Happy Halloween!

What do you want to be for Halloween, son? A jihadist?



Oh wait. These kids are Iranian. They don't celebrate Halloween there, do they?

B.Y.O.B.

One of the three 2005 cds I've bought is System of a Down's _Mezmerize_. Good music. Much vigor. Their lyrics, though, are nonsensical, trite, and naive. I'll skip the discussion of the nonsensical because, well, I like nonsense. But as for trite and naive lyrics? Can't stand 'em. The leadoff song, "B.Y.O.B.," oft repeats two questions:

"Why do they always send the poor?
Why don't presidents fight the war?"

I always want to yell at my stereo at this point. . . Do they really expect a president to be on the front line in battle, gun in hand, getting shot at, getting killed? For any new job, there's a learning curve. If we kept having to replace the president every few weeks because the old one was dead, the Oval Office would never get anything done! We only have one president, but we have a whole bunch of soldiers. Every life is important and invaluable in and of itself, but some people are indeed worth more than others when it comes to replacement costs.

As for the "poor" question, need I point out that there are many, many more poor people in our country than there are rich people? Didn't think so. But why does anybody join our volunteer military? Some do it out of honor/patriotism/loyalty, and some do it because it looks like a worthwhile career/life choice. How many rich people do you think fall into the latter category? No, they're too busy becoming lawyers and dentists and other money-making schemes to be enticed by the wages our soldiers earn.

So why don't the poor aim to become lawyers and dentists, too? That's the real question System of a Down should be asking. I'm positive there's plenty of the poor who do have high ambitions, and some do become lawyers and dentists. But how many of them don't even get an AA? How many of them don't even go to a technical college? How many drop out of high school? A lot higher percentage than over in the rich crowd, I'd wager.

And why is this? I point my finger at the parents. The redneck/inner-city culture has a severe shortfall when it comes to parental expectations and overall responsibility. And that's what System of a Down should really be ranting about in their songs.

Souper

Hihi-hidi-hidi-whurdidjid. Two and one-half badgers, please! Hi-yi-yi-yi-yi! [Bash my head against a pillar.] No, I'll eat them here. Whap! An-dingling! Wha-hoo-hoo! An-da-an-shoo-an-shoo. [Head-butt the pillar twice.] Ah, that's better. Maybe now I can WIN SELF-DETERMINATION FOR THE SOUTH MOLDAVIAN PEOPLE! Nick-noo-nick- noo-nick-ank [Assault the pillar with my head thrice.] Ah, I think I'm OK now.

No headache. Breakfast soup is sitting well. A little weak feeling, actually. But OK.

Green Desert - Chapter 2.5.6 - Vata

Pí‘oro handed me the car keys. I wore my slippers––hardly appropriate footwear for driving. He shouldn’t have closed the door in Tamé’s face. I shuffled across the entryway. A door closed behind me––the garage door in the kitchen.

A loud thump in the hallway. I stopped, halfway to the door, and turned around. “Bhanar dear, let Tamé in, please.”

The kind boy leapt up as I headed for the hallway. Had Pí‘oro merely bumped into the wall? But it shook the floor too much for that. He must have tripped. But he didn’t say anything, not even a grunt. I hurried.

Bhanar reached the corner ahead of me and did a doubletake down the hall. “Pí‘oro!” He lunged out of sight. Sıpa‘ı loped after him.

What happened to Pí‘oro? My mind raced with my old heart. A heart attack? A stroke? Was he already dead?

“He is breathing?”

My husband’s large body splayed on the carpet, facedown. Bhanar knelt at his head. The dog licked my husband’s face. A handgun stuck out the back of Pí‘oro’s pants.

“Pulse?”

The child put two fingers to Pí‘oro’s throat, waited an eternity. Finally, “Yes.”

I let go a lungful of air. But it still might be a stroke. “Take him to the chapel.”

Bhanar grabbed the gun, checked the safety, stuck it in his shorts’ pocket. “To the what?”

Puke

For the first time since I was a kid, I threw up this morning. I must have a virus. Maybe not, though. No fever. Headache, nausea.

I made a conscious decision to puke. About a half hour of roiling guts after eating and I just decided that it was either stay in agony or kneel before the toilet.

Chili looks, smells, and tastes the same on the way back up. Maybe a little runnier, I suppose.

Afraid to eat anything now.

Green Desert - Chapter 2.5.5 - Pí‘oro

It was Tamé, scowling in the heat that flowed in from outside, hot breath on my face.

“Good morning, Pí‘oro. Sorry to bother you.” He tried looking past me. I stepped carefully to block. He met my eyes again. “You’re obviously busy, but can I get you to move a couple cars so I can tow the one in the garage?”

