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 A World of My Choosing   An Out-of-this-World Story by Gil Gamesh   Chapter
Two  

   As soon as we pulled up to the barracks, the MPs came out, marched to
the bus, and stood there, one on each side of the door, like two saguaros.
I knew they had come for me.  I held back and let the other guys get off
first.  The MPs carefully checked the name tag of each guy as he ran their
little gauntlet.

   Their dress uniforms were immaculate, shoes mirror-like in spite of all
the dust, knife-edge creases on their blue pants, tailored white shirts
with an impressive array of insignia, ribbons, and medals, and MP ball caps
in regulation position on their heads.  I knew they weren't based out in
the dessert with us.  I knew they had come with a group of officers who had
a decision to make.  I knew I had to persuade the officers to make the
right decision.

   When I exited, the older one checked my name tag, heaved a sign of
relief, and then asked, "Lieutenant Blunderbuss, would you come with us,
Sir?"

   "Do I have time to take a quick shower and put on my uniform?" I asked.

   "No, Sir," he said, "our orders are to bring you the minute you step off
the bus."

   I knew what that meant.  They had heard of my shooting score for the
day. A confirmed kill on each target in spite of heat mirages and blowing
dust at the impossible distances they'd set for me had caused quite a buzz.
I was glad I had been able to be cool every time I shot.  The panel of
officers wanted me yanked off the bus in my stinking dusty clothing and
brought before them in their best dress uniforms.  I knew it was part of
the game they wanted to play, to see if I could be intimidated by the
difference.  I knew I had to take charge of the meeting and not let them
gang up on me as they intended to do.

   I decided to test the patience of the MPs just a little.  "Well, you'll
have to wait another minute.  I've got to piss."

   I walked over to their SUV and into the small space they'd left between
it and our barracks.  I took my time unzipping, pulling out my penis, and
taking a much-needed piss.  I'd probably drunk a couple of gallons of water
during the day but I'd sweated out almost all of it.  My camouflage uniform
had salt-encrusted areas all over.  I was tempted to piss on their
right-rear tire but the parched bush some one had foolishly planted near
the barracks looked like it would appreciate watering, even with
dark-yellow urine.

   When I finished, I shook my penis longer than needed, leisurely milked
it down a few times, slid my foreskin back down, tucked it away, zipped,
took a couple of deep breaths, and turned back to face them.  The older one
wasn't pleased with my performance.  He was definitely frowning.  The
younger one had just a little bit of a strained smile on his face.

   "Well, let's go, gentlemen," I said.  "What are you waiting for?"

   The interview panel was about what I expected it to be: one colonel, one
lieutenant colonel, two majors, and one captain.  They were sitting in
comfortable stuffed chairs behind a long table on a raised stage at one end
of the room.  There was a second lieutenant in a chair behind them.  There
was a single wooden chair on the floor in front of them.  It was also what
I expected.  I decided I wouldn't play their little game.

   "Please be seated," Lieutenant..." - The colonel looked at a manila
folder in front of him.  - "...Blunderbuss.  We'll begin in just a few
minutes."

   They all opened manila folders and began to skim through them.  I knew
they knew my name.  The business with the manila folders was just another
little part of their game.

   The lieutenant behind them smiled.  Maybe he was amused by my nom de
guerre or by their game.  He'd probably played it more than once.  I think
he even winked at me.

   "I'd rather stand, Sir," I said, still at attention.  "I had a rough
ride coming back from the shooting range."

   All five of them looked up at me.  My head was higher than theirs.  They
would have to look up at me, not down at me.

   "As you wish, Lieutenant," the colonel said, with just a touch of
annoyance.  "We'll be with you in just a few minutes."

   They all looked back down at their folders.  The lieutenant definitely
nodded and smiled for a split second.  I gave them about five seconds, not
a few minutes.

   "Sir, if you don't mind, Sir," I said, - Two sirs are always better than
one.  - "If you don't mind I'd like to give you the answers to most of the
questions you're going to ask.  It would speed up things.  You can
interrupt me if you don't understand or if you need clarification on
something.  I'm starved and I don't want to miss dinner tonight.  It's
seafood night."

   They all looked up at me, eyes wide open, no smiles showing.  I decided
I might as well press on.  It was seafood night but I could show up late
and eat as much of the leftovers as I wished.  The kitchen crew was
accustomed to trainees doing that.

