by Lizzy Ford
with open ears, listening through the Arabic grapevine to give me the best tips on what, where and from whom!” “I'm sorry but they are here in that status.” He said. “Let's get back to the story. “Okay.” I said. “So everybody is running away while I was screaming about a bomb and then the train had stopped in the station. Nothing exploded and the people started to leave the train, and automatically getting caught up in the commotion of the others running in panic. Next thing that happens is a heavy boot in my back pushing me down on the concrete, and a pistol pointed at my head. Handcuffs were put on me, I was pulled up and stood next to the stairs railing by one officer while the next was on the radio telling them to block the trains on track one and send the criminal technicians. He too thought it looked like a bomb, although strewed along the track in pieces. That's when I got my first ride in the back of a Police car. At the Police Station I got to wait even longer before anybody would take my statement, and when they did, it was short and sweet. By this time it was past Ten at night, and they had no desire to deal with me, so they stuck me in a cell. On the way to the cell, I started singing 'Hotel California from the Eagles' and the warden said I shouldn't be so arrogant because I was in deep trouble. Hell, I didn't do anything wrong, and I never had any problems before in my life with the authorities. The morning came, and according to them, I did wrong and they had no leniency or compassion for the fact that I attempted to save lives. I should have informed the Police which were anyways heading in my direction and not go about playing American Rambo. I'm not joking Walter, they called me Rambo! The prosecutor didn't have time to figure out exactly which of your laws I'd broken, so I spent another night in my cell. It was on that second night in my `Hotel California' that my normal life actually ended. I figured that if I only had one year to live, I could utilize it to the maximum and dispose of some of the damn terrorist which are invading the country. And it wouldn't be the first time I've eliminated a person either!” I told him. Walter looked a little shocked and asked; “ Would you like to be just a little more specific on that?” “Sure!” I said. It's not like if they catch me I'll get a prison sentence, because I already have my own personal death sentence!
1976
We were driving to pick up Doug at his house to go cruising downtown. I was lucky that my father was in such a good mood today, for it was easy to borrow his Dodge Dart for the afternoon. Maybe the fact that I had washed and waxed it the whole morning helped to convince him that I needed it again today, especially after coming home so early last night. Steve and Stan's father had already dropped them off at the house, and as usual, were bullshitting around now in the car. “Someone needs to burn the queer bar down man!” Steve said. “Yeah,” Stan answered. “It's not normal putting your dork up someone’s bunghole! It's like Gross-ville man!” We pulled up on the side of the road to pick Doug up, like picking up some hitchhiker. Due only to the fact that nobody wanted to meet his old man, because he would smack you just for the fun of seeing the reaction on your face. “Hey dudes!” Doug greeted us getting in. “Anybody got a doobie today man?” “It's like some awesome weather man, like real tame dudes!” I told him to buckle his seat belt because I didn't want any beef with Johnny Law today. I also wondered how in hell he became the speaker of the Class of `77! So we headed on downtown to cruise on Division Ave. The little slant-six motor was purring smoothly as we slowly cruised into downtown Grand Rapids. We naturally had the radio on as loud as the speakers would allow before bursting their coils, when suddenly Doug turns the volume down and says; “Yo dudes! I forgot to tell you about yesterday man!” We were all ears because usually nothing exciting happens in the `Life of Doug'. “So listen dudes, me and my old man...” “It's my old man and I!” I reprimanded him as usual about his half-hillbilly Grammatik. “Shut up you dumb twat and let him tell it man!” Stan said. Steve turned and told his twin brother that he didn't even know what a twat looks like, which was pretty awesome coming from a brother! “I do so!” Stan said. “They look like a Taco!” Now that got us all in rips of laughter, and when we had settled down Doug continued. “Yeah, so we went over to Randy's place so's that he could look at the carburetor on my old mans car. Right dudes! And Randy's dad said he was in the barn, so we went in to ask him to take a look at the carburetor. Well, we found him alright! He was poking a pig in the butt like there's no tomorrow dudes!” Stan screamed from the backseat; “Oh how gross man! That's worse than the Queer Bar Three Sons plus One!” Steve made as if to barf out of the side window, with the sound of retching coming from his throat. Steve pulled his head in and said they should tie Randy up to the front of Three Sons and burn the whole place to ashes, including the pig poker! “It’s not possible anymore to roast Randy at the Three Sons man!” I said, and at the same time regretted saying it. For they all went suddenly real quiet staring between me and the burned down bar we were now passing by, with Police tape surrounding the foundation. I had already puked my breakfast when my father read about the deaths in the fire. Started from someone driving by and throwing a Molotov Cocktail at the front door. The fire department had stated that the building codes needed to be better enforced in the downtown area. For there was no back door, only the front which was a flaming inferno within seconds. The dudes wanted to know what I knew about how it burned down, but I was resilient and said nothing. Because I was so lucky last night, after almost dropping that Molotov inside of my dads car. My reverie was thankfully broken by Doug and his motor mouth; “Hey dudes! Let's find something to smoke man!” They started another discussion of how a twat looks, and I started contemplating about joining the army.
