Knives

Bag o' Doom

Just for funsies.

My Heart is Heartless

So last night when I was trying to get to sleep, my heart started to pound in my chest in a very disturbing way, as though I had just run up a dozen flights of stairs and then wrestled a polar bear at the top. At one point, I even got short of breath a couple of times.

It was scary.

I got up and paced around a bit, hoping to take the edge off. No good. I tried willing myself to relax. Nope. I tried a little meditation and deep breathing exercises, but that just made everything worse.

Laying down was a no go. Sitting up was even uncomfortable. Finally, I gave in to the very raw sensation that I was most certainly doomed if I didn't go to the hospital right freaking now, and I went to the hospital right freaking then.

So, two hours, one hot nurse, and one earnest doctor later, we finally managed to piece together what was wrong with me.

Two weeks ago I decided that I was going to go off soda permanently. But I couldn't go cold turkey--been there, done that, didn't work. So I decided to wean myself off soda by drinking iced tea and green tea. I'd never had iced tea before, and rarely had green tea, so I wasn't aware that both contain like double or triple the amount of caffeine compared to soda. It's crazy.

So I drank that stuff for a week and added some exercise into the mix. working out a bit so I could overcome the tendinitis in my arms. Bad idea.

About the middle of last week, I began noticing my heart thumping harder than normal, and it concerned me a little, but not too much. But the biggest problem was I started feeling like crap. Figuring out the caffeine was the cause of my distress, I didn't drink anything but water or milk up to now. But it was too late.

The damage is done.

Add to these things is the fact that I haven't been getting enough cardiovascular exercise. I used to walk three to five miles every day, but between my new inconvenient work schedule and the summer heat, I hadn't been walking or working out at all since I started back at work in January. This neglect has taken its toll, and I'm paying the tax with every beat of my heart.

That's what I get for being a big fat guy in a family full of diabetics and heart disease. I've been begging for heart problems for way too long, and now it looks like we're here.

They did an EKG on me and tested my blood. My blood pressure was still way higher than it should have been, although I maintain it could have been attributable to the freckled hotness of my raven-haired, blue-eyed nurse as much as to the caffeine and sloth. Seriously, homina homina.

The doc told me to go see a heart specialist today, and that the heart doc would probably put me on meds to keep my blood pressure low. So yay me, I've officially turned into an old guy. Bad heart, bad joints, bad stomach, headaches, tendinitis, heel pain, excessive weight, and probably diabetes knowing my luck. I have to take all kinds of vitamins now, fermented cod liver oil, and I just know I'm going to be guzzling Geritol and Ensure by next week.

Let this be a lesson to all you fatties and lazy, slothful youths. Don't let yourself get to the point I'm at, or you probably won't live to regret it.

Looks like Dannyboy gets to shape up or shuffle off this mortal coil. And there's none of my usual procrastinating this time.

Man, oh man, this was one hell of a 9/11.

The House

So Bonnie has called me out, and she wants to hear the story of what happened in The House in Louisiana. Now, normally I’d be hesitant to tell this tale, but I haven’t posted anything in a while, so now seems like the time. So Bonster, this one's for you.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

It all started, as these things so often do, with a dead guy in Cleveland. His name was Lloyd Blood Catrall, 97, of the Kingbury Run area of Cleveland. He died, believe it or not, in a freak climbing accident, and left behind him a legacy that haunts me to this day.

I was loafing around Cleveland on a three day layover, waiting for a shipment of paper goods to take to Denver. I was bored as hell and looking for something to do when I discovered on Craigslist an estate sale taking place at a nearby home. Knowing that they often wind up selling old guns at these things, I jumped in my rig and drove down.

The house was easily seventy years old, and the inside looked like the house of a fussy old aunt. Everything was neat and orderly, but the old man just had so much stuff. Shelves and shelves lined every room, and was filled with the mementos of an exciting and memorable life. Fifty year old skis and poles, a surfboard that looked to have been built in the ’40’s. Rifle racks that were empty now and old sailing gear. A pair of spears that had a pitting on the blades, the kind you see hunters skewer wild boars with. A parachute hanging in a corner, even.

