RUSS GRABBED THE pellet gun and rolled his wheelchair to the back doorway, where he threw bread crumbs onto the deteriorated concrete patio. One of the consequences of his combat accident was super-sensitivity to light and sound, and those damned ravens with their constant squawking were driving him mad.
He gave the weapon an extra pump and sighted it on the crumbs.
Just then, one of those flying rats landed to create a ruckus. As it called its buddies over for a quick, free brunch, the marksman set his sights on the big alpha male.
It always felt good when he had a firearm in his hand—even a pellet gun. It made him feel powerful. He slowed his breathing and calmed his heartbeat as he drew a bead on the crow. When he squeezed off the shot, the other birds scattered in all directions, cawing as they took flight. The wounded bird staggered sideways before flopping onto its side, cold dead.
“That’s it!” he yelled to the squawking birds that’d landed on a nearby tree. “You bastards go tell the rest of your friends, there’s more where that came from.”
Gloating after his successful kill, the deadeye looked to his dog. “I still got it. Should’ve been a sniper,” he said with a cocky, prideful attitude.
Russ wheeled himself outside and picked up the bird by its feet. “Heavy bastard, ain’t ya? No reason to let this go to waste. I’ve got no problem eating crow,” he said, amused at his wit. “But first, I’ll use this kill for a higher purpose.”
The proud hunter dangled the still-warm carcass in front of Gunny’s nose. “Traditionally, they sacrifice a goat or chicken, but this’ll have to do,” he commented to the dog, who sniffed at it, licking his chops. He then tossed the dead bird onto his desk.
From the back of a drawer he removed a voodoo doll he had purchased online, supposedly of Haitian origin. If eighty million people all over the world still practiced the ritual, he felt there must be something to it.
He had pasted a newspaper photo of Arman on the face of the crude figure and wrapped a piece of cloth around its forehead. He lit a candle in homage to one of the loa spirits and then, with great care, shoved a needle deep into the doll’s back. “Take that, bitch! Feel my pain!” he spewed gleefully.
Russ began to twitch spasmodically as his head filled with Haitian music and rhythmic ritual chants. Before he knew it, only the whites of his eyes were visible. During his strange sojourn into the realm of sorcery and spirit possession, he took part in a voodoo ritual used by West African slaves in Haiti where, with bad juju in the air, he danced on two good legs in celebration of the spell cast on his enemy.
The hours passed seamlessly during his blackout. Unaware of time or space, it was dark when he broke free of the trance. Weak and ravished, he took the raven, which by this time was stiff as a board, to the kitchen. He plucked and gutted the bird, taking keen interest in the various organs and how they all fit together like a puzzle.
Russ held the bird’s heart in his hand. “You want this?” he taunted Gunny.
The dog barked and vigorously wagged his tail.
“Well now, you’re going to have to work for it. Sit!”
He had the pit bull’s undivided attention. Gunny obediently sat, and Russ placed the morsel on the bridge of the canine’s nose.
“That’s a good dog. Let’s see how patient you can be.”
He wheeled himself over to his desk and rolled a joint. Slightly cross-eyed, the dog remained statuesque.
Russ lit the doobie and coughed out a plume of blue smoke. “Man, that’s some good shit! Anytime one hit will do ya, you know you’re in Ganja Land.”
He looked back to the dog that was still a study in patience and concentration. “Okay. Good boy.”
Gunny quickly flipped his head skyward and waited for gravity to take its course. He swallowed the organ whole and then stared at his master, hopeful more was to come.
While Russ sorted through the other body parts, he tried to determine their functions. Maybe I should’ve been a surgeon or a coroner, he thought. Why not? Death doesn’t bother me. So what if I fuck up and somebody bites the big one? No sweat off my hairy balls.
After consuming the crow, he sat on the edge of his wheelchair seat, dropping golf balls into a drinking glass while listening to Golf Channel in the background.
