Tales of the Parodyverse

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Fri Feb 20, 2004 at 09:16:12 pm EST
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What I have been working on the last four or five months... 'Chess with Osama' (a non-Parodyverse related short story)
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Chess with Osama:            





"Whoever goes to fight monsters should take care not to become a monster himself. And when you stare too long into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you."
-Frederick Nietzsche


September 2001:


“And we shall lay these poor souls to rest for the Lord to preside over… And the lord knows one day we shall be reunited with our fallen brothers. Amen.” The pastor closes his book.

From a safe distance, I watch as the water slicked caskets are gently lowered into their eternal plots. I do not wish to mingle with the mourners. They can not hope to understand my pain and I do not wish to understand theirs. I will deal with my grief on my own. The water streaks down my face, slashing down from the stormy sky. However, no amount of water can wash me clean. I am tainted by death. I am tainted by memories so horrific, I deny they ever happened. I used to be a New York cop with a sense of purpose. Now, I’m a dead man trapped in a haze of blood and tears.

At the gravesite, the flock of black umbrellas slowly disperses, and the mothers, the brothers, the sisters and fathers go their separate directions. Only I stay. The man they laid to rest was a cop like me. He was a man who just wanted to do right by this awful fucking world. He was only a kid. Twenty four years old. Running into a burning abyss of death, jet fuel and exploding floors of glass and concrete. I tell him to ‘rest in peace’, lay a black rose at the foot of his headstone and head home. Sorry, kid. Guess you weren’t one of the lucky ones.


Two days later:


Why won’t he leave me alone?

I sit in this cell of a room, with its piss colored carpet and its cheap paintings, probably by a miserable street artist who wishes he was something more. Don’t we all wish we were something more? And then there’s the clock, mocking me with its slow sporadic ticks. Every time the second hand moves two steps forward it seems to fall one step back.

In the chair facing me, Dr. Stevens sits in his tweed suit, chewing on his pen and stroking his beard. His beady eyes meet mine. The stink on him is thick, a fine mixture of Armani and festering secrets.

“What are you thinking?”

I clear my throat, but I don’t answer his question right away. On the wall behind my shrink’s balding head, a landscape portrait of downtown New York catches my eye. It’s a stark black and white photo taken from Brooklyn. The twin towers are in it, dominating over everything else. “Nice picture,” I comment.

He looks over his shoulder. “The French Pyrenees, yes, they are beautiful. My wife and I went skiing there in ’99.” I laugh thinking he is trying to make some sort of sick joke, but when I look up again, what I see are rugged snow capped mountains piercing a pure blue sky. He sips his bottle of water and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. I know he’s about to shift gears and ask me a serious question.

“Charlie… you must remember something of that day. When you see the coverage on television, nothing rings a bell?”

“Nothing. I fell asleep on the night of September 10th on my bed and woke up on the morning of September 12th on the floor. Maybe that day just didn’t exist for me.”

“It’s a fact you were there that day. Captain O’Reilly and several other officers from your precinct saw you go in to tower two. Now you show none of the characteristics that amnesiacs commonly show. I know you remember. You have to admit that to yourself. Only then will you be able to confront all the pain that comes with those memories.”

I fantasize about lunging out of my chair, ripping off Dr. Steven’s oversized spectacles and gouging out his eyes. How dare he, someone who watched the world end from the safety of his TV room, claim to understand what I’ve been through.

“Sirens,” I whisper.

“Sirens,” He looks at me with a puzzled stare.

I glance up at the clock which has been taunting me for the last hour. 5:50. “I think time is up.”

He lets out a weary sigh and closes his book, surely filled with scribbled notes about how fucked up I am. “Same time next week?”

“Sure,” I grab my coat and head for the door. I have no intention of ever coming back. Some yuppie health worker thought it would be a good idea if everyone in my precinct received psychological counseling after 9/11. I guess he doesn’t know what it’s like to have your soul turned inside out by a stranger.

Some time later I head to ‘Brogans’, an old fashioned Irish bar.

I’m meeting a couple buddies there who also happen to be NYPD. Jim McCain and Danny Rowland are my oldest, dearest friends and the only people who understand what I’m going through, because they also happened to have been there that day.

