. I'm joined by this fucking--"
"Ferret!"
"We'll cut it, Shia, alright. Don't get your knickers all knotted. I'm joined," he continued, "by American mercenary Randy McFab, a man who, according to his ad in Soldier of Fortune, is a survival expert and hard-as-nails fighter in his own right. Randy?"
I stared at the camera. "I...You were in the SAS. That's so cool, Ferret!"
"Fucking hell! Cut!" Ferret gave me a look that made me think something was annoying him.
"Cut," Shia called. "Randy," she said, "try to say something like you're glad to be sharing this journey. And that it's dangerous. That kind of thing. Can you do that?"
"Oh yeah, definitely." I got into character.
"Action."
A cool breeze began to blow in off the Pacific, and a tree-frog chirped in the background. The crew shifted their feet from side to side. Shia kept nodding her head at me for some reason, and Ferret took a deep breath and gave me that look again.
"What, do I talk now?"

2350 hrs. A sand trap.
"This is the part where Ferret eats a lizard," Shia said. "You need to ooh and ah a bit, then you'll get to eat something disgusting and talk about how you have to do whatever's necessary to survive. Got it?"
"Sure!" Finally we were getting to the good part, the real survival stuff that separates men like Ferret and me from the ordinary sissy.
"Lizard!" Shia called. One of the crew handed Ferret the little green-and-blue reptile. "Make it wiggle so it looks alive, F-man." Looks alive?
"I thought you always ate 'em live, Ferret," I said. "Lizards anyway. I know you cook monkey."
"You are so fucking daft!" Ferret said. "It's not a bleeding lizard, you idiot. You think I'd eat a fucking lizard? Christ, I'm rich!"
"Then...What is it?" It certainly looked real.
"It's a delicate pastry with layered marzipan. Wolfgang makes all our 'wild game.' The bones are pure sugar. Crunches a right treat."
"And action."
"I never like doing this," Ferret said, holding the "lizard" up for the camera. "Killing one of God's creatures. But out here it's eat or die, so this little bugger..." He bit the head off. "Is dinner."
"Indeed," I said, "In the wild there is no McDonald's. If you don't kill, you die." With that I picked up the gopher they'd laid out for me and bit into its mid-section, letting the fake intestines hang out of my mouth as I chewed gustily. "Ah, the spleen," I said, and held it for the camera. "That's the best part."
"Cut! " Shia looked sick. "Randy, we didn't have a gopher. We have a fake water snake for you."
Oh, God. That explained the smell. I wretched, coughing up fur and slime all over Ferret's sweater.
"You bastard!" Ferret snarled, "That's fucking it!" He drew back a fist.

Two weeks later. 2100 hrs. The McFab compound.
Mama was transfixed. "Mmm-mmm," she said, "he sure does look good naked." She moved closer to the TV to get a better look at Ferret Miles as he dove into a pond at Sawgrass, ostensibly to catch a salt-water crocodile for breakfast.
"The guy's a phoney," I said. "I can't believe you'd watch him after he didn't even pay me."
"Well, honey, they don't have to pay you if they don't put you on TV. You know, like when you was supposed to be on Wheel of Fortune."
"Yeah, well, I still say that guy that won was a terrorist, and if I had it to do over I'd cavity-search him just like last time."
Ferret rose out of the pond, water dripping down his chiseled torso, a four-foot "baby croc" in his arms. "The bollocks," Ferret said, taking a bite from between the hind legs. "That's the most tender part." Some sort of goo ran out of his mouth as he spoke. I knew what it wasn't.
In a way I envied the phoney bastard. In a merc's life there is no pretend, no play-acting, only danger and pain and the cold comfort of a urine-filled water pistol.
"I'm going to the barracks, Mom," I said. "Wake me up if I get a hot call on the merc line."

Laying Down with Devil Dogs

2006-08-18T05:54:00.000+06:30

1400 hrs. The McFab compound.
I'm not a mercenary by choice. Like most men of action, my life's dream has always been to either serve in the armed forces or be the guy that hands out towels to other men of action at my local gym. I got fired from the gym job almost as soon as I started, even though no one had told me about the "no cameras in the showers" policy. As for the military...some stupid test called the MMPI always kept me out.
The Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, as it's formally known, is a series of yes-or-no questions that any normal person would fail. Have I thought of hitting someone with a brick because I hate their hair? Of course. Who wouldn't? But apparently that's the wrong answer. Do I set things on fire when I'm angry? Well, I don't just let my anger fester. That would be crazy. For whatever reason, my responses were never good enough for the new liberal military, and I finally quit trying to join after the local recruiters took out that restraining order.
I was surprised, then, when I got a letter from the Marine Corps Recruiting Station in Dogbollocks, a little backwater town about twenty miles from Fort Braggart. According to the writer, one GySgt. Chris Holmes, Master Recruiter and Generally Honest Man, the Marines had recently "adapted" their standards to allow people of my age, physical condition, and state of mind to join up. Especially, it seemed, at the Dogbollocks station, where only three people had tried to enlist this year and all had failed due to being married. To their sisters. Not that the why of it mattered to me.
I had a chance, finally, to wear our nation's uniform, the one real patriots like Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, and Newt Gingrich would have worn if they hadn't have had other patriotic priorities. I would wear the uniform John Kerry besmirched by earning medals in front of people with different political views; the uniform Oliver North looked so good in while he let the liberal Congress know that real Americans are above any so-called "law." I would be a soldier. A man.
"Mama!" I called down the hall, "can you wash me some underwear? I'm gonna go be a man!"

1600 hrs. Dogbollocks, East Carolina. United States Marine Corps Recruiting Station.
I parked up in the gravel outside the rusting mobile home. It didn't look like much, but the sign outside made up for anything the station lacked in amenities. Join the Marines, it read, It's Not Like Wal-Mart's Gonna Re-Hire You. I combed my mustache twice, and stood at attention a few seconds before walking up the concrete blocks to the door--the doorway to my future.
"Welcome, McFab." I hadn't even knocked yet, and the booming voice came from--behind me. I spun quickly around, ready to face potential danger. No one takes me from behind, unless I'm really drunk and the dude looks like Tom Cruise.
"At ease, dude." It was a Marine, a big one, and according to his blouse it was GySgt. Holmes himself. "I'm former recon," he said, answering my un-asked question. "I knew you'd be coming, so I hid in the bushes eating grub worms and urinating on myself so I could sneak up on you when the time came. Pretty damn sneaky, huh?"
"Y-yes sir." My God, I loved this man.
"Don't call me sir. Call me 'Gunny.' Or 'Gunny Holmes.' Or 'Sweetmeat.'"
"Yes, si--I mean, Sweetmeat."
"Good man!" He clapped me on the back, and I felt a rib detatch itself from my sternum. This was the coolest man alive. He was big, strong, good-looking, and he urinated on himself. A fighting man if I'd ever seen one, and I hadn't. But I've read about them.
"Let's go inside before you die in this heat, you fat piece of shit," he said, and at that point I wondered if he might be God himself. I followed him in.
"Sit," Holmes said, and pointed me to a plastic chair across from his desk. I noted the award plaque on the wall, Unethical Recruiter of the Month, July 2006. So he was a winner. I sat down and shut up while he poured himself a bourbon and coke and took a seat at the desk.
"I guess you know why you're here, don't you?" he asked, after draining the drink in one swallow.
"Yes sir...sir Sweetmeat. I want to be a Marine, and you guys are hard up."
"No, not hard up. 'Adapting.' We prefer to call it 'adapting.' Pour me a drink, would ya?" He handed me his glass and I obliged.
"Now, there are some things that concern me," he said, opening a thick folder on his desk. I could see that it was marked both McFab, Randall Nathaniel, and Crazy as a Soup Sandwich.
"I can explain the psychological tests," I said. "I was--"
"Doesn't matter," Holmes said. "The psyche tests are down to one question now. Let me ask you something, McFab. Are you Napoleon, the French conqueror?"
"Er...No?"
"You just passed the psyche test. What concerns me, though, is your ASVAB score."
Uh-oh. The ASVAB, or Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery, is a test administered to potential recruits to test their intelligence, reasoning, mathematical, mechanical, and other skills. It was the measure that determined what jobs one would be suited for in the military, and when I took the ASVAB I had just gotten divorced, had not slept for three days, and had eaten a gram of mushrooms with an Indian mystic named "Eggy" just a few hours before.
"Look, I can explain," I said. "When I took the test, I had just gotten laid, hadn't excercised for three days, and had drank four cups of coffee with a retired Marine just a few fours before."
"Oh, that's not the problem," Holmes said. "The problem is, you spelled your name correctly on the test. The Marines ain't lookin' for smart-boy eggheads. You brainiac types need to be in the Air Farce." He laughed derisively, as only a Marine can do to perfection.
"But...I'm pretty stupid," I said. "I cheat myself at poker all the time."
"Ha! That's Army stupid! We need Marine stupid! Let me ask you this," he said, leaning towards me. "How many times have you shot yourself...while cooking?"
I thought about it. "Grazed, or shot?" I asked.
"Either."
"Three."
He nodded. "So far so good, McFab. By the way, do you like the Allman Brothers?"
"Er...no?"
"Wrong, puke-stain."
"I meant...I don't like them, I love them."
"Good, check this out." Holmes walked over to a gun cabinet and unlocked it, swinging open the heavy steel doors to reveal eight or nine assault rifles and an acoustic guitar. He grabbed the guitar and sat back down. He strummed a few chords and began singing.
"Crossroads seem to come and go, yeah...the gypsy flies from coast to coast..."
He played and sang for a few minutes, finally ending with a heart-felt, "to sweet Melissa..."
He tucked the guitar back in with the M-16's and locked the case.
"Well?" he asked, sitting down.
"That was great." I'd heard a guy in a bar do it better once, but I wasn't about to say that.
"No, not that. The Cong. The VC. You ready? Kill some slants? Good Morning Vietnam?"
"I--I guess, I..." I didn't know what to say. The guy was in his thirties, couldn't possibly be a Vietnam vet.
"Don't guess, soldier. Be. Just be. How much do you weigh, McFab?"
"Two ten."
"That is exactly what Saddam Hussein weighs. So you're a terrorist. I should have known." He stood up, and for a moment I thought he'd swing at me. Instead, he opened a desk drawer and removed a Rubik's Cube. "Head's up!" he called, tossing it to me. "You solve it in ten years, you're in the Corps."
"But...In ten years, I'll be too old to--"
"Fine! Be that way. Give me my cube. Do you like Neil Young?"
"I..." It finally sank in. "You're gonna play Heart of Gold, aren't you?"
"Not necessarily, candidate McFab. I could remove an M-16 from that gun case and play 'watch the heart hit the wall.' Would you prefer that?"
"Neil Young rocks, dude...I mean, Sweetmeat."

2100 hours. Dogbollocks, East Carolina. United States Marine Corps Recruiting Station.
Holmes was finishing up the only acoustic rendition of the Miami Vice theme I'd ever heard when I realized something. This guy wasn't quite normal.
"Gunny Sweetmeat," I asked when he was finished, "did you serve in Iraq by any chance?"
He became perfectly still for a second, then smiled and smashed the guitar against the wall, breaking it into three pieces.
"Served!" he barked. "There! Kurt Cobain! Yeah!"
"Um...did it...did it not go well?"
"Went well. Won. We won. We won. We won. We are the champions, my friend. You know Mario, Mexican Mario? He had...he only had half his face, it was so weird. You could see his brain, and actually, his eye. From behind. So weird, man." He picked up two of the pieces of guitar. "You like Springsteen?"