   They looked around at each other, at me, and at each other.  I expected
them to look behind them at the lieutenant.  He was barely shaking his
head. One of the majors leaned over and whispered to the colonel.  He
leaned over to the lieutenant colonel, and they whispered.  The colonel
evidently decided it was time to take control again.  He looked up at me. I
decided to push them a little by getting in their space.  I took a couple
of steps forward, still at attention, took some deep breaths, and waited.
It was OK, I was cool.

   "Are you having dinner with Lieutenant Anna Conda again?" the colonel
asked.

   "We'd planned on that, Sir."

   "I'll keep that in mind," he answered.  "Maybe we'll be through in
time."

   I interpreted his maybe as an attempt to throw me off and to wrest
control from me.

   "If you don't mind, Sir, may I stand at ease?" I asked.  "I had it rough
with today's shooting trials.  They threw a couple of difficult situations
at me."

   "Yes, Lieutenant," the colonel said, with more than a little
exasperation.  "You may stand at ease."

   The major at the end of the row was definitely smiling and looking at me
with more interest.  He probably knew what I was doing.  I didn't care; I
was in control.

   "The answer to the most important question, Sir, is - Yes, Sir, I can
kill Grand Ayatollah Muqtada al-Badr.  When he comes out the door of the
Imam al-Hussein Shrine in Mamoon after mid-day prayers, I can take him."

   They looked around at each other excitedly and I knew I'd reasoned it
out correctly.  The colonel looked bewildered.

   "And how will you do that, Lieutenant?" one of the majors sneered. 
"That shrine is in the center of a huge plaza.  They clear the plaza before
he comes out.  He's surrounded by his retinue and they tuck him in a
limousine in about ten seconds.  The nearest building is so far away it's
well beyond the shooting range of a sniper.  How are you going to do it?

   I told them more than they probably wanted to know about the weapon I'd
use, the scope, the ammo, the heat mirage problems, and the wind and dust
problems.  I described the weapon in detail, extrapolating from articles
I'd read about the latest developments in sniper rifles.  I described the
way the built-in computer downloaded information from satellites, sensed
the environment of the shooting trajectory, and interacted with the scope
and the rifle.  I told them about my eyesight, my shooting skills, and how
much I wanted to do the job.  I described the way I had been cool when I
killed the seven bad guys.  They listened attentively and asked me only a
few questions.  After almost half an hour, the colonel changed the subject.

   "Lieutenant, I see you're wearing something that's not a regulation part
of your uniform," the colonel said.  "Is that a knife?"

   I looked down at my hip at Grandfather's gift.  Since when were they so
particular about whether we were dressed according to regulations?  On the
base, all the trainees were permitted a great deal of leeway in how they
dressed.  We were too few and too precious as military weapons to worry
about regulations.

   "Yes, Sir.  It's two knives," I said.  "Grandfather gave them to me. 
One's got a blade about six inches long.  The other's over a foot long. 
Little Boy and Big Boy."

   "May we see them?"

   I interpreted that as another ploy to take control away from me.  They
were sitting there without weapons of any kind.  I still had mine.

   "I'd rather not, Sir," I answered.  "They're both razor sharp.  They'll
cut if you breathe on them.  I wouldn't want to be responsible for you
injuring yourself."

   I knew I was pushing again by implying that he couldn't responsibly
handle a sharp knife.  I didn't care.  I didn't want him to put his hands
on my knives.

   "Would you put them on the table so we all may see them?" he persisted.
"I promise nobody will touch them."

   I thought it wise to yield that much to them.  I took Big Boy and Little
Boy out of the scabbard, took a couple of steps forward, and put them on
the table in front of him.  He stood up and leaned over the table.  The
other officers followed suite and leaned over looking at my knives.  I
stood just in front of the table, refusing to move back in my place.

   "They're over a hundred years old, made in a mountainous region between
Russia and Iran," I said, deliberately omitting any sir.  "Many men have
died when they felt the kiss of Big Boy or Little Boy."

   "And you say your grandfather gave them to you," one of the majors said,
leaning over too close to the knives and dangerously into the colonel's
space.  "Did he use them in taking the lives of those men?"

   "Yes, Sir, some of them.  His father was the first one to use them to
kill."

