Herr Anno Domini Terrorist

Curtains open on: Washington DC. Circa: Dire times.

While the graveyard of what was the World Trace Centre was being replaced by an architectural clusterfuck of retardation most foul, the next catastrophe was being planned for elsewhere, but at the same time, there again.

And that plan was still being drawn by the same ireful hand.

The terrorists in their infinite wisdom, were going into familiar fray with eyes on unfinished business, not unlike the American heroes they observed in dark corners.

Secrets were whispered for yeas beforehand, however, on the other side. They had their own plans to preempt another attack on the Pentagon. Bizarre pages circulated into thickly gloved hands and then into a furnace, never to be leaked to the cockeyed public.

I was mid afternoon when a suicide bomber stepped into the pentagon, which had been redesigned into a portly tetrahedron.

He went in through the front doors into a lobby that exploded in all directions in majesty, not fire – not a suicide bombing. It was just a magnificent lobby.

In he went and curious he grew at the brickly unmovement.

He coyly approached a motionless person and gabbed it by the shoulder. He stumbled back upon pulling it around, the weight of the thing uncommon- his strength grossly exaggerated.

It was a pale, pale mannequin. A mannequin, a mannequin.

“Y…you son of a bitch! You son of a bitch!” he screamed.

The suicide bomber stumbled back in shock. He darted around the lobby in a fever, grabbing and pulling at the crowd.

They were all mannequin.

The whole place began to spin and blur just like in the films he watched in dark corners.

“No…NO!”

He threw his body back through the front doors and into the streets in a panic.

He surveyed the landscape with eyes what hung below a sweating brow.

There was silence - and nothing else.

He stepped carefully through the ghost town, on cold pavement, struck by rhythmic odors as if the wind had digested a lot of hell. Everyplace was populated by mannequins, dressed and arranged to recreate a moment frozen in time, overlorded by an ill wind.

In his peripheral vision he was a figure move. He jerked his head towards it, only to catch a witness to nothing.

“Wh… Who’s there?”! He shouted. His eyes grew wide, and then stern, and then both.

Silence.

From another direction – far flung and behind the greenery – a scuttling.

No shapes and no movement.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna fuck you up! I’m gonna fuck you guys up!”

His movements grew uneasy – uncertain.

Indeed, his breathing was that of someone in danger.

He walked back to the commercial aeroplane parked around the bend.

His breathing had calmed into a frustrated acceptance. It was an interior damning, and cursing, and fist clenching.

The pilot met him halfway through the plane with the speed of a runaway bride.

“What happened?” he asked, palms open and eyebrows raised like wonder flags.

The bomber was pensive for a moment.

“Just… just fly.”

He turned around and began walking down to the tail end of the plane.

“Just fly away from here.”