WITH D-DAY NEARLY at hand, Russ hadn’t felt this energized and alive in years. He’d arisen bright and early, much to his chagrin, due to an anxiety-filled night. He had hardly slept, and when he did doze off, his dreams were so bizarre they would awaken him.
The only dream he remembered was the last one in which he was freestyling over the treetops of Augusta National. He was up so high, the people below looked like ants scurrying about. When he spotted Arman, he folded both arms against his body and dived at warp speed like a peregrine falcon in pursuit of its unsuspecting prey. But before he could reach his quarry, someone fired an RPG that blew him out of the sky. Thinking he was back in Afghanistan, Russ had awakened in a panic.
Relieved it was only a dream, he got up and played with Gunny for a few minutes before filling the dog’s bowls with extra food and water. His roommate was away. He was certain the canine would be fine on his own, although this was the first time he’d be leaving him alone. If it weren’t for the pet door giving the dog outdoor access, he wouldn’t have been able to make the trip. Russ gave scant thought to the fact that Gunny would bark day and night, disturbing the neighborhood. After all, life’s a bitch; then you die and go to hell.
The vet packed all necessary provisions into his custom-equipped white van outfitted with hand controls to accommodate his special driving needs. His idea was to play the disabled card. The back of the windowless vehicle was fully loaded with his wheelchair plus spare parts, prostheses, and crutches in hopes of dissuading a search if it came down to that. At the bottom of the pile, next to his drone, he hid C-4 plastic explosives inside his useless prosthetic legs, thinking at least they’re good for something. Totally exhausted, he popped a beer, relieved that it would all be over soon.
He visualized the expression on Yasin’s face as the drone bore down on him seconds before he met his maker. That little cocksucker will know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of an exploding device! he thought euphorically. Russ did regret there’d no doubt be residual casualties, but he reasoned that was an inevitable ramification necessary in order to bring social consciousness to the forefront of the American people’s minds.
The sky seemed bluer, the air fresher, and the sun brighter than he could ever remember as he began the 100-mile pilgrimage from Athens to Augusta. The trip couldn’t have been planned any more thoroughly, even with the help of AAA. He’d shoot down Highway 78 and then take Interstate 20 all the way to Augusta. While there, he’d stop by the Uptown Division of the V.A. hospital where he could pick up a cornucopia of pain-killing drugs. Yes, his plan was coming together. Life wasn’t all bad, he had to admit.
Twenty miles out of Augusta, the radio station he’d been listening to began its late-afternoon news broadcast. He reached over to change the channel when the word Afghanistan caught his attention. He cranked up the volume and listened intently.
“It has been reported that after thirty years of medical work in Afghanistan, the International Committee of the Red Cross will drastically reduce its presence in the country after a series of attacks on its staff.”
Russ tightened his death grip on the steering wheel, which caused the car’s speed to increase.
“The Red Cross said it will close its operations in Faryab and Kunduz, two northern provinces heavily affected by fighting in recent years.”
Russ’s face flushed. As his blinding rage built to a crescendo, the vehicle accelerated.
“Fucking worthless ragheads!” he shouted as the newscast continued.
“Six Red Cross staff members were killed in northern Afghanistan earlier this year, and last month a Spanish physiotherapist at the orthopedic rehabilitation center in Mazar-i-Sharif. It’s reported the organization will not leave Afghanistan entirely but is trying to limit its workers’ exposure to risk.”
The shrill shriek of a siren caught him off guard. At first, he thought the voice in his head was trying to speak, but there was no pain or flashing lights except for the one in his rearview mirror. He knew instantly that the strobes coming up behind him didn’t bode well, so the disabled man veered onto the apron and turned off the engine.
He waited for what seemed like forever in the sweltering, non-air-conditioned van.
“Come on, you prick! You can finish eating your doughnut later,” he mumbled, seething as he watched the bow-legged motorcycle cop fumble off his bike.
Plodding as if alighting from his mount for the first time since he’d begun a long, dusty cattle drive down the Chisholm Trail, the officer ambled to the driver’s side window. He tapped on the glass and motioned with his hand to roll it down.
“Have any idea why I pulled you over?” he asked.
Still upset over the radio broadcast, Russ spewed, “You were lonely and wanted someone to talk to?” The words had rolled off his tongue before he could reel them back. It probably wasn’t wise to piss off the one person who could ruin his plan.