In the dimly lit bar, the crashing of pool balls and the clinking of glasses are the only sounds. It’s so quiet you can hear the faint hum from the darkening lights. There is no music, no laughter. They call this the dead man’s bar now, because so many police and firefighters frequent here. Or at least they used to, before a good percentage of the clientele was killed a couple weeks ago. Photographs of firefighters dating back to the 30’s hang from the paint chipped wall, all posing with eerie smiles. Beneath the pictures of dead men smiling, a row of lonely souls sit slumped over their stools, sipping their drinks and there’s not a smile among them. One of those souls is Danny, a short thirty something guy with thinning red hair and a flaming cigarette firmly planted in his mouth. He resembles a balding David Caruso. He beckons me over from the far corner of the bar. “I’m glad you could make it, Charlie,” he tells me as I pat him on the shoulder. I say hello to Jim as well, who is clad in a New York Yankees jacket and baseball cap, the folds of his stomach hanging over his belt. We order up a round, beginning our nightly ritual of drowning our memories in alcohol.

“So… Doug from the 54th precinct says they lost four fellas themselves. You know who one was? Johnny Martin. Remember him from elementary school? Shit. I couldn’t believe it,” Jimmy says in a tired voice.

“Why don’t we talk about something else,” I tell Jim.

Danny agrees. “Jim, drink your fucking beer and keep your mouth shut. All you do is depress us.”

“I’m sorry. This hurts me. All I can do is talk. I don’t know what else to do. I just--… I can’t think about anything else. I--…”

Danny shakes his head and his lips curl into a weak smile. “It’s okay. Drink.”

We clink our mugs together and drink our beers.

One…

After another…

As time melts away, and one beer becomes nine, the mood only becomes more melancholy…

Jim cries about Johnny Martin’s death. His sobs sound awful, like a dog whining as it’s kicked by its owner. That banshee voice of his cracks in strained bursts of hysteria, a snot bubble forming at one of his nostrils

Danny stares into space, as he always does when he gets drunk. The scowl on his face betrays his thoughts. He’s thinking about that day. He never talks about what he saw. I never ask. What he saw should die with him.

“LAST CALL!” The gruff bartender shouts. He stands behind the counter as he furiously wipes the grime off a mug. He reminds me of the characters Boris Karloff would always play in the 1930’s. He’s a tall, hunched over, spindly creature with a pale yellow hue to his skin. He speaks in grunts, his eyes sunken in their black sockets, barely betraying a glimmer of life. After having my last drink, I say my goodbyes and stumble out of the bar. Me, Jim and Danny have been drinking in that bar for years but since 9/11, it hasn’t been the same. Before, we used to thrive on each other’s laughter. Now we feed off each other’s pain.

The city lights play tricks on my blurry vision as I make my way towards my apartment in Hell’s kitchen. During the walk I try to think of something else. Anything else. As I walk past Columbus Circle, I see a horse trot past me, a relic from another time. The stud hangs its head as it stomps past me, its blank eyes staring into mine. I was ten when I went on a carriage ride with my father through Central park. It’s a small thing, probably not worth remembering in the long run. But I do remember that night. Isn’t it funny how it’s always the innocuous nothing memories which end up haunting us the most? Like the first time you have coffee with the girl who would become your wife, taking joy every time she laughs at one of your corny jokes. And then there’s the simple gesture of your daughter whispering through her lisp that she loves you too. Some say our memories help make us who we are. If that’s the case I’m glad I don’t remember 9/11. The most important event that’s ever happened to me and I hope it stays buried forever.

When I get to my apartment, I fumble with my keys and the door creaks open slowly. I’m hoping I don’t wake anyone up. No luck.

“Daddy!” my beautiful little girl, Kayla, screams as she runs towards me. I hug her. She has been one of the only comforts in my life lately. I pick her up and cradle her in my arms, taking in the smell of her shampooed hair. “I’m here, honey. I’m here…” I whisper in her ear. I kiss her on the cheek as I set her down. Behind her stands my wife, Bridget.

“Darling…”

“Where were you,” she demands, her eyes baggy with black rings. She’s been crying again.