   "Perhaps you'd better put them back in their scabbard, Lieutenant," the
colonel said.  "I don't think the major wants to be one of Big Boy's
kills."

   I carefully slid my knives back in the scabbard on my hip and then stood
waiting, still in their space.

   One of the majors asked me, in Farsi, how good was my command of the
language.  His wasn't very good.  I replied in the same language, trying to
be as casual and careless as if I were talking to a friend.  He stopped me
and asked the other lieutenant behind them to translate.  I was beginning
to wonder if the guy had a purpose in life.  He told them I said that I'd
learned most of it from my parents and grandparents, that I'd helped teach
English to Iranian and Iraqi immigrants like the college professors and
doctors who had left after the fundamentalists took over the whole area,
and that I'd also learned from books and CDs and movies in Farsi.  The
Academy had merely broadened my knowledge of the language.

   "So your command of Farsi comes primarily from what I'd characterize as
educated sources," the major said.

   I thought it was a good point and I thought I knew where he was going
with it.

   "Yes, Sir, but I can also hold my own in street-talk Farsi.  Grandfather
made sure of that.  I'm also quite good at profanity and insulting your
ancestors.  Grandfather was a soft-spoken respected gentleman but he could
change completely when he wished.  Like a lot of kids, I liked to try to
shock people with crude language.  He decided he'd teach me how to do it in
Arabic and Farsi.  We had a lot of fun with it, especially when I was going
through puberty.  Grandmother pretended to be shocked but she always ended
up laughing at us," I replied in Farsi, stopping after each sentence for
translation.

   "Would you like to insult my ancestors, Lieutenant?" the Colonel asked,
in English.

   "No, Sir," I replied in Farsi and then in English.

   "Suppose I ordered you to do it," he said.  "Will you hit me and my
ancestors with your best effort?"

   "Yes, Sir," I replied in Farsi and then in English.

   "Then I'm giving you an order, Lieutenant," he said.  "I want you to
insult me and my ancestors.  I want you to be as crude with it as you can
be.  Stop after each sentence so we can get a translation."

   I followed his orders and gave him my best, or maybe my worst.  The
translator tended to stumble over some of it and it was easy to see he was
embarrassed by my insults.  I had to correct him a few times, giving him
the English words, the Farsi words, and then what they meant in context.

   The Colonel was unfazed and even laughed a couple of times.  I suppose
that gave permission to the other officers and they began to laugh too when
I was at my most eloquent.

   "So let me summarize this, Lieutenant," he said, when I finished.  "My
mother gave a dromedary camel a blowjob until both of his humps caved in.
My father had sex with a flock of sheep and was charged with incest because
they were his own children.  And I'm the son of one of a pack of dogs who
routinely serviced my mother.  Is that about it?"

   "Yes, Sir," I said in English, "unless you want me to insult your
grandparents.  Grandfather was quite good at it and he could go back a few
generations without repeating himself."

   "I don't think that will be necessary, Lieutenant" he said.  "Can you do
the same in Arabic?  Are they about the same?"

   "Yes, Sir," I said.  "My Arabic is not quite as good as my Farsi. 
Sometimes they both will use insults and curses which are poetic.  Both
languages can be quite expressive in poetry."

   "Like the Rubiyat of Omar Khayyam?" one of the majors asked, showing
off. "Do you know of it?"

   "Yes, Sir.  Grandfather loved it.  Sometimes he'd read it to me and then
explain what it meant.  I memorized some of his favorite quatrains and he
liked for me to recite them for him."

   "Can you give us one?" the Colonel asked.

   I had to think for a minute or so.  In Farsi, I gave them one I knew
Grandfather loved.  I repeated it in English.

   "And that inverted bowl they call the sky, Where under crawling, coop'd
we live and die, Lift not your hands to it for help, For it as impotently
rolls as you or I."

   "Do you hate Islam and its followers, Lieutenant?" the captain asked.  I
could hardly believe he'd finally said something.

   "No, Sir," I answered, and quickly decided to give him my real opinion.
"It's just another system of mind control based on myths purporting to be
the divine word of a god as revealed to a prophet.  It brutally oppresses
women, makes normal sexuality into a sin, totally controls the lives of its
followers, and says the faithful have a duty to kill infidels.  It's
collective insanity, self-delusion, and it's evil, completely evil.  What
is there to like about it?"

