Saturday, October 22, 2011

Zombie Gaddafi

When Hell is full,
the dead shall walk the earth.
When President Obama calls, I jump.
     It's the least I can do for the man who once saved my life in 'Nam.  But this particular favor caught me by surprise.
     "I want you to go to Libya," he told me, smoothly.  "You're the only one I can trust to verify that Gaddafi is dead."
     "Of course he's dead," I answered.  "We've both seen the pictures."  I paused...  and then we both broke up laughing at the same time.  Pictures.  What a joke.
     "Don't worry," he assured me.  "Your little problem's been smoothed over." 
     That's Obama, for you.  Mr. Smooth.  And that's how I found myself in Libya, taking a freight elevator down to the basement where Libya's "liberators" kept Gaddafi's murdered body. 
     The elevator stopped.  There were three guards.  All of them big.  The one in the middle was the approximate size of a truck.  He stood in front of me.  Not moving.
     "He wants a gratuity to let you in," my interpreter explained, business as usual.
     The Incredible Bulk took an aggressive step forward.  He was trying to use his size to intimidate me.  His mistake.  I gave his kneecap a swift kick.  It shattered, and down he went.  He fell in slow motion, like a giant oak in the forest, screaming all the way down.  I like fat men.  When they fall they make more noise.
     I knelt over him, and relieved him of his weapons.  An old AK-47 that had been hung casually over his shoulder, a worn hunting knife strapped to his ankle, and... a .45.  The .45 was brand new.  He must have collected a lot of "gratuities" to pay for for it.  I secured the gun in the waistband of my jeans, and then I stepped over him.  The two guards got out of my way.
     In the middle of the room was a wooden table so old Jesus probably used it at the Last Supper.  On top of that table was the lifeless body of Colonel Gaddafi.  The real one.  Not the decoy they were preparing to display.  I stepped closer.  They hadn't even bothered to clean him up.  I took out a pair of scissors, and clipped a lock of his hair.  It was filthy.  I put it into a small plastic baggie and sealed it.
     "Did he have any last words?"  I asked my interpreter conversationally, but I didn't really care.  With a cardiac syringe I took a sample of his blood directly from the source.
     "He vowed to come back.  To revenge himself on his enemies.  You know, the usual camel dung."
     "Is that a fact?"  My mind was a million miles away.  I put away the blood and hair samples.  Just one more thing to do.  I forced open his jaw.  It opened easier than I expected.  In fact, it took no force at all.  Using several sterile cotton tipped applicators--Q-tips-- I swabbed the inside of his cheek.  I couldn't help but see his teeth.  They all had gold fillings.  Every one.  I laughed.
     "Only the living are rich," I said in Arabic.
     "It's a shame to let all that gold go to waste," my interpreter said, sticking a finger in Gaddafi's mouth to take a look for himself.  The guards both agreed.
     Gaddafi's eyes opened suddenly.  They were a milky color.  He bit down viciously, like a starving jackel.  My interpreter screamed.  Blood sprayed everywhere.  The two guards rushed to help.  I don't know why they bothered.
     Me?  I headed for the freight elevator.  As I stepped inside I could see Gaddafi grab one guard by the head, gouging out the man's eyes with his thumbs.  Then he brought the screaming guard closer and took a nasty bite out of his neck.  More blood.  Everywhere.
  Gaddafi was standing, off the table now, and began lumbering toward me.  Every step he took an effort.  I looked down.  The guard with the broken kneecap was trying to crawl inside the elevator with me.
     "Mercy," he cried.  "Mercy."
     Using his own gun I shot him in the head, and then I rolled his body back, out of the elevator.  A quick death is mercy of a sort.
     I pushed the "up" button, and the freight elevator began to move.  The elevator was slow.  It barely moved.  I could hear screams all the way up.  Finally, the screaming stopped. 
     No sooner did I exit the elevator, than it began to descend back down.  It stopped.  A few seconds after that it began its way back up again.  I stepped back and waited.  The .45 in my hand.  Whoever got off that elevator... 
     I would be ready.
Fifty Shades of Funny

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