well well well.... so you must be wondering where I've gone and what's been happening. I'm in Calgary, Alberta in Canada. It's cold. It's got mountains and a whole load of oil and gas. Would I choose to live here? No way. Not a chance. It's incredibly beautiful and picturesque, but nope - no way. It's too cold for too many months and if I were to compare Moscow, it loses hands down. Moscow was cold, painfully so, but it was such a bustling, lively city with millions of people running around. Calgary is not an arts and culture hub. It's a functional city with functional buildings with functional people who probably moved here for work. It ain't Vancouver or Montreal. Oh well. It's still pretty, and the people have been nice thus far.
People here don't smoke, and if they do, it's in the privacy of their homes . It's a rare sight to see people huddled together having a smoke and sharing their thoughts. On slightly sunnier days, no one is out and about, Starbucks will be full inside without a soul sitting outside and basking. It's just soooo strange.
That aside, the food here is pretty alright. This weekend I'll be heading to the Waterton National Park (the one that borders Montana - can't cross the border, I don't have a visa!) Read about it here. Other than that, I haven't been doing much else other than sleeping like a hog (getting over the flu) and spending time with my nephew.
Have I been writing? No. Have I even been thinking about doing any bloody work? No. Am I missing Hamster Wong? Yessss. I won't be heading back to Malaysia till October, so I'm probably going to go mad from Hamster withdrawal. I would post up pictures and all the other touristy stuff, but where would be the fun in that? Wouldn't be better if I just bitched about Calgary?
p/s: loving Chinatown here. The dim sum is so-so though. Blah. Diversity? Yeah, there are all sorts of people here and the tagline is: Celebrating Diversity but I don't know if it's more diverse than Australia. Can't compare a small city like Calgary to Melbourne I guess. Till the next time I write something with a little more substance, adieu!
Wednesday 22 September 2010
Friday 10 September 2010
Brian
One that I wrote in 2009 - definitely in Australia at the time. Based on true events. Warning: Tear jerker. Mildly disturbing content.
The skin just above his eyebrow split the instant he was struck. The feeling of blood warming a trail down the side of his face could be ignored. His head was pounding, just as they were pounding on him – kicking and punching, as though they were consumed by joy of hurting him, unable to let go of this ecstasy that was rage.
His mind a blur, he hears someone, the voice of a girl, shouting, “Do it! Give it to him! Get him!”
He felt pain as a clothed foot stepped onto his outstretched hand, the sound of crushing bone and tearing skin sending him into a maelstrom of confusion. Where was he? Why was this happening to him? Who are these people? Why do they want to hurt him?
He braves a glance at the owner of the clothed foot and sees that it is a boy from his school. A boy who was not like him, a boy who did not understand him - a boy who hated him. He felt no self-pity, he only felt the pain. Now noticing a group of on-lookers watching on, he did not ask God why no one was helping. He was only trying to concentrate on the song he started to play in his head. He did not understand what it meant, but he loved laughing, and who better to have a laugh with than with God?
A small hand grabs him by the collar, pulling him up only to land a blow that sent him back down. Again and again and again, his face now completely bloodied, his mind lost. Someone else finds a stick and laughs while he cracks it on his ribs. He no longer feels pain, he starts to sing out loud, somehow flaming the fire consuming these boys.
The crowd of spectators now afraid, the sudden cessation of cheering brought about by the protrusion of his shin bone, his mangled leg the result of repeated stomping and smashing with metal pipes. His bloodied face meant nothing to them, yet, his singing while they ripped his legs to shreds made an impact.
The girl who was once cheering them on was now crying, begging them to stop, but it was too late. They were completely frenzied by the charm of someone else’s agony. The jubilance in their war-like cries, the enthusiasm with each punch, each kick, each blow with a pipe. The utter joy of snuffing out the life of someone different. The more he sang, the more they hit him. The less he tried to fight, the more they hit him. No one could stop this chaos; no one could put an end to this celebration of violence.
