completely wipe their culture out of the United States of America. He now hated all Middle Easterners with an unbridled fury and would love nothing more than to see them all exported, preferably in a box, back to their own wretched countries.
Buzz and Barry recognized Damien’s voice blaring over the PA as they entered the room. “Sit down guys, it’s time to get goin’. I guess you know by now there’s been another warning of an al-Qaeda strike somewhere in the US, and I think it’s time to take some action ourselves, rather than wait around for George Fucking Bush to get his head out of his ass! Right, guys? It’s way past time to teach those sand-fuckers a lesson, huh?”
Clenched right fists were raised throughout the room, accompanied by an assortment of expletives. “Yeah, teach ’em to fuck with the US of A! Let’s get them before they get us again!”
“Damn right!” echoed Damien, strutting back and forth across the stage, shaking his fists and whipping his motley band of followers into a frenzy of revenge. His towering, heavily muscled, six-foot-six frame, liberally adorned with an assortment of tattoos, was made all the more striking by an eerie, almost-deifying glow resulting from the overhead lights reflecting off his freshly shaven head. His shirtless torso, clad only in a denim vest, unbuttoned to the waist, accented the fury of his speech. “If I was president,” he warned, “I’d blow those motherfuckers right off the map. By God, they want jihad? They’d sure as hell get it from me! They’d need a microscope to find what was left of Baghdad when I was finished with that city. Teach those goddamn desert rats a thing or two! Remember the World Trade Center!” he screamed, slamming one fist into the open palm of his other hand. “Cocksuckers! We’ll teach ’em to fuck with the United States of America! Right, guys?”
“Yeah, yeah!” came a resounding chorus mixed with an escalating crescendo of “Heil Hitlers!” Right arms raised in unison as an almost-palpable rage and the lust for revenge spread throughout the dimly lit old warehouse. Damien continued, “So what’r WE gonna do about it?” he shouted to the group, egging them on. “Hurt ’em bad, I say! Burn their mosques—hell, burn their houses! Get ’em where they live! Rape their women, cut the balls off their men, destroy their entire race!” he screamed, with hatred permeating every fiber of his being. “Heil Hitler!” he shrieked again, thrusting his right arm into the air, then rotating his palm up with extended middle finger—a gesture of unmitigated derision unique to their perceived enemy. “Fuck ’em all!” he bellowed a few decibels above the resounding “Heils!” throughout the room.
Damien continued, now a bit more subdued. “Guys, we’re gonna do somethin’ a little different tonight. I’ve got five group leaders up here, and we’re gonna break you up into five action groups. I want each group to put your heads together and come up with some ideas for putting these goddam Muslims on the run right back to the desert where they came from. Oscar will take the guys from downtown and meet in the corner to my left, Billy will take the guys from Lake Oswego to the back left corner, Hacker will cover Vancouver in the corner to my right, Dingo will head up Beaverton in the back right corner, Art has Gresham behind the podium here, and I have a special job for Buzz and Barry, so you two guys meet with me right up here by the mike. Ok, everybody break and let’s make plans to raise some HELL!”
Amid a plethora of profanity and other audible gestures of misplaced masculinity, the group slowly began to disperse to their designated locations. Buzz turned his head toward Barry, with a look of complete puzzlement, and shrugged his shoulders. “Why you and me?” he queried his friend. “We special now or somethin’? What d’ya think, Big Bear?” Big Bear was a pet name the group had for Barry, aptly describing his huge frame and profuse black chest and back hair, somewhat resembling that of a large black bear.
“Dunno,” the big man shrugged in return. “I ain’t pissed ’im off lately, have you?”
“Not that I know,” Buzz replied. “Maybe he’s just got somethin’ specially bad for us to do,” he smiled sardonically.
“Yeah, right,” Barry agreed. “We’re just about the baddest dudes o’ the bunch, and we get special treatment from the boss!” he grinned, not particularly certain of that possibility. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough, though,” he added as they approached Damien, who was just finishing a conversation with an evil-looking character they all called “Blood,” who appeared well-qualified for that particular title.
“Hey guys,” Damien greeted them as he turned from Blood. “Just finishin’ up some intel from Blood here about some Iraqi dude over at PSU—professor of some kinda shit. Been there for a good while, teachin’ all those kids a heap o’ Muslim crap about evolution and all that nonsense. Hell, we all know we—at least us ‘whities’, that is—was made directly by God to subdue the earth and all that’s in it. Maybe all them sand niggers came from monkeys, or even snakes, most likely, but not us. We gotta put a stop to that shit before he gets all them college kids spoutin’ that Muslim trash and thinkin’ that Muhammad dude was some kinda special prophet or some bullshit like that. Quantum physics, that’s it…I remember now; that’s the shit he teaches over there. Anyway, Blood heard from one-a his friends over there that this professor Quit-Somethin’-or-Other was headin’ to some big scientific convention around Halloween, and I thought we might have a little surprise waitin’ for him when he comes back.” The evil look had returned to Damien’s eyes as he lowered his voice, putting an arm around both Big Bear and Buzz. “He’s gotta house over in Beaverton, set back in the woods a bit and pretty secluded. Heard his wife died in Iraq from some kinda disease, but he has a daughter who’s a freshman at PSU and lives there with him. So here’s the little surprise I have planned for Dr. Fuckin’ Q and his little Muslim bitch, and what I want you guys to do for me…”
chapter 4
Gabriel’s Dilemma
Dallas, Texas
July 7, 2002
Carmella winced as she struggled to help Mr. Wiggins sit up at the bedside. “Now, Sam,” she implored, “you know you got to help me out here, honey. You’re makin’ little ole Carmella do all the work here, sweetie. Come on now, let’s sit up straight and swing yo’ legs over the bedside for me.”
Getting Sam Wiggins out of bed was no easy task, as was the case with most of the patients Carmella cared for. Since she started nursing school a year ago now, she had been employed there at Shadyside Convalescent Center, a small rather poorly run nursing home in the Oak Cliff area, just south of downtown Dallas. Carmella worked there as a certified nursing assistant on the 3–11 shift to help pay some of her school expenses at TWU. Although she had a full scholarship to Texas Woman’s University, it seemed that living expenses always far exceeded her scholarship monies, so the evening job helped to make up for the shortfall. It was very hard physical work, though, as many of the patients, including Sam, were largely incapable of functioning independently. Mr. Wiggins had a stroke just following his 61st birthday and had lost most of the use of the right side of his body. His 260-pound obese body didn’t help matters either, making his care all the more challenging for the nurse’s aides, who were responsible for his physical assistance.
Carmella didn’t mind the nursing home, though, at least for now. She knew that if she was going to be a nurse, she had to know health care from the bottom (quite literally) up. It was kind of like paying her dues, she reckoned, giving her a better understanding of what usually happened to people as they got older—events that she was now committed to avoiding in her own life if possible. Even though she was only twenty, Carmella had experienced a lot in those few short years, especially the last year at Shadyside. The nurses and aides worked hard there, but even so, it was never enough. Just one patient like Mr. Wiggins could easily consume several hours of her time, and she often had ten or more such patients to care for. For now, however, Carmella forced herself to endure. She was taking her academic coursework in Denton, a smaller town about 30 miles to the north of Dallas, but she would be starting her clinicals on the nearby Dallas campus next year, a point at which she hoped to say goodbye to whatever learning experiences she was able to glean from Shadyside and move on to a more acute setting and, possibly, a job at one of the hospitals there by the campus.