The officer unfastened his chinstrap and pushed the helmet back off his forehead. “Think that’s funny?”
“I’ve had better one-liners, but that’ll do in a pinch,” Russ stated, still unable to control his tongue.
“Okay, smart-ass. Have it your way. You were going twenty miles an hour over the speed limit, and your tags aren’t current. Now, I want you to do as you are told, and slowly step out of the vehicle.”
Russ threw open the door, exposing his truncated legs. “Would love to accommodate you, officer, but as you can plainly see, I’m stumped as to how I should go about it.”
As the cop inhaled deeply and looked away, he noticed a Marine Corps decal affixed to the corner of the window. “Look, brother, I don’t know what issues you’re having, but you need to slow it down and get this vehicle current.”
“Were you in the Corps?”
The cop nodded. “Once a Marine, always a Marine. Do us both a favor and tone it down a bit—both for your sake and the public at large. You’re free to go.”
“Thanks, brother.”
Russ merged into the slow lane and stayed there. What the hell is the hurry, anyway? he thought. Take time to smell the roses. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?
He took an exit just outside of Augusta and pulled into the Walmart parking lot where he’d decided to hole up for the night. It wasn’t exactly the Hilton, but it sure as hell beat every one of those stinking foxholes he’d hunkered down in night after night, praying it wasn’t his turn to go tits up.
Russ wheeled himself to the front of the superstore where he did a double take. There, on the front page of the local newspaper, was a picture of Arman Yasin. He jammed coins into the slot and ripped the paper from the stand. How could the public be hoodwinked into believing this guy was anything but a mass murderer? For Christ’s sake, Charles Manson didn’t receive this much attention—and he was an American.
He lifted his torso, tossed the paper onto the seat, and ground the image with his ass. Still livid, he wheeled himself around inside the store like a maniac, paying little regard to the other customers. In fact, his spirits were lifted when he was sure he’d caused an old, hunchbacked woman he clipped in the adult diaper section to wet her drawers.
His fuse was re-lit while waiting in line at the checkout counter as he listened to shoppers around him speaking Spanish. The animated woman in front of him was facing her companion, chattering a mile a minute in her native tongue while flailing her free hand perilously close to Russ’s face.
Where the hell am I? he thought …Little Juana? He could have counted on one hand—and had fingers left over—the number of people that spoke English inside the store. If it’s brown, flush it down, the racist recited to himself.
A Mexican woman of indeterminate age sat outside, begging with five young children by her side. She cradled a newborn who clawed at her breast in search of sustenance. When the indigent looked up and extended a cup, her sad eyes read like a chapter out of a tragic novel. Her Spanglish was difficult to decipher, but the word “money” was pronounced so clearly that misinterpretation was impossible.
Russ eyed her with ill intent. “What you need more than money is birth control!” he spewed, “Quit having babies if you can’t take care of them!”
The woman smiled and extended her cup a little farther.
Russ pointed at each child as he counted off. “Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, cinco.” He then shook his head. “No más!”
He wheeled away in a hurry. “Jesus, what’s this country coming to when you need to be bilingual? Isn’t English the language spoken here?” he grumbled aloud to himself. There was no doubt in his mind that she, like most other impoverished immigrants, was milking our government dry with all the subsistence programs available. And if those foreigners don’t get what they want, they protest. People here illegally are protesting! What kind of bizzaro world do we live in? He expected to hear Rod Serling’s voice at any moment, accompanied by the Twilight Zone theme song.
Back inside his van, he rifled through the newspaper in search of the sports section. He didn’t usually bother to read the paper or watch news programs because he knew it was all fake news—just as the President said. The reporting was all carefully crafted by politicians to form public opinion according to their will. Well, he was too smart for that and not about to buy into their pack of lies.
He finally found the sports section, crowded with nothing but articles about the Masters, of course. And right there on the front page, in big bold letters, read the headline: “FIRST AFGHAN TO PLAY THE MASTERS IN CONTENTION.”
As he read on, Russ’s faithful companion, Rage, began its relentless ascent. Soon, the hot pain beneath his metal skull plate simmered until it reached a rolling boil. The flashing strobe inside his head pinned his eyes, ushering in the ear-piercing whine that announced the emergence of the taunting voice.
“Looks like your little jihad buddy is doing quite nicely. Congratulations.”
“What do you want from me? I’m doing all I can.”