I talked with the man’s nephew Karl, who told me his uncle had been in the OSS and fought behind the lines in France during World War II. Looking around, I could tell. This Lloyd Blood Catrall had been a wild man, even in his nineties. It seemed a shame for his family to be selling off the contents of his house. The place was a shrine to an adventurer, and adventurers don’t really exist anymore. They’re a dying breed.

I guess the word hadn’t got out about the sale, because I was able to score the old man’s very nice Fitzed Colt New Service (which I ultimately sold to a collector), and a nicely built steamer trunk that was one of a set of four. The trunk I wanted was the most beat up one that had all of the souvenir stickers on it, and when I pulled it out from the stack, found it was still heavy with cargo. I’d assumed the man’s nephew had already looted the case for valuables, but I was hoping to root through the thing to see if I could find anything interesting. The nephew said his kids had already gone through the trunks, and that I was welcome to keep whatever was in it, or I could throw it all away. I wished I had more money at the time, ‘cause I would have filled my truck with stuff if I had.

So with the help of a handtruck and some sweat, I wrestled the steamer trunk outside and got it in my rig. Once I got back to the truck stop, I opened the lid on the heavy trunk, and it was like Christmas inside.

Old men tend to accumulate things through their lives, interesting objects from traveling the world, going to war, and working in exciting places. Lloyd Blood Catrall was no different. He’d had nearly a hundred years of acquiring cool stuff, and though Catrall’s nephew had claimed to have gone through the locker, there was no way they would have left some of the stuff that was in there. This particular locker must have been overlooked by his family. Either that or they were just ignorant as to what is valuable or not.

There wasn’t just a bunch of random junk in there. There were folders of papers and newspaper clippings that looked interesting. An old brass spyglass, the kind that collapses, like you see in old pirate movies. An antique Ka-bar switchblade and Marine fixed-blade knife. A Fairbairn-Sykes commando dagger. An old gold-plated watch. Several small statues and ornaments on chains that looked to be some kind of 3rd world charms or amulets. A pair of antique silver-framed Matsuda sunglasses. An old leather gauntlet with steel strips sewn in between the two layers of cowhide. A battered brass Zippo lighter with the name Blood engraved on the bottom edge. A tarnished silver flask. A piano-wire garrote with to wooden pegs for handles that was stored in a leather pouch. A pocket knife that had ancient lock picks instead of blades that probably wouldn’t work on any modern lock. Another folding tool with a wire cutter that I remembered was called an Escaper’s knife during WWII—the precursor to the modern day multi-tool. A gas mask with new filters.

This old boy had everything. His mementos of war and a adventurous life.

Among the papers, I found an accordion folder tied together with a leather piggin’ string. Inside, I noticed the thick file contained documents from what appeared to be two separate subjects. The first were case files and newspaper accounts of what was assumed to be a serial murderer called The Cleveland Torso Killer. Evidentally, old Lloyd Catrall had been a Cleveland cop in his ‘20’s and been assigned to the case in the 1930’s.

Very interesting stuff, but an internet search later confirmed that even though there were dozens of men working the case, and even the legendary Eliot Ness led the team for awhile, the Torso Killer was never officially found. These documents, however, had all kinds of reports and crime scene photos and witness statements; enough for an enterprising soul to write a book about. I made a mental note to contact a few writers online and see if any fish would bite. These documents could be worth something.

The second part of the file looked to be a witch hunt that Catrall had been waging in the fifties, looking into the affairs of what he referred to as “The damned mysterious Saber’s of Lafitte,” a secretive network of politicians and businessmen, all movers and shakers within the upper crust of New Orleans’ high society mucky mucks.

That was the part of the file that had me intrigued. I could find no mention of a secret society called The Sabers of Lafitte, but the name itself conjured images of that notorious pirate and smuggler Jean Lafitte, who had been all over Louisiana during the War of 1812 and after. I already knew a little something about historical New Orleans thanks to my prodigious reading, and the idea that a former cop and spy had been looking into the activities of a secretive group in the south had my curiosity piqued.