Suddenly, for the shortest of time, all was quiet. He braved open a swollen eye, and saw the end of his life as the metal pipe crashed onto his neck. He choked, gurgled, and tried to scream. All that people heard were his strangled scream of terror and realisation that he was dying. As the wind rushed out of his lungs, as he struggled to stay alive for just another second, he looked at the boy who hated him, and still could not fathom the meaning of everything. He liked the boy, he wanted to be just like him, yet the boy wanted to know nothing of him, wanted to feel nothing but hatred for him.
He breathed his last breath and thought to himself, “Mum must be upset that I’m late getting home.” He knew not the sheer pain his mother felt, as she retrieved his body from the morgue the next day. He knew not that she felt that she had failed to protect him. The one thing he knew, however, was that she loved him, and still does.
As his story was plastered all over the news and the media thrilled itself at the news of another’s demise at the hands of mere children, his mother lowered his mangled body into a tiny grave. The death of Brian, the small, mentally challenged teenager who did not know anything other than love, has been long forgotten. The world now concentrates on the infamous boys who beat him to death. The world feels empassioned; the world wants to help these children. The world wants to forgive, to help them become better human beings. The world has no regrets. Someone needed to die in order for a lesson to be learnt - he wrong lesson. The community now reaches out to them. Welcoming them with open arms, blaming their unfortunate living circumstances and lack of guidance. The boys moved on to become criminals, uneducated, uncouth, but free. Their anti-social behaviour earned them sympathy and made them celebrated heroes.
Brian will never know the joy of going to college, the excitement of falling in love. He used to idolise his father, who came home at exactly the same time every evening, wearing the exact same clothes matched with a colourful tie. He wanted to be just like him, he wanted to work in an office, and he wanted to come home to a wife and children. He wanted all that he had and more. His mother has since become silenced, guilt-ridden by his death. His father, now an empty shell of a man, wakes up every morning and puts on a bland, boring tie. He and his wife are the only people in the world who remember Brian. Tears are shed for Brian every day; no one watches a once beautiful family crumbling.
The guilt-ridden mother is unable to console the now emasculated father. They are unable to move on together, the world fails to notice their plight. They are now powerless, the light that was once lit has been snuffed out, the fight they had in them to survive the quandary of raising a boy who could never understand the world, the strength now gone. The marriage breaks down, the once united front collapses, the hollow father and the pained mother part ways. Each trying to survive, unable to save anyone let alone themselves. They had failed to save their own child; life together was not a life worth living. They have no one to blame, no one to point the finger at, and no one to help them overcome.
An insensitive scientist may say it was evolution taking place. The mere brutality of natural selection, the survival of the fittest. It is, was and always be, the regression of the human race. The inability to run from primitive behaviour.
As God watches from above, he sighs and says with relief, “Hallelujah. Another saved from the monsters I have created.”
Fancy reading something else, or a few chapter of The Builder? Find it in the Archives section! New chapters of The Builder out soon.
The skin just above his eyebrow split the instant he was struck. The feeling of blood warming a trail down the side of his face could be ignored. His head was pounding, just as they were pounding on him – kicking and punching, as though they were consumed by joy of hurting him, unable to let go of this ecstasy that was rage.
His mind a blur, he hears someone, the voice of a girl, shouting, “Do it! Give it to him! Get him!”
He felt pain as a clothed foot stepped onto his outstretched hand, the sound of crushing bone and tearing skin sending him into a maelstrom of confusion. Where was he? Why was this happening to him? Who are these people? Why do they want to hurt him?
He braves a glance at the owner of the clothed foot and sees that it is a boy from his school. A boy who was not like him, a boy who did not understand him - a boy who hated him. He felt no self-pity, he only felt the pain. Now noticing a group of on-lookers watching on, he did not ask God why no one was helping. He was only trying to concentrate on the song he started to play in his head. He did not understand what it meant, but he loved laughing, and who better to have a laugh with than with God?
A small hand grabs him by the collar, pulling him up only to land a blow that sent him back down. Again and again and again, his face now completely bloodied, his mind lost. Someone else finds a stick and laughs while he cracks it on his ribs. He no longer feels pain, he starts to sing out loud, somehow flaming the fire consuming these boys.
The crowd of spectators now afraid, the sudden cessation of cheering brought about by the protrusion of his shin bone, his mangled leg the result of repeated stomping and smashing with metal pipes. His bloodied face meant nothing to them, yet, his singing while they ripped his legs to shreds made an impact.