0100 hrs. The McFab compound.
I was home, sipping a Zima and wondering how something as fun as war could screw somebody up like that. As it turned out, the guy wasn't on active duty anymore, he just had the keys to the trailer.
Sometimes you just can't catch a break. I was too crazy for them, and now they're too crazy for me. Maybe the life of an unemployed mercenary has its advantages.

Seeds and Stem Cells

2006-07-19T02:16:00.000+06:30

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

2006-07-11T15:27:00.000+06:30

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

2006-07-06T09:41:00.000+06:30

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

2006-07-03T23:18:00.000+06:30

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.

Monstrous

2006-06-27T06:51:00.000+06:30

0800 hrs. Nathan Bedford Forrest State Recreation Area and Horrible, Pestilent Swamp.
I waded waist-deep through the filthy black water, the Falcon following alongside in our inflatable. It was already sweltering hot, and after fifteen minutes in the swamp I was sweating like a black man at a south Georgia cattle auction. Screw it, though--it had to be done. A mercenary just keeps going, despite the heat and the bugs and the filth.
"Let's take a break," I said, a few seconds later. Josh--the Falcon--landed the rubber combat raft on a clump of mud and grass, the closest thing to dry land to be found in this watery hell. I heaved myself up on the bank beside him, my boots leaving the swamp bottom with a sucking, squelching sound that I found vaguely arousing. I took off my combat pack and joined him in the shade of a swamp oak.
"Oh God, Randy," Josh gasped, his face red with exertion, "this sucks."
"That's just because you're really, really fat," I said, reassuring him.
"Can't I just use a paddle instead of...This?" He held up the toothpick I had instructed him to use as an oar.
"Sure, Josh. Use the paddles. And maybe you'll be the first to die when he hears us coming."
I let him consider that while I slipped out of my gear. I hadn't had the money or time to get the SEAL inflatable combat vest I would have normally worn on an op like this, so instead I was making do with a flotation ring around my waist, a pink plastic number shaped to look like Dino the dinosaur from the Flintstones.
I could see Josh was still out of oxygen and ready to throw in the towel, so I decided to give him a little extra time to recover. "Josh," I said, "Why don't you relax while we fill in some back story?"
He nodded, thankful.

Like most mercenaries, I am by nature a hunter. Whether it's animals, men, or pets, I find the challenge of tracking and killing to be the highest expression of my being, after Jazzercise. And I always get my trophy. Well, almost always. The creature I most wanted to behead and mount on my bathroom wall had eluded me for over twenty years.
They called it Swampy Monster Thingy, or Swampy for short. The creature was like Bigfoot, only scarier and less of a hippy. The first man to spot the demon was Amos Anandee, a local farmer. To this day, his 1976 account is considered the most reliable and difficult to dismiss.
"I was tripping on acid, " Amos told the local paper. "I went into the swamp so I could huff some spray-paint in peace, and all of a sudden...I heard it. It sounded like a long, drawn-out fart, and if I hadn't have been drunk I would have ran away right then."
Amos eventually fled after shooting up some crystal meth, and when he looked over his shoulder he saw what he described as "a pear-shaped silhouette, like some sort of trippy, scary, swampy monster thingy." The name stuck.
After that, the sightings multiplied, and Swampy was blamed for the numerous goat-rapings that plagued our town until right about the time my dad disappeared. No one ever got a good look at the creature, but all witnesses agreed that it smelled horrible, farted a lot, and had long glowing fangs like a vampire or democrat.
Since the very first sightings I had been committed to killing the monster, and went into the swamp once or twice a year to try to take him out. I was hoping this year would be the one, and I felt good about my chances since I had both the Falcon and a twelve-pack of Zima with me.
"Weapons check, then we move out," I said, rising. Josh just lay there, still panting. "Falcon!" I barked. "No one said this would be easy. C'mon, soldier, who dares, wins. Follow me. Blood makes the grass grow. De Oppresso--"
"I get it," Josh said, and struggled to his feet. He bent over our combat raft to verify the contents as I called them out. Double-checking is what separates the pros from people who haven't read action books.
"Zima," I said.
"Check."
"Wire, snaring for the use of."
"Check."
"Binoculars."
"Uh..." He rummaged around. "Do you mean the...this Viewmaster?"
"Goddamnit, call it binoculars!" I hadn't had the money for a real pair.
"Sure. Binoculars, check."
"Yeti, Nessie, and Other Weird Shit-- a Field Guide. Transworld Publishers. One copy."
"Check."
"Barrett .50 calibre sniper rifle with attached scope."
"Uh...Do you mean..."
"Yes, goddamnit, the pellet rifle. Look, forget it," I said. Josh obviously didn't understand how things are done in the spec ops world. "Let's just get back in the water. We've got a long way to go to base camp."

1300 hours. The heart of the swamp.
I was dizzy with exhaustion, and Josh had been reduced to laying down in the raft and leaning his head over the side to paddle with his tongue. The water I waded through had deepened to chest level, and I could see no dry land. We had already encountered a hungry alligator, and would have been killed had I not brought along a neighbor's poodle for just such an emergency. In case you're wondering, they do scream in French.
"Randy," Josh mumbled, his voice cracking, "I don't feel so good. I think this water"-- he licked the surface a few times to propel the raft forward--"isn't healthy."
"Suck it up, soldier," I said. "Goddamnit, not literally!" He spat out the mouthful of swamp water he had slurped. "We're almost there. Old Man Mitchell's place should be--there it is!"
I had chosen the abandoned Mitchell place as a base camp due to the shelter it provided. Mitchell had been a bootlegger back in the twenties, when he lived hidden in the swamp to hide his illicit wine-cooler operation. While the original wooden shack had long ago disintegrated in the wet, moldy environment, the brick outhouse Mitchell had built still stood. That's where we would sleep.
I helped Josh pull the raft onto the little island, and we both sat down in the mud to survey the site.
"My God," Josh exclaimed, "that brick shithouse is built like a beautiful woman!"
"And so are you," I said, "but we've no time for that. Let's make camp."

2300 hrs. Base camp.
It was darker than a Red Lobster on Martin Luther King boulevard on a saturday night. We could see nothing beyond the pale glow of the fire between us, a meager affair I had improvised with my water-proof matches and a Barry Eisler novel.
"Randy," Josh said, sipping his third Zima. "Do you think we'll ever find chicks again?" His moon-shaped face seemed even more other-worldly in the dancing shadows of the fire.
"Shit, man," I said, finishing my fourth. "We kill Swampy, hell yes! I mean--you won't, obviously, but I will."
"And if you find a girl..."
"Yeah," I said. "You can watch." We both started thinking about our ex-wives, and the crying had just started when we heard it.
Pooooofffftttt.
A fart so powerful, my bunghole twitched in sympathy as it happened. I grabbed the pellet rifle and laid out prone on the mud.
"He's here!" I shouted. "Josh, get the urine-filled water gun and cover me! I'm gonna fire wildly in all directions!" Like a trained operator, I sprayed the area with pellets, too courageous to open my eyes while I fired. I rose to a half-crouch to reload and heard it again.
Poooofffftttt. My God, it stank. "Josh! Throw me a cyalume stick--I need some light here!"
I caught the plastic light stick and bit it in two to mix the chemicals. It always tasted funny, but I never had time to just bend them like a civvy. I stood to change position and heard it again.
Pooofffftttt.
"OH, man," Josh cried, "I'm gonna be sick...That freakin' stinks like..." He paused. "Randy, did you just bite into a cyalume stick?"
"Yeah, so?" I turned to face him, my teeth glowing yellow-green.
"And how often do you shower?" he asked, not making any sense.
"Every time the U.S. beats England at soccer, as you know, " I said. "But I don't see--"
"And how long have you been hanging out in this swamp, biting light sticks?"
"Oh...I dunno...Twenty years or so, started when I hid my porn out here. What the hell are you getting at?"
Poooofffftttt. That time I really felt it.
"Oh my...no...no," I said. "It can't be."
"Randy," Josh said, "you stink. You hang out in this swamp occassionally, and when you do your teeth glow. You also fart when you drink Zima. And you're...Well, pear-shaped."
"Nooooooooo!" My scream reverberated through the swamp as I collapsed into the muck and filth.

Mauled

2006-04-15T00:24:00.000+06:30

1100 hours. Debtor's Square Mall.
When you're a mercenary, you can't afford to pick and choose your missions. You go where the work takes you, whether that means a stinking jungle in Paraguay or a cramped and filthy storage room in your local mall. My current mission found me in the latter.
There were seven of us in the makeshift staging area, a closet-sized box in the rear of a now-defunct Victoria's Secret for Fat Chicks. Good concept, just never took off. Should have located it closer to the food court. I wasn't thinking about that at the time, of course. Like the other hard, silent men struggling into their gear around me, I was focused on one thing. The mission.
I pulled on my over-boots, clearing my mind of all distractions. Could Ollie North kick G. Gordon Liddy's ass? Damnit. It would have to wait. The other men began checking each other's gear out, making sure everything was strapped down and secure. They were pros all right, and I was proud to be leading them. I looked them over, and nodded my approval. The ancillary players were ready. That just left me.
I re-checked my zippers and velcro, and finally put the headgear on. It was heavy, and the eyepieces limited my vision. I would have to keep that in mind in case of trouble. I let the men check me over then turned to face the dingy mirror hung on the wall. Bucked teeth grinned back at me from a huge cartoon smile, and two giant blue eyes shone out of a mass of pink fur. I straightened my ears. I was ready. I was the Easter Bunny.

The assignment had started with a visit to a local temp agency. My subscription to Guns and Ammo was running out, and my mom said she wouldn't renew it for another five years unless I found some sort of work. I could tell she was serious this time, because she didn't even hold me while I cried.
Thus motivated, I found myself in the lobby of Temp Juice, Inc. Because you wouldn't want to hire these people permanently, their slogan read, and looking around at the others waiting to be interviewed, I had to agree. Most of them looked like winos, and I'm sure at least one of them was, because he asked me to be his A.A. sponsor. No one there was dressed properly for a job interview--except me, of course.
"Mr. McFab?" the receptionist called. I stood up, taking a moment to hitch up my desert-pattern camo trousers and adjust my necktie, the nice silk one with the hand-stitched collage of skeletons having sex in various positions. If you want to look like a million bucks, you've got to know how to shop the flea markets.
I followed the receptionist into an office, where a gaunt, grim-faced man sat behind a metal desk, paperwork and file folders spread out before him.
"Felonies?" he asked, not looking up from his papers.
"Er...Convictions, or indictments?"
"Convictions," he said. "Traffic-related is fine."
"None, sir. Randy McFab believes in law and order."
"Ever been charged with an act of terrorism and held at Gitmo?"
"Well...Yes," I admitted, "but--"
"That's fine. Just wondered." He scribbled something on a sheet of paper and handed it to me. "They need someone to play the Easter Bunny at the mall. It's a three day job, they call it 'Eggs-Travaganza,' or something like that. Right, we're done. Get a pay slip from--"
"Excuse me, " I said, "I'm more of a security type. Maybe--"
"It pays six bucks an hour. You pose for pictures with kids. Or would you rather be one of the Bunny's helpers?"
"Christ, no! I'll be the Bunny." I had my dignity.