From everything that I had seen of Lloyd Blood Catrall, the man had been nobody’s fool, and he would not have been involved in conspiracy plots lightly. Hell, for a few years at least, conspiracies had been the man’s bread and butter, and I was willing to bet he hadn’t been a kook. The man had dossiers on a dozen people who were supposed to be high-ranking members of the Sabers of Lafitte which included family genealogies, pictures, and fingerprint cards. He’d done his homework, and written copious notes detailing his thoughts on the group.

It took me weeks to pore through the papers when I got home, and what I discovered once I had read them over a dozen times was compelling, to say the least. I became nearly obsessed with the file, and began to make regular visits to the library and the internet to get a handle on the history of Catrall’s secret society.

The Sabers of Lafitte had indeed been formed during the War of 1812 by the pirate and Privateer Jean Lafitte and his brother, Pierre. Despite how the history books made them sound, they had evidently been more patriotic than most historians believed, and had been at the forefront of creating a society of hidden revolutionaries, who would defend and protect the citizens and the city of New Orleans from all comers.

According to Catrall, this group had been responsible for building much of the city and defending it not only from the British, but from the Union during the Civil War. As far as secret societies go, this group was pretty effective, and had successfully done its job and kept the city safe for nearly two-hundred years.

The dozen members of the SoL whose dossiers Catrall had accumulated had been active members during the 1950’s, but there were no new records after that. Catrall said in his notes that he was warned off the trail by a pair of huge men who had been in his hotel room in the French Quarter when he woke up one morning. They had managed to enter without waking him, which was a difficult feat given Catrall’s warrior senses that had never atrophied, the ones that had kept him from being captured by the Nazis during the war. The ease with which these men had gotten close to him had shook him to his core, and he decided to drop the matter entirely, but he did note that after their little visit to his hotel room, the group seemed to have gone underground, and virtually disappeared in the 1960’s. He was almost positive, though, that the New Orleans-based community organization The Sons of Louisiana was a false front for the SoL, and that the society was still in operation.

The weirdest part, though, was the manila file that contained fifty or so pages referencing the occult underground of New Orleans’ ethnic poor. The Voodooists, the Santeria and mayombe practicioners. The hex doctors that moved within the Cajun bayous. Spirits, ghosts, and men and women possessed by unearthly forces. His notes were detailed and a bit disturbing when he recalled some of the things he had seen, and he wrote down his defenses against what he had termed “baleful forces”. It made for fascinating reading, and I soaked it all up.

However, despite Lloyd Catrall’s detailed notes, I could find no reason other that the SoL being a shadowy secret society, to make him spend the better part of a year dogging their every step. It was a complete mystery, and eventually I got bored with the subject and put it out of my head, moving on to other things.

All of this was nearly forgotten until three years later, when I found myself surfing the internet one night and I stumbled upon a conspiracy theory message forum called Powerful Secrets. The forum members who posted seemed to be made up of nothing but wack-jobs and skitzoes, but they were otherwise a pretty fun group and unsurprisingly willing to entertain the most outlandish crap that anyone threw against the wall. They’d hash over and debate every wild-ass theory that came out of left field, and thought of the world as one big network of hidden compacts and back-room deals. This was one of those places that the mention the Illuminati and Prieuré de Sion is met with serious scowls of utmost solemnity.

In other words, they were the kind of people who might have heard of the Sabers of Lafitte or the Sons of Louisiana, and might give me a little understanding of what Catrall was looking for.

On a lark, I dug out the files and read them through once again, hoping that looking at them through fresh eyes would give me some new insight. No luck. The purpose of Catrall’s hunt was as elusive as ever.

In a last ditch effort to get answers, I went onto the Powerful Secrets Forum and started a thread that mentioned both Lloyd Catrall and the elusive Sabers of Lafitte, already thinking that there was no way anyone would know about either subject.

I was right. None of the members had heard of either, though a couple of members from Baton Rouge had heard of the Sons of Lousiana, given the group’s Feed the Poor and community outreach programs. But other than that, the Baton Rouge contingent knew nothing.

Once again, I had struck out.

