Читать книгу The Reluctant Savior - Krystan - Страница 12

chapter 3

Drugs, Thugs, and a Minor Deity

Portland, Oregon

July 6, 2002

Ben felt slightly anxious as he flipped on the turn signal of his dark-green Mazda Miata just prior to a sharp right onto NW Maywood Drive. It was a partly cloudy summer evening in Portland, with the temperature hovering around 70 degrees and the sun already beginning to create a spectacular array of pink, orange, red, and violet hues in the western sky. He checked his watch, 7:30—good, right on time. The light was already beginning to fade as he wound his way up the hill toward his parents’ home on Culpepper Terrace, and as usual, his tensions also began to fade with the ascent. Prior to moving into the dorm his junior year at PSU, Ben had lived there with his parents since his first year of high school and honestly thought it was one of the most beautiful neighborhoods on the planet. The Amanis lived just a couple of houses from Hillside Park and Community Center, in a rather-lavish home perched high on a hill overlooking downtown Portland with a view to die for. He remembered many times sitting out on the deck, watching the sun rise, with its golden rays reflecting off the buildings and beautifully silhouetting snowcapped Mt. Hood farther east beyond the city. From that deck he could see Mt. St. Helens and, on a clear day, all the way to Mt. Ranier, farther to the north. Who couldn’t love the Pacific Northwest with a view like this? Ben often thought to himself, this evening being no exception, as he rounded the last curve and pulled up into the alley behind his parents’ home. Far below, the entire Portland metroplex was coming to life, with myriads of twinkling lights now beginning to augment the fading summer sunlight, creating a mesmerizing visual amalgam that extended in all directions almost as far as the eye could see. In the darkening sky to the east, what he liked to call “city stars” were now becoming visible as they descended in perfectly choreographed omnidirectional patterns, indicating the arrival of seemingly endless numbers of air travelers making their final approach toward PDX, the city’s international airport, several miles to the east.

Ben had seen his parents only briefly at Christmas, and sensed then that they wanted to have a talk with him about his future. He assumed that their invitation to dinner tonight might have such a purpose, and while part of him actually appreciated their interest, he also knew that their disparate backgrounds would likely result in a career tug-of-war with him in the middle. Not a pleasant thought, really, but the breathtaking beauty of the city below offered him considerable solace at the moment. As he parked in the driveway behind the house and walked up the rear steps, that feeling was further augmented by the pure nostalgia of just being home.

Margaret Amani—a trim, attractive, and now slightly graying woman in her late forties—must have seen her son’s headlights when he pulled in, since she was standing by the large eight-foot sliding glass door leading into the great room from the back deck, just waiting to give her son a big “welcome home” hug. As Ben stepped up onto the deck and headed toward her, she did her best to throw her arms around his strapping six-foot, four-inch frame. “Hi, honey! We’re so glad you could join us for dinner. My goodness, I think you’ve grown another two inches since Christmas! Pretty soon I’m not going to be able to get my arms around you at all!” she laughed. “And you’re so thin too!” she frowned. “Are you getting enough to eat, Benji?”

“Benji” was still her favorite name for their now-towering and strikingly handsome young son, much to Ben’s dismay, as well as that of her husband, Anwar. It had been hard enough for Anwar to concede to the name Benjamin, which he had done largely out of respect for his wife’s Jewish heritage, although he had secretly hoped for a “junior” or at least an Abdul, Abir, Omar, or the like. Now, Margaret’s persistent use of this juvenile abbreviated version was even more of an annoyance to him (and to Ben as well, though he most often just ignored it to humor her). “Benji” was just way too boyish for a young man now about to be a senior in college. Besides, Ben’s distinctively Middle Eastern features—haunting dark eyes, olive-colored skin, dark mustache, and shoulder-length black hair—made him look much more like the popular Greek pianist Yanni than some floppy-eared Hollywood canine superstar.

Nevertheless, Ben just smiled at his mother, knowing that she loved him and that some little things were just better left alone. “Well, I have pretty much stopped eating meat,” he began, only to be interrupted by a booming voice from the top of the stairs.

“Stopped eating meat? Are you crazy? What’s wrong with meat? I’ve been eating it all my life, and it hasn’t hurt me!” Anwar scoffed as he descended the steps into the great room. “It’s all your mother’s doing, I’m sure—first you’re a Benji, now a vegetarian! Pretty soon I won’t even be able to eat what I want in my own house!” he grumbled.