1200 hours. Debtor's Square Mall. Eggs-Travaganza.
Showtime. I strode confidently out into the area around the fountain, my six helpers following in an infantry formation made popular by the Byzantines. Though dressed like elves, my men were behaving as disciplined soldiers thanks to the bottle of Jameson's I had shared with them to cure their collective DT's. I called them to a halt briefly with the signal I had arranged, two waggles of my bunny tail, while I checked the area for threats.
Impatient parents and grinning children surrounded the velvet rope around the astro-turfed Eggs-Stravaganza area, many of the youngsters already pointing and waving at me in their excitement. None of the soccer moms were obviously packing heat, so I waved my men forward, stepped onto the turf, and took my throne.
My Bunny's helpers began herding the children into various lines--egg-dyeing, egg-hunting, and the most popular attraction, pictures with the Easter Bunny. The photographer adjusted his tripod as I waited for our first client.
"Hey man," he said, "can you sit up a little straighter?" Like most photographers, he was obviously a drug addict, so I humoured him out of pity and sat up in my throne.
"One more thing," he said. "The P.O.W.-M.I.A. headband...Can we lose that?"
"No, we can't," I yelled from under my heavy bunny head. "These kids deserve a positive message. Besides, I can't untie it with these paws." I held them up to make my point.
"Whatever." He turned to one of my helpers, who was steadying himself on the velvet rope. "Let 'em in to see the Bunny."
The first kid was a darling lad of four or so, all decked out in his Easter best, and his young mother looked pretty damned good, too.
"You're mom's hot," I said, as he settled on my lap. "Any problems with Daddy? He out of the house a lot?"
"You smell funny," the kid said.
"That smell is cordite, you little commie. Now smile at the camera and get the hell out of my perimeter."

1600 hours. Eggs-Stravaganza.
Christ, this was getting old. I love kids, but it's hard to find something to talk about with them. I had just finished telling a little girl how a worm-infected rabbit can be safe to eat if cooked properly, and once again was met with inexplicable crying. I decided to try again with my anecdote about using an injured rabbit to draw coyotes to shoot, but lost my train of thought when I heard a commotion coming towards my area of operations. Even in Easter Bunny mode, a merc is always alert, and my highly-tuned senses keyed in on a guy in a tracksuit who was running full-tilt towards us, a package in his hand.
"Stop! Thief!" someone yelled. That was all I needed to hear.
"Time to go, sweetie," I whispered to the little girl, sitting her down. "Easter Bunny has to send a scumbag to hell." Damn, that one was sure a cryer. I focused back on the suspect as he slowed, trying to push his way through the Eggs-Travaganza crowd.
He was young, in his twenties. Strike one. He appeared to be something other than American. Strike two. The item he had stolen, I could now see, was a Chef Boy-al-Zwahiri Magic Falafel Maker. You're out, I thought, and lept into action.
"Freeze, motherfucker!" The crowd stood statue-still. "Not ya'll, damnit!" I added, pointing. "That guy. The terrorist!" That woke 'em up. Mothers began screaming, setting off an answering cacophony from the children. I briefly lost the thief in the chaos, my bunny head obscuring my vision, then spotted the guy again as he lept over the velvet rope to short-cut through our exhibition towards the exits. He was coming right towards me.
I looked frantically around for a weapon. There! An infant--maybe I could throw it at the guy. No, won't work. Soft head. Shit, the thief would pass right by me in seconds, and I doubted I could take him down what with the bunny suit and the fact that I was fairly drunk after the Jameson's. I needed...At the last moment, I found it, and pulled a large wooden cross from the astroturf. The thief crossed right in front of me, and I swung the cross towards the back of his head like Barry Bonds after fifty CC's of the good stuff.
There was a loud crack as it shattered--the perp's skull, that is. My weapon was miraculously still intact. "Now that's an old, rugged cross," I said, as the thief hit the floor face-first. He started crawling towards the egg-dyeing table, still not unconcious. I could fix that.
I cocked the cross and took another swing. Fuck! My shoulder exploded in pain as the cross struck the egg-dying table. Red dye splashed everywhere, and suddenly the Eggs-Travaganza took on the appearance of a slaughterhouse as dye-soaked children and a few of my helpers did their best imitation of murder victims. Some of the onlookers obviously mistook the dye for blood, based on the increased pitch of their screams. I staggered away from the table, my shoulder throbbing and my vision blurred by the dye. I ripped one of the large plastic eyes from my bunny face, leaving it hanging by a thread, so I could see better. The thief was staggering to his feet. Injured shoulder or not, I had to act before he got away. Please, Lord, I prayed silently. The only thing I've ever prayed for, you didn't give me, and frankly I don't think an extra inch is too much to ask. Please, give me the strength to take this sunovabitch out. The children need you. I swung without even opening my eyes.

"The bunny's bleedy!" a child cried. I snapped back to reality, and found myself standing over the inert form of the thief. I had done it. Now it was time to calm the children. They shrank back as I approached the velvet rope, my fur splashed with red dye, one eye dangling from a string.
"It's okay, kids," I said. "This isn't real blood." I looked down at the perp. "Well, the stuff on my head isn't real. Besides, we've learned a valuable lesson today--"
"Yes," someone said. My God, it was the thief, still lucid though unable to move. "I am not worthy of your love, Easter Bunny," he groaned. "I have been a bad person, and--"
"Fuckin' A, " I said, and gave him another whack with the cross to shut him up.

Easter Sunday. The McFab compound.
I sat in the living room with my mama, she finishing her third chocolate bunny of the morning and me working on a Slim Jim and a bottle of Zima.
"It's a shame, Randy," Mama said between bites. "Them firing you when you were trying to be a good samaritan."
"Oh, that's not why they fired me. They said parents complained about me giving presents to the kids."
"Why?" Mama asked. "What'd you give 'em?"
"Tear gas grenades, just like on Halloween. I don't see the--"
"It's okay, honey," she said. "You tried."
We sat in silence a few moments.
"Mama," I finally said, "about that Guns and Ammo subscription..."
"I already renewed it, honey."
I didn't know what to say. "Jesus Christ. Thank you."
"Happy Easter, Randy."
"Happy Easter, Mama."

Tight Package

2006-04-12T22:57:00.000+06:30

0900 hours. The Fort Braggart Museum of Unnecessary Military Interventions.
We stood on the parade ground outside the museum, a hundred or so of us, there to pay our respects at Fort Braggart's most solemn ceremony. Special Deaths Day is when our local Army base pays tribute to those Special Forces operators who have died participating in action sports while off duty. It was a time for tears, from the opening strains of the band playing "Wipeout" to the closing prayer when Bon Jovi's "Dead or Alive" was performed with the accordian and banjo.
The event drew a mostly military crowd, but I fit right in among the mourners in my black BDU's and cowboy hat. Today was to be an extra-special Special Deaths Day, because they were holding a ceremony to say goodbye to the recently-deceased Green Beret Sergeant Jimmy "Steel Trap" Thicker, who met his end a couple of weeks ago plummeting to his death in a tragic bungie-jumping accident. Sergeant Thicker had dived off of County Line Bridge after mistakenly strapping both ends of his bungie cord to his ankle, and my inside sources say that his last words were, "Oh, right...Tie it to the..."
The liberal media claimed there was alcohol involved in the accident, but the men who served with Steel Trap all came to his defense, insisting he was really just a complete moron.
At any rate, we would honor him today, and though I've never been in the military I never miss a chance to show respect for the men who have served, or to try to sleep with the women who have served.
I eyed the crowd as the band struck up "Wipeout." The military men looked perfect in their class-A's, and if I wasn't not gay I'd admit I wanted to have sex with most of them. There were civvies too, some of whom I had met at various gun shows and Pat Buchanan fund-raisers. The sad part, though, were the loved ones...Sergeant Thicker's widow and pregnant girlfriend were both scheduled to talk, though apparently not to each other. The girlfriend's car had pulled up with the word "whore" painted on it, and I suspected it might be the work of the wife. Women. They can't understand that ceremony takes precedence over reality.
I watched them both cry as a young corporal played the last mournful strains of "Wipeout" on his military-issue Stratocaster, and thanked God I live in a country where dead soldiers get a nice send-off.

Finally, the rendition of "Wipeout" ended, and frankly I thought the dancing midgets were in bad taste. Today's speaker, Captain Luther Hargreaves, took the stand, and he walked up those wooden steps like he had a purpose. I respect that sort of thing--walking.
"Good morning, captive audience," Captain Hargreaves began. "I would like to welcome all soldiers, families, and--" he looked at me--"self-styled mercenaries--to the 20th annual remembrance of those who have died doing...Well, stupid shit."
"As you may know," he continued, "this ceremony began with the death of Corporal Luke Atme, who died surfing for the U.S.A. I was there. I pulled his charred and still-smoking remains from the waters off Malibu, and to this day I wish I had told him not to surf in those conditions." He paused to wipe his eyes. "But that's old news, and today we're here to mourn yet another spec-ops soldier, one who lasted six months in the Green Berets before doing something really stupid and dying as a result. I don't remember his name, but I'm sure it's important."
I was crying so hard, I stepped around the back of the stage to hide my tears. That's when I saw it. I farted, I was so shocked, and by farted I mean shit my pants.
There was a bomb...Right beside the speaker's podium.
"BOMB!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
I ran onstage and tackled Captain Hargreaves, sending him falling off into the crowd. I saw the stunned faces and realized it was up to me to keep panic from happening. I grabbed the mic on the podium.
"Don't panic!" I yelled. "It's just a bomb. Very unlikely to kill all of us." People were stampeding despite my words of comfort. "For fuck's sake, we don't even know how much shrapnel is in there...Calm down, people!" It didn't work--most people are pussies, that's why Bush didn't win a majority. I decided to appeal to those who could actually help.
"Soldiers," I called out. "We have a bomb situation. We've got to defuse it."
"Right on, fuck off," someone in uniform shouted back from thirty yards away.
Great. I'd have to handle this alone. That's the merc's lot anyway, so it didn't surprise me.
I approached the small parcel. It looked like an ordinary cardboard box, sitting right next to the podium as if it belonged there. Nothing belongs anywhere--first lesson you learn as a man of action.
If it was a bomb, and it obviously was since it wasn't labeled "not bomb" by the anti-terror staff on base, there was only one way to render it safe.
"I need some help here, soldiers, " I called out, after urinating twice on the package. The moisture from our pee would render the explosives inside inert. No one came up to help.
"Damnit men, you're Army!" I barked. "They have video games about you! Now suck it up like men and pee on this cardboard box!"
Finally, a few crept up, and joined me in soaking the box in urine. After seeing it didn't explode, even more soldiers came to help, one brave soul even taking a dump on the device.
"You fucker!"
Who said that? It was the widow, charging towards us from the safety of the crowd.
"Those are...Oh my God, we were gonna spread..." she cried.
"No thanks necessary," I said. "The bomb's soaked in urine and feces."
"Those were his ashes!" she screamed. "You...you pissed on his..."
Well, some widows are a little touchy. Sorry, Mrs. Thicker.

1600 hours. The McFab compound.
People are weird. You try to stay vigilant, help them out, and they respond with lawsuits. I don't think there's a normal man among us who wouldn't urinate on a suspicious package. Seems to me, you should label stuff if it's that damned important. But that's just me--I'm a man of action.

Sir, Men on the Mound!

2006-03-28T07:38:00.000+06:30

1300 hours. Fort Braggart Unemployment Office and Crisis Pregnancy Center.
It looked like I had finally found a decent job. My welfare agent, having exhausted all leads for mercenary work, found me a security job with the company that stockpiles the road salt used to clear ice from our roads in the winter. Come March, the holding facilities are ghost-towns, deserted until the cold returns, and with no workers there they are as vulnerable as a thirteen-year-old girl at R. Kelly's birthday party. The salt company needed highly-trained security personnel who were willing to work for minimum wage, and I fit the bill nicely.
"It's a good job, honey," my case worker had said, tossing her braids for effect. "You'll just be guarding salt. They never even had security before, but a Homeland Security directive has classified salt as a biological agent."
"It's about time," I said. "Tangos go putting sugar on the roads--where would we be then?"
She apparently agreed, because she set up an interview for me.