Figuring that I had come to the end of the line, I stuffed the papers into the bottom of my closet and put ancient conspiracy theories and spies out of my mind and went back to living life. I stuck around Salt Lake, driving truck and gaming, and going shooting every once in a while. Life got back to normal.

I had spent the day running freight out to the Dugway Proving Grounds, and I was enjoying the mild Salt Lake summer, when I got a call on my Nextel from my boss, asking me for my location. I told him that I was going on my lunch and that I’d be hanging out at one of my favorite places to spend my lunch breaks—a grassy area near the airport where I could sit and think about nothing, maybe feed the seagulls a little and read. He told me to stay there for a while, and take an extra hour on my lunch.

I was okay with that and I didn’t think to ask him why. I figured that he had a pick up or something he wanted me to do before I came in and was just waiting on the particulars. It had happened before.

I had been there for a half hour, and was sitting on a picnic table, eating lunch and reading a book, when I heard footsteps coming up behind me. Suddenly paranoid, I turned around to see who was sneaking up on me.

To my surprise, it was a girl. A very attractive, dark brunette with flashing eyes in a low cut crop-top. She was looking right at me and smiled, and then waved from across the lot. I turned my head and looked to see if she was waving at someone behind me, but we were alone in the middle of a big, wide open field.

I raised one eyebrow and waited for her to come to me.

Girls don’t ever approach guys like me unless they want something. It’s a universal truth. Usually they want money or a favor of some kind. Maybe get me to jump their car or give them money for the train—something like that. I was curious to hear what her pitch was going to be, and I quickly stuffed the book I’d been reading into my pack and zipped it up, just in case I wanted to leave in a hurry.

She saaauuntered up slowly, crinkling those shaded eyes at me and flashing a toothy grin and she spoke.

“Hi, Dan. Nice the meetcha, Sha.”

What the Hell!?

“I’m Miri,” she said. “Miri Levon. I’ve been trying to find you for a week, now. You’re a canaille gent, me—hard to track down, yeah.” Her voice was smooth and throaty, but her accent was thick and hard to follow. It sounded Cajun to me, but she was less Justin Wilson and more Southern Belle. And a hundred percent freakin’ charming.

“Uhh…hi.” Lord, I’m slick with the ladies. “Why are you looking for me, exactly?”

“You posted a thread over at Powerful Secrets. ‘Bout a fella named Catrall and the Sabers o’ Lafitte. You were lookin’ for anyone what knew about ‘em,” she said.

“Uh, huh,” I said. “But how do you know that was me?”

“’Cause, it was you what posted it. Ain’t you the fella named Centennial Red?” She asked.

“Yeah, but how did you know it was me? I never use my real name online.”

“Oh, that. I’m a moderator on the forum, yeah. Ya used your right name when ya registered, and I tracked your IP,” she said. “And I knew I was gonna need to come and see ya in person, so hear I am.”

That’s the last time I use my real name online, I thought.

“Yeah, but how the hell did you find me here?”

“Oh, I asked your boss how to find ya. Brian, it was.”

“And he just told you where to find me?”

“Well, he might’a got the impression I was your girlfriend from back home come to visit.”

“The impression…” I said.

“I never said it outright. Just told him I really needed you right now, and I had to find you.”

“He didn’t question you at all?”

“No,” she said. “He seemed so happy that you had a girlfriend, he jus’ gave you up right there.”

Yep, sounds like Brian, I thought.

“So, whaddya you want, exactly?” I asked.

She smiled. “I think you figured out the answers to some questions my Pop and Nonc been hunting after for nigh forty years, Beb. Like where a fella named Blood disappeared to in the ’50’s, and what he was hunting for down in Nawlins around then. We thought the Sabers made him disappear, but now it looks like he just up and left.”

“What’s a hell’s a nonc?”

“My Uncle Alyosius,” she said. “You said in that post of yours that you found Catrall’s papers and such?”

Suddenly it occurred to me that a woman who had spent a week tracking me down from where I supposed was Louisiana didn’t come all this way just to talk. She was onto something bigger. Something real. And I was suddenly hesitant to mention the papers at all or let her know I had them. I was beginning to feel the excitement I’d first felt when I’d found those papers, and no one was getting any information about them unless I was in on the deal.