The girl who was once cheering them on was now crying, begging them to stop, but it was too late. They were completely frenzied by the charm of someone else’s agony. The jubilance in their war-like cries, the enthusiasm with each punch, each kick, each blow with a pipe. The utter joy of snuffing out the life of someone different. The more he sang, the more they hit him. The less he tried to fight, the more they hit him. No one could stop this chaos; no one could put an end to this celebration of violence.
Suddenly, for the shortest of time, all was quiet. He braved open a swollen eye, and saw the end of his life as the metal pipe crashed onto his neck. He choked, gurgled, and tried to scream. All that people heard were his strangled scream of terror and realisation that he was dying. As the wind rushed out of his lungs, as he struggled to stay alive for just another second, he looked at the boy who hated him, and still could not fathom the meaning of everything. He liked the boy, he wanted to be just like him, yet the boy wanted to know nothing of him, wanted to feel nothing but hatred for him.
He breathed his last breath and thought to himself, “Mum must be upset that I’m late getting home.” He knew not the sheer pain his mother felt, as she retrieved his body from the morgue the next day. He knew not that she felt that she had failed to protect him. The one thing he knew, however, was that she loved him, and still does.
As his story was plastered all over the news and the media thrilled itself at the news of another’s demise at the hands of mere children, his mother lowered his mangled body into a tiny grave. The death of Brian, the small, mentally challenged teenager who did not know anything other than love, has been long forgotten. The world now concentrates on the infamous boys who beat him to death. The world feels empassioned; the world wants to help these children. The world wants to forgive, to help them become better human beings. The world has no regrets. Someone needed to die in order for a lesson to be learnt - he wrong lesson. The community now reaches out to them. Welcoming them with open arms, blaming their unfortunate living circumstances and lack of guidance. The boys moved on to become criminals, uneducated, uncouth, but free. Their anti-social behaviour earned them sympathy and made them celebrated heroes.
Brian will never know the joy of going to college, the excitement of falling in love. He used to idolise his father, who came home at exactly the same time every evening, wearing the exact same clothes matched with a colourful tie. He wanted to be just like him, he wanted to work in an office, and he wanted to come home to a wife and children. He wanted all that he had and more. His mother has since become silenced, guilt-ridden by his death. His father, now an empty shell of a man, wakes up every morning and puts on a bland, boring tie. He and his wife are the only people in the world who remember Brian. Tears are shed for Brian every day; no one watches a once beautiful family crumbling.
The guilt-ridden mother is unable to console the now emasculated father. They are unable to move on together, the world fails to notice their plight. They are now powerless, the light that was once lit has been snuffed out, the fight they had in them to survive the quandary of raising a boy who could never understand the world, the strength now gone. The marriage breaks down, the once united front collapses, the hollow father and the pained mother part ways. Each trying to survive, unable to save anyone let alone themselves. They had failed to save their own child; life together was not a life worth living. They have no one to blame, no one to point the finger at, and no one to help them overcome.
An insensitive scientist may say it was evolution taking place. The mere brutality of natural selection, the survival of the fittest. It is, was and always be, the regression of the human race. The inability to run from primitive behaviour.
As God watches from above, he sighs and says with relief, “Hallelujah. Another saved from the monsters I have created.”
Fancy reading something else, or a few chapter of The Builder? Find it in the Archives section! New chapters of The Builder out soon.
Tuesday 7 September 2010
To my wife
I wrote this recently for what reason I don’t know. I was dragged out of sleep just to write this. For whom I don’t know. Warning: tear-jerker. Read out loud - slowly for full effect. If you want to keep bawling and crying your eyes out,Langdon. For chapters of The Builder, check out Chapter 17
To my wife,
My darling, it’s been 60 years since we met. You were eleven, I was twelve. We met at the school yard, your books sprawled on the ground and your colourful book band broken. I recall you crying. I pulled your hair and teased you. We’ve been best friends ever since. I suppose part of me knew back then that you were the one for me. It’s really no surprise that you’ve been my wife for more than fifty of those sixty years.