1430 hours. Salt Talks, Inc. Corporate Headquarters.
I aced the interview, of course. Brandishing a weapon always speeds the hiring process along. The supervisor, Mr. Morton, led me outside to show me the layout of the facility.
"There's three mounds of salt," he said. "The guvment says we need one man per pile. You're gonna be in charge of Pile Two."
I looked around, a bit awed by the three-story-high salt piles. They looked like ski slopes, only smaller and better suited for rimming a margarita glass. I shuddered as I realized the only hard defence here was a chain-link fence topped with razorwire. The place wasn't even mined.
"Sir," I said, "I see that Pile Two is in the middle, between piles one and three. I would like to suggest that the officer in charge of Pile Two be made watch commander, due to the strategic location."
"Sure," Morton said, and tossed me a walkie-talkie. "Knock yourself out."
"Do I...Is there a uniform?"
"Yeah, wear some clothes. Had to fire that naked guy." With that, he shuffled off, indifferent to national security. If contempt had an odor, my feelings for Morton would have smelled like a crowded inner-city bus in July. Someone had to get serious about security around here, and that someone was me...Randy McFab, Watch Commander.

2300 hours, Salt Talks, Inc. Guard Shack.
I strode into the room in full security-guard regalia--black Nomex coveralls, respirator, combat boots, and my web gear with essentials such as pepper-spray, a blow-gun, and a water-pistol filled with my own urine. There were two men in the tiny trailer, hunched over a pack of nudey playing-cards spread out on the coffee table. They nearly fell out of their chairs when they saw my war-like appearance.
"Eleven-shun!" I shouted. "Ten-shun" is common in the military, but we mercenaries go one step further. The men didn't move. "Stand up, godamnit! I'm your new watch commander!"
"Uh. Okay," one said finally, and rose slowly to his feet. Jesus. The skinny little bastard looked like something you'd find outside a methadone clinic.
"Is that your idea of a uniform, son?" I demanded, eyeing his filthy tee shirt from behind my goggles.
"Uh. They didn't give me one. I'm sorry, dude, I..." He hung his head.
"That's no excuse! Who the hell doesn't own a pair of BDU's and a mail-order badge? Girly men, that's who. Drug addicts. Frenchmen."
"Leave Detox alone," the other one said. "He don't know no better." He stood up, and we eyed each other. He was fat-- not fat in a manly "I drink too much milk" kinda way like me, but fat in a "jesus christ I'm fat" kinda way. He sickened me.
"You listen and you listen good, mister," I snarled. "Your body fat percentage would make a stick of butter look healthy. Now--" I had more to say, but I blacked out after he slapped me.
Fucking Samoans. No sense of humor.

0200 Hours. Pile Two.
I stood in the darkness, watching over the facility from my perch atop the salt mound. I could barely make out piles one and three in the distance.
It was kind of quiet. Too kind of quiet.
I pulled my walkie-talkie close to my lips. "Comms check."
Silence. I tried again. "Comms check." Nothing. Damnit, I'd told them to expect a comms check every forty seconds.
"Piles one and three. Do you copy? Trying to reach piles one and three. Do I have piles? Over."
"Uh..." It was Detox. "Is this Jesus talking? I met you at that Dead show..."
"Goddamnit!" I reminded myself to keep my voice down. No need to advertise your position to potential enemies. "Detox, you addled fuck, it's me, Randy...Watch Commander. Requesting comms check."
"Leave Detox alone!" the walkie-talkie crackled. "I'll knock your ass--"
"Goddamnit! Lower your voice, Amapatulu! Besides," I added, "you sucker-punched me. Both of you, tighten your sphincters and check your mags...Watch Commander out."
"Yeah, fuck off."
God, I hate Samoans.

0400 hours. Pile Two.
The biggest danger to a soldier on watch is boredom, so I did what most soldiers do to stay sharp and fight off fatigue. That's why I was alert enough to put away my vial of amphetimines and tuck my knob back into my trousers when the call came.
"Sir!" It was Detox. "Men on the mound!" I stared at my walkie-talkie, too stunned at first to respond.
"Sir...Men..." he repeated, his signal growing weaker, "on...the...mound."
My military instinct told me to spray his position with small-arms fire until I could call in artillery to solve the problem, but as usual I was going to have to rely on something less intellectual than pure instinct.
"Don't talk," I yelled into the walkie-talkie as I slid down my salt pile. "Eat the bullet--DO NOT TALK!" I considered calling Amaputulu for help, but he was clearly a suspect in that he wasn't white. I'd handle this myself.
After a long, bottom-tearing slide down my salt mountain I reached the ground, and realized a torn, salty ass is kind of a turn-on. That was for later, though. This was war.
I crept across the open ground toward pile three, Detox's pile.
My urine-filled water gun in hand, I imitated bird calls to see if I could attract some unwary attention. "Goo-Gooooo," I called, in an exact imitiation of the brown thrasher, a bird common to our fair state.
Nothing moved. I snuck a few feet up Pile Three and tried again.
"Goo-goo gjoooob..." Still no response, so I crept further up the salt pile before doing the bird-call routine again. "I am the eggman, " I called out, bird-like. "They are the eggmen."
I heard something stir above. "I am the walrus, goo-goo GJOOB!" With that, I charged up the hill, and my pistol quickly found the spot where the movement had come from seconds before.
I pulled the trigger over and over, releasing stream after stream of my asparagus-infected urine. Easier to track yer hits that way.
I kept shooting as I charged uphill, finishing up the assault with two well-placed boot strikes to my target's head. Finally, I stood above my victim. He lay curled in a fetal position as I held my water-pistol in a Weaver stance above him. Oh, God...On close examination, it looked like...
"Uh. God. Dude," Detox moaned. "You squirted me. And it smells like..."
"Piss off, you fucker!" It was that damned Samoan. I spun to face him.
"Damnit, Honolulu, there's tango's about! Detox said there's ..."
"Men on the mound?" he asked.
"Yes! Christ, we've already had a blue on blue, let's find the tangos!"
"Dude..." The Samoan guy sighed. "Detox gets religious when he eats acid. I think he was saying 'sermon on the mount.' He loves that bit."
"Doesn't matter," I said. "Main thing is we attack first, then ask who's hallucinating."
"His pee's orange," Detox moaned, not bothering to get up.
"Look, ya'll," I said. "It appears--for now--there's no tangos this time." I tried to smile reassuringly. As Watch Commander, I knew that the Somoan guy and the druggie would be looking to me for guidance at a time like this. "We've all, mostly you two, learned some valuable lessons, so let's forget about who attacked who for no reason." I love sharing warrior's wisdom with the young bucks.
"Let he who shoots first, shoot accurately," I said. I spread my arms, and felt like I was flying atop the dizzying heights of the salt pile. My disciples looked up at me in awe.
"If your neighbor's eye offendeth thee, kill his dog--that always surprises them."
"Dude," the Samoan guy said, and I accepted his praise without comment.
"Kill not, " I continued, "unless you're pretty sure you can get away with it." It was no longer me speaking, it was God...Meaning, ex-SAS superhero Andy McNab, who tells the Big Guy what to do, anyway.
"Judge not, lest ye be hauled up in court for that stupid incident involving your fourteen-year-old cousin, who was pretty hot and clearly wanted it..."

1300 Hours. The McFab compound.
"I still don't understand why you were fired, " my momma said.
I would have laughed, but was too bitter. "Mom," I finally said. "I came from poor, uncertain stock...No one's sure who my dad is...All that's known is, I realized early on I could spray people with my urine and thereby get them to comply with my demands. It would all be easy, except for--"
"The Samoans," my mom sighed.
I glanced away towards my room, where my mail-ordered copy of The Protocols of the Elder Pacific Islanders lay unread.
"Yes...The Samoans."

A Bucket of Balls

2006-03-09T05:07:00.000+06:30

1700 hrs. The McFab compound.
I was on the phone, arguing with the president of my bank.
"Look," I said, trying to be reasonable, "I'll pay the loan off as soon as some more shit flares up in the Balkans...What?... No, your teller mentioned 'rectify.' I ain't no English major, and it sounded like she wanted--"
He replied with some standard banker bullshit, 'lawsuit' this and 'traumatized' that.
"That's a lie, buddy!" I said. "My pants were on virtually the entire time, and the lobby was not full!" He hung up on me. Bastard. That's alright, if they wanted to sue me they'd have to get in line behind my landlord and the Boy Scouts of America. I slammed the phone down and opened a Zima, trying to calm down. It was useless. The only thing that could cheer me up costs twenty bucks an hour even in Thailand, and I had exactly thirty cents to my name. This soldier was sick of losing wars, and even more sick of not participating in them.
I stretched out on my mil-spec cot, sipping my booze and wondering if I'd ever find mercenary work again. The picture of Dick Cheney on my ceiling seemed to be mocking me, grinning at my failures. I shot a guy more recently than you, Randy...And I'm not even a merc! Christ. The very figure of all that is decent had become my enemy. I stared down the barrel of the now-empty Zima, and decided to pull the trigger. Fuck it. Three Zimas tonight, and damn the consequences. I was reaching into my bedside cooler for another one when my mama called out from the living room.
"Randy! Come here, you've gotta see this!" It was probably just another unexplained mole she wanted me to check out, but when my mama calls, I answer. I reluctantly set the Zima back in the cooler, disabled the security devices on my bedroom door, and made my way down our mobile home's one hallway to the living room.
She had our local paper spread out on her lap, and there was plenty of lap left on both sides of the Fort Braggart Herald. "Look Randy," she said, "this job's made for you!" She was pointing at a bold-face headline, Local Paintball Team Seeks Replacement for Jailed Captain. I snatched the paper up and absorbed every word of the article in 3.5 seconds, thanks to the "Speed-Read like a Green Beret" subliminal-learning course I had purchased on the internet.
Apparently, Fort Braggart's champion paintball team still hadn't found a worthy successor to ex-Army Ranger Tab "Not like the soda" Longway, who had led the Massive Hornets to three straight national titles before being convicted and sentenced on various mail fraud and public indecency charges. It seemed both the team and the fans were agreed--it would take one hell of a man to replace Tab Longway. Belay that. It would take a superman.
"I'll accept the job tomorrow," I told my mama, and went back into my bedroom to masturbate.

0800 hours. Bill Hick's Sod Farm and Championship Paintball Arena.
Let's face it--paintballers aren't soldiers, they're amateurs. They may be tactically sound and highly practiced, but they've never bought a blood-flavored sno-cone at that carnival of carnage we call war; they've never shown up for a date with Death wearing nothing but a balaclava and a codpiece. I had read and fantasized about more war than they'd ever see--I was a soldier among play-actors. Knowing that, I was highly confident when I locked up the war wagon and strode onto the practice field where the Massive Hornets were gathered.
There were four of them, their fifth man enjoying the hospitality of the county sheriff. I was a little disappointed that they didn't come to attention as I approached, but chalked that down to nervousness.
"Morning, ladies," I called out. "Your new team captain's here."
"Hey, dude," some blonde guy said. "Good to see ya. We'll be doing tryouts all day, so set your gear down and relax while we--"
"I don't relax," I said. "I'm a mercenary." I began unpacking my gear--sawed-off shotgun, ammo, a few pipe bombs, and the obligatory flash-bang grenades.
"Uh...Dude," Blondie said. "We don't use real guns...this is paintball." The other Massive Hornets, none of whom looked older than twenty, nodded agreement.
"Fine," I said, stowing my gear away. "I've brought a bucket of balls and ten pounds of swinging meat. Am I allowed to use that?"
They only murmured among themselves, unused to dealing with a real warrior.
"Dude," Blondie finally said, "tryouts were scheduled for ten, and you're way early, so...That's good, that's cool. We'll go ahead and cut--I mean--try you out before the rest show up."
"Fuckin' A," I said. "Give me a minute to wax my mustache and I'll be ready."
They all laughed, nervously, some of them pointing at my belly in obvious fear of a man who isn't afraid to ask for seconds. While I combed out my mustache, Blondie approached with a paintball gun, some kind of weird-looking contraption with what looked like a full gumball machine on top.
"Here's your gun, dude," he said. "It's semi-auto so you don't have to pump."
"Range?" I asked, sticking the gun down the front of my Donna Karan NY fatigues.
"Thirty yards or so," Blondie said. "But it's not that accurate."
I laughed. Thirty yards. I could pop a tango's head like an over-ripe melon at that range with a slingshot and a roofing nail. Meet your new captain, pussies.
I finished combing out my mustache and strode into the middle of their group.
"I'm ready," I said. "Are you?"
"Oh, yeah," another said. He was muscular, in the way that communists are muscular. I decided to take him out first.
"Here's the drill," Blondie said. "You get three minutes to position yourself anywhere on this sod farm...I mean, championship paintball arena. We Massive Hornets will be the hunter force, and our only goal will be to take you out. You'll be judged both on how long you can evade us and how many of us you manage to take out."
"Tab got three of us," someone added. "And he was good in bed."
I broke the uncomfortable silence that followed. "Great. When do we start?"
"Now."