“I was at ‘Brogans’ with the guys.” I grunt as I open the kitchen cabinet and take out the painkillers.

“The guys?! What about us, Charlie?! What about me and Kayla?!” I love my wife, but I don’t like her pointing her finger in my face.

“You can’t be mad at me for drinking. I can smell the scotch on your breath. At least I do it where my kid can’t see.” I pop four pills into my mouth. Dr. Stevens said to take two every twelve hours. But then again, I have a lot more pain than normal people.

“At least I’m there for Kayla. At least I don’t disappear until midnight every fucking night!” She runs her hand through her hair. “Look, this is a difficult time for us all. We need to stick together. Just-… Kayla, go to bed!”

“Yes, mommy.” My frightened little girl runs to her room.

“We’ll talk about this in the morning, Charlie. Just come to bed.” She grabs my hand and leads me towards the bedroom.

……

Some time later, I’m laying in bed watching talking heads on television try to come up with a reason for why the country was attacked. They’re all idiots, screaming over one another as they attempt to understand a question there’s no answer to. A bald man with shaded sunglasses and a voice that sounds like crushed gravel predicts a new Crusade is coming, with the three main religions pitted against one another. I turn it off, sick of rich pundits in their tailored Gucci suits talking in cynical voices about what a tragedy the whole thing is, and yet seeming unaffected by it at the same time. They don’t know jack shit about tragedy.

“Charlie…” Bridget whispers as she comes out of the bathroom in her nightgown. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah…” I pull the covers over me, only wearing a t-shirt and my boxers. “I know, honey…”

She climbs into bed with me. I curl into a fetal position facing away from her, towards the window. “Don’t-… Don’t you love me too?”

“Of course I do.”

She puts her arm around me, her hand sliding under my shirt and stroking my stomach, slowly inching towards my boxers. “I know you do…” She coos in my ear.

I push away from her. “I want to go to sleep.” I tell her. She sighs and rolls over. “I think you should call Dr. Stevens tomorrow, Charles. Arrange another appointment. Obviously, you still have issues to sort out.” She hisses the last sentence under her breath.

I fall asleep that night curled in a ball like a baby, the soft pitter patter of the rain outside soothing me to sleep.
….
……

“… Charlie…”

“… Charlie, wake up…”

I wake with a start. My body is drenched in sweat. I feel as if someone or something heavy is sitting on my chest. I throw the covers off. The rain plays like a drum beat. My clock reads 4:30 am. Not even light out. I look at my wife. She’s snoring, her eyes still clad in a blindfold and plugs in her ears, making sure she stays dead to the world until the sun rises. Darkness surrounds me. And yet, I’ve never been more awake. I had another nightmare. A nightmare I can’t remember. I’ve never been more awake, yet it feels as if I’m still dreaming.

“…. Come to the living room….”

A voice I’ve never heard before urges me out of bed. I suppose this should be strange. It’s a friendly voice, though. I trust it.

“Careful. Don’t wake up lovely Bridget or Kayla…”

The floorboards creak under me as I walk down the hall towards the lounge. I reach for the light switch.

“No… Keep the light off.” The voice advises me. “Turn on the TV… There’s something I want you to see.”

I hear a rumble of thunder from outside.

The television goes on, illuminating the room.

With a dread in the depths of my stomach I realize what I’m watching. It is repeated videotaped images of the second plane hitting the World Trade Center. It plays over and over again to the chorus of eerie silence.

“Why do you want me to see this,” I ask the voice.

“You have a mission, Charlie Rose.”

“Mission? What mission?”

A wave of nausea hits me as I watch the plane explode another time into one of the towers. In the back of my throat I taste something acidic. I swallow it back down.

“Vengeance.”

“Vengeance,” I ask. I reach for the remote to change the channel. It doesn’t work. The batteries are gone.

“They’re coming for you, Charlie. They’re coming for your wife and kid. It’s not over. It won’t be over until you and your family are dead.”

I try to turn off the TV. Nothing. Digital images of a plane exploding into a fireball still play over and over again.

“Who’s coming…?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Them.”

