By Brian Wask
Hell’s Kitchen NY- I was trying to stay quiet. My foot was tapping away cause the music coming from my head sounded like something from an M Squad episode, circa 1960. I heard my neighbor’s screams moments earlier. She was just a little old lady. Perhaps they thought she was my grandmother. Damn song. It’s a record. I can hear the needle. I’d recently posted my profile on Match.com. I was looking for friends. My character traits somehow matched me with a unique selection of al Qaeda fans, including Dylan and Zakariya Boyd of North Carolina. We disagree with the US's policies towards the Middle East. As well I shared a love for early mornings with Denis V. Yevsyukov, a policeman in Moscow who recently shot up a liquor store killing a bunch of people. Also, internet gunsmith Eric Thompson, owner of TGSCOM Inc. He sold weapons and ammo to three American gunmen, who in turn killed because with guns it’s easy. Eric and I agree guns don’t kill people but some people with guns kill people; other people with guns kill animals; and the rest are people with guns in case they have to kill something. I tried to contact each one of the matches. Came out to twenty-one. Nice. I thought we’d get together and cause a little mayhem. Burn down a few bookstores. Kill deer. Poke pinholes through condom wrappers and hand them out at an inner city high school. Later, laugh about it over a good meal.
If the mob found me I’d certainly disappear– they attacked Clinton for going to North Korea to bring home two American girls looking at twelve years hard labor, and that was a good thing. Now I was stealing cable from an old lady in the apartment below. I used the same connection to contact my matches on the internet. My potential associates could land me at the gallows. Hannity’s henchmen spotted me via Google maps. That’s how they pinned her. My internet service– you suck Time Warner– came from her cable. They showed up with sticks and flames. They waited for night, soon after “America’s Got Talent”. David Hasselbeck was a riot again of course. When is he not? If one other person besides Bill Clinton could’ve rescued those girls from Kim Jung Il it would be the Hoff. He was snapping his fingers to the Texas Tenor’s “Proud to be an American”. What a guy. Next I heard the door below smashed in like the Feds did Tommy Chong’s Bongs. The TV blanked at the same time. I hit the light switch with a flying shoe. The room went black. I listened to the mob break the lady’s porcelain cats on the wall. She pleaded for mercy and they told her to call Medicare. Hilary Clinton’s a racist bitch. Obama’s a Trotskyist and he wasn’t even born in America. A proud voice reminded them he’s also a Muslim terrorist. Bureaucrat’s Death Panel! Activist judges! Tea bags!
My doorknob was wiggling. Someone was on the other side and they wanted in. I’d seen the same mob the night before on TV causing a ruckus over socialized healthcare at town hall meetings. They were at the 2000 re-count in Florida. They came to New York in 2004 and told everyone about John Kerry’s broken fingernail during Vietnam. If they got to me they’d tare me apart with their teeth, fuck if they get their kakis bloody. I curled into the corner of the couch, smothered my face with a pillow. They’re raving mad about Obama. This is the end of the line for bleeding hearts. If only they’d fight for gay marriage like they fight for money. What would my last words be anyway? Long live Yankees. Not the baseball team, but the Mark Twains. Their knives jingled. Silent. The door finally opened. It was my lady with groceries. She was alone and unharmed. She flicked on the light and noticed me wedged in the couch. A week of newspapers spread out over the floor. Is the old lady dead? Did the mob use her blood to paint a cross on the door? She told me to lay off the pot. I asked if she had snacks.