The Social Media Murder Corp

by Stephen Signorelli

  “What is this horrid stuff called? SPAM? What sort of thing is this?” Ajani asked as he studied the tin of meat.

  “It is some sort of meat from America,” Banga answered.

  “If this is what America tastes like I would rather starve.”

  Both boys laughed.

  “When we get to the refugee camps, what happens then?” Ajani wondered out loud.

  “I have heard they provide food, water, medicine, shelter, that is about all. And they are supposed to be safe areas from the fighting,” Banga answered as he ate.

  “This war, it makes no sense to me. This whole continent is a mess.”

  “We like to blame the Imperialists and Colonialism, but we really have to blame ourselves. We have lived on a continent of riches for thousands of years and done nothing with it. It is easy to blame others when you cannot accept the truth that the fault is your own.”

  Ajani regarded this idea.

  “This is true, my grandmother used to tell me that I had to accept responsibility for the things I did, good or bad.”

  “Your grandmother was a wise woman, her words are true.”

  Both boys started up at the night sky.

  “Why do your people hate us?”

  “I do not know, they give reasons like you are all dogs or animals or that, if you had the chance, you would wipe us out so we have to wipe you out first.”

  “They tell us the same thing. That you would kill or enslave us if given the chance.”

  “The leaders of both people are safe from the war, they live in big houses and count their money while the people die.”

  “Yes, you never hear of a politician’s son being killed on either side.”

  “I wonder if it is just a game for them, one that they like to play for their own mutual amusement.”

  “Laughing at the regular people who are murdered.”

  “War is a rich person’s game, their children never suffer.”

  “If I could, I would make them pay.”

  “We are just children, our time will come someday. Let us sleep, we have a long way to go to get to Uganda.”

  “Yes, goodnight brother.”

  “Goodnight my brother.”

  The jungle

  “I do not know, I think more than likely yes.”

  “I believe it to be true, the universe is too large, there must be other life.”

  “Then why hasn’t it contacted us yet?”

  “Look at the planet, look at all the shit going on, if you were an alien would you want to talk to us?’

  “I guess not, we do not make a very good first impression as a species.”

  Ajani and Banga talked as they made their way to the hopeful safety of the Ugandan border and the UN Refugee camps.

  “I think there must be billions of other planets out there, with many different life forms on them.”

  “I wonder if they do the same things we do?”

  “I am sure they fight and kill each other, if that is what you mean, even advanced cultures will always fight.”

  “That is a bit of a disappointment, I would hope any advanced aliens would have evolved past the state of war.”

  “I think conflict is a universal truth, even bacteria fight amongst themselves.”

  “That is too bad, a more peaceful world would be better.”

  “I know, I used to wonder what my life would have been like if there was peace. I would have finished school, gone to university. I played football, I was a goalie. I was good.”

  “I would have liked to have traveled the world with a beat up old backpack and learned many different languages and known many women. Then I would have written a book about my experiences and married a kind fat girl and had many kids and I would grow fruit or something.”

  “I would have taught your kids to play football.”

  “Ha! I would have made us some juice and we could have sat on my porch and smoked cigars and looked at the sky.”

  Both boys were silent for a while as they dreamt and walked.

  “It’s painful to dream.”

  “It is, very much so.”

  Just then both boys froze as they heard a truck driving towards them along the old dirt road they were on.”

  “Truck, quick, into cover, stay low.”

  Both boys dove into the thick jungle foliage just to the side of the road as they watched an old Mercedes lorry drive by slowly. It pulled over to a small clearing a hundred feet down from where the boys hid and stopped, it’s diesel engine belching smoke into the air.

  “What are they doing,” Ajani whispered.

  “I do not know, stay still,” Banga replied.

  The boys watched as soldiers got out of the truck, waving their arms around frantically. More soldiers climbed out of the back of the truck and motioned to the inside of the vehicle. The boys watched in horror as a dozen women, all bound and gagged, were pulled out of the truck. Each woman was clearly pregnant, and were roughly handled by the soldiers as they began to line them up.

  “Oh no, no no no!” Ajani gasped.

  “They are going to slice them open, they intend to carve their unborn children from their wombs, I know these soldiers, they are called ‘The Surgeons’, this is what they do.”

  “We, Banga we can’t let them.”

  “Ajani, I know that. But we are two, and they are many. If we attack, we are probably going to get killed.”

  “We took care of an entire base camp a few days ago!”

  “Those were drunken soldiers caught by surprise, these are battle hardened psychopaths who are always on guard for an attack.”

  “We can’t let them do this, they are going to carve them up like animals!”

  “We aren’t going to let them do it, I just want you to fully understand what is about to go down: we are probably going to die. Are you truly ready to die Ajani?”

  “For this reason, I would die a thousand times.”

  Banga smiled at Ajani, a demonic gleam in his eyes.

  “Good, we are on the same page. Ready brother?”

  Ajani steeled himself, his weapon in hand.

  “Ready.”

  “On 3….1…..2…..3!”