“Papers, pictures, files, notes. I had them all,” I said. And then I hedged my bets. “I wish I still had them.”

“What, you don’t have them anymore?”

“No,” I lied. “They kind of got stolen in California when I went out there last. They were in my backpack, and some freakin’ thief ran off with it when I set it down for a minute on the beach.”

“You mean the papers are gone? I come out here for no good?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I told her. Her eyes lit up, and she got a hopeful gleam in them. “I read the damned thing fifty times if I read them once, and I’ve got a good memory.”

“You did. You remember what was in ‘em?”

“Yes, of course. I remember things I read. I could probably draw out the diagrams again if I need to. What all were you hoping to know?”

She squealed like a girl and threw both arms around my neck and squeezed. I felt vertebrae pop in my neck and I chuckled. She pulled back and kissed me on the cheek three times.

“I knew you’d be the one! I jus’ knew it, yeah! Dannyboy, you magnifique grand beede’,” she said, and hugged me again. “We got lots to talk about, Beb. You, me. Let’s go.”

Laughing, I said, “But I got work, still.”

“Not today you don’t,” she said. “I told your boss I was makin’ away with you for the rest of the day.”

“What did he say?”

She winked at me and my toes tingled. “He said to tell you that you were a lucky bastard.”

Indeed.

Jabari and the Jihad

There is no reasonable explanation for this picture. None at all. It's a mystery.

First, I have to say that the man's fighting technique is not as awful as it seems at first blush. He's getting off the X to the nine o'clock position, so the use of one hand on a stockless Uzi is warranted. I think he could have extended the gun a bit further and locked his elbow out, though.

Second, The American flag on the right. According to the oh, so reliable US media, America is on the world's sh*t list, so such pro-American support is baffling to me, especially from a place that appears very much third world, although I suppose it could be Detroit or New Orleans.

Third, what happened to the guy's pants, and why are they pink?

Fourth, and the pièce de résistance, behold the feather duster in the guy's left hand. The feather duster. Feather. Duster. In a gunfight.

So, given all of the variables, here is the most viable explanation I could come up with:

Our hero, Jabari, Patriot Wayfarer of Republic of Dekari, was minding his own business in his backyard, grilling up some marinated impala and listening to Uncle Kembray laughing with delight while Jabari bickered with his baby-momma as he carefully brushed the dust off of his collection of framed and autographed portraits of George W. Bush, Glenn Beck, Col. Rex Applegate, and Col. Ollie North, when the first stirrings of trouble began.

“Stop scratching at those mosquito bites, Jabari! They will get infected.”

“They vex me, woman! I need relief,” Jabari said.

“Roll down your pant leg. That’s how you got the bites in the first place.”

"No. And I cannot believe you washed my favorite pants with your red load, woman! How many times have I said it? Tanzanian dyes always bleed through. Now I look like a yuppy girly-boy from California."

"You've never been to California."

"Yes, but I've heard the stories. And don't change the subject. Look at my pants! They clash terribly with my sandals now."

"Nobody will notice them with that awful shirt you're wearing."

"I love this shirt." Jabari was incensed. How could she complain about his shirt? It was hot outside. It was hot inside, too. It was hot everywhere. How could the woman insult his most comfortable clothing in this weather?

"That shirt makes you look like a gangster ruffian from New Orleans."

"What would you know about New Orleans, Tambika?"

"I watched Steven Seagal: Lawman on the satellite last week while you were trimming the tree. He is so wise…"

"You’ve done it again! You always change the subject on me when I am winning.”

“Ahh, Jabari, you poor boy,” Uncle Kembray chuckled as he shook his head. “Why are you arguing with her? That is no way for a man to have peace in his home.”

“Well, then, Uncle, tell me how you would deal with this unrelenting harpy!”

“Jabari!” Tambika stood in front of her man, arms akimbo and frowning. “How could you call me such terrible things?” She stuck her bottom lip out in a girlish pout.