I left you for the army when I turned eighteen. I came back to you when I was twenty one. We were married the following summer. I remember worrying that you would be suspicious of me when I started my job as a travelling salesman. Not once have you questioned me. Not once have you doubted me. Not once have I broken my promise to you. You’re the funniest person I’ve ever known. You’re the grooviest gal in town. You’re my dream girl, you’re my heart.
It’s funny how memory fails us just when we need to recall something. It’s also funny how some memories never fade. As days go by, I forget more and more about my life that has passed me by. If you asked me what was the name of that boy who broke your book band sixty years ago, I wouldn’t know. If you asked me who my best man was at our wedding, I wouldn’t know. If you asked me whether we have children, I wouldn’t know. If you asked me what I had for lunch today – I wouldn’t know.
While more and more memories fade, there is one memory that I cannot erase. It’s been one year since you’ve moved on, one year since you left me, one year since heaven took you away. I sit here, alone on my rocking chair, in a place I cannot remember, with people I’m sure I don’t know and all I can think of is you. At night, I beg God to allow me to forget you but He never listens. I am constantly reminded that the most important part of me is gone. I think about you all day and I don’t even know where I am.
In a world that I no longer know and recognize, at a time that is no longer ours, I am all alone. Without you. I have forgotten everything but you. I beg you, my dear wife, let me forget you as I have forgotten everything and everyone else. It is impossible for me to live with such agony, it is impossible for me to go on, it is impossible knowing that you are gone. I know you cannot come back to me, just as I know my memories of other things cannot come back to me. It is my single, humble request, that you allow me to forget you. It is my single, humble request that you take away my pain. It is my single, humble request that you forgive me for wanting to forget you.
Tomorrow, when I wake up, I hope I do not remember your name. Tomorrow, when I wake up, I hope I do not remember your face. Tomorrow when I wake up, I hope I am no longer in pain. My darling, I pray that you always know how much I have truly loved you. It is not with malice that I request you release me. I cannot live another day knowing I have to go on without you. Remember, my darling, it’s not important what I remember about you – it’s that I love you and I always will.
Loving you, missing you, remembering you,
Your Husband.
*cries* Sorry. I have no idea how I wrote this - don't even bother asking. I think it has something to do with the Chinese Ghost Month. So sad. So sad. So sad.
To my wife,
My darling, it’s been 60 years since we met. You were eleven, I was twelve. We met at the school yard, your books sprawled on the ground and your colourful book band broken. I recall you crying. I pulled your hair and teased you. We’ve been best friends ever since. I suppose part of me knew back then that you were the one for me. It’s really no surprise that you’ve been my wife for more than fifty of those sixty years.
I left you for the army when I turned eighteen. I came back to you when I was twenty one. We were married the following summer. I remember worrying that you would be suspicious of me when I started my job as a travelling salesman. Not once have you questioned me. Not once have you doubted me. Not once have I broken my promise to you. You’re the funniest person I’ve ever known. You’re the grooviest gal in town. You’re my dream girl, you’re my heart.
It’s funny how memory fails us just when we need to recall something. It’s also funny how some memories never fade. As days go by, I forget more and more about my life that has passed me by. If you asked me what was the name of that boy who broke your book band sixty years ago, I wouldn’t know. If you asked me who my best man was at our wedding, I wouldn’t know. If you asked me whether we have children, I wouldn’t know. If you asked me what I had for lunch today – I wouldn’t know.
While more and more memories fade, there is one memory that I cannot erase. It’s been one year since you’ve moved on, one year since you left me, one year since heaven took you away. I sit here, alone on my rocking chair, in a place I cannot remember, with people I’m sure I don’t know and all I can think of is you. At night, I beg God to allow me to forget you but He never listens. I am constantly reminded that the most important part of me is gone. I think about you all day and I don’t even know where I am.
In a world that I no longer know and recognize, at a time that is no longer ours, I am all alone. Without you. I have forgotten everything but you. I beg you, my dear wife, let me forget you as I have forgotten everything and everyone else. It is impossible for me to live with such agony, it is impossible for me to go on, it is impossible knowing that you are gone. I know you cannot come back to me, just as I know my memories of other things cannot come back to me. It is my single, humble request, that you allow me to forget you. It is my single, humble request that you take away my pain. It is my single, humble request that you forgive me for wanting to forget you.
