“Today — Silver Spring!”

It was 4am when Texas Billionaire Oscar bin Laden called me.  I was paging through the Jessica London catalog because I had developed an unnatural fascination with the cover girl.  Jessica London, allegedly, catered to plus size women, but all of their models seemed a touch more on the minus side. Flat stomached MILF’s with glittering eyes awaited me on each page. The 30-something models, each shining with one thing:  Sexual experience and habitual drug use.  The cover girl’s olive skin, heavy eyebrows, and kinky hair sent me into an early morning frenzy, her knowing eyes and perfect smile engulfed me as I flipped madly through four-tier skirt sets, column dresses, jacket dresses, and sweaters, to land myself in the Intimate Collection.  There was my mulatto darling in her pajamas and, yes, a shelf-bra camisole and hot shorts with moderate coverage.

I lingered.  I studied the moderate coverage.

 

“Nacho?”  Oscar, on the phone, shocked me back to the world.  I had the headset screwed to my ear, lost in a world of moderate coverage, slowly turning the glossy page to look at the sweet half-breed in a two-piece tankini.  A tiny mole marred the smooth, bronzed flesh above the swell of her left breast.

I breathed, “I’m here.”

“I’m in town.”  Oscar replied.

Outside my window, the security light clicked on.  A word entered my head: “Fuck.”

“I have a favor to ask.”

“You’re out of favors.”

Time and again, Oscar had tried to upset the world as I knew it.  Working against the establishment, he had used his Texas oil money to hatch countless nefarious schemes, all of which I’ve recorded in years of pathetic scribbling printed in strange webzines.  Hearing from him again was a rude awakening, even if it had come at a time when I wasn’t turning a page to look at a brown-skinned girl in a zippered skirtini.  There it is.  A zipper between her breasts.  A sliding, metal gateway to the heavens.  I could taste the metal in my mouth, hear the sound as I pulled the zipper down, smell the lotion on her skin, expose her dark nipples… The security light clicked off.

“See,” Oscar continued, “I sort of figured you’d be interested in this.  It’ll be controversial.  Highly publicized.  I know you’re all about that.”

“Go on.”  There she was in a figure-hugging Floral Georgette, anal sex leapt into my mind and I stumbled out of my trance at the same time Oscar said:

“I set a bomb in that Korean bible church on New Hampshire Avenue.”

The catalog dropped to the floor.  “Oscar…what…?”

“It was either that or email you cartoons making fun of the Pope, which I did anyway.  See, I figured that I could start a civil war in the US by pitting Catholics against Protestants. ”

“I don’t know if that’ll work…”

“So, here’s the thing.  I sort of used you as cover.”

“What?”

“Well, your mom was Catholic, right?  And the rest of your family is Baptist, right?”

I had to think about it for a moment, “You know, I’m not sure about the Baptist part.  And mom’s bought the farm, nor was she seriously Catholic.”

“You say that, but it’s not true.  You’re the perfect civil war family!  Brother against brother.  It’ll catch on with the press and spark a nation-wide explosion that’ll unseat the current gov—“

“Oscar, please tell me what you’ve done.”

“I told you.  Now let me in.”  The security light clicked on again.

I took a moment to seek and embrace an inner peace.  A place in my heart where I opened a door to Our Lord Jesus Christ and –

“Are you there?  What the fuck are you doing?” Oscar screamed through the phone.

I looked down and saw that I had begun masturbating.  Some subconscious reaction to Jesus Christ?  Was Jessica London really Jesus Christ?

I heard the front door open and quickly covered myself as Oscar stormed down the hall.  He stepped into my study and glared at me.

“I thought vampires had to be invited inside!” I said, attempting humor.  Oscar just shook his head, then moved to my leather chair and sat down heavily, a rattle of change shifting somewhere deep in the cushions.

“I come,” he said, and I flinched for several reasons, “to bring you in on my greatest plan.”

“What if I just don’t care?  What if I want to not be involved?  What if I want to die in ignorance?  Why are you in my life?”

He seemed shocked.  Tensing up in the chair with his hands gripping the armrests he leaned forward, “You really are a piece of work,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged and grinned, “I don’t know, I’m trying to unnerve you.  It’s a night of adventure, Nacho.  Come with me and you’ll see something that’ll break the hum-drum.”