“Oh yeah, while you sit around playing with your pud, he’s making a nice name for himself. How many other unknown international players from bumfuck Egypt have made headlines on the first page? If you ask me, I’d say you’re slipping, my friend.”
“That’s about to change, starting tomorrow. You just wait and see.”
“I’d say the damage is already done, but better late than never I guess.”
Russ grabbed the closest bottle of pills, threw back a handful, and pounded his head on the steering wheel until a spot of blood began to trickle from the tenderized meat in the middle of his forehead.
“Vengeance is mine…vengeance is mine!” he screamed, still holding the tattered article in his clenched fists.
When the episode passed, he found himself in a state of utter exhaustion. Slumped in his captain’s chair, he drifted into the recurring dream that haunted him night after night.
It always started out pleasant as he relived the day he’d hit a game-winning home run for his Little League team, sprinting around the bases like Superman. Then his vision switched to the field behind his house where he would chase the little girl down the street in a friendly game of “kissing catchers” followed by a titillating round of show-and-tell.
Next, it was basic training graduation day. Oh, the pride he felt decked out in his dress blues while marching in review with his company! But alas, the scenario turned dark as he recalled visions of his comrades screaming their last dying breaths in the desolate, mountainous regions of Afghanistan.
Finally, the horrifying, real-life nightmare played out when he was thrown into the air after tripping an IED. He remembered lying on the hot desert floor as the essence of life flowed from his body, only to be absorbed by a foreign soil whose thirst could never be quenched.
Oddly, for the first time in his life, he’d found peace while drifting into the bottomless black abyss of nothingness. A faraway light appeared from out of nowhere and he fought in vain to escape the vortex of a black hole whose gravitational pull dragged him closer and closer toward the purgatorial fires of hell. He broke through into the blinding-white light accompanied by an ear-piercing, shrill whistle that took his breath away. That’s when he’d first heard the voice that now dominated his thoughts.
“Welcome to my world,” the voice had said, surfing the crest of the insidious noise racking his brain.
Both eyelids popped open and he looked around. “Who said that? Who the fuck said that?” he cried out, tormented by pain as the corpsman tried to restrain him.
“Relax, buddy boy,” the voice urged. “I’m here to help now that you’re a half-wit. Don’t believe me? Go ahead, check it out for yourself.”
Russ jerked an arm free and touched the shattered remains of his skull.
“Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ! Please tell me it’s not true!” he pleaded as his fingers made contact with jagged shards of chipped bone fragments.
“You can thank those sand niggers. It’s their country, after all, and they’ve got us by the nads.”
“You fucking bastards are gonna pay for this if it’s the last thing I ever do!” Russ shouted.
“That’s the spirit. I think we’re going to form a great partnership,” the conciliatory voice reassured.
That was the last thing he could remember before waking up in the hospital.
The staff and doctors were excellent, but he wanted to die and spent a good portion of his spare time contemplating the best way to off himself. The voice became his savior, massaging his ego and molding his thoughts until he believed his life was spared in order to answer a higher calling.
The years he’d spent in rehab were the toughest time of his life. Aside from multiple surgeries, he had to endure the grueling pain of physical therapy. Learning to walk on stilted legs was a constant source of frustration to the man who had prided himself on his physical prowess. The hate and anger rallied by his unseen mentor were the only tactics that mollified his torment and agony. “Vengeance is mine” became his personal mantra.
He spent countless hours learning how to rewire his brain to regain the coordination required to perform the most basic tasks through repetitive actions, but his struggles continued as he was forced to relearn simple cerebral tasks such as speech, reading, and mathematics.
The worst part of the entire ordeal was the voice that now dominated his life. At first, the entity was a calming influence and his only friend as he withdrew deeper into debilitating depression. But their relationship slowly deteriorated. Once his new BFF had gained his confidence, the tormentor became more involved in decision-making until it eventually dictated every aspect of his daily routine.
Russ’s alter ego, which had become his mouthpiece, was regularly at odds with the psychiatrists who constantly probed and prodded. The doctors eventually deemed him psychotic, a diagnosis that landed him in the psych ward. He vehemently rebelled when the voice reassured him he had been misdiagnosed. Eventually, he placated the doctors by saying as little as possible, and when he did speak he chose his words carefully.
But now he was a free man prepared to complete his life’s mission of retribution. Payback was a bitch, indeed.