“You should turn her over your knee, Boy, as we did when she was a girl,” Kembray said. “That will teach her to behave.”

“How dare he!”

“We aren’t allowed to hit women anymore, Kembray,” Jabari said. “Even when they deserve it.”

“Who says?” Kembray sat further back on the table and adjusted his plastic false leg.

“Hollywood. And the National Organization of Women.”

“Who are they to tell us what to do?” Kemray scowled and looked annoyed while he fiddled with the straps on the prosthetic limb.

“I don’t know. They are the loudest of the harpies. Also, the hairiest.” Tambika punched him in the arm, and Jabari stuck his tongue out at her. “Sometimes this one does need a good thrashing, though.”

“Men!”

“Like now, for example.” Jabari grinned at his girl, who was working herself up to a fit of righteous indignation. He menaced her with the feather duster, and she dodged out of his reach with a squeal.

“But the Muslims still beat their women,” Kembray observed.

“Yes, well, they’re still allowed to,” Jabari said.

“Why? What makes them so special?”

“They cut the heads off people who object.”

“Oh, yes.”

“As I was saying, Tambika, about my pants, I--," he cocked his head to one side and listened, his eyes lifted skyward. There was something…

"You what?"

"Shhhh...do you hear that?"

Down the street, a buzz of irritating noise reached his ears: the sounds of raised voices, singing, or maybe chanting, bearing down on his little slice of Africa. Whoever these people were, they were loud. They screamed, they whooped, they shouted anti-American slogans from The Huffington Post and Al Jazeera, and as they came closer, Jabari’s blood chilled as he began to pick up on the words they were saying.

"ALLAHU AKBAR! AL JIHAD, NAZRANI PIG-DOG! JABARI KIUME, YOU DASTARDLY CAPITALIST! MAY YOU DIE A THOUSAND DEATHS, YOU SON OF A SYPHILITIC CAMEL! DEATH TO AMERICA! WE HATE FREEDOM! WE HATE TOILET PAPER, FOR IT IS THE TOOL OF THE GREAT SATAN!"

Oh, this didn't bode well for Jabari at all. He loved America—he was known for it. He was for freedom in all of its many shapes. He was an outspoken supporter of toilet paper. Yes, these interlopers weren’t going to get along with him one bit.

No, this mob was the tool of Al-Wazrili, the warrior sect from the Sudan—radical Islamists known for conscripting children and selling their forces as fighters across Africa. Jabari knew from watching Fox News that many of the Wazzies had been found fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as Indonesia. They were not to be trifled with. These were people who expanded their numbers through intimidation and pain and chopping heads.

One of their clerics had been in town for the last week, stirring up trouble among the Muslim population and speaking out against Christians. When he had first shown up, Jabari knew--he just knew--that the Wazzies would bring trouble.

And now their missionaries were coming to his door.

For a brief moment he gazed at Old Glory hanging on his fence and realized that the flash mob was coming for him and his family and that there was little he could do about it. He thanked God that the children were off with their grandfather this day. A gasp from beside him reminded him of the woman at his side, barely more than a girl, and he turned to reassure her.

Tambika stared at him, her eyes round, showing stark white against her midnight skin. He recognized that look, for he had seen it once before. She was scared; her lips pressed together, a line of worry deepening between her brows. She breathed in and out of her nose, her hands fisted at her sides.

He smiled at her and her eyes narrowed. The corners of her mouth curled upwards just a bit.

Scared, yes, but also defiant and calm. And angry. Good.

“Go inside, my girl. I will deal with these Jihad Jafars."

"I should get your Uzi, Jabari?"

"Yes, my sweet, and the rifle. And don’t hesitate to unchain the dogs as well."

“Be careful,” Tambika said, as she hurried off to get his guns.

The mob had arrived. Eleven harsh, humorless men and six shrieking women trooped towards his fence, the men wielding clubs, axes, pangas, and spears. The women walked ahead of the men, dressed in colorful muumuus and swirling head scarves—they looked like murderous circus tents with their knives and knobkerries flashing in silvery arcs as they trilled war-cries and Islamo-Fascist Prayers of Destruction.