Russ had decided that he would resume the game after completion of his covert operation at the Masters. Until recently, he had lost all hope of ever playing again, but planning this caper had renewed his interest. Why not? Golf had been his only passion ever since his dad had introduced him to the game, and if there was one thing he desperately needed, it was to inject some joy back into his life. It was obvious he would never achieve the same proficiency he’d once enjoyed, but he would reset his primary goals. In an uncharacteristically sanguine mood, he reminded himself: The basic challenges of golf never change regardless of one’s physical limitations.
There were two options as to how he could go about it. One, he could use his artificial legs—but seeing as how he was a double-amputee above the knee, that was the less appealing choice. He was more intrigued by the second option, a custom-made golf cart built to accommodate his special needs. He had watched an online video in which a golfer paralyzed from the waist down had used the apparatus and established a five-handicap on a regulation course. The chair swiveled ninety degrees from the driver’s position, which enabled an unencumbered full swing. A tool similar to a long, extended ball retriever on steroids made it possible to tee the ball and extract it from the cup. He particularly liked the oversized balloon tires that reminded him of a tactical amphibious vehicle, which would enable him to drive onto greens and into traps, assuming the lip wasn’t too steep. The masochist fantasized about the terrified expression on golfers’ faces as he barreled down the fairways, hell-bent on playing through—and God help any bastard who got in his way! He couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of a gun turret mounted on the vehicle to ensure compliance with his wishes.
Later, he sat alone in his dark, dreary dudgeon, weary after a long putting session. The worn-out carpet sloped from left to right due to the dilapidated condition of the slanted subfloor, making each putt a true challenge.
The rumble of a FedEx truck outside the front window brought him out of the downward spiral he could feel himself tumbling into. The driver didn’t bother to knock. He just carelessly dropped the package and booked.
“Bastard!” Russ yelled at the top of his lungs while pounding his fist on the arm of his chair. “Could’ve at least knocked or rung the bell!”
He stealthily opened the blinds a skosh—just enough so he could do a little recon with his binoculars. Although there was no evidence, he’d bet dollars to doughnuts those agents were watching him. It didn’t really matter, though. He wasn’t going anywhere, so they could wait until they had oozing sores on their asses for all he cared.
Assured the coast was clear, he ducked out and quickly grabbed the parcel. Once back inside, he gently shook it. God help that delivery man if the contents were broken!
Russ carefully removed the drone from its packaging and read the instructions. He then attached the new GoPro camera also in the delivery box.
He was most excited over the small package he’d received the week before, worth its weight in gold. The C-4 explosive was a virtually impossible commodity to acquire, but fortunately, he still had connections to a bad seed in his old military unit.
He affixed the menacing Play-Doh to the drone’s undercarriage and weighed his creation in both hands, hoping the machine could carry the load. There was little concern of explosion, as C-4 is very stable and insensitive to most physical shocks. The wily vet was familiar with its properties and understood that it couldn’t be detonated by dropping onto hard surfaces, being set on fire, or exposure to microwaves. Explosion could only be initiated by shock wave, which he would trigger with a detonator installed just before the death machine’s deployment. Once activated, the material would rapidly decompose, releasing nitrogen and carbon oxides as well as other gases.
Finally, he installed the GoPro app on his iPhone and connected the camera via WiFi.
His eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat as the rotors began to whirl, lifting the drone into the air. The test run proved to be short-lived, however, when he lost control of the contraption and it crashed against the wall.
Thank God for the stability of C-4, he thought.
Russ soon mastered full command of the controls. As he flew the drone around the room, he briefly fantasized about scouring the neighborhood at night for unsuspecting females undressing before bedtime. He had a special affinity for the succulent, forbidden fruit of the teenage girl next door. The half curtains on her window blocked the view from ground level, but his eye in the sky could bring him hours of unadulterated pleasure as he watched her unveil hidden treasures. But that would have to wait. No reason to jeopardize the operation this close to D-Day.