  Both boys sprung up, guns in hand, and began shooting, advancing on the soldiers. The soldiers were momentarily caught off guard, but soon regained their composure and took cover, firing back, pinning the boys down behind a fallen tree trunk.

  “How many down?”

  “3 dead, looks like about 9 left.”

  Bullets exploded around the tree trunk as the boys sank lower to the ground.

  “They have us pinned.”

  “Crap, there is no other cover.”

  “I could cut across the road into the bush, draw some of their fire, give you a chance to pick off some of them.”

  “They will cut you down before you can take 2 steps.”

  “Probably, or we can sit here and get blown up as soon as they decide to throw a few grenades.”

  “Good point. Try not to die. Do NOT look at them, keep your eyes focused on your destination. Only see the bush, see NOTHING else. Hear nothing else, feel nothing but your legs running. On 3.”

  “Ok on 3.”

  Banga smiled at Ajani.

  “1….2….3!!!!”

  Ajani leapt forward, running as fast as he could across the twenty feet of the dirt road. He looked only straight ahead, he tuned his senses out, ignoring the bullets and shouts and noises of battle. He felt his legs pushing him forward, he felt his lungs breath in huge gulps of oxygen, fueling his desperate run forward. Nothing else existed for him, only that one spot of safety twenty feet in front of him.

  Behind him, Banga made use of the change of fire focus and picked off three more of the soldiers. The soldiers shooting at Ajani turned their attention back to Banga, allowing Ajani to safely reach his destination. He threw himself into the cover of the bush, rolling as far into the cover as he could.

  The remaining soldiers now switched
positions, concentrating all their fire on Banga, tearing the tree trunk that served as his shield to pieces.

  “Hurry brother,” Banga said through gritted teeth as bullets exploded around him.

  Ajani exploded out of the cover of the bush with his gun blazing, he charged the soldiers, who now had their backs to him. He cut down three more of them. The remaining three spun around in confusion as their comrades fell, only to be cut down by Banga, who now emerged from behind the tree trunk that had served as his shield. The last three soldiers died on their feet, cut to pieces by the two boys.

  As the smoke cleared, Banga and Ajani stood amongst the dead, surveying their handiwork.

  “I hope they burn in hell,” Banga said as he spat on the ground.

  “Me too,” Ajani added.

  The boys walked over to where the pregnant women were bound, intending to cut them loose.

  They were too late.

  Each woman lay on the ground, a bullet in each head, and a bullet in each abdomen. They had been executed during the firefight by one of the soldiers. The boys stood in shock, eyes wide open, a sickening pit in their stomachs.

  “We, we failed,” Banga whispered.

  “This, it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Ajani said with tears in his eyes.

  “It never is, is it?” a voice said from behind them.

  Both boys spun around, guns drawn, only to be confronted with the sight of 5 heavily armed soldiers, all clad in camo body armor, their faces covered by green ski masks. Pointed at the boys were 5 HK 416 French made assault rifles. Slightly behind the 5 soldiers, an older man dressed in a simple black combat fatigues was standing.

  “Who…what?” Ajani stammered.

  “Ah yes,” the old man answered with a smile, “I will answer, but I think you should put your weapons down, now.”

  “Fuck,” Banga swore under his breath as he threw his weapon to the ground.

  “PICK THAT UP!” the old man shouted at Banga, “I said put them down, not throw them down. A soldier never gives up his weapon, no matter what. You die holding it, or you never pick it up in the first place.”

  Banga slowly shook his head and picked his gun up, slinging it across his back, as did Ajani.

  “Good,” the old man said with a smile, “That was your first lesson. Never give up your weapon, never.”

  “Who the fuck is this old fart?” Banga asked.

  “I speak French so don’t bother,” the old man grinned.

  The two boys looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “We are in a world of trouble brother,” Ajani said quietly.

  “Amen brother,” Banga replied.

  The old man walked to the boys and regarded them, staring at them intently, as if silently judging them.

  “You, you are a Tutsi. And you, YOU are a Hutu. You have thrown away your ethnic hatred of each other to work together, why?” the old man asked.

  “Ethnicity means nothing, we are humans, so we are brothers,” Ajani stated.

  “We stand here as brothers,” Banga repeated.

  The old man flashed an evil smile.

  “Well now, you seem to have figured out world peace. It’s a shame the rest of your tribe doesn’t feel the same way, this might actually be a nice country. Tell me, boy soldiers, what was your plan after you saved those women, assuming you actually HAD a plan?”

  The boys looked at each other sheepishly.

  “We, we didn’t have time to come up with one,” Banga admitted.

  “I guess just saving them and letting them free would have been it,” Ajani added.

  The old man shook his head.

  “You were going to just set free a group of pregnant women loose in a war zone? That isn’t a plan, its stupidity. You are both fools. Yet, you have some untapped potential. Tell me, you look at those dead pregnant women, how does that make you feel? Knowing you failed to save them?”

  The boys looked over at the dead women, their blood staining the ground beneath them, flies already gathering on their bodies.

  “It makes me angry,” Banga said with clenched fists.

