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Chapter Twelve Requiem Eternum
Sub-Chapter: Malum Consilium

“Man, when I get out… (exhale) I’m gonna kill everyone.” Jasper’s cigarette smoke flew out the darkness where he lay to be exposed by the light of the secretary’s light. The cherry was all I could see, and his smile.
“What daya mean everyone?”
“Well, sheeeit man not EVERYONE, but as many as I can.”
I digested that statement, and took a swig of our whiskey. Jasper was a brother from Miami. He wasn’t my roommate for very long, but we shared a lot of information between the two of us.
“soo… what the fuck you mean man?”
“Mannn, they piss me off at home anymo’…I’ll just poison the fuckin’ water supply.”
“How you gonna do that? I mean with security, monitors… how the fuck you gonna do it?”
“Shit brah, why you think I volunteer for all the security jobs? Think about it man. These fuckin civilians got no clue. All they hear is Marine Security, years of experience, rifle, pistol, shotgun expert and they instantly feel safe.”
“I guess they figure something would be caught along the way. You’re a Federal employee after all right?”
Another plume of smoke, and the hand shoves his beer into the light,
“Ga- daaaaamn right brother.” A long and low laugh came from the darkness.
“So what… you get a job at a water company or something doing security?”
[pufffffff] “Fuck ye man. A night watch job, [ cherry glows] or security Chief, [inhale] gain access to the water after its’ been purified n’ filtered n shit, and do my thang…” [puffffff]
In my mind it was definitely do-able. People do trust a Marine. Especially one with an impeccable service record who specialized in security. The rest would be gravy. Who the fuck is going to ask a Security Chief what he’s doing in X place? No friggin body, that’s who.

“Ight Lynch, so what about you? What would you do if you had the get it on with society?”
I took another swig, and thought about it for a second.
“Well, I suppose I’d get a night maintenance job, clean an office building top to bottom, and at each floor once I was done. I’d shut the lights off, and replace them with bulbs that I’d injected gasoline into. Every fuckin’ socket.”
“Shit yeah man, now THAT’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“or I could be a cook at a busy highway and poison the food so that it’s a-ok for a couple days. Then whatever I give them it’ll mutate or something and spread to their family or something’… BAH! I dunno man… just talkin’ out my ass.”
“Sound to me like your plottin’ mah man…”

We kept drinking and thinking up crazier and dumber ways to commit genocide, or to take over a building or a police station. How to derail trains to shutdown a metropolis’ movements. We figured a handful of good snipers could shut a metropolis down in a heartbeat.

It all began because he and I were enrolled in a counter-terrorism class. This was before 911 even came about. You’re not supposed to go the same route twice in a row. Check your tires and undercarriage before you leave. Keep the door open when you turn the ignition. All sorts of stuff that I kept doing even afterwards.

Disneyworld, to me as the terrorist, would’ve been the El Dorado. Think about how many people travel through the gates of that place in a day. Much less a week. If I were to put a biologically invasive substance there… wildfire. And if I really wanted to fuck up America I’d hit there, and some average town smack in the middle of the country. The more average the better. Security would be nil or non-existent. If done correctly you could instill “the fear” very easily and that fear wouldn’t go away for a very long time. It’d have other effects also. Such as the over reaction. If it were accomplished right the country would go on such a heightened state of security it’d be funny to watch from another country. It would suck to be here, and be brown or Muslim or gay or … different.

So we started by brain storming how we’d commit such acts in order to figure out “their” minds. The lessons were that these are folks that can’t fight in a conventional way. For example the PLO or the IRA. Neither could actually match their respective enemy’s military might. So they must resort to guerilla tactics. In short, when all else fails, when your enemy figures you for no more than an amoebashit, no longer human, or if you are you’re someone else’s problem… you’ve two options.

Option one is to keep taking it on the chin. In their cases, keep allowing their families to die, get harassed, or continue to be occupied.

Option two is to fight back as best you can, or as we put it “get it on”.

Of course money means weaponry, and the guerilla usually has little of it. Networked terrorist organizations, on the other hand, have plenty of it. The guerilla is a different kind of warrior, but alike. They need certain things in order to be successful. Take Cuba for example. If the guerilla rebels of the July 25 rebellion didn’t have popular support from the peasants of the country, they would’ve been finished easily.

[exhallllle] “So Lynch… why in the helll would a nice lil white boy like you wanna go an do somethin’ like fuckin Disney World man. That’s just fuckin’ diabolical.”
“No moreso than poisoning an entire city’s water supply brother.”
He ashed his cigarette, and said, “You gotta point mah man!”

We both passed with flying colors. It was round about this time that I was doing a lot of research on my family’s history. The Irish side anyways. My father’s side no one knew much about. My family hailed from county Cavan which is somewhat near the border of Northern Ireland. I did research on the IRA, their tactics, and got interested in Che Guevera, before they made t-shirts of him.

With Che,all I’d ever read was one of two sides. Either he was a murdering pussy or a hero. Both were chock full of propaganda, and I can do without that. I found an authoritative biography, checked it out, then bought it. I can say I identified with what he was trying to do. He lived deliberately and without regret. Some say without remorse either, but what the fuck? The clock starts ticking on our demise the second we come screaming into this world. Better to live with a purpose than be a drone mulling about, looking to the bee next to you for a clue how to act in society.