With that I yank out the TV chord and the image disappears, replaced by a black screen.

The rain has stopped.

I head back to my bed, wishing everything I just saw and heard was a dream. I know it wasn’t. Tomorrow my mission begins.


The Next Day:


I wake to the sounds of birds chirping on my window sill. My wife has already left for the sandwich place where she works. I’m still not sure whether that episode in the middle of the night really occurred or if it was just a dream. I debate whether to call Dr. Stevens. It is a thought I quickly discard. People who have no control over their lives see psychiatrists. I have all the control I’ll ever need. I don’t need to be dependant on another person. Especially not some needle-dick Yale graduate who thinks he has all the answers.

I descend the elevator, say a few words to the doorman and walk outside. The sounds of honking taxi cabs, the sulfurous smell out of a sewer grate and the blue skies greet me. Perhaps today will be more bearable than yesterday. I glance at my watch. I’m supposed to meet Jim and Danny here right about now. We’re going to walk to Ground Zero. This will be the first time we’ve made the journey since that whole business went down on the 11th.

Five minutes and Jim appears. Another five and so does Danny. Then, without saying a word our journey begins. It feels like an odyssey that will at best enlighten us to the reasons behind this tragedy… and at worst confirm that the towers really are gone. We walk in step down the sidewalk, passing block after block. The occasional siren interrupts our thoughts and makes our heart skip a beat. We’ve all had enough of sirens to last us a lifetime. In fact, if there’s one thing I remember of September 11, it’s the fuzzy recollection of sirens surrounding me as I walked through a cascade of yellow dust. Police sirens, fire engines and the screeches of car alarms all shrieking in my ears. We’ve had enough of them. Sirens lead you to shipwreck.

When we finally reach Liberty Street, we come across the first police barricades blocking off the financial district. We flash our badges and they allow us to pass. After this barrier, New York becomes a very different place. No longer a bustling Metropolis, it is now a modern day Pompeii, except with rustling pieces of paper and debris in the place of volcano ashes. Billboards advertising a different world flap in the howling wind. A coat of ash covers the streets like a blanket. No cars in sight. Only the occasional National Guardsman in full uniform holding a machine gun.

The smells churn the deepest pits of my stomach. They become stronger and more pungent as we approach the heart of the financial district. It’s a mixture of scents… of electrical wiring, of dust and debris, but those aren’t what disturb me so. The bittersweet stench of decaying human remains sits heavy in the air, overpowering everything else.

Just before Trinity Street, we see it. All that remains of the tallest towers in the city are twisted skeletons sprawled across a desert of debris. Plumes of white smoke still rise from this graveyard of thousands. Huge American flags hang proudly from the surrounding structures which still stand. Workers toil away, no relief in sight, no end in sight. They dig, not for remains, but for closure. For the futile hope that cleaning the pit will mean the pain disappears with it. We tried to touch the Heavens with these towers. Then like the tower of Babel, they were brought down by forces out of our control.

When I was a kid, my Dad gave me a collection of old poetry from the 18th and 19th century. As I look at the remains of what’s left, my mind drifts to a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley. “My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,” I whisper under my breath. “Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

I try to collect myself, but the anger inside of me only grows.

“Christ. What did these bastards do to my city?!” Jim whimpers. “WHAT DID THESE BASTARDS DO TO MY CITY?!?”

Dan doesn’t say anything. His lips quiver. He bows his head, hiding the shame of weeping from the rest of us. I want to hug him, and tell him that it’s all right to cry. That everything will be okay. But I don’t.

……..

Later That Day:

Being on leave from my NYPD job since 9/11 due to my supposed mental health problems, I have nothing to do all day except look after my daughter, Kayla. Like I said, it’s a small comfort in this new world of mine. I make her a peanut butter sandwich for lunch and she goes off to take a nap.

I sit at the kitchen table, a glass of water shaking in my hand, as I think about Ground Zero, as I think about what happened to me in the middle of the night, about my family, everything. I swallow a couple of painkillers and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My face looks gaunt and pale. My eyes are red and the creases that cover my face seem to have no end.

