Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail!
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“Just yourself,” Sonya reasoned.
“I don’t mind killing a few certain persons,” Beverly said sharply.
“That’s a personal choice, don’t you think?”
“I’d rather kill machines,” Judith said.
“So the doctor delivers a death sentence and then?”
“I wonder if it hurts to blow up,” Sonya pondered.
“The free animal/has its decease perpetually behind it/and God in front … ” Gwen was good with quotes.
“We’re animals” Annette observed.
“Who’s the German poet?” Gwen asked anxiously.
“Wagner?” Sonya guessed.
“He’s not a poet,” Beverly muttered.
“A?” Gwen paused. “B?” she didn’t think so.
“Rilke,” Judith said. She had given Duino Elegies to Gwen for her birthday.
“Let’s discuss how this will work,” Bev interrupted.
“Shouldn’t we have a name?” Sonya queried.
“We have a name,” Judith said.
“It sounds awfully exciting to die.”
“We should envision it as self-sacrifice,” Annette offered.
“The ultimate sacrifice,” Sonya said.
“We can’t use that phrase. It’s what the President says when something bad happens to the troops.”
“It makes their families feel better,” Gwen commented.
“Will this make our kids feel better?” Annette asked.
“Don’t count on it.”
“That’s why our goal has to be pure.” Annette again.
“Pure like Buddhist monks who set themselves on fire in protest of war.”
“So others might live free,” Sonya rhapsodized.
“They are noble,” I said.
“We can be noble,” Judith said. “It depends how we go about it.”
“Once you get your death warrant, we’ll need a signal,” Sonya said. “How about wearing orange?”
“Why orange?”
“Blonds, brunettes, everyone looks good in orange.”
“Do you see blonds and brunettes here?” Bev snipped.
“Orange communicates high alert,” Sonya asserted. “It’s the Homeland Security code.”
“I like the idea of a signal,” Gwen agreed.
“It’s the color of Buddhist robes,” I added.
“Orange has never suited me,” Judith blurted, once a stunning redhead.
“If you don’t want to wear orange, then bring us each an orange.”
“That’ll be confusing,” Annette complained. “I eat oranges all day.”
“We’ll have to look old and inconspicuous.”
“That won’t be difficult,” I croaked.
“She means gentle and respectable.”
“She means helpless and ugly,” Beverly chided.
“Back to logistics,” Judith prodded.
“Maybe, we can include an abortion clinic,” Gwen said timidly.
“Are you insane?” Bev exploded.
“We’re all in favor of a woman’s right to choose,” Judith frowned with a ferocious expression.
Gwen cowered. She was once in favor herself, but the church had filled her with contradictory feelings. Propped beside her bed was a photo of Buzz Aldrin. He took Communion on the moon.
“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” Beverly said snidely. “By the way, blowing yourself up is a cardinal sin even at an abortion clinic.”
“Don’t we get to pick our own target?” Sonya asked.
“Like Nordstrom’s?” I scoffed.
“We should agree it’s political. That’s the point,” Bev said. “And sign something beforehand like a proclamation.”
“And suicide note,” Gwen said.
“It’s not exactly suicide,” Annette quibbled.
“It is suicide but the reasons are unconventional.”
“Nordstrom is a perfectly legitimate target,” Sonya insisted.
“It’s not military-industrial,” Bev objected.
“The clothes are made in sweatshops. Slaves probably make them. Slaves make jeans and shoes. Nordstrom is famous for shoes.”
“Isn’t that a syllogism?” Gwen asked.
“Sonya has a point,” I defended. “It’s anti-capitalist.”
“But is it worth killing herself over?” Bev asked.
“Maybe,” Sonya said.
“Don’t mourn! Organize!’ One of Beverly’s standards.
“Surely, there’s no time for that,” Annette said.
“I vote Pentagon,” Judith proposed.
“First thought, best thought,” I said.
“Pentagon!” Gwen seconded louder than intended.