Tomorrow, when I wake up, I hope I do not remember your name. Tomorrow, when I wake up, I hope I do not remember your face. Tomorrow when I wake up, I hope I am no longer in pain. My darling, I pray that you always know how much I have truly loved you. It is not with malice that I request you release me. I cannot live another day knowing I have to go on without you. Remember, my darling, it’s not important what I remember about you – it’s that I love you and I always will.
Loving you, missing you, remembering you,
Your Husband.
*cries* Sorry. I have no idea how I wrote this - don't even bother asking. I think it has something to do with the Chinese Ghost Month. So sad. So sad. So sad.
Saturday 4 September 2010
How Tree Huggers Fall Chapter 17
Hi there, folks! Okay, so I was back home in KL for more than a week and have not written since Fan Boy (which I'm sure all of you don't like very much, but I don't give a flying rat's ass). I hereby present: Chapter 17: How tree huggers fall. Will be in Calgary, Canada from the 14th of September till the 1st of October. Fancy that. Will definitely try to write a whole bunch of chapters for The Builder while I'm still around! Read older chapters of The Builder here: Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16 Leave me a comment... please? I am writing in the dark, here!
Also: all items used in the following chapter are actually still in use, and are mostly still the weapons of choice of certain governments. Disclaimer at the bottom.
Jake refrained from reminding her that he did not like being called “Jakie-poo” and waited till she gave some kind of signal that she was about to move. What was he supposed to do? Sit and wait, like the damned dog? He felt helpless, stupid and most of all, he was scared. Like a ten-year old. Like a baby. He did not know a thing about guns - had never held one in his life, he did not know how to fight – swinging a punch at a drunk in a bar does not count as being able to fight.
His eyes attempted to scan the darkness, almost as though he was willing the footmen to show themselves. He wished he was born with special powers that made him able to see in the dark or even sense enemies. But sadly, he was a regular guy, with regular strengths and unfortunately, regular weaknesses. There Jo was, in all her supreme glory, crouched and ready to attack anything that so much dared to move.
“Now’s not the time to feel sorry for yourself, Foster,” he thought to himself. “Get a grip. Help them. Grab the dog and make sure he doesn’t run out when Jo moves out of the room”. For a second, his eyes focused and refocused to adjust to the darkness, like a self-adjusting camera. Getting used to the darkness, he saw that the motel room was just as bland as the surroundings outside. The room was heated with excitement – only not the sexual kind.
“Jakie, pay attention. When I move, you grab the dog. Stay low and try not to look out the window. Big boys like you like to look out windows to watch what’s happening outside and usually end up dead. Don’t you worry. Once I’ve got the rifle and my own damned scope, I’ll let you play with it, okay?” she asked, patting him on the head like he really was a ten year-old school boy. He looked at her incredulously and merely nodded his head.
He gripped Hootch’s collar and pulled the excited dog close. She picked up her phone, pressed a few buttons and placed it on the wooden floor. It vibrated silently and she was out the door, her tall frame moved so fast and with such agility that he felt her, not saw her, leave. Instantly, multiple gunshots were fired and Jake thought his ear drums were about to burst. The dog had more sense than he did, and crouched under the bed. He knew the shots were being fired by James and Fallon, but did not know where Jo was, or if he should wait by the door for to help her in.
Figuring he was more of a liability than anything else, he decided to stay put. He wished he had been given a gun too, so that he could kill one of those people. The shots went on and on, like rain on a tin roof along with the sound of what he figured had to be the “flash bang” until suddenly, Jo burst through the door. She was not breathing heavily, but the perspiration that dotted her forehead was an indicator of how much she had exerted herself – and enjoyed it. She was smiling at him. The rifle she was holding was massive.
“Oh yes, this baby makes everyone purr, even grumpy kitties like you. It’s called a Barrett M107. It’s super fancy. The scope is a little shitty, but it weighs a little less than the average sniper rifle. I’ve only got one mag, so we’re going to have to do this in ten shots or less. God, this is one 14 kilo hunk of sexy,” she said easily, as if she were talking about baking cookies.