“Anwar, really!” Margaret scolded her six foot six, 280-pound husband. “You look like you could benefit from a few more vegetables yourself! Ease up on Ben, we haven’t seen him since Christmas!” Looking up at her son, she smiled warmly, “Don’t mind your father; he just had a rough day at the pharmacy and hasn’t quite settled down. You know, it seems like we didn’t get to visit much over the holidays. I’ve really been wondering about you—how school is going and what you’re thinking about these days. I’ve made your favorite dinner, too: eggplant parmesan, brussels sprouts, and your special salad!”

“Thanks, Mom! Sounds great, and smells great too! Yeah, I’m sorry about Christmas and all. I was just really busy, and remember, my friends and I left to go skiing on the 26th, so I didn’t get to spend as much time at home as I would have liked.” Ben knew his family enjoyed having him around at holiday times, but he had been looking forward to that ski trip to Whistler for months and no way would he have missed it. He loved skiing, and had a blast in BC—a welcome relief from the pressures of school. In fact, it was just what he had needed to refocus on the important decisions in front of him the next year, decisions that his parents obviously shared his concern about.

The room he had just entered was truly a “great room,” measuring some forty by thirty feet, with a huge vaulted tongue and groove wooden ceiling and a massive stone fireplace almost as tall as the room’s length. The wide-planked pine floors responded with their usual creaks and squeaks as Ben walked across toward a wall of oversized windows and French doors that invited all the dancing lights from the city below to fill the room, giving it a magical quality all its own. The evening was breathtakingly beautiful as usual, and Ben took a moment to soak in the incredible view that was his favorite memory from growing up there. His father’s voice behind him quickly brought him back from his brief reverie.

“Hi son, glad you could make it,” Anwar smiled, extending his arms and giving Ben an affectionate hug. “Even though it looks like I’m stuck with eggplant tonight,” he added while mumbling under his breath, “could have at least been baba ghanoush. Food aside, though,” he smiled, “your mother and I have been looking forward to spending a little time with you, just to get a feel for what you’ve been thinking lately. Lots of important decisions for you to make here pretty soon.” Anwar Amani had never been one to beat around the proverbial bush. His keen mind, bold demeanor, and goal-oriented nature had served him very well in business over the years, but still came across as a bit intimidating to Ben, even at almost twenty-one years of age.

“Yes, sir, there sure are. I’ve certainly been carefully weighing my options for the past few months. You and Mom are always a big help, though, when it comes to providing support for my choices.” Be friendly, act responsible, elicit feedback, but stay in the driver’s seat—that’ll be my strategy here, Ben thought to himself. Don’t want to antagonize them but don’t want them making decisions for me either. I’ll just play along with this and see where it goes, he reasoned.

“Ok, my men…dinner’s ready,” Margaret’s voice interrupted. “You can discuss all this while we eat. I haven’t gone to all this effort just to stand here and let it get cold. Come on, fill up your plates and let’s sit out on the deck and enjoy this beautiful July evening!”

In the Amani home, the great room housed the food preparation, dining, and living areas all under one huge vaulted ceiling. Then, beyond the wall of glass on the east side, was a likewise enormous deck that extended the living area outdoors when the weather was nice, and provided an even more dramatic view of downtown Portland and beyond to Mt. Hood in the distance. The “open kitchen” concept also had other advantages, as the irresistible smells emanating from Margaret’s kitchen inevitably permeated the entire room, as was certainly the case tonight. Ben savored the aromas of his favorite foods as the family filled their plates from the kitchen island and headed toward one of the multiple sets of French doors leading to the patio and their outdoor dining area. Near the table was another beautiful stone fireplace, where Margaret had built a nice, crackling fire just to keep things cozy and comfortable. Evenings on the hill, even in July, tended to cool off quickly, and Ben noticed that the thermometer was already registering 65 degrees, a drop of 5 degrees just since the sun had disappeared. He had many fond memories of dining out there, especially in the summer months, when the evening temperature was cool enough for a fire yet warm enough to make eating outside a delight. The twinkling lights of the city below were even more inviting next to the warm glow of the logs in the fireplace, and he always looked forward to that special ambience, teamed, of course, with his mother’s culinary triumph of the day.