I was asked to help teach the NCOs (non-commissioned officers) their sword manual. The Marines commercials where you see the guy with the sword and he’s doing this or that with it? That’s sword manual. I had to teach them so they could go in front of promotion boards. Every NCO I taught won. Thank you very much. Not bad for a career PFC. I was also invited to be on my battalion’s super squad team. We’d compete against other battalion’s teams in physical and mental tests, rifle and pistol ranges etc etc. Nothing grand to report there dear reader, sorry.

I did have an issue though. I’d already knocked Miranda up. She was in Missouri and I was in North Carolina on base. We weren’t engaged or married, just… fuckin’. I’d just gotten off my punishment for going AWOL, and some friends had heard stories of my exploits on the town. They decided to take me out for the night. Two things happened, I’ll leave it to you to decide which is what.

It was a sort of double date. About a dozen of us went out together. A guy named John and I were the targets though. We’d both just gotten off our respective punishments, and the boys were to get us thoroughly drunk, and laid if possible. John was a… mean drunk. To say the least. So we were to chill until he was in a good mood and drinking, then we could all commence. We went to a strip joint called the Driftwood. Right outside the front gate. After a couple hours of booze and tits in his face John was in a damn good mood. So I went at it. Beer, beer, whiskey, beer. I got pretty well hammered.

Then I awoke in my bed.

I went to the mirror to see if I’d lost a tooth or something, and looked okay other than the scrape scar across my face. Nothing major, but it looked like I’d been dragged by my face across the parking lot. I went to my friend’s room to see what had happened.

Upon entry they all started laughing hysterically.
“ok motherfuckers… what happened?”
In the rush to tell me they all had their own versions. The gist of the story is this:
I’d gotten so drunk that in between songs I’d jumped onto the bar ( a BIIIIG fuckin nono) and yelled at the top of my considerable lungs “I CHALLENGE ALL YOU NON-DRINKIN PUSSY ASS JARHEADS TO A DRINKIN CONTEST…NOW!!!!”
I beat three guys at their own game. Jack, Gentleman Jim, even the tequila kid, the Goldshlager guy whipped my ass. By now the bouncers were thoroughly pissed and wanted to kick my monkey ass. The owner, however, was VERY pleased that I’d just boosted his sales for the night by about $500. So I was allowed to stay, provided I kept off the goddamn bar… AND the stage. My friends rested my head on the beer counter next to the stage. A nasty looking woman kept fucking with me.
“tip me tipe me tip me motherfucker”
My response was to stand up, reach in my pocket, she came over and pulled the side of her G-string open, and I tossed her sorry ass all the change I had and said,
“You’d have to pay ME to watch your nasty ass get nekkid!”
She was none too pleased at that, nor was her husband who was sitting next to me.
I laid my head back down, and got poked by him in my ribs.
“Hey..[poke] hey asshole [poke] that’s my fuckin wife!”
I picked my head back up.
“Then you married one nasty looking fuckin woman dude.”
“Motherfucker I’ll kick your ass!”
I looked back at him and said, “No you won’t…. pussy.” and laid my head back down.
At which he took the chair he was sitting in and bashed me over the back with it. Now this wasn’t some cheap ass bar stool, this was a damn CHAIR.
My boys were about to whip his ass, when I stood, motioned for them to desist, looked him in the eye and said, “Like I said… pussy!”

So the scar was apparently from the chair splintering on me, and I gained a… rather roughneck reputation in the barracks after that.
From there we went to a club. It was a redneck place where they line danced, so I stayed at the bar getting drunk as I’d gotten my third wind by then. A derelictions looking brunette with the curliest locks, and biggest brown eyes came up and asked if I’d dance with her. I told her that I was not from anywhere that could possibly be considered country, therefore I could not and would not fucking line dance. I’d slow dance with her if she’d like, but that’s about it. I wasn’t really in the mood for it. So we did, and I apparently took her home. Rather, she took me home, and we went at it in my barracks room. Pissed my roommate off because he couldn’t find a woman to grab, so he went to our friends’. She was gone by the morning time. I was glad for that. I don’t remember having sex with her. I do remember dancing with her as I enjoy dancing. So when they’d told me what I’d done I was instantly guilt ridden. I wrote A LOT to Miranda at the time, and kept a diary of sorts, of poetry etc dedicated to her. I wrote down that I’d been conflicted as to tell her about the girl or not. I mean. I didn’t catch anything, didn’t knock her up, and she’d be none the wiser. I decided to tell her because she’d been discussing marriage and I wanted my marriage to be based on honesty.

She lost it when I told her. Crying. Asking why. How. DO I still love her. Of course I did, I just fucked up. Getting drunk isn’t really an excuse, just what happened. I asked if she wanted to postpone the wedding or call it off, and she thought about it, then said “No”. We’d get married because we fit.

Now I believe it was at that moment that she’d decided that should literally anything go awry she’d exact revenge. And that’s just what she did.

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by Robert Walker

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