“You’re going to learn how this is going to go down,” she said as she flung what Jake thought had to be a night-vision scope at him. “We flash-banged the fuckers, but that’s all worn out. They prolly had to take off theirs, but you are going to wear it for me and be my eyes, okay, Jakie-poo? You tell me if anyone starts moving towards the room Fallon and James are holed-in or even where the shooter in the tree line is and I’ll shoot the mother fuckers. Meanwhile, let me concentrate on finding our tree hugging sniper with my own little PVS 4. One day, you’ll understand how beautiful warfare is,” Jo said, again, with no trepidation. She had to be referring to her own little night vision scope, which he assumed was called a PVS-4.
He picked it up, found a switch and peered through the lens. Almost magically, he saw the Hummer, U-haul truck and tree-line, washed in green paint. He looked systematically from left to right, from top to bottom and miraculously, he saw the movement of feet near the U-haul truck. It appeared as though whoever it was, crouched and was waiting for an opportunity to move.
Before he could say anything, Jake heard the loud, sharp, piercing sound of Jo’s sniper rifle go off, and what used to be two feet planted firmly on the ground was now replaced by half a body, an arm still gripping a gun and a head oozing blood. Almost instantly, Jo deftly rolled aside and took cover as shots were fired at the room they were holed-in.
“You see, we’ve given away our position by sniping that mo-mo fo-fo. Now, each time you snipe at something, you gotta move, you hear? Don’t get killed by staying and watching your target breathe his last breath. You gotta be sure you hit him, and you gotta be sure you move!” she explained perfunctorily. “Were you looking at where the shots came from? Tell me where the sniper is.”
“I, uh, I was, uh... distracted. Sorry. I have no idea where he is,” Jake said, feeling more useless than he ever had before in his life. Calling himself ten kinds of fool, he realised they had to move again, because the sniper would be watching the room and its entrance. And there was probably back up on the way, coming to finish the four of them off in one fell swoop.
Jo did not respond but instead picked up her mobile phone and sent what Jake thought was a message. As though she had communicated with Fallon and James telepathically, shots were fired from another location and Jo grabbed Jake, made a clicking sound at Hootch and the three of them were off – running towards the U-haul. All the while, Jake was sure that Jo was watching for the sniper, waiting for him to reveal his position. Jo crouched behind a wheel and opened the door to the U-haul and ushered Hootch in. Once
Hootch was in, she shut the door and returned to where she had left Jake.
“Let Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum handle the other foot soldier. That sniper has made a mistake of monumental proportions!” she said, now angry. She was holding what Jake noted to be a dark-coloured blanket in her hand – she must have gotten it when she put Hootch in the truck. Her phone buzzed and she checked it. “Hah. I knew it. Second footman dead. Now we’re going to have some fun. No matter how high, a bird’s nest is still a fucking bird’s nest and little birdies go ‘cheep-cheep’!”
Fallon and James were firing from yet another location and Jo took her time to set up - under the truck, covered herself with the blanket and got to a comfortable position. It was not easy to angle the gun at almost 45 degrees, with the weight of it purely borne by Jo, but she managed it with great ease. Jake found himself staring at her denim-covered rump and was surprisingly aroused at the sight of it. He would have found the whole situation funny if shots were not being fired around them.
As the flurry of gun shots flew from two different locations, Jo had managed locate the elusive sniper. Jake knew it was crunch time. She could not miss, if only because she would not be able to back out from under the truck to a safe location in time to avoid getting shot. Jake had the sense to point his PSV to the direction she was aiming and stood watch as she fired a single shot. Instantly, as if lighting had struck a tree trunk – shaped a lot like a man – he saw the sniper fall to the ground. He could not make out if he was alive, but he was definitely hit.
Jo was already out from under the truck and was standing close to James, behind the rear tyre. “Did I get
him?”
“Definitely. Don’t know if you killed him though,” Jake said, with a calmness that shocked him. Since when was he a professional “scout”?
“Let’s go get him,” Jo said as she signalled for James and Fallon to come out. Jo disappeared into the darkness and a few seconds later, a single shot was fired, piercing the silence that had fallen. If she had not killed him the first time around, she definitely had gotten him this time. James had dragged the second foot soldier to where the first lay and dropped him there. Jo and Fallon were dragging the sniper towards them.
