Sometimes Justice pulls her eyes blindfold up, just a little, to take a good look at what's happening around?
The air inside the room was warm and stuffed, what you could expect on repository place forgotten by everybody but when they had some trash or items good to have if you need it again.
Walther had gimmicked the lock and went inside in the wee hours of the night when nobody in the right mind would adventure on streets lashed by wet winds carrying all sort of little projectiles and yesterday pieces of paper.
Now and then a car would race ignoring red amber and what you have of traffic lights like a Nascar berserk driver, leaving parallel momentarily dried up tracks on the asphalt and then…it was gone.
Taking a few small tools from a pouch he went to the window build on the flat corner of the block.
Two hinged iron framed panels with a lot of glass forming some kind or pattern, like those you find on Tiffany’s glass lamps.
On the lower left corner was, vertical set, a rectangular dark green glass, which he removed after prying lose the dried up putty.
When he lowered himself to see through, a few drops of rain came like sky bullets to greet his face.
He had a perfect view all the way to the other side of the side street, the wide avenue crossing and the pompous entrance of the Brotherhood or what they liked to called their deranged club, fraternity, what the hell! To him they had all the same mother, fathers unknown.
You can attack with words, menace with Armageddon, spew brim and fire to the Great Satan, we had hear all before, some do act on it some don’t.
The Holy Mule, mullah or what they like to be called this days had committed the cardinal sin of acting, boosted to act by his own words, he looked one day at his mirror and saw an untouchable, indestructible, feared, and in a moment of defiance, ordered a suicide bomber to be a martyr with a belt to be exploded at the Grand Hotel Conference Room with a gathering of American Industry Captains in an ongoing conference for the donation of millions of dollars to combat terrorism, which were hurting the well being of their business.
The young and incensed martyr to be was all gun-ho until they strapped around his body the flat contraption with many heavy vertical metallic receptacles for the purpose of have steel shrapnel to hit as many as one could which were no killed by the blast.
The supplied trigger was a cheap cylindrical push and release button on one of its ends, which would close the electrical circuitry to feed the detonation cap.
Through a hole in the left pocked (he was a south paw) of his pant he could reach the switch at the elected moment and send everybody to kingdom coming.
But the cheap bastards couldn’t send him with a car, taxi or what you have, instead he was ordered to approach the Grand Hotel using the subway which would forced him to change lines twice as he was coming from the far end of the city ghettoes.
From his clothes had been removed all the labels, documents, receipts, old bus tickets, coins but a couple of subway tokens.
Around his neck he had a silk tread with the plastic key that he would use to open the Paradise doors and claim his seventy-two virgins.
The Mule or mullah, whatever, didn’t like to give the dumb bastards time to start thinking and chicken out, he knew that for experience after a few botched assaults because people were allowed to think.
So, “out you go martyr!!!”
So the martyr to be went.
With everybody going to work, it was planned that in a bunch of crammed olives he wouldn’t call attention to himself as he would traveling on quasi empty wagons with people not having nothing to do but look around and those ubiquitous mobile telephones to squeal for cops, pronto!!!
By the fourth station from the end line departure the martyr to be was being pressed more and more as people hurried onboard.
When a body was pressed against his he was sure that he or she would notice the belt and ruin everything.
Ten stations after he followed the main force exiting at the first cross lines junction relieved at finding himself at last free of the oppressive state.
His forehead was shinning with sweat, despite the chilling wind coming down from the street making everybody to shudder after the cozy warmth of the train.
His train came and he didn’t want to hurry and be bumped, shake or send flat on his face by one of those inconsiderate vantro.
The carriage was not full, but no seats available, so he moved towards the opposite closed doors parking his butt against the partition with his left side against the shut door.
The damn switch had slide out of the pocked and was hanging now on his inner left thigh almost touching the knee.
Looking casually around he started to fish it up as the train was coming to the next station.
He had it at last in his hand when the doors started to open, his thumb was trying to check if the button was still intact when a zillion of school children poured inside like a happy avalanche, everybody pushing everybody with those in the rear pushing the most.
Surprised the martyr to be was dumbfounding looking at the incontrollable wave aiming directly at him trying to press himself against the glass, his thumb forgotten on the release button.
Then, the full of laugh, giggles and high pitched small screams wave arrived with and unstoppable press.
Involuntarily, the martyr to be closed his fist with the thumb pressing hard on the button and the laughs broke in a myriad of bloody little pieces.
The carnage was total.
The dead of the children reverberated far beyond the religious and political frontiers, with everybody coming forward to denounce and condemn that dastardly act.
The Mule, mullah, whatever, would try to do it too.
Miscalculating he had already pass along to the Middle East of the impending blow to the Great Satan inflicted by him.
When the first new reached that part of the world, people went joyful into the streets, burning flags and chanting “dead to America, Israel and the infidels”
Then, the news came about the outrage, the dead school children and it wasn’t no joy no more, it was time for retaliation fear.
The mullah was coming to the Brotherhood to condemn the action, but one of the brothers, already, had sent him up the creek without a paddle, and Walther was coming to give him one.
A phone call had gone to the Grand Hotel to one of the businessman, which immediately called a New York number that set in motion a First Priority call upon a hit “with extreme prejudice” a jargon for “take out the bastard”
Three hours after the first call, Walther, ten thousand feet up on a fly to somewhere got an inane signal about a property for sale.
On his fly intermediate landing he called the “property sales” number and go the green light with all the particulars about the when and where, the how was left at his discretion, but it was highly wished upon that plenty of evidence were left pointing to one of the mullah’s opposite cell of bombers to be.
After he was gone he was sure that the cops would find the ajar open door, the rest of a kebab meal, cigarette’s stubs of a particularly quality and the ubiquitous Kalashnikov with an empty magazine.
The limousine, why the “chosen” should always ride in luxury stile, like the chosen ones televangelists back home?, was arriving on time with only a few onlookers supporters milling around the wide pompous entrance of the brotherhood corner house.
Walther had removed the little piece of green glass and was peering from a dark room window ten feet above to the morning-illuminated streets.
The bodyguards came out first, scanning everything, but at least they were clairvoyants couldn’t see the little open piece of glass among hundred windows showing the same pattern.
One of them opened the back door and a turban bearded stocky man came out which couldn't resist looking with disdain towards two civilian police cars that had been trailing his limo.
The act had made identification A-OK, no doubles passing for the “holy” man.
Walther waited until the mullah had turned his back to him, he didn’t wish to kill the man like a man, he wanted to kill the man the coward’s way, running away.
The Kalashnikov AK-47 would fire 100 rounds per minute with a muzzle velocity of 2,010 joules going at 2.329 feet per second and effectively mown down anything between three and four hundred yards.
The man across the street was less than fifty when Walther firmly positioned the weapon protruding from the opening and fired until a click told him the magazine was empty.
The mullah, three bodyguards and five onlookers would be Dead On Arrival, nobody said that it was a precision weapon, with a few with cut and bruises after carelessly diving on cement.
At the First Class Departure Lounge, Walther was nursing his dark rum, no ice, following the CNN news about a war going on between two terrorist cells and it were expected retaliatory actions from the Taliban backed Islam Brotherhood Faction against its Iran financed rivals.
The UN, bending over as always they do, was suggesting a discussion table between the factions to thwart more innocent’s bloodshed.
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Reviewed by LadyJtalks LadyJzTalkZone
11/7/2007
and a wink goes out ...how about those yankee's this year...lady j
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The air inside the room was warm and stuffed, what you could expect on repository place forgotten by everybody but when they had some trash or items good to have if you need it again.
