mr. zilla goes to town

Monday, September 29, 2003

Riders on the storm

Lightning smashes the sky, sixty miles from gravity well of Washington. We're off the interstate isolation vector and into a midnight fluoroasis. Eyes fidgeting, mental tripswitching, I've had two hangovers and two hours sleep in the last forty two.

There's a lion waiting ahead of me for the restroom. Thistory will not record his name.

He's raked like a savannah summer drought. Close cropped, his mane is tamed. Black, gold and ruby red scorches wreath him wrist to elbow. Like retractable claws, he keeps these firearms in plain sight beneath his skin. His gaze is out of place and without enough time. Sans decompression, it reads like confession: a world where the prey turned protected and the predators, game.

Here and now, he's got eleven days left to live a little. So we read the Weekly World News together.

Saddam and Osama in Secret Desert Wedding!

Ghosts of Uday and Qusay Haunt US Forces In Iraq.

There's something wrong with this picture, twangs the lion.

Yeah, I reply. Pretty wacko stuff huh.

Why's there a tank in this picture?

This one?

This is dumb. There was no tanks there. It were an infantry action.

What were?

When we killed Uday and Qusay. My unit.

Holy shit. Uh... fuck me. Well, nice one mate.

Yeah, betcher ass.
His pride returns and they walk out into the rain with a case of oblivion.

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