“We have to go, and we have to go right now. I was not prepared and it was stupid. No one was jamming their radios. It’s only a matter of time before a whole fucking infantry descends upon us. Move out! Jo, raid that fucking vending machine!” James barked out, and just like that, sleep was no longer on the menu.
DISCLAIMER: This is a fictional story and serves with all intentions and purposes for entertaiment. Any concept, idea or person mentioned in the story of The Builder is completely fictional. Any similarities, apart from scientific facts and historical events, are purely unintentional.
Also: all items used in the following chapter are actually still in use, and are mostly still the weapons of choice of certain governments. Disclaimer at the bottom.
Jake refrained from reminding her that he did not like being called “Jakie-poo” and waited till she gave some kind of signal that she was about to move. What was he supposed to do? Sit and wait, like the damned dog? He felt helpless, stupid and most of all, he was scared. Like a ten-year old. Like a baby. He did not know a thing about guns - had never held one in his life, he did not know how to fight – swinging a punch at a drunk in a bar does not count as being able to fight.
His eyes attempted to scan the darkness, almost as though he was willing the footmen to show themselves. He wished he was born with special powers that made him able to see in the dark or even sense enemies. But sadly, he was a regular guy, with regular strengths and unfortunately, regular weaknesses. There Jo was, in all her supreme glory, crouched and ready to attack anything that so much dared to move.
“Now’s not the time to feel sorry for yourself, Foster,” he thought to himself. “Get a grip. Help them. Grab the dog and make sure he doesn’t run out when Jo moves out of the room”. For a second, his eyes focused and refocused to adjust to the darkness, like a self-adjusting camera. Getting used to the darkness, he saw that the motel room was just as bland as the surroundings outside. The room was heated with excitement – only not the sexual kind.
“Jakie, pay attention. When I move, you grab the dog. Stay low and try not to look out the window. Big boys like you like to look out windows to watch what’s happening outside and usually end up dead. Don’t you worry. Once I’ve got the rifle and my own damned scope, I’ll let you play with it, okay?” she asked, patting him on the head like he really was a ten year-old school boy. He looked at her incredulously and merely nodded his head.
He gripped Hootch’s collar and pulled the excited dog close. She picked up her phone, pressed a few buttons and placed it on the wooden floor. It vibrated silently and she was out the door, her tall frame moved so fast and with such agility that he felt her, not saw her, leave. Instantly, multiple gunshots were fired and Jake thought his ear drums were about to burst. The dog had more sense than he did, and crouched under the bed. He knew the shots were being fired by James and Fallon, but did not know where Jo was, or if he should wait by the door for to help her in.
Figuring he was more of a liability than anything else, he decided to stay put. He wished he had been given a gun too, so that he could kill one of those people. The shots went on and on, like rain on a tin roof along with the sound of what he figured had to be the “flash bang” until suddenly, Jo burst through the door. She was not breathing heavily, but the perspiration that dotted her forehead was an indicator of how much she had exerted herself – and enjoyed it. She was smiling at him. The rifle she was holding was massive.
“Oh yes, this baby makes everyone purr, even grumpy kitties like you. It’s called a Barrett M107. It’s super fancy. The scope is a little shitty, but it weighs a little less than the average sniper rifle. I’ve only got one mag, so we’re going to have to do this in ten shots or less. God, this is one 14 kilo hunk of sexy,” she said easily, as if she were talking about baking cookies.
“You’re going to learn how this is going to go down,” she said as she flung what Jake thought had to be a night-vision scope at him. “We flash-banged the fuckers, but that’s all worn out. They prolly had to take off theirs, but you are going to wear it for me and be my eyes, okay, Jakie-poo? You tell me if anyone starts moving towards the room Fallon and James are holed-in or even where the shooter in the tree line is and I’ll shoot the mother fuckers. Meanwhile, let me concentrate on finding our tree hugging sniper with my own little PVS 4. One day, you’ll understand how beautiful warfare is,” Jo said, again, with no trepidation. She had to be referring to her own little night vision scope, which he assumed was called a PVS-4.