0830. The Sod Farm.
I'm a pretty fast runner, and easily covered an eighth of a mile in the three minutes they had alloted me. I dove into a thicket of bramble, my thick nomex assault suit and kevlar vest protecting me from most of the thorns. Willing myself invisible, I sank into the stinking mud and raised my head mere inches to look around. There! One of them was patrolling not fifty yards away, and I hope I don't sound racist when I say he appeared to be Irish.
He was crouched, weapon at the ready, looking around furtively as Irish people do. I decided to use a little deception against him, and pulled the bait out of my assault vest.
Pop. The mick froze. He looked around even more carefully, then began sniffing the air. Just as I'd predicted. He started towards my hide, but it was obvious he couldn't see me. He was far too interested in something else. My finger tensed on the trigger of my gumball-gun, taking up the slack until a good fart would fire the weapon. The mick kept getting closer, now only ten yards away. I lined the sights up on his face, waiting. Just a little closer, Leprechaun...
He found my bait, mere feet from my hide, and bent to pick it up.
"Ah," he said, "a nice cold can of Guiness! Now that's some good--"
Crack! The paintball caught him in the mouth, splattering his face with what I considered an appropriate shamrock-green color.
"Eireann go Brach," he wheezed, and went down. Knowing the others must have heard the shot, I wasted no time in clearing out and finding a new position.

0845. The Sod Farm.
From twenty feet up, I saw another one. I could just make out his afro above the tall grass as he approached the tree I was hidden in. Now, I like black people. My motto is "kill whitey," after all. But this was war, and in war we don't have time for that "love your brother" bullshit they preach on heavy metal albums. This was about winning, and my knowledge of psychology, gained from years as a merc, would ensure victory. My enemy crept ever closer, and I used the one thing I knew would render him helpless.
"White chicks," I called from the tree-top. "White chicks at twelve o' clock!"
Sure enough, he turned his back to me and began popping the collar of his BDU shirt, trying to look casual as he searched the mist for the women.
"For my dead homies," I whispered, and painted the back of his head with a .30-calibre paintball round.

0900. The Sod Farm.
I didn't wait for the next one to come to me. I stalked him, crawling mere paces behind as he scouted. It was obvious, based on the way he stopped to scratch his crotch every few feet, that he was Italian. I considered using the "white chicks" tactic again, and decided that would be too easy. Instead, I would break his will. I stood up behind him.
"Rocky," I said. He spun around, his gun leveled at me. "Now there's a stupid movie. When's the last time you saw a dago last twelve rounds with a black dude?" Just as I predicted, he set his paintball gun down so he could gesture more frantically as he responded.
"What's-a-your-problem?" he demanded, waving his arms. "That Rocky Balboa, he the Italian Stallion, he--" I shot him three times--once for the game, once for Apollo Creed, and once because I hate the eye-ties. It was almost over.

0900. The Sod Farm.
Blondie was out there, somewhere. He was the one that worried me. He appeared to be German, and since he wasn't dead he obviously wasn't a good German. I didn't plan on ending up in the ashtray of some Nazi's Volkswagen, so I used extra care as I crept through the bush, seeking him.
I knew there was a way to lure any kraut in, but I didn't have two fifteen-year-old girls and a bucket of feces at my disposal, so I'd have to do this the hard way. I patrolled, silently, knowing I could spot him first if I just kept my wits about me.
Suddenly, I smelled cabbage. I couldn't see him, or hear him, but I knew he was close. Where are you, Hans? I re-checked my gumball gun. Ready. A rustling...Nearby. I spun around, and was surprised to hear...
Shit, it couldn't be. But it was. Freebird, played loud and proud. I didn't stop to wonder what Lynyrd Skynyrd would be doing out here, I did what my Southern instinct commanded.
"Freeeeeeeeeeeeebird!" I howled, and threw the paintball gun on the ground so I could hold up my cigarette lighter in tribute.
"Wurfel, motherfucker!" someone shouted, and then there was nothing but pain.

1700. The McFab compound.
"You tried your best, honey," my mama said, applying another ice-pack to my injured groin.
"I didn't know paintballs hurt," I said. "And I sure as hell didn't know they'd use Skynyrd against me! Would've changed my tactics otherwise."
"Well, you ain't got nothin' to be ashamed of, honey. Even them Massive Hornets said you woulda had the job if you hadn't cried."
For Christ's sake, she knew what the problem was. "Mama, I've got over-active tear glands, even the doctor said so."
I sighed, laid back, and tried to put this last defeat behind me. Like a warrior, I'd keep fighting.
"I know, honey," Mama said. "I know."

Borderliners

2006-02-07T22:57:00.000+06:30

The jumbo jet banked steeply, affording me a straight-down view of the desert below. The rugged terrain looked like the surface of Mars, incapable of supporting human life. Which was true in a way. There were enemy personel down there, yes, but they sure as hell weren't human in my book. They were tangos, targets, and I was determined to eliminate every last one of them.
I felt sorry for the other passengers flying into the war zone. Most of them looked clueless, dressed more for a holiday in the sun than a trial at the sharp end. I noticed more than a few envious eyes checking out my desert BDU's, aviator sunglasses, and the limited-edition Dukes of Hazzard shamag I had bought off an Arab dude on E-Bay. I felt a little lonely with no other men of action to talk to. Then I spotted one.
He was a young buck, decked out in an impeccable uniform and heading down the aisle aft, towards me. His short, razor-cut hair, neatly-trimmed mustache, and perfect posture would have given him away with or without the uni, and I felt an instant bond with my fellow soldier. I elbowed my way past the old woman in the seat beside me and stood at attention in the aisle, saluting him.
"Can I help you?" he asked, stopping just short of me.
"You already have, dogface," I said. "I just wanted to thank you for keeping us free."
"Um...I don't..." He was modest, like all professional fighting men.
"I support you, soldier," I said. "You'll notice, I have two American-flag lapel pins. Most people just have one. And I have this ribbon thing..." I indicated the yellow ribbon I keep on my belt, ready to whip out and brandish at hippies at a moment's notice.
The soldier seemed confused, no doubt more comfortable with ammunition than adulation. "Sir, I think...I think you're mistaken, I--"
I noticed the wings on his chest. "Airborne, huh? I knew it! I haven't jumped yet, but I rode that thing at Six Flags where they take you up in a chair with a fake chute on top. Pretty much the same. I didn't have all my gear, of course, but--"
He cut me off. "Sir. I'm a steward. I work for the airline." He grabbed something off the cart he was pushing. "Would you like some complimentary almonds?"
I eyed his tailored uniform, his fit physique, and his impossibly-precise mustache. Suddenly it dawned on me. "OOH...Right, of course."
He winked at me. "I like you, too, though. I noticed the mustache. Maybe we could hook up after we land?"
It was obvious now, just who and what he was. Special Forces for sure, and he was travelling incognito. I couldn't hang with him, though, until both our missions were accomplished. Opsec always comes first.
"I'd love to get together," I said, "but I'm on the job as soon as we land. Maybe in a week or so?"
"Sounds good," he said. He winked and patted my ass as he walked past, just as macho guys do everywhere. I chuckled to myself as I sat back down. A bad-ass like him, posing as a male stewardess. You'd think the C.I.A. could come up with a better cover. I was thinking how fun it would be to enjoy a hard wrestling match and a man-only steam afterwards with my fellow tough guy when the plane began its final approach.

The job had come as a surprise. I'd been out of work since that FUBAR body-guarding gig a few months back. The client had clearly said, don't let anyone in the hotel room. Three rounds of 000-buckshot later, and all of a sudden he's clarifying, saying he himself was allowed in. Not only did the cheap bastard not pay me, he also failed to thank me for amputating his legs when even the paramedics said it wasn't necessary. You go the extra mile, you get screwed. That's the life of the merc. I had almost decided to go back to work at Taco Bell when I got the call.
The voice on my answering machine had that air of boozy incoherence that we fighting men have learned to respect. The guy who left the message sounded sort of like how my dad sounded when he would put on the Def Leppard tape and explain the intricacies of run-blocking to his four-year-old son. Dad gave up eventually, of course. He was too macho for family life, and while I missed him, I understood why he had to go on that secret mission to Zanzibar. If it hadn't been for my dad and his fellow fighting men, the U.S. would have run out of ice cream. My mom told me all about it when I was only five. I grew up missing my dad, and wishing I could correct all the locals who had been told he'd gone to prison for sodomizing local goats. Opsec comes first, though, so I just thanked him silently every time I passed a Baskin Robbins. Anyway...
The voice on the answering machine gave me a reason to keep fighting.
"Randy McFab," the message said, "we need you. Insurgents are crossing the border, and Uncle Sam is short of nephews. We read your ad in Vogue. We know you're the best. Help us, Randy one. You're our only hope." There was some other stuff--contact info, an offer of money, etc...But honestly they had me at "need you." I hadn't felt needed since the high school baseball team needed someone to test the effects of toilet water on athletic performance. That it was the U.S. of Fuckin' A that needed me just sealed the deal. They had their mercenary.

I stepped out of the air-conditioned terminal into the desert heat. I needed to find a fixer to get me into the hot zone safely, so I headed for the row of taxis parked up outside. I approached a small, dark man standing next to what was apparently called a "yellow" cab in this part of the world.
"Macarena," I said. Every good merc has language skills. "Fallujah kalishnikov?"
"Do you speak English?" the driver asked, with no trace of an accent.
"Yes. Wow. I'm impressed." I noticed his ID badge on the dash. Porfirio Gonzales. "Guten allah," I said, praising his clothing in his native tongue.
"Get in," he said. "And welcome to Tucson."

We drove south throught the Arizona desert, heading towards the border. We passed a place called Sierra Vista, and I knew by the Arabic name that the insurgents had had their way around here for a while. The entire state of Arizona had belonged to Mexico at one time, and I was damned sure not gonna let a bunch of Arabs take it away from the patriots who had annexed it for the U.S.
"Driver!" I said. "You speekee good eng-a-lush. Where terrorists? Bad men here? Bang bang?"
"Jesus Christ, dude," he said, again concealing his accent. "What the hell's wrong with you? I went to Pima High School. I speak better english than you do. You sound like a hick."
"Well, that there might not be not right," I said, bristling. "I didn't have Bin Laden himself to teach me grammar. I asked you a question, Akbar. Where are the terrorists?"