Somewhere in me is a terrible thing.  I’ve recognized and understood it in these last few years of my life, as maturity has come to me hand in hand with the realization that life sucks, but I’ve not been able to control it.  It’s the one thing that leaves me off balance, that endangers both my body and mind.  It’s the part of me that selects the type of woman I ask out, and keeps me from a solid, reliable career path.  It’s the part of me that has me convinced that keeping my Acura for 25 years so I can get antique tags – all as an elaborate, private joke – is a smart and rewarding idea.  The part that craves insanity in every form.  It spoke next:

“Okay, Oscar.  I have your word that I’m not going to get killed or raped or wake up in Baghdad, right?”

Oscar shrugged, “Baghdad is nice this time of year.”  He stood up, “You know, like, ten thousand years ago.  Let’s go!”

Oscar’s right hand man was Ali, a quiet, dangerous monster who drove an unmarked, windowless van.  Ali usually had several of his boys with him but, tonight, he sat in the driver’s seat of his van, alone, staring forward.  I felt like I was hitching a ride across the Styx as I piled into the back of the van with Oscar and sat on the floor.

As soon as the door rolled shut, Ali took off at a speed that sent me sprawling, and Oscar launched into his lunatic plan to set Catholics against Protestants.  “With religious war in America, there’ll be tremendous opportunities for businessmen like you and I.”

“I really don’t see – “

“Think about it!  You’re a publisher now, right?”

“Oh god, I just don’t know anymore.”

“Entertainment is as big a commodity as steel, rubber and fuel during wartime.  People will crave what you have to say.”

“And your business opportunities?”

He shrugged as if it should have been obvious, “Global conquest.”

“Wanna swap?”

“God, no!”

“So we’re going to – what? – firebomb a church tonight?  That’s so Alabama, Oscar.”

“No, no, the bomb’s set.  Those Koreans are going up in flames Sunday morning.  We’re going to a warehouse in old Silver Spring where I’m going to show you something that’ll make your socks roll up and down.  Together, we’re going to change the world.  Through religious war, I will become god and, along with me, you will have the opportunity you desire.  Do you want to hire Stephen King for your weird kitchen table publishing house that smacks of failure?  You can have him.”

“I want Darius James.”

Oscar blinked, then shook his head.  “You can hire staff.  You don’t have anyone now, do you?”

“My aunt’s cat, Missy.”

“What’s she do?”

“She vomits on vital legal documents.”

Ali took us through Silver Spring at a breakneck pace.  I looked at mourning towards Bonifant Street and the Quarry House, from where I had recently been ejected, then my eyes fell on the Tijuana Café and I thought to myself – new hangout.  Passing Jackie’s, we tumbled under the railroad bridge and, unexpectedly, Ali made a wild turn to the right that sent me sprawling once again.  Oscar, it seemed, had developed some strange center of gravity over the years.  Pulling in near the Used Hotel Furniture Outlet, Ali slowed to a crawl and brutally punched something attached to the passenger side sun visor.  I watched as a garage door along the face of the nameless warehouse wall rolled open.  Once it was up, Ali drove carefully into the dark, gaping maw.  He stopped and punched the door opener again.  The three of us, then, sat silently.  I listened to the door closing behind us, but Oscar was in his weird world, feverishly watching me.  When the door slammed shut, he barked, “Ready?”

We left the van.  Ali sprinted into the darkness and, soon, a white-hot sun flare of overhead lights and flood lamps exploded.  I closed my eyes, then opened them slowly to see, before me, what looked like a Toyota Siena.  It was nautical blue and had been modified nearly beyond recognition:  Night-black windows, wheels that looked like they belonged on a military vehicle, and alterations that made no sense to my suburban mind.  Then, beneath the grill, a dim red light lit up and began to pulse back and forth.

I caught my breath, “Oh no.”

“Oh yes!” Oscar shouted maniacally.

Someone was speaking from inside the car.  I hoped.  “Hello Mr. bin Laden.  Hello Ali.”

“This is Nacho Sasha.” Oscar’s voice shuddered as if he were on the verge of ecstasy.

I felt some shift in the car, perhaps just subconsciously, as if it were turning towards me.  “Hello Mr. Sasha.”