He picked it up, found a switch and peered through the lens. Almost magically, he saw the Hummer, U-haul truck and tree-line, washed in green paint. He looked systematically from left to right, from top to bottom and miraculously, he saw the movement of feet near the U-haul truck. It appeared as though whoever it was, crouched and was waiting for an opportunity to move.
Before he could say anything, Jake heard the loud, sharp, piercing sound of Jo’s sniper rifle go off, and what used to be two feet planted firmly on the ground was now replaced by half a body, an arm still gripping a gun and a head oozing blood. Almost instantly, Jo deftly rolled aside and took cover as shots were fired at the room they were holed-in.
“You see, we’ve given away our position by sniping that mo-mo fo-fo. Now, each time you snipe at something, you gotta move, you hear? Don’t get killed by staying and watching your target breathe his last breath. You gotta be sure you hit him, and you gotta be sure you move!” she explained perfunctorily. “Were you looking at where the shots came from? Tell me where the sniper is.”
“I, uh, I was, uh... distracted. Sorry. I have no idea where he is,” Jake said, feeling more useless than he ever had before in his life. Calling himself ten kinds of fool, he realised they had to move again, because the sniper would be watching the room and its entrance. And there was probably back up on the way, coming to finish the four of them off in one fell swoop.
Jo did not respond but instead picked up her mobile phone and sent what Jake thought was a message. As though she had communicated with Fallon and James telepathically, shots were fired from another location and Jo grabbed Jake, made a clicking sound at Hootch and the three of them were off – running towards the U-haul. All the while, Jake was sure that Jo was watching for the sniper, waiting for him to reveal his position. Jo crouched behind a wheel and opened the door to the U-haul and ushered Hootch in. Once
Hootch was in, she shut the door and returned to where she had left Jake.
“Let Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum handle the other foot soldier. That sniper has made a mistake of monumental proportions!” she said, now angry. She was holding what Jake noted to be a dark-coloured blanket in her hand – she must have gotten it when she put Hootch in the truck. Her phone buzzed and she checked it. “Hah. I knew it. Second footman dead. Now we’re going to have some fun. No matter how high, a bird’s nest is still a fucking bird’s nest and little birdies go ‘cheep-cheep’!”
Fallon and James were firing from yet another location and Jo took her time to set up - under the truck, covered herself with the blanket and got to a comfortable position. It was not easy to angle the gun at almost 45 degrees, with the weight of it purely borne by Jo, but she managed it with great ease. Jake found himself staring at her denim-covered rump and was surprisingly aroused at the sight of it. He would have found the whole situation funny if shots were not being fired around them.
As the flurry of gun shots flew from two different locations, Jo had managed locate the elusive sniper. Jake knew it was crunch time. She could not miss, if only because she would not be able to back out from under the truck to a safe location in time to avoid getting shot. Jake had the sense to point his PSV to the direction she was aiming and stood watch as she fired a single shot. Instantly, as if lighting had struck a tree trunk – shaped a lot like a man – he saw the sniper fall to the ground. He could not make out if he was alive, but he was definitely hit.
Jo was already out from under the truck and was standing close to James, behind the rear tyre. “Did I get
him?”
“Definitely. Don’t know if you killed him though,” Jake said, with a calmness that shocked him. Since when was he a professional “scout”?
“Let’s go get him,” Jo said as she signalled for James and Fallon to come out. Jo disappeared into the darkness and a few seconds later, a single shot was fired, piercing the silence that had fallen. If she had not killed him the first time around, she definitely had gotten him this time. James had dragged the second foot soldier to where the first lay and dropped him there. Jo and Fallon were dragging the sniper towards them.
“We have to go, and we have to go right now. I was not prepared and it was stupid. No one was jamming their radios. It’s only a matter of time before a whole fucking infantry descends upon us. Move out! Jo, raid that fucking vending machine!” James barked out, and just like that, sleep was no longer on the menu.
DISCLAIMER: This is a fictional story and serves with all intentions and purposes for entertaiment. Any concept, idea or person mentioned in the story of The Builder is completely fictional. Any similarities, apart from scientific facts and historical events, are purely unintentional.
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