   "What about Christianity?" he followed up.

   "I don't hate it, Sir," I said earnestly.  "I just think it's
pathetically childish and ridiculous.  Does anyone really believe in a
virgin birth?  Does anyone really believe that Jesus was born of a woman
who was fertilized by a god?  Does anyone really believe we have something
called a soul which lives on after death?  Christianity doesn't suppress
women quite as much as Islam but it still equates sex with sin as a means
of controlling its adherents.  It's just as imperialistic in treating all
other religions as inferior but at least it tries to convert the heathen
before it kills them.  It's collective insanity for those who choose to be
ignorant.  It's evil too.  I see nothing good in it."

   "Do you think the two religions will ever learn to get along?" he
persisted.

   "No, Sir.  Christianity and Islam have been the basis for wars for
hundreds of years.  I think we'll be fighting as long as we have religions.
In a world of my choosing, we'd have neither of them, or, at best, we'd
treat religion as the mental illness which it most assuredly is."

   "Are you an atheist, Lieutenant?" one of the majors asked.

   "No, Sir," I answered.  "I'm an antitheist.  There's a difference."

   "What's the difference?" he asked.

   "An atheist is someone who doesn't believe in god, who views all
religions as myths.  An antitheist goes further.  He views all religions as
inherently evil and as the source of most human conflict and misery."

   "It's said that there are no atheists in fox holes, Lieutenant," he
said. "I know you've seen combat.  Why don't you believe in God?"

   "My lack of belief stems from my childhood, Sir," I answered.  "My
parents and grandparents, who home-schooled me, were all atheists.  When I
was about fifteen, I kept asking my grandfather about religion.  One day he
gave me a big box of books, all about religions, including the Bible and
the Koran.  On top of the box was a long rope.  He told me to search the
books for god and, when I found him, to drag him home with the rope around
his neck.  I read every one of the bo0ks, some of them more than once.  The
rope is still hanging on the wall in my bedroom at home."

   "But when you were in combat, weren't you inclined to pray to God for
your safety?" he continued.

   "No, Sir," I answered.  "That's just a useless cop-out.  I relied on my
weapon and my own abilities.  That was enough."

   The colonel evidently had heard enough talk of religion.  He cleared his
throat and the questioners caught the signal.

   After a minute or two of silence, the major at the end of the row spoke
up.  "Colonel..." He hesitated and I assumed he was about to ask me about
religion again.  The colonel probably thought so too.  He scowled at the
major.

   "Yes, what is it, Major?" he said.

   "Sir, may I tell the lieutenant something?  It's personal but I believe
it will help him.  I don't think it will hurt his interview."

   "Your judgment is usually good, Major," he said.  "Go ahead."

   The major looked at me and smiled.  "David, I knew your father.  We
served together for two years.  We were very good friends.  He often spoke
lovingly of you."

   I stiffened into attention again.  I didn't know what to say.  I didn't
want to get into anything about my father.  If I went too far in
remembering, I was afraid I'd freeze up again and blow everything."

   "He was very proud of you," the major continued.  "He used to regale us
with tales about his little blunderbuss - that's what he called you - and
your latest escapades."

   "Yes, Sir, that's what he called me, my little blunderbuss.  He had some
other names for me but he always smiled when he called me that."

   "I never met your mother..." he started.

   I couldn't help it.  I felt a stab of panic and almost gave in to it.  I
closed my eyes, swayed a little bit, breathed deeply a couple of times, and
realized I'd lost my cool.  I was no longer in control.

   "Are you OK, Lieutenant?" the colonel asked.  He stood up and the other
officers followed him.

   "Yes, Sir," I said, still breathing deeply.  "I'm OK.  I wouldn't mind a
glass of cold water though.  I just need something to eat.  I haven't had
anything since breakfast."

   That was as much a distraction as I could think of so I could have a
little time to make sure I was cool again.

   The colonel looked at the lieutenant interpreter and nodded at me.  He
brought the carafe, stood directly in front of me, and poured me a glass of
water.  "Relax," he whispered without moving his mouth.  "You're doing
great."