So I was on foot, walking beside the empty desert highway. That Arab cabbie was a touchy guy. I was alone and abandoned, my only companions the distant mountains and the porno mags I thumb through on long walks. The saguaro cactus, standing straight and tall like so many silent sentries, became less prevelant as we had travelled south from Tucson, replaced by thick stands of mesquite and the occassional cholla cactus, a ground-hugging variety with an arsenal of long thorns. I didn't know what the crazy plants were at the time, of course--I checked later in my December issue of Cactus Fancy. For now, everything looked alien and desolate, the only signs of life being the sparse vegetation, the long, empty highway, and the jackrabbits that would dart out from a clump of mesquite or ocatillo now and then to scare the crap out of me. I looked at my watch, the Casio Baby G, available from fine retailers such as Circuit City. It's a rugged, reliable timekeeper with the sleek good looks you've come to expect from a Casio product.
Fifteen minutes. I had been walking the seemingly-abandoned highway for a quarter hour, the relentless sun glaring down at me as if angry I'd intruded on the scene. Dehydration would set in soon if I wasn't careful, so I took a long swig of chocolate milk from my canteen. I knew it wouldn't last long. Soon I would be without any liquid other than my own urine, and I'd drunk too much of that the night before in the course of winning a bar bet. I looked up and down the road, straining to hear the approach of a vehicle. There was nothing. I patted the Crossman Wankmaster 5000 air-pistol in my shoulder rig. If it came to it, I'd choose a quick and easy thirty pellets to the head before I'd just lay down and dry up.

Twenty minutes later. I was laying down beside the highway, waiting for death, when I heard a faint sound in the distance. Sound carries in the empty desert, and even from miles away I recognized the approach of a 1973 Chevy truck with "Sweet Home Alabama" blaring out of the eight-track. It got closer, and as my salvation neared, my highly-trained ears focused more clearly. The pitch of the engine told me it was actually a 1986 Ford Escort, and the driver was listening to the soundtrack of "Grease." I stood up and brushed the desert sand off my BDUS, extending my thumb in the classic hitchhiker pose.
The vehicle finally arrived and, much to my relief, stopped a few feet past me. As it turned out, it was a Dodge minivan, and the Rush Limbaugh radio show blared out of the interior. I noted the yellow ribbon, American flag, and "Support Our Trooops or Go Back to Russia" bumper stickers. I smiled. This was my kinda guy.
"Need a lift?" He leaned over and opened the door, grinning to reveal two or three crooked teeth.
"Fuckin' A," I said, and tossed my rucksack on the floorboard before sitting down.
The driver and I studied each other as we sped away. He was skinny and tanned brown by the desert sun, a long ponytail hanging out from his "Free Mustache Rides" baseball cap. He didn't have a mustache, but I still appreciated the sophisticated wit of the sentiment. He turned down the radio.
"I'm Peter," he said, extending a thin, grimy hand. "My friends call me 'Peter Puller.' You get it? Peter Puller, like jerkin' yer meat, you know?" He laughed. "See, you know, Peter, that's like--"
"I get it," I said, wiping my hand on my trousers.
"That's cuz that time I was poundin' it, and then they all go, 'dang, dude, this is a funeral, what are you doin'?' And I'm all, 'shit, she still looks good, and--'" He stopped, eyeing my camo fatigues as if he'd just noticed. "Are you a soldier?"
"Something like that." I thought back to all the battles, all the death, all the scars. I had read about so much, it was hard not to be bitter. "I'm a mercenary, friend."
"A merc! Shit, bro that's awesome!"
"Is it?" I wanted to tell him, but what was the point? He hadn't been there, he'd never sat through fifteen viewings of Rambo, he'd never read every Andy McNab novel aloud to his cat. If he wanted to think war was easy, glamorous, I'd let him keep his illusions. I wouldn't wish what I've read about and discussed on the internet on anyone. "Yeah, it's awesome," I said finally.
"We got us a merc, you know," he said, his voice lowering conspiratorily. "He's gonna come down and take this shit to the next level, and like I said to Choad, I was all like, 'man, this dang ol' merc gonna come down and--"
I came to full alert. "What merc? What do you mean?" If there were other operators about, I needed to know about it.
"Choad's all, 'dang, man, get yer hand out yer pants, we're in a restaurant,' and I'm all..." He paused. "Shit, sorry, dude, I'm amped as a mofo. So yeah, this merc comin' down and all..." He trailed off.
"What's his name?" Damn, this guy was hard to talk to.
"Choad!" He laughed again. "See, choad is like--"
"No, goddamnit, the mercenary. What's his name? And what are you hiring a merc for?"
He seemed surprised that I didn't know. "I'm a Borderliner, bro! And the guy we hired is the deadliest man on earth...McFag, or something like that."
Holy shit. He continued, but I was almost too stunned to listen.
"McFin...Fal...Something. Hell, I don't know, I'm amped as a mofo, bro! But he's the best for sure, he even has an ad in Vogue!"

I was happy to be working for the Borderliners, though I was shocked to find myself hitching a ride with one. The Borderliners were a group of American patriots who had gotten together voluntarily to defend the U.S.-Mexico border from incoming Muslim terrorists. They parked their R.V.s in the desert and monitored the area, helping the hopelessy-inept Border Patrol perform their duties. The communists at CNN often portrayed these patriots as drunken racists, bent on stopping poor, desperate Mexicans from crossing over and supporting their families by taking jobs we Yanks won't fill. It wasn't true, though. Fox News has made it quite clear that islamic extremists are pouring into this country from the south, using their darker-than-white skin to pose as Mexicans until the time comes to throw down the Coronas and pick up their guns. The Borderliners were the only thing keeping southwestern cities like Los Angeles free of the violence and crime the tangos were determined to bring with them. I was honored, therefore, to be hired by the group and lend a hand, but I expected something a little different from the guy I was riding with.

I tuned back in to Peter Puller and the present. "My reverie is over," I said. "Enough background."
He had been talking the whole time, and continued. "...so I say, 'hell, it'll wash out, and you shouldn't have dressed like that if you didn't want to get me excited, Reverend.'"
"I should tell you," I interrupted, "I'm McFab. I'm your merc."
He started hyperventilating. "You're--you're McFag! Holy shit, man! Holy shit! I ain't never met no merc, bro, I...I'm amped as a mofo, bro, I...Holy shit! McFag!"
"McFab."
"Dang man, I gotta shake yer hand again, and this time I ain't never gonna wash it, not even on Sundays like usual." We shook, and a string of goo connected us for a moment as he took his hand away. "Wow. Right here in my van. McFag!"
"McFab. Listen, I'd like to know some more about the organization before I start sniping. I like to get to know the folks I'm killing for."
"Well, it's pretty simple, bro. Here, have a cerveza." He reached beneath his seat and produced a 110-degree can of Tecate. I sipped it, grimacing, while he talked.
"The Borderliners is all about protecting America, bro. We got these Mexicans comin' in, and they're takin' all the good jobs, takin' all the good mobile homes, takin' all the fat white chicks."
"Mexicans?" I asked, astonished. "I thought..."
"Think about it, bro! Mexicans take all the fat white chicks, what are black guys gonna do? They gonna want the skinny ones!" He shook his head sadly, considering the prospect.
"But...Of course Mexicans slip over here," I said. "They're right next door, we have jobs our own labor force won't fill, and technically this part of the country is their homeland. I'm not concerned about Mexicans. I'm here to stop all the terrorists coming across."
Peter Puller laughed, spitting beer. "Goddamn, McFag! They ain't no terrorists comin' across. Those 911 dudes flew in on commercial airliners. We just say that shit about terrorists so Fox News will make us look like we're protecting the country."
"But..." I was confused. "G. Gordon Liddy says that Muslim terrorists pose as Mexicans and cross over all the time, setting up terror cells and all."
"Dude...Duuude..." He was trying to stop laughin. "Half the Border Patrol are Mexican. You think they're gonna be fooled by an Arab trying to speak spanish?"
"I don't know. I can't tell 'em apart."
"Here's the thing," Peter Puller said, tossing his empty beer out the window. "The Borderliners, we're just honest Americans tryin' to make a livin' out here in the desert. We make a little bathtub crank, that kinda thing, but these wetbacks are gettin' all the guvment help, and pretty soon we ain't even gonna be able to get our welfare checks without sayin' 'por favor' first. White people will be left out, it'll all be--"
"What the hell did you just say?" I hoped I had misunderstood.
"These damn wetbacks, beaners, they--"
"No! What was that about the bathtub?"
"Oh." He suddenly looked solemn, guilty. "Shit man, I'm sorry." He pulled a plastic baggie full of white powder out of his soiled jeans. "I'm so amped, I wasn't thinkin'. You need a line, bro?"
I looked at him long and hard before speaking. "People make fun of me," I finally said. "I know that. I've never actually been in the military, never been to war. I read a lot, though. I have heroes. And I've always known I could be just like them if I needed to. I've always known that men like Andy McNab, Duncan Falconer, Dick Marcinko...They served their countries and told their stories so that people like me would be inspired, and fight when we had to. I'm a soldier, pal, just like them." I shifted in my seat. "And I'm going to war."

Walking beside the long, empty highway, the sun even hotter than it had been before. No water, no food, no cellphone, and very little hope of encountering anyone other than the stray jackrabbit or two. Oh, well. I'd left him the pellet gun. Thirty shots or so would end it if he got too dehydrated. I sped north towards Tucson in the minivan, and for the first time in my life I switched the station from talk radio to music. "I get knocked down," some limey was shouting, "but I get up again, and you're never gonna keep me down."
I opened a hotter-than-hell Tecate and took a long swig.
"Here's to you, Dad," I said, one soldier to another. I pulled out my cellphone and dialed. "Is this Cosmopolitan?" I asked. "Yeah, what do you charge for an ad?...Mercenary for hire..."

A Fisher of Men

2005-10-30T20:48:00.000+06:30

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..."

Crackwater

2005-10-29T02:28:00.000+06:30

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.

Blind Hate

2005-10-25T01:47:00.000+06:30

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.

Kill a Swami for Mommy

2005-10-19T03:03:00.000+06:30

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.

Women's Issues

2005-10-11T01:56:00.000+06:30

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.

Body Guard

2005-10-07T00:38:00.000+06:30

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.

Board to Tears

2005-10-01T23:55:00.000+06:30

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?

