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Cerebral Contents: Update for 05.13.08: Backsliding by Cynthia Ruth Lewis 05.05.08: Five Feet and Building by Joel Van Noord Grocery Aisle by Richard Lighthouse Cross the Road by Ashok Niyogi 04.29.08: The Modern Covenant by Daniel E. Wilcox Death by Onions by Michael Frissore 04.21.08: Future's Children by Kimberly Raiser Identity Theft by George Anderson A Great Deal of Money by Justin Hyde 04.14.08: Mr. Papaya and Dale by Eric Suhem California by Caroline Imreibe Aftermath of Vehement Argument #1,068 by Cynthia Ruth Lewis Trip-Hammer Vitality by Lisa Nickerson 04.07.08: The Florence of Basel, or Why Readers of Nietzsche Need to Read Burckhardt by Jeff Crouch Friends of the Poet by Sean C. Bowen Picture Perfect by Leah Baldwin 03.24.08: Staring Down a White-Tailed Doe by Aleathia Drehmer 03.17.08: The Hairbrush by Vernard Kennedy Dog Days of Winter by Niall Berkeley Poem From My Grave by Michael Lee Johnson Mashed Potatoes and Hamburgers by Matt Finney 03.10.08: Hard Work by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Jetty Cake Pigs by J.D. Nelson |
Baghdad Taxi by Phil Doran
It was an idea just waiting for execution. The executioner had been delayed in a complex carbon trading fracas at the border. In order to meet my own ecological footprint requirements, I'd had to greenwash a couple of Republican governors. My Easy Jet was anything but. Thirty-five quid plus a tip. Never get a flight to London Luton. Never get a flight anywhere. It'd been the same in Baghdad. I was suicide bombed twice on the way from the airport to the conference. I'd been talking with the first cab driver when we were blown up. We were playing 10 Things in Lennon's Pocket. Great game. It's easier than speaking Arabic, quite frankly. — Penis like a baseball bat this guy, I'm tellin' yer. — Condoms. — Nice one, Abdullah. Most don't get that one straight off. — Diary. — Nope. 'Fraid not. — Play guitar with. It plastic thing. — You mean a plectrum? Yep. Two of 'em. That's seven. Plectrums, condoms — Trojan ribbed — spare glasses, a comb, a lock of Sean's hair, a picture of Yoko and him naked, a pencil (Berol drawing 2B). — Cigarettes. — 'Course. Thought you'd never say. Which brand? — Winston. — Spot on. Anything else? — Chew gums. — Chewing gum. Yes! Brand? — Wreegley. — You are one squiffy Iraqi, Abdullah. — What mean "squiff..." The blast blotted out the rest of his response. The noise was so intensely loud it was almost silent. The light was shocking white like a line of methamphetamine. It came from the sides of my eyes and behind my head. It felt like petroleum jelly had been rubbed all over my brain. I smelled his red flesh as it smeared across the separation screen between him and me. Luckily, I'd managed to make out his last guess. He'd just been able to tell me in time before consciousness was snuffed out like a candle. Small. Shiny. Metal. Like penis. Move round and ro... A steely dan! You are one lucky son of a gun Abdullah. He'd gotten all ten in less than five minutes. No one had ever done that before. It was my forty-seventh bomb blast. It was Abdullah's first, of course. They say the ratio's about 50:1. I was beginning to ride my luck. I got another taxi. But I had to share with a shampoo salesman from Double Prefix, Arizona. He said it was his first time in Afghanistan, not seeming to know we were in Baghdad. I introduced myself as Kamran Shah, an Afghan prince who had fought alongside James Bond against the Soviet occupation. I told him that if he had a demented wife like mine, he too would have joined the Mujahideen. With this he sympathized instantly. Women were his biggest customers, though they could be a pain in the butt. The Taliban had some good ideas with respect to post-feminism. They were, however, a nightmare for shampoo sales. He was headed for a business conference at the Hilton. I told him we'd be lucky to make it without being suicide bombed. But the dollar signs in his ears made communication difficult. Sure enough. Our taxi was blown to smithereens. Some of the smithereens, I managed to put back together in time for the premier. The producers have been careful to avoid alliances with future terrorist groups. It is my last book. Military intelligence will oversee subsequent issues. They have appointed two new full-timers. Their job: to conceal the conspiracy threatening the planet. It has a massive budget. I'm up for the main role. I'm to be auditioned at the Hilton in half an hour. If I can get a cab that is. Taxi!
______________________________________ posted 11.26.07. |
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