Not trouble at all. The police would be here soon, though. “Sure. No problem.” Maybe I could get Vata and just drive away. But our lives were here.

Tamé grinned awkwardly. “Great.”

Behind me, Vata asked, “Who is it, dearest?”

I turned. The kids were where I left them. “Tamé. He’s come to get Zhíno’s car for the sheriff.”

“But I need you guys to move the Huírupho and probably the van, too.”

To Tamé, I said, “We won’t be a minute.” I started closing the door. “Air-conditioning.” The latch clicked shut. To Vata, “Here, move the car. I’ll get the keys for the van.” As I walked past, I handed my wife the car keys from my pocket.

Halfway down the hall, my chest shattered. My brains exploded in my skull. The floor hit my face. Flames engulfed my legs and I tried to crawl away, but I had no arms. Waves of insane agony crashed against my consciousness, almost overwhelming me, pulling me under. Pain. Nothing but pain in every cell of my body, every molecule, every atom. I was pain. And then I was nothingness.

Duck your head!

Tonight is Mars's closest approach to Earth. Not as close as two years ago, but still a big orange fireball in the night sky. At midnight, it should be just about straight overhead. Very bright.

That's if you're lucky enough not to have clouds. . .

Green Desert - Chapter 2.5.4 - Zhíno

Alone. Rock. Fires encircling. The warm hand of a god. Comfort. Running free through the open plains. Hiding in my burrow. Soaring through the air high above the forest. I was at peace. I was one with the world––the worlds. Every human, every horse, every buffalo, every giraffe, every snake, every jellyfish, I could feel them all. I could be them all. I was them all.

Névazhíno floated/sat/stood in front of me in the field/clouds/ocean. A forked tongue flicked from His beak and He quietly asked, “Which are you?”

“I am. . .” It took me awhile to remember. “A human being.” Yes, that was it.

He lowered His head, arched up His back, stuck out His quills. “No. Are you the sacrifice or the recipient?”

Sacrifice? Recipient? I could barely remember my species––human, right?––and He wanted me to know if I was a sacrifice or not? I was enjoying myself far too much in these forests and lakes to want to end my life, however. “Recipient.”

Névazhíno rattled His tail and snorted through His huge nostrils. “Where is the sacrifice?”

I looked around. Nobody else was in sight, just air and waves and empty tunnels. “I do not know.”

“Then I shall find someone.” The god swam away, His wings pumping.

I sighed with contentment and returned to my desert growing thick with leafy plants.

Green Desert - Chapter 2.5.3 - Fírí

The doorbell rang. The big gun didn’t look big in Pí‘oro’s hand. “Nobody move Nobody say anything.” The gun pointed at the floor near the kneeling Bhanar. A dark-brown dog came from behind the old man, wagging its tail. “Sıpa‘ı, sit.” It did, whimpering.

The doorbell rang again.

I hissed, “They ain’t going to go away. They know someone’s here. We have three––four cars outside.” And if it was Gogzhuè’s goons, they’d be kicking in the door any second, guns blazing. And Pí‘oro would shoot back and I’d be killed in the crossfire. Sweat broke out all over my body.

Pí‘oro grimaced and cursed silently. “Stay here,” he ordered and strode past me toward the front door. “Coming,” he called, untucking his shirt and hiding the gun at the back of his belt.

Bhanar looked up at me, bloody rags in his hands. “Don’t worry. I called the police.”

My lungs stopped. The police. They’d arrest Zhíno and me too, probably. Once they found out the truth, I’d be in prison for ages. Until I was old. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Pí‘oro yelled, “Shut up, you two,” and then opened the door.

Bhanar whispered, “I know you love Zhíno, butt he killed a policeman. They would find him sometime.”

Outside the front door stood a middle-aged man in overalls and a mesh cap. Not one of the thugs. I sighed, then froze. “Oh shit.” The towtruck driver.

Green Desert - Chapter 2.5.2 - Tamé

My air-conditioning was busted. I had the cab windows open, but that just meant it was hot and windy. I couldn’t even hear the radio. Not a cloud in the sky, but that’s not much of a surprise for South Saírédí. This place gets hotter than Pétíso’s waiting room.

I checked the address. 5430. That must be it up ahead, on the left. Nothing else in sight beyond. I turned my towtruck up the long driveway. Three vehicles waited in the sun: an old Vurıno minivan, a pickup with busted windows, and a new Huírupho sedan.

I stopped behind the van, checked my clipboard again. License plate LéPíKuRaNéTí. Not the van, not the truck. I didn’t remember the Kılímıs having this many cars.