“You’re not participating,” Judith said.
“We should choose our own target,” Sonya whined. “I mean it is our life.”
“What about voting on targets?” Gwen recommended. “A target needs three votes to qualify.”
“If you’re not participating, you should recuse yourself from the discussion.”
“I already suggested a target,” Gwen said. “It just didn’t meet with your approval.”
“Can we shut up about targets?” Bev seethed.
“I thought Judith said it was more important than wardrobe,” Sonya said.
“It’s more important but not the most important.”
“Most important is how we make a bomb,” Judith said.
“And detonate it,” Sonya added.
“Keep your voice low,” Beverly hissed.
“Bomb! Bomb! Bomb! Bomb! Bomb!” Sonya was often bratty. “Did anybody turn around?”
Our eyes swept the café. The cheerful room with its terra cotta walls and comfy chairs, wi-fi, fair-trade coffee, homemade pastries, and potted plants was filled with sleepy young people dressed in black jeans and t-shirts, seated at faux marble-top tables, fiddling with their sleek laptops, their ears plugged with either speaking or listening devices. Even those playing chess were competing against computers.
“I don’t think they’re hard to make,” Judith said. “Directions are on the Internet.”
“You know that?” Gwen asked.
“Sure! But the FBI watches those sites.”
“Getting materials is tricky,” Beverly said. “They have strict restrictions on fertilizers.”
“What about a large vegetable garden at the Lodge?” I advised.
“I want to make sure we don’t hurt anybody.” Annette cried.
“You mean ’collateral damage,’” Bev said.
“We wouldn’t be murderers, would we?” Annette needed clarification.
“How about saboteurs?” Sonya’s bad accent again.
“I couldn’t possibly kill anything,” Annette repeated weakly.
“What if it were a building where there happened to be a cat?” Gwen adored philosophical conundrums.
“I would feel terrible,” Annette said.
“They don’t let cats wander around the Pentagon,” I pointed out.
“What if we blew up a ship carrying weapons to the Persian Gulf? They might keep cats on board to kill rats. If the cats were already killing rats, would that make you feel better?”
“Cats naturally kill rats,” Annette reasoned. “This is different.”
“Is it?” Bev retorted. “Apparently, man naturally kills everything.”
“Kill one man, and you’re a murderer. Kill millions of men, and you’re a conqueror. Kill them all, and you’re a god.” Judith was also very good with quotes.
“Technicalities should be our focus,” Beverly said.
“Communication, acquisition, production, transportation, and execution, there’s your outline.” Gwen jotted a few notes on her napkin.
Bev’s eyeballs pierced the paper. “You’ll have to burn that.”
“If you don’t write down a few things, you won’t remember.” Gwen had once been a professional facilitator. “You can’t possibly keep everything in your head.”
“Maybe, we can ignite an international elder terrorist movement,” Gwen said.
“Der Elder Hostile!” I whooped.
“I don’t like ’terrorist.’ It sounds negative,” Annette said.
“Die today for a good cause!” Sonya was tempted to say it would make a good bumper sticker.
The vivacious waitress stood beside our table, pad and pencil in hand. Thick hennaed hair tumbled around her face. Her eyes shone and skin glowed with youth.
“Looks like you gals are having a grand time of it this morning,” she said, smiling at her Saturday-morning regulars.
“We have a lot to live for,” Judith nodded soberly.
We nodded in accord. “All of us have a lot to live for.”
Quotes by: Joe Hill, Ranier Maria Rilke, Jean Rostand, William Shakespeare
Masai’s Back in Town
Gary Phillips
The shotgun blast partially tore away the side of the bearded man’s face. It didn’t kill him or knock him over—though it did embed pellets in one eye, ruining its vision. He screamed profanities and cranked off two rounds from his Glock. But Masai Swanmoor went prone, squeezing the Remington’s trigger again. This time his aim was better and he blew out the other man’s stomach, sending him over backwards onto the coffee table, breaking a leg as it collapsed.