Margaret Cohen Amani was a great cook and took pride in providing her family with delicious and nutritious meals. In fact, she had met Anwar while she was a graduate student in clinical nutrition at NYU and had often bragged that it was her cooking skills rather than her good looks that had won his father’s heart! Needless to say, their cultural diversity (New York Jew weds Iranian Muslim!) posed a particular challenge to her culinary repertoire, but over the years, she had succeeded quite well with integrating Middle Eastern cuisine with the foods she was accustomed to. Not only that, but Ben had fortunately grown up with almost no exposure to the SAD (standard American diet), a benefit that he was only now beginning to realize. In the Amani home, there had been no junk food, no sodas, no overly refined processed foods—really, almost none of the foods he had been barraged with since leaving home. His tall, lean, and muscular body was a testament to Margaret’s insistence on a diet full of organic vegetables, fruits, and occasional wild or grass-fed meats. It was always a pleasure to enjoy one of her meals, and he was grateful that tonight she had selected his favorite foods.

“Mom, I never realized it when I was growing up, but now I really appreciate all the great-tasting and nutritious meals you fixed us. I just can’t believe the stuff the kids at school eat. It’s no wonder that most of them are way overweight. On top of that, lots of them drink, smoke, get almost no exercise, and sleep very little. Then they’re puzzled why they do poorly on their exams. Duh!”

“Yes, Benji”—she just couldn’t help calling him that!—“my education was a blessing not only to me, but to a lot of people, including my family. Your father’s Middle Eastern background helped a lot too, since that diet is really a pretty healthy one as well. Teaching you the importance of a good diet was a top priority for me, and I’m pleased that you realize the value of that now. Your father’s getting to be my challenge now—just look at him! I’ll bet he’s put on forty pounds since you left home!”

“Hey you two! Enough of the food talk. We didn’t invite Ben here to talk about diet! He’s got some important choices to make about grad school next year, and I was kind of hoping he would follow in my footsteps and maybe take over the family business before too long. How about it, Ben? Have you been thinking much about that? I sure hope I haven’t slaved all these years for nothing!”

Anwar Amani had emigrated from Iran to New York City with his family when he was only seven years of age. He was a precocious child, quickly adapting to American ways and always excelling in school. Growing up in the penicillin era, where great strides were being made in conquering infectious diseases, Anwar was strongly attracted to pharmaceutical science and was, in fact, attending the Schwartz College of Pharmacy when he met Margaret, while giving a community lecture on phyto-based pharmaceuticals. Anwar’s brilliance and strong work ethic did not go unrewarded, as he soon opened his first drugstore there in Brooklyn, which he later expanded to a regional chain and finally sold in 1995 for an obscene amount of money. The family then relocated to Portland, Oregon, and purchased their present home in the west hills overlooking the city. Anwar quickly became restless and started another local drugstore, which he expanded into a compounding pharmacy in early 2000 and continued to operate from its present Burnside Street location, relatively near his home. Ben was keenly aware that his father wanted him to follow in his footsteps, but had never been too keen on that prospect, largely due to his mother’s more natural, holistic, and proactive perspective. His parents’ diverging philosophies about health care had been the subject of many a lively debate around their home, and Ben was sure that tonight would follow suit. His preferences were more in line with his mother’s thinking, however, and he hoped to develop a health-oriented career geared more toward prevention than treatment. He wasn’t looking forward to disappointing his father, though, and had been thinking for some time about how to respond to the question that, as he had expected, his father had just posed.

Taking his fork and toying with his eggplant for a moment, Ben sighed and reckoned it was now or never. “Dad,” he began with some trepidation, “I really appreciate all you’ve done for our family, as I’m sure Mom does too. We never lacked for anything, and I have always admired your knowledge and your good business sense. You built an amazing company back in New York, and I’m sure you could do it again here if you wanted to. You and Mom have taught me a lot about health care, and as you know, I have been leaning in that direction career-wise for some time now. I realize that you would love to see me go to pharmacy school and take over the family business, and I’m very flattered that you think me a worthy successor to yourself. I also think that down deep, you probably suspect, although I know you hate to admit it, that I just don’t have the same qualities or interests that you do. And Mom, before the tug-of-war even starts, I’m pretty sure that you would like me to be a nutritionist like yourself and work to prevent a lot of the chronic diseases that we’re seeing these days.”