These were the Al-Wazrili—dervishing women and stone-faced, heavily-armed men; in training to be killers, all. Only a few dozen meters away now.

One of them, the leader, he knew by sight. The scar-faced man in the green military fatigues and tan do-rag was a viscous Kenyan cleric called Aswad, who gripped a rusty AK-47 that hung from a sling around his neck. The rifle made Jabari nervous, and he flexed his knees, ready to bolt behind the heavy block wall of his house should the Wazzie spiritual leader open fire.

“Careful, Boy,” Uncle Kembray said, “These creatures are the tools of the Black Imams. I will guard your back.” Kembray unscrewed the end of his walking stick and pulled a foot-long javelin head out of the hidden compartment in the haft. He reversed the head and screwed the base of the blade down over the steel threads, turning his five-foot long walking stick into a six-foot long spear. The old man lay the weapon across his knees and smiled grimly.

Uncle Kembray was a cripple, but he was still a dangerous man. If only his uncle-by-marriage still had his old tommy gun from the wars. The Al-Wazrili wouldn’t stand a chance against him, crippled or not.

Jabari stood and waited for the riotous mob, his only weapon the feather duster in his hand. He knew that in his pink stretchy-pants and wifebeater tank top he looked like an easy target, but he thought that maybe he could convince them to simply go away and let him enjoy his afternoon in peace.

Then he saw who was with Aswad. In the small crowd were men he knew, and women as well: Pili, the artist from down the road. He looked angry, but also nervous, uncertain. Yetunde Fira, the wife of Dogo Fira, who was the son of his old schoolteacher. Dogo was nowhere to be seen, but his wife was here, with long, curving knives.

And in the back of the crowd, next to Aswad, stood Paki Pangwa.

Jabari's blood chilled when he saw the man.

Paki held twin pangas, and he was smiling evilly. Paki, who had always desired Tambika, had lost her to Jabari as youngsters. He’d never gotten over it and had hated Jabari ever since. Now Jabari’s old rival stood in front of him, his blades swishing back and forth. Paki looked smug, like he was about to enjoy using those blades, and Jabari didn’t think he would like to know on what those blades were going to be used.

But worst of all, the member of the mob that broke his heart to see, was Isimo Rejalla. Tall, ugly Isimo, his childhood friend. Never would he have thought that Issy would turn on him like this. They had gone to a mission school together, been baptized together. How could Issy convert to this Islamist martial cult and then come after his oldest friends?

The old saying was true—the world really was going to hell.

Jabari’s dogs were growling and barking. They were excellent guard dogs, and they had good appetites for evil men, and each could sense that there were evil men at the door now, just outside the wall, and they wanted a taste. They slavered and whined to be let loose.

The group stopped only twenty feet from his gate and fanned out in a rough semi-circle. Aswad, the Whirlwind of Knives, stepped forth, his hand twitching on the grip of the Kalashnikov as if he were already feeling the recoil of the heavy gun. A corrupt sneer of evil twisted his ugly features and he raised his voice to be heard over the shrill cackling of the women’s chorus.

“Jabari Kiume! You are an American-loving devil, and you will see reason, or you will die today! You will join us in our Hate for the Great Satan! You will denounce your godless love of freedom and toilet paper and start using your hand like the rest of us--SHUT IT YOU GIBBERING SLUTS!”

The women went silent as Aswad turned back to Jabari and thrust an angry finger at him.

“You will burn that American flag and stomp it into the ground before the day is done or we will stone your woman and your filthy dogs while I make you watch! You will spit on the Christian Gods and embrace the loving clutches of mighty Allah, or you will go to the devil right now!”

So much for reasoning with them, Jabari fumed. Where is that woman with my Uzi?

The cacophony from the dog house had grown even more intense. The growls and barks and turned to snarls and yowls. Chains rattled and shook as the dogs strained to get loose. The canines knew there were monsters at the door, and they desperately wanted to sink their teeth into them.

They would get their chance.

Jabari scanned the crowd, and his eyes met those of his former friend, Isimo. In that moment, he saw Issy mouthing silent words to him. Run. Go. Run.

