IEDs vs. IUDs

IED vs. IUD


Damn. What a horrible place for my fucking car to finally break down. Not that there is a good place for smoke to come billowing out of the engine block of my 1988 Acura Legend coupe, well, in front of the Playboy Mansion when Hugh Hefner’s out at the urologist might count, but hell, this is about as bad as could be imagined.

Off in the distance I can hear it. The pop, pop, pop of machine gun fire.

“Damn Marines,” I think to myself. Or did I just say that out loud? Just as a fucking flashlight shines right into my face.

“Put up your hands!” a voice spews from the darkness. Spew, not speak. I hear the distinct sound of rounds slipping into chambers all around me.

“Put your mother fucking hands up!” another voice decides to spew.

I put my hands up.

Lights dance all around now. Not flashlights. But lights nonetheless. I’m guessing their attached to automatic rifles. Hell, they could be giant fireflies for all I care. All I do know is I’m fucked.

Ten minutes ago I was at work. A place that every day gets a little more awful. But I’d give my big toe to be back there right now. Hell, if this gets as bad as I think it could get, I’d give my entire left foot. Although my place-kicking days would be over then.

Finally, I see a face.

Damn, this guy can’t be more than 22 years old. And all the rest of these jar heads are looking at him to tell them what to do? Reminds me of a newsroom. Where there are too many under qualified, stupid reporters running around with pens in their hands and pads in their back pockets because they’d take less than minimum wage to do the job.

I remember when I was that kid. And now, I’m 40 years old making less than I did when I was 30. Why? Well, that’s a long story that I’ve told too many times.

Now, I’m standing on the side of North Carolina Highway 24. Seven miles from the office. Thirty-three from my beach house.

“Sir, why are you here?” the kid says, not spews.

“Huh?”

“Why are YOU here?” he repeats.

“My car broke down. You see that smoke? It’s not me barbequing.” I regret saying that before the ing leaves my mouth…

“Sir, you are on restricted territory. We could have shot you. Not questions asked.”

I think to myself for a second. I’m on the side of the road. A state road. Yes, surrounded by military installations. But, still a public highway.

“Um, isn’t this highway 24?”

“Sir, that is highway 24,” he says, pointing his rifle at the pavement. “This. This is restricted territory.” Now pointing at the median.

“Sorry to interrupt your war games.”

Oops.

“How did you know we were conducting war scenarios?” he asked with a crocked up eyebrow.

“Lucky, I guess…”

Yeah, lucky is the perfect word for it. I am nothing if not lucky. Hell, I haven’t had sex in over two years, so I can’t even get lucky. Although, I have had chances. Just haven’t pursued them. It’s really why I don’t complain about it. At least I don’t have the AIDs. Ha. The AIDs.

As I’m having this internal dialogue, I glance over at some of the other “soldiers” standing about. They’re dressed in those grey fatigues. Not the tan ones you see all the time now in news footage from the Gulf or Afghanistan. Certainly not the ones in M.A.S.H., for sure.

Soon I see that they are really preoccupied with my car. Looking at it wearily. Almost scared in their approach to it.

“Why did you park this thing here?” the kid in charged asks me.

“Well, the engine started smoking, and I pulled off the side of the road.”

“But why here? There is a gas station about a ½ click to the east.”

What the fuck does that mean, I think to myself. Click.

“Didn’t you hear the gun shots?”

“Uh, not until I pulled over,” I said. “My radio was pretty loud.”

All of the sudden another kid came running over.

“Sarge, there’s something fishy under the dashboard.”

“Why the fuck are you under my dashboard,” I asked almost instinctively.

“Why the fuck do you care? Got something to hide?”

Instantly, five guns are trained on me again.

“Shit, that’s an IED!” a guy with glasses yells out.

“Sir, is there a bomb in this car. I’ll ask you once, and once only,” kid asks, or really demands.

“Uh….Uh…”

I feel a sharp pain on my neck. One of those shitbirds just hit me with the butt of his rifle. I fall down.

I wake up in a hospital. My neck hurts. Bad.

A man in a really nice uniform comes in. He must be important.

“Mr. Jones, we are extremely sorry,” he says. “But you certainly understand my men did what they did.”

“Uh…Uh…No.”

“Well, they found a box, with wires running straight from the steering wheel area duct-taped inside the dashboard. A very suspicious thing, for sure.”

“Yeah, but why were they under my dashboard?”

“You were parked in a secure area,” the nice suit guy said.

“I was parked on the side of a state highway.”

“Well, son, you’re lucky to be alive. These men are well trained. And they took all the right steps. You? You were an asshole.”

He’s got me there. I am an asshole. I wasn’t just play acting.

“Whatever. I would like to see my boss.”

“We’ve already spoken to him. This WILL NOT be in the paper.”

After they left, my boss came in.

“We’ve got to keep this under wraps, Randy. We have a nice working relationship with the base right now. Can’t mess that up for you.”

I just stare at him. Wondering exactly when the journalist leapt out of his body? What year it was. What decade even.

I told him I needed sleep. Concussion and all.

As soon as he was gone, I reached for my phone. Called my buddy. He works for a TV station. Who would have thunk the TV station would get my story over a fish wrapper?