Swanmoor rolled as the other Aryan Legion member, a woman with a hatchet face and a weight lifter’s body, came at him. The hunting knife she wielded cutting and slashing at his legs as he scrambled about.
“Motherfuckin’ black motherfucker,” she wailed, arching the knife overhand at his groin.
Swanmoor swung the pistol grip stock of the auto shotgun to deflect the blade then aimed the business end of his weapon. “Put the pig sticker down, you ugly Nazi bitch,” he blared.
“Fuck you.” She didn’t let go of the knife. She backed up several steps and stood hunched over, knife in one hand, eyes roving about the room.
Swanmoor stood up. “You’re not that goddamn valuable to me. You or one of your other inbred sodomites will be of use.” Cowboy fashion, he held the shotgun low, left hand under the pump action, right finger on the trigger. “I’m happy to kill you.”
She looked from this to the dead man. The knife fell to the thin carpet.
Swanmoor started forward.
“What, you gonna rape me now?” she snarled.
“Don’t think every brother goes crazy for white pussy. Even stank muscled-up snatch like yours.” Bringing the rear end of the shotgun up, twisting his torso as he did so, he brought it across her face, eliciting a grunt.
She dropped to a knee, a hand to where he’d struck. She spat out blood on the now stained carpet and got back up. “I don’t know much.”
“You know enough.” He grinned lopsidedly.
When Rory Briscoe arrived at the house he drove his well-cared-for LeSabre past and parked a block away. The distinct smell and background silhouette of an oil refinery was evident. He got out of the car. Briscoe had the snub-nosed revolver in the pocket of his cotton windbreaker as he walked back to his destination. His and hers Harleys were parked side-by-side in the driveway. The front door was partially off its hinges, hanging at an odd angle. He looked around, no neighbors or house pets were out. Even the birds weren’t chirping.
He walked purposefully across the yellowed lawn and up the porch and peering inside, could see two chairs in the front room were turned over. Gun out, he went further into the small house and saw Clauson’s corpse on the broken coffee table between the front room and the dining room space.
Briscoe surmised the coffee table had been shoved around some in the fight. On it had been a bong, its glass smoked gray and black from use. This had tipped over when the bearded man’s body had landed. The bong now lay resting in the gap of his lower abdomen where his stomach had once been. Blood and organ spray patterned a near wall.
In the kitchen he found the one who he knew only as Gigi. She was bound to a straight-backed chair with duct tape and nylon cord. Two dish towels had been knotted together and tied around her mouth. She glared at Briscoe who noted her bare feet. Her little toe on the right foot and the big toe on the left had been sawed off. The hunting knife, lying on the kitchen table, had been the instrument of torture used by Swanmoor. The severed toes lay on the linoleum in small puddles of blood. He knew that Lumumba lovin’ bastard wouldn’t have left his prints on the blade.
Briscoe undid the gag. “You gave up my name, didn’t you?”
“Fuck you,” she answered. “That jungle bunny was gonna cripple me. Get me undone. I plan to pay him back.”
He put the barrel of the Glock he’d plucked from Clauson’s stiffening fingers against her forehead. “Good thing this is the kind of neighborhood where gunshots are common.” He blew out the back of her head as she gaped incredulously at him.
Briscoe wiped down the gun then returned to the dead man’s body and pressed those lifeless fingers against the grip. He let the gun lay in the man’s open palm. Briscoe then quit the premises.
Swanmoor down-shifted the Benz he’d jacked wearing a handkerchief owl hoot style from a trendy restaurant’s parking attendant. He’d picked this car because he’d never driven a Mercedes before and wanted to feel what it was like. The seats were leather and heated. Nice.
He came around the corner via the narrow passageway between the two buildings. The macadam of the former Lamplighter bar parking lot was cracked and bulged upwards in several areas, evidence of the various earthquakes that had taken place since the drinking establishment’s demise more than twenty-five years ago. Weeds sprouted from those openings.