   "Lieutenant, when you're through talking to him, go get somebody to move
this damn table down on the level with him," the colonel ordered.  "Give
him your chair now and bring yourself back another one.  Call the officers'
mess and tell them to bring us seafood dinners for seven, no, eight, as
soon as possible.  Tell them to send somebody and get the table set up
immediately."

   The lieutenant brought his stuffed chair off the stage, put it down in
front of me, and picked up the wooden chair.  He started to walk off with
it.

   "Lieutenant, bring that god damn chair back here," the colonel yelled.

   The lieutenant brought it back and stood holding it.  He looked
petrified.  The colonel took the chair from his hands, told him, "'Relax,
you're doing great," and put the wooden chair in front of the other one. 
He whispered something to the lieutenant.  The lieutenant smiled and left.
The colonel sat down on the wooden chair.

   "Sit down, David," he said, gesturing to the upholstered chair.  "I
asked him to invite Lieutenant Anna Conda to have dinner with us."

   "Thank you, Sir," I said, sitting at ease in the upholstered chair. 
"We're just friends but I wouldn't want to stand her up."

   "Now, Major, what were you going to tell David?" the colonel asked. 
"All of you stand at ease and relax.  We're about to cut out all the
fucking bullshit."

   "David, I was saying that I never met your mother, but I saw her picture
lots of times," the major said.  "She was a beautiful woman.  Every time
your father went home, he'd come back with tales about you.  He'd keep us
in stitches for days telling what you'd been doing.  He said your
grandfather was teaching you the art of cursing and your grandmother
pretended not to approve.  He told me about the big house where he was
raised and how your grandparents begged your mother to move in with them
when he was away.  I think he felt you and your mother were in good hands
with them."

   There was a knock on the door.  The colonel yelled, "Come in, come in,
damn it!" and two young privates came in.  The colonel had the two young
men move the table so he was at one end and I was on one side next to him.
The other officers took their seats at the table and left an empty chair
next to me.  The colonel started the small talk and the others took it up.
They seemed unconcerned while I sat and listened for a few minutes.  At one
point they started another whispering session and it was evident the
colonel was soliciting their input on something.  I assumed a decision had
been reached when they all started talking about everyday things again.

   A few minutes later, a crew from the mess arrived and efficiently
changed the table into something entirely different.  We always ate well
but not with white tablecloths and napkins and tableware as good as a fine
restaurant.  The colonel saw me looking at the door.

   "Relax, Lieutenant," he said.  "I sent two MP's after her.  Do you think
they can handle her or should I have sent more?"

   "I would have sent a platoon, Sir," I said.

   "Or maybe just yourself," he said, grinning, and then added solemnly,
"You can tell her you've got the mission, Lieutenant.  It's OK for her to
know.  Just don't let anyone else know."

   Everyone at the table stood up when Anna arrived.  She stopped, standing
at the door, probably wondering why she had been summoned.  I walked over
to her, kissed her on the cheek, held her hand, pulled out a chair for her,
and seated her.  No one said anything about two lieutenants kissing or
holding hands.  One of the majors, the one who knew my father, grinned
widely and the rest at least smiled a little.

   During dinner, the talk was about nothing of importance.  No one told
Anna what had been decided.  I assumed they knew I would prefer to tell her
in private.  The others waited patiently until I had finished my second
serving of shrimp and grouper and cheese grits and hush puppies.

   One our way back to her barracks, I told her that I had been selected
for the mission I wanted.  She hugged me and said she didn't want me to go.
I stood there patiently, holding her, without saying a word.  What could I
say?  I didn't want to go either, especially since I was just beginning to
love her, but I knew I would go.  I had wanted the mission for years and I
could not abandon the opportunity to kill the man who killed my father and,
indirectly, my mother.  I knew I had to tell her why I wanted the mission.
I knew that if I tried to tell her about their deaths I might become mute
again

   I didn't know what to do.  Was she beginning to love me too?  Was it
right for me to go any further in our relationship in view of my impending
mission, from which I might not return?  I knew I couldn't hurt her and I
was afraid that I would if I carried our relationship on until we made
love. But I wanted her.  I wanted her in every way imaginable.  I wanted to
let my beast loose with her.  I wanted to be gentle with her, to show how
much I was learning to love her.  I wanted her beside me for the rest of my
life.  I knew I had to tell her.  I hoped she would understand my dilemma
and keep on loving me whether or not we could ever be together.
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