I opened the cab door and stepped down, taking the clipboard with me. The sun instantly started baking me. “Go away, Píríuso,” I muttered and tugged my hat brim.

Another car drove past on the road behind me, but other than that, the place was silent––nothing but an all-too-soft breeze and the crunch of my shoes on the gravel.

I rounded the van. The Huírupho had the wrong plate. Another car in the garage, an older model. Bingo. LéPíKuRaNéTí. How did they expect me to get it out of here with not one, but two cars blocking it? I visually measured the gaps on either side of the new tan car. Not enough room. I shook my head and walked up the cement path to the front door.

Green Desert - Chapter 2.5.1 - Bhanar

Pí‘oro gripped the handgun. He was serious. “I must go,” I told the policeman. I hung up the phone, almost missing the hook. Whatever the Kılímıs were doing, it was illegal. Unlicensed slaughtering of animals. Of pets. The dog, Sıpa‘ı, thumped his tail on the floor, watching us. My knees wobbled.

“Calm down, son. Everything will be all right.” Pí‘oro’s eyes darted to Sıpa‘ı, the blood, the groceries on the counter. He lied. “Why don’t you clean up the blood like a good boy.” The overweight man released the gun and gestured to the crimson spill.

I nodded and lunged for the rags. The police were coming. Everything would be fine once they arrived, that was certain. They’d take Zhíno away. They’d probably arrest the Kılímıs, too. And I’d be finally free of this madness. College was going to be a breeze after this. I laughed as I pushed the rags around on the table, collecting the blood.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing.” I knelt to clean the floor.

Fírí stormed in, demanded, “Nar, come with me. We got to rescue Zhíno.”

Rescue? Did she think I was insane, too? I shook my head.

She glanced at Pí‘oro. Loudly, shrilly, she repeated, “We got to rescue Zhíno.”

“Wait a minute, missy,” the old man growled. He removed the gun from his belt. “Nobody’s going nowhere.”

The doorbell rang.

Green Desert - Chapter 2.4.5 - Vata

Fírí fled the room, tracking dirt down the hallway carpet. I sighed. Extra vacuuming, at the least.

I set the knife on the altar at Zhíno’s feet. Maybe I should go see what was keeping Pí‘oro. I couldn’t think what would take him so long to bring one of our dogs. Maybe he stopped to chat with the strange foreign boy. That would be just like him.

“Please raise your arms, dear.”

Zhíno did, with no flinches or grimaces, laying his injured arms on the rock above his head. I grasped the lower hem of his tshirt on either side and pulled it up his chest. It caught at his shoulders, but Zhíno sat up slightly and it came free. I carefully slipped the shirt past his bandages, even though I knew he felt no pain. He could still be damaged. I folded the torn and dirty shirt and set it on the shelf outside the circle.

Next were his shoes and socks, which did not smell pleasantly. I set them beside the shirt. Pí‘oro was inexcusably late. He should be doing this. I unzipped Zhíno’s trousers and removed them. The young man smiled peacefully. At least my husband’s tardiness caused no pain.

Last off came Zhíno’s boxers. I smirked. The larger they are in the mouth, the smaller they are in the pants. I folded the shorts and set them on the pile of clothing.

Zhíno might as well have been asleep.

Elsewhere in the house, I heard yelling. Fírí’s screech, Pí‘oro’s rumble. I sighed. Zhíno could wait. I headed for the door.

Green Desert - Chapter 2.4.4 - Pí‘oro

The foreign kid told the police, “That is the correct address.” His gaze bounced between me and Sıpa‘ı, the dog. “For Zhíno?” he whined.

“Yes, for Zhíno.” I slapped my thigh twice. “Sıpa‘ı, come here.” To Bhanar, “To heal him.”

The dark-brown dog trotted over to me.

To the phone, Bhanar said, “Nothing. But. . . Curious things are happening here.”

What did he mean, curious? “Hang up the phone.” We didn’t need the sheriff snooping around. Sacrificing animals was illegal, even if the gods listened. I stepped around Sıpa‘ı and the table. “Hang up the phone, Bhanar.”

He stared at me dumbly. I pointed at the phone holder on the wall. “Hang it up.”

“Something with dogs.” He caught my eye. “And rabbits.”

I grabbed the phone, still at his ear. The kid yanked it free. “Let go!”

“Give me that!” The kid said too much already, aroused their suspicion.

“No, not you,” Bhanar said to the phone as he twisted away from me. “It is. . .”

My hand was on the old semiautomatic. The kid saw it.

“I must go.” And he hung up the phone, slamming it onto the holder. His hands shook.

“Just calm down, son. Everything will be all right.” But with the police coming, I knew that was a lie.