Issy jerked his head in the direction of Paki and motioned with his panga.

Jabari was suddenly relieved, just a little bit. He didn’t know what Issy was getting at, but the meaning was clear--his old friend hadn’t betrayed him. Isimo was still on his side.

Jabari glared at Aswad and found his own voice, raising it over the noise of the dogs.

“Asswad, you Jihad Jerk, I would sooner die than renounce toilet paper! And as for the rest, I’d rather drink gasoline and vodka in a vat of old sh*t than join you! You want my flag?! You can have it—from my cold dead hands! Come and take it, you baconless bastard!”

Aswad roared in anger. He fired a deafening burst of rounds into the air. He suddenly looked down at his rifle, a confused look on his face, and shook the gun back and forth. Something had gone wrong with the weapon, and Jabari could see the glint of corroded brass sticking out of the firing port.

Snarling, he pointed at Jabari and howled, “Kill the infidel! Tear him to pieces!”

The mob roared and raised their weapons. They surged towards him, wild eyed and bellowing in hatred.

“Oh, Sh*t!"




To be continued...

Sucker Punch

Here's the teaser trailer for Zack Snyder's new movie Sucker Punch. Snyder is the guy who did Dawn of the Dead '04 and 300, so naturally I like his style, and this new movie of his looks awesome.

For once this isn't a remake or adaptation of something else, and I like how the man thinks.



Let's see. Giant Chinese demons wielding 20mm Vulcan assault cannons? Check.

Fan service wire-fu gun molls with assault rifles and samurai swords? Check.

WWI biplanes and WWII bombers dogfighting with freakin' firebreathing dragons? Check.

Power armor and Kraut soldiers and Colt .45's and flaming Zepplins and freaking Scott Glenn? Check.

All of this in one movie?! Check.

The mind boggles. Nirvana, here I come.

Even if this thing is completely retarded, I will still love it for the visuals alone.

Zac Efron wanted to be in it since his girlfriend is playing a character named Blondie in the movie, but it doesn't look like he convinced Snyder. Sorry, Bon.

The News Is All Bad

One day of surfing the net and I'm already in the depths of depression. The world is going nuts as usual, and now I know all about it in excruciating detail.

Good gosh almighty, I went onto my usual news outlets today and was immediately mind-raped by the good people at The Drudge Report, Big Hollywood, Big Government, Big Journalism, Fox News, and Climate Depot, and now I want to scream in frustration. I made the mistake of following it up with visits to some commie-lib sites that shall remain nameless, and now I want to scream in frusration and punch somebody. And for what?

Why would I do this to myself? To stay informed? So I can freak out a lot over events and people I can't do anything about? Why do I give a crap? All the doom and gloom end-of-the-world stuff hasn't come to pass. For the most part, we all go to sleep, we get up, we eat and go to the john, and we go about our business. Every single day. Every time some talking head says that the end is nigh, he turns out to be full of crap and nothing happens at all.

Yeah, we still have trouble in the country, but I still see parents buying their little brats $300 iTouch units and Wii's and XBoxes and PS3's every day. America isn't starving; the masses aren't cold and naked. No one is suffering. For the moment at least, it's all good. No reason to stress.

I think the age of instant streaming news has driven us to a state of near panic. Everything from tap water to eggs to global warming (or cooling, depending on who's talking) is going to kill us all. Each 24-hour news cycle brings us a fresh chunk of alarming distress to cuddle up with. Michael Chrichton was right; we live in a State of Fear. That's how they control us. I swear the media and the government are working in collusion to keep us so freaked out all day long that we'll allow them to do anything, even destroy the country, in the name of keeping us comfortable and safe.

Screw that. I'm not gonna play the game for awhile.

I was happier when I didn't know what was going on in the big world. So right this minute I'm going to erase all of my bookmarks and links to any news organization or news blogs I have and remove myself from the world of current events. As much as possible, at least. My attitude has been great in the last few weeks when I was blissfully ignorant, and I want to feel like that again.

Ahhhh...all quiet now. That's better.