  “There could have been a great leader inside of them, a man or a woman who could have stopped war or cured a disease. Now, nothing. I feel, helpless,” Ajani added with a sigh.

  “Yes, you should feel helpless. Success requires planning, it requires being ready for any eventuality, every possible variable or outcome. You planned nothing, you rushed headlong into a situation like blind mice shooting wildly at what you perceived to be your main targets, without understanding the true situation.”

  The old man looked at the dead women on the ground.

  “No one will remember they even existed,” he spat.

  The two boys looked at the old man, their eyes glaring.

  “I see the looks you are giving me, the truth hurts doesn’t it? In a few days their flesh will be picked cleaned by hyenas, their bones will decay into the ground. No one will know they ever lived, no one. They will vanish into the void of history, in total and final anonymity. Is this how you want to end up?”

  “No,” Banga answered.

  “I will not disappear into time without a trace,” Ajani added.

  The old man laughed.

  “Good, then perhaps I can make something out of the two of you. I give you two choices, each of them final so think carefully. The first choice I give you is to come with me. If you do, I will train you, ruthlessly, harshly. I will abuse you mentally, emotionally, and physically. You will be tested and retested and then tested again over and over for a decade or more. You will do what I say, when I say it, and exactly how I say it, with no questions. You will give me total obedience, I will own you both. And when I am done with you, and if you survive, you will become Godlike. You will be able to do things you thought impossible, your abilities will border on the superhuman. You will be able to take down entire divisions of soldiers alone. Your sense and reflexes will be heighten to such an extent as to seem supernatural. And I will introduce you to a world you do not know exists. A world dominated by an organization that has no official name. An organization that truly controls this planet. You will live a life that the Pharaohs and European Kings and Emperors never dared to dream. But the path to it will be long, harsh, and torturous. I will rip you apart and put you back together over and over until I am satisfied you are at the peak of your abilities. Then, and ONLY then, I shall set you free upon this world, and you will become a part of the same organization I belong to. You will be equals among Gods. We replenish our ranks through achievement and ability, not through bloodlines or ludicrous concepts such as inheritance. The other choice, is we leave you here, in this jungle, where you shall undoubtedly die. And you will wonder forever on the chance you missed. Choose now, you have 10 seconds.”

  The two boys looked back at the jungle, then at each other. They regarded each other for a few seconds, their eyes silently conveying each other’s thoughts. In unison, they answered.

  “We go with you,” they both said.

  The old man clapped his hands together.

  “There will be times you will regret your decision, but that will only be because of the pain. Keep your eyes and thoughts focused on what you will eventually achieve. Now, this time you can get rid of those flimsy toys you call guns. Set them down next to the truck and follow me.”

  The boys placed the guns down by the truck and walked with the old man and the soldiers into the jungle.

  “I am Banga, he is Ajani. What do we call you?” Banga asked.

  “Yes, you must have a name.”

  “Of course I have a name. My name is Marcus Jean-Pierre Sainte Belleoch. But you may call me ‘The Bell’.”

  Behind them, a few hungry vultures began to pick at the corpses of the dead women.

  Years later

  Banga looked out over the city, its skyline dominated by a mixture of Cold War era concrete buildings that no sane architect would design, and new modern glass skyscraper’s und
er construction. He took in the early evening air into his nostrils and frowned. The air here tasted like shit, it smelled like shit. Why they had to spend so much time in this city brought him no joy, but his time here, and that of his brother’s, was almost up.

  Banga and Ajani had stepped into that helicopter with The Bell ten lifetimes ago, at least this is how it felt. They were allowed one last day of childhood innocence when they reached Paris. The two boys spent it gouging themselves on fast food, seeing a professional soccer match, and taking in a movie. The next morning, their old life ended and their new life began.

  At 5:30 am they were summoned by The Bell, placed in a small lorry, and driven to a farm in rural France. There, their training began.

  They did not leave the farm for five years.

  For five years they were broken, beaten, tortured, torn apart, and put back together again. Hours and endless hours of agonizing physical exercises and training broke their bodies. Hours upon hours of intense education in subjects such as language, chemistry, mathematics, art, literature, broke their minds. Torturous psychological tests broke their spirits. Yet again and again, as they were beaten to the ground, they picked themselves back up.

  Training with live ammo, training with swords and knives, training with explosives, training in dis-information and psychological warfare. Day in, day out. 12 hours a day, 7 days a week, 1 day off every 30 days. No breaks because of holiday or weather. If they were injured, their test schedule concentrated on non-physical aspects until they were healed.

  They broke, time and time again they both broke. The Bell predicted they would, and he was proven right over and over. He would leave them lying in the rain where they fell, ignoring their cries of anguish or injury. He left them battered on the ground, or curled up into the fetal position sobbing to themselves. Over and over this was repeated as their training progressed.

  They two boys cried, they screamed, they raged. Their bond with each other grew stronger as they had no one else to depend on but each other. Many nights they would lie on their simple cots and wonder if they made the right decision. They discussed out loud if they should just kill themselves. But each night, they agreed to try harder, to survive just one more day.