Anwar, becoming restless at this last statement, interrupted, “But Ben, surely you don’t think you can make the kind of money that I do trying to get people to eat right, do you? Son, someday you’re going to have a family to support, and that may be fine for your mother, but hardly for you!”

“Now wait a minute, Anwar.” Margaret put down her eating utensils and stared directly at her husband. “You really don’t think money should be Benji’s primary consideration for choosing an occupation, do you? Surely you know that all those drugs you sell would be unnecessary for the most part if people understood and practiced a healthy lifestyle and diet, don’t you?”

“So you’ve always said,” Anwar snapped back, “but we’re talking Ben’s livelihood here. He could help people and make a ton of money in the process if he built on the foundation I’ve already laid for him. All the years I’ve been nurturing this business, I’ve always had Ben in the back of my mind, hoping I could give him a really good start in life with a respectable career and a great job already waiting for him! What kid wouldn’t love to walk into that scenario?” Anwar looked incredulously back at Margaret, then at Ben. “I love you, son. I’ve always just wanted to do my best to make life a little easier for you, that’s all. Surely you can see that!”

Ben squirmed a little in his seat; this was going to be even tougher than he had thought. He took a deep breath and summoned his highest level of finesse. “Dad, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your efforts,” he began, attempting to placate his father. “Growing up, I was most fortunate to have two rather divergent perspectives under one roof. I respect you both, and quite naturally, I’m probably a composite of your two worldviews. I certainly favor the natural preventive approach in general, but also recognize that many people just aren’t going to follow it and will need further assistance, most likely from your area, actually, Dad. While it would be an incredible gift for me to someday take over your business, I know that being a pharmacist is just not holistic enough for me. And Mom, while I totally respect what you do, and your knowledge base concerning foods and nutrients, I want a bit more power to effect outcomes in peoples’ lives than I would have as a nutritionist. So the bottom line here is that I have applied to OHSU Medical School, because it’s near home and offers me exactly the options that I’m looking for. I plan to do my residency in internal medicine, and although I’m sure that I will prescribe some medicines, my primary focus will be on prevention of chronic disease whenever possible. I hope you both can understand and support my position and realize how much I do truly honor and respect you both.”

There, Ben thought to himself, I’ve gotten it all off my chest, and rather eloquently too. Think I’ll have a little eggplant and assess the damage.

Anwar was, of course, the first to speak in return. He seemed truly heartbroken and managed only to mumble, “Well, I guess that only goes to show that you can’t plan another person’s life for them, can you? I’m very disappointed, but not entirely shocked. I figured you had too much of your mother in you to totally go my direction with your career. And that’s not a bad thing, really. I just hope you can make a good living. There are a lot of doctors around, and reimbursement to them just keeps getting cut by the government and third-party payors. You probably won’t make as much as you would running my business, but I’m sure you will do ok. Just try not to get too far out on the fringe and start hanging out with all those alternative medicine sorts…you know, Portland is chock-full of them!”

“And Benji,” Margaret chimed in, “don’t let that medical school brainwash you either! Your father’s industry controls medical education and makes sure you think they’re God’s gift to the world, but believe me, they’re not. Stick to what I’ve taught you about the importance of diet—lots of organic vegetables, some fruits, and not so much meat, and only grass-fed meat at that. No processed foods, minimal sugar, and plenty of omega-3 fats to keep your immune system balanced. And don’t forget clean water, plenty of sleep, and lots of exercise. I…”

At this point, Anwar just couldn’t take any more. “For God’s sake, Margaret, Ben’s been around you for almost twenty-one years…don’t you think he knows that by now? Son, just keep a balance, don’t go too far to either extreme, and you’ll be fine. We’re very proud of you, and we know you’ll do well in medical school. Take it easy with the girls, too—you certainly don’t want any unexpected pregnancies!”

This time, it was Margaret who had enough. “Anwar! I can’t believe you just said that! Our Benji is not going to get anyone pregnant—we’ve taught him far better than that! And he’s not going to be a drunkard, or a druggie, or anything like that either, so save your breath! He’s a good boy, and we just have to trust that what we’ve taught him will help him to make the right decisions. Isn’t that right, Benji? You’re not worried about any of that stuff, are you?”