The Lamplighter had been their office away from the office. Run by a former pimp and numbers man who was sympathetic to the cause, Swanmoor and the others would hold emergency meetings in the rear storeroom and talk trash with the hookers and hustlers who frequented the front area. This was also where Swanmoor had gotten it on in the owner’s office with more than one firebrand sister and a white follower or two from the hills—young women enthralled with smack talk of revolution and brothers street army tough in black berets and black sunglasses. The bar’s latest incarnation was Delgado’s Discount Furniture Mart.
He got out of the car, hunching his shoulders against the cold and the incoming fog. In the near distance the mist glistened in the lights of a billboard. On it could be seen an image of a desk mic giving off a bit of fire. The words “KZRN Sizzles Liberals with Septima” were next to that.
“Hey now,” he said as the driver’s door of the silver Prius opened. Out stepped a woman a tick or two past sixty but still lithe of build and seemingly effortless in her motions. He also noted the silver-white hue of her car matched her coiffured hair.
“Damn,” he said admiringly.
“Stop trying so hard and hug me, fool.”
He did, laughing, his hands tight around her midsection, hers around his shoulders.
She kissed his neck before she pushed him back to take him in. “Are you out of your cotton-picking mind coming back here, Marvin?”
“No choice, Leann.” She rarely called him by his street name.
“Bullshit.” She pulled her open topcoat closer around her. “You better get on your knees and thank the baby Jesus these crackheads around here are too young, miseducated and too far gone to know who you are. ’Cause the price is still on your nappy head, negro.”
He blew into his fist. This was his hometown but his body had gotten used to a warmer climate. “After I’m done, you can turn me in if you want to.”
She smirked. “Double fuck you and your macho counter-revolutionary posturing.”
“Maybe so. But I wanted you to know Briscoe is also back on the scene, and me and that poor man’s Lewis Erskine are gunning for each other.”
“Shit,” she drawled, “he’s older than your monkey ass. Like I’m gonna
be afraid of some oinker clumping after me with his walker.”
“He’s got a goddamn hook up with the Aryan Legion. I’m not sure how extensive, but there it is. One of them, named Clauson, was checking ancient haunts about me and I got tipped.”
She leveled her gold flaked ambers on him. Angry or inviting, those eyes still knocked him out. “Fuck the Legion too. I’m not so soft I can’t handle a few of them prison-bred goose-steppers.”
Swanmoor smiled. “Now who’s posing?”
She flipped him the finger, smiling too. Then she took on a serious cast. “What about your daughter?”
“Even if Briscoe knows who she is, I’m figuring given the people around her and what not, he won’t make a run at her. Now of course I’d like you to warn her anyway.” He frowned and what might have been regret came and went on his still lean features. “It’s probably best I don’t come at her direct.”
“Probably so.”
“Yeah,” he replied, letting the word and the emotions behind it linger.
She tugged on his jacket and asked, “You still like that cheap Presidente brandy?”
“It’s what the masses drink,” he deadpanned.
“Nigga please. Let’s hat before a constituent sees me consorting.”
She’d brought a bottle of the brandy and two plastic cups with her in the car. At the Star Burst Motel overlooking a ship container yard, once in the room Congresswoman Leann Holt shoved Marvin “Masai” Swanmoor against the door and kissed him like she was trying to quench a fever.
He got his arms and hands around her and it was 1980 and they were young and saying good-bye when he’d gone on the run after being indicted. Only now Swanmoor had the unerring impression this might be the last time he was privileged to be with this woman … his lover … his comrade. Yet the notion that his grey head could soon be blossomed out from bullets didn’t cool his ardor, but inflamed him like he hadn’t felt in years.
After they made noisy love they took a break to have a few sips of Presidente and talk. The old-fashioned radiator issued weak heat under the curtained window. Swanmoor had placed the one chair in the room under the door knob. It wouldn’t stop anybody but he hoped slow them down long enough to reach the piece he’d placed on the nightstand.