Flu off the Handle

2005-09-30T00:55:00.000+06:30

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

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

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

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

Suspect Suspect

2005-09-12T22:39:00.000+06:30

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

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

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

Interview with the Lamp Buyer

2005-08-05T08:34:00.000+06:30

Thursday morning. Recently.
Christ, the place was huge. I sat in the parking lot, re-combing my mustache after the drive over and marveling at the hangar-like building that housed World of Lamps and Adhesives. The yellow steel structure was 100 yards wide across the front--something I'd keep in mind for estimating range. In addition to its massive physical size, the discount warehouse store is also one of my area's largest employers, which is what had brought me there that day.
I hadn't had steady employment since Taco Bell fired me, and I'm not the kind of guy who can sit around doing nothing. It amazes me that welfare cheats and college professors can face themselves in the mirror every day, while real Americans go out and work for a living. I'm not like that. Two years of my mom paying the bills was enough. From now on, she would only be paying most of the bills.
My mustache was perfect. I checked my hair, making sure I had properly disguised my bald-on-top problem with the felt-tipped marker. Perfecto. I knew my clothes were spot-on. Khakis, olive-drab shirt, ascot, and tactical boots. Not much more I could do in way of preparation. I was going in blind, since my mom had found the help-wanted ad and set up the interview. I was as ready as I was going to get.
Twenty minutes later.
It took me longer than I thought it would to find the office. Aisle after aisle of lamps and glue, and no signs for way-finding. I didn't ask for directions, of course, so...
"You're late," he said.
I looked across the desk at him. A bit overweight, could use some Jazzercise. Balding, didn't bother coloring in the bare spots. A slob, then. Gordon Allen, the little brass name-plate read, Lamp Buyer.
"Sorry I missed my timings," I said, and thought up a quick excuse. "I was out of ammo."
"No problem." He opened a file, and I could see it was my resume inside. "So, Randall...Do you prefer Randall?"
The resume had my full name, of course. Randall Nathaniel McFab.
"People call me Randy," I said, "or just 'the Colonel'".
"Okay, Randy. I'm not usually the one who does this--I'm the lamp buyer--but the girl who interviews quit on us, so I'm as nervous as you are."
"I don't get nervous."
"Oh, well--good, good." He studied my resume. "So, Randy...It looks like...You worked at Taco Bell for..." His eyebrows went up. "Sixteen years, that's a long time."
"Well," I said, "I spell 'loyalty' L-O-Y-A-L-T-Y."
"That's, yes, that's how you spell it. Good, good. Now, I see you were a 'transaction analyst' at Taco Bell?"
"Affirmative. I input real-time transaction data into a computer terminal that connected to a server and two nodes, after verifying the veracity of the data on-the-fly."
"So your actual job was..."
"Cashier."
"Good, good. We need that kind of experience." He studied the resume some more. "I see you've been self-employed the last couple of years. 'Mercenary,' it says."
"Correct," I said. "Of course, I can't discuss operational details."
"Right, of course. Now, you've applied for adhesives. I'm a lamp man myself, always have been, but I've worked with the boys in adhesives and I know what they're like. They can be hard on a new guy, especially one who hasn't been in the glue trade before."
"I'm a hard man, Mr. Allen. I read action books."
He looked me over, and could tell he was facing a bad ass.
"Well," he said, "just so you don't mind a little hazing."
"Not at all."
"They can be rough you know, the adhesives crowd. Physical abuse."
"No prob."
"Mental...Mental torture...mind games..." He shook his head. "Not like lamp people at all."
"I can handle whatever they can dish out, I assure you." It must have been cold in that office, as I noticed I was shaking.
"Other stuff, too," he said. "Stuff we can't prove...rumours...gatherings, Black Masses...gang rape...marijuana smoking."
"Did you say--" I was appalled.
"Yes. Marijuana smoking." He sighed heavily.
"Look," I said. "I can handle hazing. Why, in high-school football, we all got tortured relentlessly when we were freshmen, then we did the same to others when we got older. Physical abuse? No problem, I can take some slapping around. Black Masses? Hell, I own every Iron Maiden album. Gang rape? Why, in high-school football...Anyway, I can accept all of that stuff, but...Drugs? No way. Drugs are why we have crimes that don't involve alcohol, drugs are why people believe we landed men on the moon...I'll can the speech and make it short and sweet for you, mister. I don't work with druggies."
"Well," he said, "I just wanted to be honest with you. We don't have any openings in lamps--everybody wants lamps, of course--but adhesives, I just wouldn't wish that on anyone."
"I appreciate that," I said, rising. "You might have just saved some potheads' lives. My motto is 'kill first and then kill again.'"
He stood to shake my hand. "Sorry it didn't work out, Randy," he said.
"No problem. My mom said her friend Alma's daughter has a stalker, might need some protection. Bodyguard work." It was true, but it would mean I would have to quit stalking the daughter.
"Good, good. I'll keep your number and give you a call if we have any openings in lamps." He leaned in close and lowered his voice. "Say, you don't know where to score any weed, do you?"
Later that day.
I was in my bedroom, sorting my bills and sipping a nice cold Zima.
"Hey, Mom!" I yelled towards the living room. "My Soldier of Fortune subscription is about to run out. You gonna pay it, or what?"

Holy War

2005-07-26T11:59:00.000+06:30

Sunday. Recently. Just after church.
I woke with a start as the door to my compound slammed closed. I was out of bed and in a combat-crouch in a second, a ten-inch combat knife (autographed by Oliver North) in my hand. Heavy footsteps coming down the hall towards my bedroom. I glanced towards the window.
"Randy!" my mom called from the hallway. "Get up, I've got good news!" Damnit.
"Mom, you could have been killed." I undid the padlock and chain, unlocked the four deadbolts, and opened my bedroom door. "You know you're supposed to yell 'code driftwood' when you come in."
"Oh, I'm sorry honey," she said. "But--Randy, what are you wearing?" I glanced down at my bikini briefs, the black ones with the message on the front. All Merc and No Play.
"Sorry, Mom. Didn't expect you home so soon." I covered myself with the towel I keep beside my bed for soaking up the night-sweats.
"Come on out to the living room, honey, I've got great news. But get dressed first."
She thudded back down the hall. She's a large woman, God bless her, but I love her. That's why I agreed to move in with her after my wife left me. I knew she'd need the protection in this age of terror. Hell, I even let her pay the bills, so she can feel like she's contributing something.
I dressed, combed my mustache, and wandered into the living room to find my mom joined by Reverend Forrest, the chief sky-pilot at the First Baptist Church of the Little Baby Jesus, her congregation.
"Brother Randy," Forrest said, standing to hug me.
"Reverend," I said, grudgingly accepting his embrace. He smiled too much for my taste, and I don't like guys hugging me anyway. Che Guevara was a hugger, you know.
"You missed a good churchin' today, Randy," Forrest said. "Guess you were...Busy?" He cast his eyes towards my bedroom.
"It was a good sermon," my mom said, saving me. "Reverend Forrest said that Jesus has a list of everyone who voted for Bush, and that when evolutionists make Baby Jesus cry, he just reads that list and it cheers him right up."
"Interesting," I said. Bush is a bit liberal if you ask me, but then again those church types are all soft-hearted. "Shame I missed it."
"Sure is," Forrest said, still beaming, "but you'll be seein' plenty of the church so don't you worry."
"I will?" Uh-oh. My mom hadn't signed me up for the choir again, had she?
"Tell him the good news, Reverend," Mom said.
"The Good News is, Jesus is Lord," Forrest said. "And the other good news is, I've got a job for you." He lowered his voice and added, "your mama says you've been out of work."
"Well, heck--pardon my French, Reverend--I need a job, but I don't know what kinda preacher I'd make."
Forrest and my mom burst out laughing, a bit longer than I thought was absolutely appropriate.
"Whew, that's a good one," Reverend Forrest said, wiping his eyes. "No, Randy, this job's right up your alley. Unlike--"
"Preaching!" Mom exclaimed, and they had another laugh.
"So what's the damned job? Darned job."
"Well, we've had some vandalism outside the church. Looks like the Devil got a hold of some teenagers and made 'em spraypaint a real ugly word on the door to the Spirit-Filled Singles Center."
"A REAL ugly word," my mom added, shaking her head sadly.
"Anyway," the Reverend continued, "we need us a security guard to work nights. I figure that's when them little bastards--I mean, them lost lambs--done it, at night."
Hell yes! Finally, some real mercenary work for me. I was practically drooling at the prospect, but tried to hide my excitement until we negotiated money.
"Sounds alright so far," I said. "How much a head?"
"What do you mean?"
"Reverend, they're probably just teenagers. We oughta return the torsos to their families."
"Randy's just jokin'," my mom said for some reason. "He wants the job, and he'll do real good. Six dollars an hour would be fine, Reverend, just like we talked about."
"Well..." He looked at me curiously. "Fine, then."
Saturday. 0200 hours. That's really late, to you civvies.
I was getting bored, and that was dangerous. Complacency can get you killed, but, Christ, I'd been outside the church every night now for almost a week, and still no action. I had set up my hide just outside the single's center, with the church itself at three o' clock, which with my NVG's gave me a good view of all the potential approaches to the property. I flipped the switch on my night-vision goggles and peered over my sandbags for another look around. Treeline. Nothing there. Single's Center--nothing there but the word "vagina" still painted on the door. I had suggested they leave it, for evidence. I scanned towards the church. Did something move in the bushes? I waited. Nothing. With a sigh, I turned the NVG's on the Guns & Ammo magazine I'd purchased earlier that day, hoping the article on concealed carry laws would keep me awake.
Then--a low creaking sound from the church. Door opening?
Instantly alert, I grabbed the shotgun I had borrowed from the Reverend. He'd fought me on the issue but thankfully I won that argument. I'd need all the firepower the Browning 12-gauge could offer. It was action time.
I belly-crawled around the perimeter of the church toward the front door, mentally double-checking my preparation as I did. Shotgun. Shell chambered. Knife. Strapped on and sharp as a razor. Camo. Head-to-toe, my face blackened with shoe polish as I'd run out of makeup. I paused and checked my canteen. Half full of chocolate milk. I hoped it would be enough.
After just over an hour of crawling, I got to the front of the church and had a look around the corner. Nothing in the eerie green glow of the NVG's but bushes and the steps to the front door. It's times like these that a man of action earns his money. Just before the shooting starts, those few seconds when lesser men decide to turn back and play it safe. I could crawl back to my hide, safe behind 500 sandbags, and let the police handle this situation. Yeah, and sit it out while some poorly-trained cops get killed by whoever was in that church. Not me. Not Randy McFab.
They had closed the door behind them--and locked it, I discovered when I gently tried the handle. No problem. Dynamic entry is one of my specialties. The shotgun in one hand, I slid off my backpack and removed my entry tool, a half-stick of dynamite I'd bought from a guy at a gun show. Fire in the Holy, I thought, and lit the fuse.
The explosion blew the door off the hinges, the flash of it temporarily blinding me even though the NVG's supposedly had circuitry to prevent that. Damned Jamaican equipment. Blind or not, I charged through the doorway, not wanting to lose the element of surprise.
I rolled, stood up, and waved the shotgun around in all directions, still unable to see.
"Nobody fucking drop your weapons!" I screamed. "I mean, nobody move! And drop your fucking weapons!" Silence, but for my own hyperventilating. My vision was slowly going from black back to NVG-green, but was still fuzzy. The smoke from the dynamite explosion didn't help visibility, either. Shit, the bad guys could be anywhere.
"Tell me when you drop your weapons, 'cause I can't see!" Still nothing. Then--out of the corner of my eye--someone there! Not a teenager, a grown man, and a biker or hippie by the look of him. I couldn't see if he was armed or not, but why take chances? The Browning roared.
I emptied the shotgun, sending all five shells' worth of 000-buckshot his way, then rolled behind a pew and back out the doorway.
Outside, I crouched by the steps and reloaded, not knowing if I'd killed the man or not--or if he'd been alone. It was time for reinforcements.
0400 hours.
Local SWAT had set up a perimeter before sending their boys inside. I waited outside with the County deputies while the entry team did their thing. After a few minutes inside, the SWAT guys emerged in their black BDU's, grinning as they dragged the corpse out.
"You're a bad man, McFab," one of them said as they threw the body down at my feet. "You killed Jesus."
"What?" I looked. Damn. It was the wooden statue of Jesus that stood by the altar, now looking a bit worse for wear after eating a pound of buckshot.
"Reverend ain't gonna like this, McFab," one of the cops said. "You killin' his saviour." The SWAT boys had a real good laugh at that, as I stood there, cheeks hot, not knowing what to say.
"That's right," another cop said. "I don't think you're cut out for police work, McFab. I reckon you oughta go back to being a famous mercenary."
"Hell yeah," another agreed. "Definite merc material."
Whew. They hadn't been laughing at ME, they'd been laughing at the situation, at the idea of a merc doing security-guard work.
"Yeah," I said, "guess I'm too quick on the trigger for badge work."
"Nah, McFab, great shootin'. You're a genuis."
Anyone could have mistaken Jesus for a criminal, and these boys realized that. They were probably impressed with how many times I had hit Him, as well. And to think, I had worried for a second they were making fun of me. I decided to get out of there before they begged me to go to work for County SWAT. A cop's life just wouldn't suit me, you know.
I'm a man of action.