“Well, Mom, I’ve already discovered there’s a lot of crazy stuff going on at PSU, or at any college, I’m sure. But you’re right—you and Dad have given me good values and taught me to think for myself, so I’m not worried about any of that. And I am very grateful for you two. You should be proud of yourselves. I couldn’t have asked for better parents,” he smiled. “Hey, let’s have some of that cherry pie I saw on the kitchen counter when I came in—this conversation is getting way too heavy for me!”

“Well put, son,” Anwar agreed. “Enough seriousness! Let’s kick back in front of the fire and enjoy the evening. I love sitting out here on a nice summer evening! Can you believe the view tonight? The way the sun lit up Mt. Hood, just before it went down—you could see the glow for miles!”

Ben nodded in agreement as he devoured a rather large piece of Margaret’s cherry pie. “Your pies are awesome, Mom!” he grinned. “And I’m sure they’re nice Washington organic cherries, too, right?”

“Would I serve my family anything less?” Margaret beamed, enjoying all the attention from her son. “AND, sweetened with stevia,” she proudly added, unable to conceal her pleasure that her influence was going to make a major difference in Ben’s life and ensuing career. Even if he didn’t follow directly in her footsteps, she knew that his priorities couldn’t help but reflect all the effort she had put into teaching him the value of a proper diet and lifestyle.

Even Anwar nodded in tacit agreement. As different as their respective careers had been, he had a deep respect for Margaret and a great appreciation for all her health-promoting ideas. With a twinkle in his eye, he leaned over and spoke softly (yet deliberately loud enough for Ben to hear) in her direction. “You think living with a pharmacist was tough? In another five years, we’re going to have a Minor Deity in the family, and guess what? He’ll be telling BOTH OF US what to do!”

Ben looked up at both parents, smiling and shaking his head. I guess the battle’s over for tonight, he thought. I’m pretty sure the war isn’t yet won, but I’ll enjoy the cease-fire while it lasts, he assured himself before responding, “I do like the sound of that—it’s about time I get some due respect around here!” As he reached for another piece of his mother’s cherry pie, Ben couldn’t help but realize that the path toward that outcome would surely not be an easy one. “And I’ll have the two of you to thank for it!” he added graciously, nodding toward the parents whom he knew had supported, and would continue to support him, every step of the way.

Later That Same Night

Not Far Away

The flag was draped loosely above the old warehouse door at 300 Front Street in Portland’s industrial waterfront district. It was dark now, but a spotlight illuminated the red flag displaying its distinctive emblem—a black eagle clutching a wreath of olive leaves circumscribing a white circle with a black swastika at its center. Three black Ns were strategically placed right, left, and beneath the wreath symbolizing the subversive group known locally as the Northwest Neo-Nazis. To surmise that the rough-looking men presently entering the building were not nice people would be a serious underestimate. To conjecture that they were almost totally lacking in that virtuous quality known in religious circles as “soul” would probably be a more accurate assessment.

Ralph “Buzz” Henderson parked his ’69 Harley in the lot across the street from the gang’s meeting place and waited for his friend Barry to dismount. He and Barry had been with the Neo-Nazis for four years now, and both were well respected by members and leaders alike. They would have a lot to talk about tonight. A recent report of another al-Qaeda strike had been circulating through the members, and there was talk of the group taking their own revenge. As the two men walked toward the warehouse door, Buzz glanced up at the flag and growled to his friend, “Fuckin’ sand niggers! After what they did to us on 9/11, I hope we blow ’em all to hell, and soon too! Bomb their asses! Show ’em not to fuck with white power!”

“Heil Hitler, man,” Barry agreed. “We should blast those cocksuckers into smithereens! Turn that desert of theirs into a giant litter box! Teach them a thing or two about jihad!” he laughed as the two entered the building. “Wonder what Damien’s goin’ to say about all this tonight? I bet he’s pissed! I’d sure hate to be one of them Iraqis livin’ around here when he gets ahold of ’em. Those stupid fuckers better hightail it back to the desert if they know what’s good for ’em. No tellin’ what he’ll have us do to those poor bastards! I’m lookin’ forward to THIS meetin’—hell, they deserve anything we give ’em!”

Other than being big talkers and looking like they just rolled off the Harley-Davidson “bad biker” assembly line, both Buzz and Barry had much-bigger barks than bites. They were right about one thing, though: the gang’s leader, Damien Darden, had no love lost for Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Syria, or any other country in that general vicinity. Having served in the Gulf War, and then witnessing the atrocities of 9/11, he was personally determined to do all he could to 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…”