2010
“But that is only arson and not premeditated murder,” Walter said. “Big difference between then and now!” “The only difference is in not knowing your victims face,” I answered. “What I couldn't have known was that they had a private birthday party or something going on, because normally it should have been closed that night.” “Who else knows about this besides us two?” Walter asked. “Well, one night I got stinking drunk and told Sabertooth!” I said smiling. “So you see Walter, I already bought my one way ticket to hell when I was a teenager, so a few more on my scorecard wouldn’t make any difference.” That's when I started to make my plan, and with the knowledge I attained during my military time as the leader of the Anti-Terror group, I should be able to free the world of one or two scumbags. Day three in the hands of the justice system and I was brought into court. When they read the charges and the fines to go with it, it only solidified my anger for revenge. Were it not for Capt. Ahab, I would probably be traveling, like you mentioned you would've done. So the first check was written and handed over to the court, unknowing that another one to soothe the poor engineers psychological problems would follow, and I was on my way back to my apartment. Paper and pen in hand, I sat on my miniature balcony and started to put it to paper, and realized I had to play it as it comes. Not much to plan except to acquire the few items I would need for my disposal of the trash I would hunt down. Without really thinking about it, apparently my subconscious took over, for on the paper I had written the name of my good Turkish friend, Gunéy. Sells the best damn Kebabs around and if anybody would know about any scumbags talking like want to-be terrorist, he'd be the only one who would confide in me.
Gunéy had this horrible look on his face as I dug into my Kebab like some kind of starving Somalia. “Marcus” he said while shaking his head in disgust. “You eat like pig! Take time and enjoy!” “I'm hungry and this is delicious, and that is all your fault Gunéy!” I said as I was wiping the yoghurt sauce which was dribbling down my chin. “You say when you want second one, okay!” He replied. His English isn't all that good when you listen to what the others say about him, but till yet I've had no problems. But in addition to his mother language which is Turkish, and the fact that he speaks fluent Arabic, well who cares if his English isn't perfect. He still made a lot of business with the American soldiers who were stationed here and with other tourist in English. Aft
er finishing my Kebab, I sat drinking my beer and had to figure out just how to ask my favor from him. Fate took over when he came and asked if I would try his new recipe for Lahmacun, a sort of Turkish pizza. Now, I'm not exactly crazy about pizzas and the one Lahmacun that I had once, only half eaten, tasted like rotted rat meat on bread dough. Made me realize that the worms I ate during survival training had more taste! “Gunéy,” I replied. “I've tried to eat those things and they're horrible!” That was when my brain went Bang, and I realized this was maybe my chance, sort of `tit for tat'. “I'll take a chance and try your new Lahmacun recipe if we can go somewhere where we can talk, just us two alone.” I said. “I have a problem that I think only you can help me with, but it has to stay between you and me, for your safety.” Gunéy stared at me for a second with a worried look on his face, then his smile broke through and he said; “come, we go living room. Eat Lahmacun and do man talk.” We walked to the back of his restaurant