Hard Luck o' the Irish

2005-07-22T04:27:00.000+06:30

It was early afternoon, and I was headed home after a long day of job hunting. My first thought, of course, had been to enlist in the military, but I can't go to the recruiting office anymore since they took out that stupid restraining order. So instead of signing up to go to war, I spent the day being rejected by every male modeling agency I contacted, and I was not in a good mood.
I had the pedal to the metal, relieving some stress, the war wagon (my Mom's '96 Saturn) hugging the curves as I practiced my radio calls without a radio.
"All call signs," I said aloud. "This is Darth Spock, I'm A-19 in grid 53...Damn! A-16 in grid four." That's why we pros practice. It ain't easy.
The road into my subdivision-- Festering Springs Trailer Park-- is narrow; there's barely room for two cars to pass, and that's assuming both drivers are sober. As it's also a very low-traffic area, I couldn't help but think what a great place it would be to set up an ambush. Still, I wasn't concerned, and ripped through the curves at a near-suicidal 33 m.p.h. I rounded the last curve before the Festering Springs entrance, and--
Roadblock! Not cops, a civvy car, blocking the road ahead. Tangos, definitely, but what kind? Arabs? Nah, they're more into car bombs. French seperatists? No, too far from Quebec. Had to be Irish Republican Army, then. Mick terrorists set up these roadblocks, relying on the fact that most folks will panic, stop, and get taken hostage. Not me. I thought back to an article I had read in the June '85 Soldier of Fortune, about how to deal with a tango road ambush like this one. I could see now that the vehicle turned sideways across the road was a Cadillac, and did some quick weight/velocity computations in my highly-trained mind. There was only one solution, other than pulling over, and with mere seconds to spare I commited.
Blam! I T-boned the Caddy and knocked it into the trees beside the road, while I and the war wagon continued down the embankment on the opposite side. I caught a glimpse of two people diving for cover, and then everything went black as my Mom's car slammed into a boulder at the bottom of the ravine.
Smoke. Gas. A ticking sound as the Saturn's now-useless engine cooled down. God, how long had I been out? I checked myself for injuries, and was horrified when I felt the warm liquid seeping down my abdomen. Was I bleeding to death? Wait. I felt again, smelled, and realized that the urine-filled watergun I carry had shattered, covering me in what mercenaries call "pee pee." No worries. You haven't been to war if you haven't been soaked in your own urine. It did leave me without my main weapon, though, and I knew the tangos were probably on their way down the embankment to kill me, or capture me, right then. I pulled a back-up weapon from the glove-box and scrambled out of the car.
I heard a voice from the road, and clawed up the embankment towards it, my weapon at the ready. I paused just below the roadbed, shook the cobwebs out of my still-ringing head, and sprang.
"Nobody fucking move!" I yelled, scanning for targets. I couldn't believe what I found. Cowering by the wrecked Cadillac were Mr. and Mrs. James, the elderly black couple who live in a mobile home a few doors down from mine.
"Lord, Earl," Mrs. James said, "isn't that--"
"McFab!" Earl barked, rising to his feet. "What the hell's wrong with you?"
"Christ, I feel like the world's biggest idiot," I said. "I mean, talk about stupid..."
"Damn right you're stupid, and wait'll I tell your mama what--"
"So stupid," I continued, "I didn't even realize that my own neighbors were IRA terrorists. Now, sit back down, Paddy, and no one gets hurt." I gestured with my weapon.
"Paddy? Goddamnit, McFab--"
"I tole you he was crazy," Mrs. James chimed in. "His poor ole mama said--"
"We're not Irish, you idiot!" Mr. James continued. "And what the hell are you doing with that toothbrush?"
"It's a combat knife," I said, and looked down. Shit. "Okay, it is a toothbrush. If you don't think I can kill with it, though, think again."
Mr. James set his jaw and stepped towards me, a lethal look in his eyes. "McFab," he said, "I've had a long day. I took Irene to the Krystal burger like she wanted, and I hate the damn Krystal burger."
"It gives him the runs," Irene said.
"Stay outta this, Irene. So I ate food I don't like, I got a bad case of the squirts, and then my car breaks down half a mile from our redneck-infested trailer park and the toilet I so badly need right now. That would be bad enough, but--"
"Plenty of toilets at Guantanamo Bay, Mickey O' Pipebomb. I'm sure they'll fix you right up."
"I was stationed at Gitmo, you wanna-be, no-account, livin'-with-your-mama--"
"His poor ole mama," Irene said.
"Idiot!" he finished, and closed the gap between us. I must have still been slowed down by the car-crash, because my usual panther-like reflexes weren't quick enough to respond before he had me on the ground, his hand clasped around my throat.
"Lord, don't kill him, Earl, " Irene said.
"Kill him? Hell, I'm gonna shove that toothbrush up his ass sideways!" He wrestled the toothbrush from my hand.
"Lord, his poor ole mama," Irene said. "Him comin' home with a toothbrush up there. Oh, Lord."
I struggled to find enough air to speak. "M...Mr...Mr. James...please..." He relaxed his grip slightly.
"You got somethin' to say, boy?"
"I-I'm sorry," I gasped. "Please...can't breathe..." He let me have a little more air. "I thought you were terrorists, I promise. I was just trying to protect the homeland. Hell, you should understand, you were in the Marines."
"Well...Damnit, McFab, you're crazy as a damned bedbug, but I got a soft spot for you. That sculpture you made of the boys on Iwo Jima, planting the flag..."
"You--you liked it?"
"Brought a tear to my eye, boy, and to think you made something that nice with mashed potatoes...Any Marine would have been proud to eat that sculpture, McFab." He let go of my throat and stood up.
"Earl, ain't you gonna shove that toothbrush--"
"I said stay outta this, Irene! Now, one thing, Mr. Randy. You gonna pay for my car."
"Hmmph. His poor ole mama gonna pay."
"Irene..."
"No problem, sir," I said. I stood and brushed myself off. "I just hope you'll accept my apology, soldier to soldier."
"Soldier to wannabe," he said, and we shook.
"Tell ya what, " I said, "I'll call us a tow truck and we'll have you home on that toilet in no time."
"Sounds good," Mr, James said, and sat back down by Mrs. James and the mangled Cadillac.
I opened my cell-phone, stepped a few feet away, and dialed.
"Give me Homeland Security," I whispered.

Famous and Andy

2005-07-16T09:37:00.000+06:30

A watering hole. Last night. 2100 hrs.
It was a rough bar, but I wasn't afraid. I'd seen or read about more action than any of the other men and women in Red Lobster this night, and as usual I was armed to the teeth. Besides carrying my standard weapons load, I was ordering peach daquiris and saving the plastic swords they use to hold the garnish together. Those things can put an eye out, and quick.
I was about to call it a night when a slightly overweight guy in a hawaiian style "bone shirt" sat down on the stool beside me. He nodded at me, appraising me with his icy brown eyes. Something in his look told me he recognized a warrior when he saw one. I nodded back, barely.
"Bourbon and grenadine," he called to the barmaid. "And make it a good one, luv."
I immediately recognized his accent as South London, having listened to my books-on-audio CD of Andy McNab narrating "Wuthering Heights" while I Jazzercised that afternoon.
"Limey, eh?" I asked him. "South London?"
"Spot on, mate," he grinned. "Of course, I've traveled a bit, I have. Probably sound a bit of everything, yeah?"
"Been around a bit myself," I said, indicating my Soldier of Fortune tee shirt.
"Merc, then, yeah? Brit army meself."
"Four-fifty," the bartender said, sitting the man's drink in front of him. "And you can't run a tab anymore," she added.
"Four..." He frowned as he rummaged through his wallet, accidentally letting me have a peek at something I should have suspected was in there anyway. SAS, the card read. Official Identity Card. Below that, the winged dagger and a name...A name I can't reveal.
"Er, I think I'm a bit short," the man said. "Bleedin' Yank money, can't keep track of it...Now where's me platinum Amex?"
"I've gotcha," I said. "And another daquiri for me," I told the bartender. "Not so strong as last time."
"Well, crikey and Big Ben," the man said. "You're a swell bloke." He toasted me when our drinks arrived. "Name's Andy," he said. "Least, that's what I go by."
Holy shit. It couldn't be. I tried to calm myself, think rationally. Okay, test him. Only way to know for sure.
"So, Andy," I said, as casually as I could. "Ever been to Hereford?"
"Sure, Stirling Lines--oh, cor blimey, I've said too much." He frowned into his empty glass. "That grenadine hits me quick, it does."
"Lemme buy you another," I said, and did. I couldn't believe it. Andy McNab. My hero, hell, my God, right here beside me.
"Your secret's safe with me, McNab," I whispered to him.
"Thanks, mate," he said, sounding very relieved. "IRA's everywhere, you know."
"You bet I do. I exposed an IRA cell operating a mexican restaurant right here in town."
"Doesn't surprise me," he said. "You seem a switched-on bloke. Say, how 'bout another drink for a fellow hard man?"
"No prob, friend." I looked him over more carefully as he drained another bourbon, wanting to absorb every detail. Something about him reminded me...
"Hey," I said. "This is weird. I met Chris Ryan at The Olive Garden a few months ago, and he looked just like you. Even let me buy him a few drinks."
Andy leaned close and whispered to me, "Mate, think about it. Of course we look alike. All SAS men do. Kind of hard to target us as individuals if we all look the same."
Of course. I felt like a dumb-ass for not realizing that, but then again I was two-daquiri drunk and not as sharp as usual.
"Sorry, Andy," I said. "I didn't mean--"
"No worries, mate, buy me a drink and we'll call it even."
I did, and as we talked long into the evening I was pleasantly surprised by his modesty. He acted like he didn't even remember the names of most of his books, and he was much more interested in ordering drinks than bragging about his exploits. Just like Chris Ryan, a class act.
After two hours, two daquiris, and seventeen bourbon-and-grenadines, Andy was ready to leave.
"Sorry to go, mate," he slurred, "but, crikey, I'm pissed. Feel like I'm gonna--" He finished his sentence by puking, or "bulking up" as the limeys call it, all over my lap. He leaned on the bar for support, and I cupped my hands for him as he threw up the shrimp cocktail we'd shared.
"Oh, cor blimey," he said. "Mate, I'm so sorry." He grabbed a corner of my tee shirt and wiped his mouth. "Really, mate, I feel terrible--"
"Stop," I said. "It's an honor to wear your puke, Mr. McNab. " I meant it. I had washed the shirt Chris Ryan barfed on, but Andy's vomit would go into my souvenier chest, right alongside the pair of used skiddies I had purchased on e-bay, the ones Andy wore for two weeks straight in Belize.
"You're a good chap," he said. He stumbled, then righted himself. "You'd have made a fine SAS trooper, mate. Tell ya what--I can't find me bleedin' credit card--lend me twenty quid and I'll send you a Regimental beret and stable belt as soon as I get home to London."
"Hell no," I said. "But I'll give you forty, Sergeant."
He saluted me, money in hand, and staggered out the door. I'm not ashamed to admit, I cried a little as I watched him go.
"What an asshole," the bartender said from behind me. "That's Nigel Hull, the guy who works at the shoe store down the street. He's always bumming drinks off of people."
"That's a shame," I said, turning to leave her my usual ten-percent tip. Poor girl, he had her completely fooled, and I wasn't about to tell her that "Nigel Hull" was in fact the most famous SAS soldier of all time. I gave her a wink as I left.
His secret was safe with me.

Mind in the Gutter

2005-06-29T13:00:00.000+06:30

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

Hot Tip

2005-06-26T16:55:00.000+06:30

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

Limeys are People, Too, Kind Of

2005-06-26T01:08:00.000+06:30

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

Listen Up, Pukes

2005-06-25T20:41:00.000+06:30

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