“Who’s in there?” I asked softly.

Oscar’s laugh was quick, broken by a gasp, like a madman trying to hide his greatest plan.

“Don’t say it.”

Oscar beamed, “I am.”

I shook my head.

“I’m going to tell you!”

“No.  No, no, no.”

“Ready?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“The car’s alive!  It’s name is Infidel One.”

I closed my eyes, held my breath.  Then, letting it go, I turned towards Oscar.  “What are you going to do?”

He stepped back and waved his arm towards the car with a flourish, “Infidel One is invincible.  With it comes the world.  The first of many, it will be the ultimate weapon.  Today — Silver Spring!”  He slapped my shoulder cheerfully, “Tomorrow, a very considerable portion of DC.  Then, some time later, lots more stuff.”

Something hit me then.  Something broke.  I felt years of dispassionate, apathetic bitterness shed my bones.  I felt, for the first time in my life, belief in humanity, faith in those around me, and the monstrous wrongness that emanated from Oscar.  Hatred flew from my soul and I knew, right there, that I had to make a choice.  I sucked in a breath, weaved drunkenly to the side, then spun around and delivered the first punch in my life to Ali’s jaw.

Ali took it standing.  He tilted his head a fraction, his face betraying no emotion.  Oscar, agape, didn’t move.  I hesitated, waiting for something I didn’t understand, then I turned and sprinted towards Infidel One with Ali right behind me.

I swung open the driver-side door, dancing to the right, and Ali failed to react in time, misjudged his distance from me.  He hit the door with his shoulder, ripping it out of my hands, and lost his footing.  The door hit and closed and I pulled it open again while Ali regained his balance and prepared to leap.  I dove inside, but Ali grabbed my ankle and tugged viciously.

My mind spun with horror, I played my last card as I gripped the steering wheel, my body rising and stretching between my hold and Ali’s powerful hands.  “Infidel One, my household makes over $150,000 a year and I live in suburban Maryland!  Do you recognize me?”

Infidel One did not respond, but my grip managed to defeat Ali’s pulling.  He let go and I fell hard against the seat, my knees cracking the door frame.  I started to clamber back into the car, but then he punched me viciously in the thigh.  I twisted, a scream half catching in my throat.  Pain rolled through my body and I shouted, again, “Do you recognize me?”

Infidel One finally replied.  “Hmmm… Do you have any children?”

I put my head against the bottom of the dashboard, gripping the wheel, while Ali grabbed the back of my pants and yanked hard, my belt buckle driving into my guts.  I croaked: “No, no.  But I once dated a legal secretary who made $28,000 a year and bought a house in Bethesda for $550,000.”  Desperation mounted, my voice rose in pitch, “I’ll have kids one day, I swear!  And they’ll be white and beautiful and I’ll drive them to soccer practice.  White – “  Ali aimed another punch at my back.  I twisted, yelling, “ –is –“ I kicked out, hitting Ali’s knee, he lost his balance and slammed against the open door, “ –right!”

Infidel One responded immediately:  “I recognize you.”

I let out an effeminate ‘hurrah,’ then demanded, “Help me!”

The pulse screamed in my ears and fried my fingertips.  A blue-white light engulfed me, then faded, leaving a stale, electric taste in my mouth.  I turned, agony driving spikes through my back and thigh, and watched Ali stumble back, his eyes wide, his face blackened, smoke curling from his hair.  The stench of his flesh filled the air.  Then, bonelessly, Ali fell to the floor.  I reached over and slammed the door.  All the doors locked as I did so.

Oscar ran to the window, and I rolled it down halfway, grinning at him.

“Infidel One will never obey you!” he shouted petulantly.

“Oscar, I’m disappointed.  You’ve created a sentient luxury SUV and I’m a white, upper-middle class, 30-something suburban American.”  I leaned towards him.  “Think about it.”

“This ends our friendship.  From here on out, we are enemies!”

“Good!  Friends are expensive.”  Then I barked towards the wheel, “Infidel One, let’s go!”

And so it began.  With an electric hum, Infidel One revved its engines and we blasted through the flimsy garage door, taking to Georgia Avenue, careening along the fast lane, and hitting the Beltway in a matter of heartbeats.

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