“Charlie…. Don’t you have something to do?” a voice whispers. It’s the voice I heard during the night. “You need to protect your family. They’re coming, Charlie. They’re coming to kill Bridget and beautiful Kayla. You need to stop them. Stop them before it’s too late.”

“SHUT UP!” I scream. I know I’m acting like a fool. There is nothing there. It’s just my imagination playing tricks. I need to get a hold of myself and get some sleep. I drop the glass of water and it shatters on the kitchen floor, water splashing everywhere.

I bend down to pick it up. Kayla comes out of her bedroom rubbing her eyes. “Daddy, what’s going on?”

“Nothing, princess,” I assure her. “I just spilled a glass. Go back to sleep. Mommy will be home soon.”

I follow my own advice, and without waiting up for my wife, put my head to my pillow. I watch a bird chirping on my window sill as my eyelids become heavier and my world fades to black…


In my dream, I am swimming through a river of blood. My father, a slain New York police officer is teaching me how to swim. He tells me to avoid the sharks. They’re attracted to the blood. I can’t help it. The blood is everywhere. He tells me to keep up. We need to reach our house before the sharks get us. I can see the house in the distance. It’s a lot bigger than the real house we used to have in Queens. It’s big, but it seems so far away. As I bob there in this river of blood, I notice my father is no longer with me. I call his name, but there’s no reply. I only hear the desperate echoes of my own voice. I look back towards where the house was in the distance. It too is gone. In its place, only plumes of smoke remain. Sharks surround me from all sides.

I wake up.

It’s dark out. Bridget is lying next to me, mumbling my name in her slumber. She must have let me sleep. I wish she hadn’t.

“Charlie…” The voice returns. This time it’s not so much of a grainy whisper. This time it sounds like my dead father. “It is time.”

I nod in agreement and open my drawer. I put on my holster with my service revolver stuck snuggly in there.

I put on a pair of pants, a shirt and a light fall jacket. The clock says 1:45 am. I’m careful not to wake anyone up as I shut the door behind me.

As the elevator takes me down to the lobby, I wonder what exactly my mission is. I feel as if I’m stuck in a fog. All I know is that there’s something I need to do.

“Al Qaeda is coming, Charlie. You’ll need that gun. You’ll need to stop them, son.”

“I will avenge you, Dad.” My shoes squeak across the linoleum as I walk through the empty lobby, and out into the crisp night air.

It dawns on me, that this is my purpose. This is what I need to do. The agents of Al Qaeda are like the sharks surrounding me in my dreams, circling ever closer. I need to get them before they get me.

I embrace the night as I walk down the seedy streets. Sure, Guiliani may have cleaned it up a bit, but the junkies and gangs aren’t gone. They’ve just migrated. I pass a black homeless man who is wearing a trash bag. Other than that he’s naked and shivering, leaning against a pile of weathered cardboard boxes. He strokes his ratty white beard as he stares at me with cold dead eyes. “Spare some change, missa?” He asks me in a voice which strings the sentence together as if it were all one word. I ignore him. He yells at me, calling me ‘white boy’ as I walk away. In the distance I can see the lights of Time Square, alive with neon explosions of pinks and greens and glowing ads filled with sex and sin. As I cross the street a taxi swerves around me, screeching as it does so. The driver leans on the horn and calls me an asshole. I see a whore, dressed in a lace blouse which hangs loosely from her neck, her breasts carelessly popping out, and a hot pink skirt hiked all the way up to her crotch. She drunkenly stumbles towards a parked Sedan and starts talking to the man in it. She climbs in and they drive away, the wheels splashing water against me as they do.

I walk through a fog of hot steam which rises from the sewer and as I emerge I see a group of youths at the foot of an alley laughing and talking about the ‘bitches’ they’ve fucked recently and how high they got the night before. I stop under a small canvas covering, and smoke a cigarette and decide to watch them from across the street. A cat is screaming in a shrill voice from the alley next to me. I feel like the cat. I feel like screaming at a God who doesn’t care about me. Standing on that street corner, smoking cigarette after cigarette, I continue to observe them. This particular group catches my eye, because there’s a kid who seems to be of Arabic descent with them. They call him ‘Mohammed’. He has to be Arab. Perhaps he’s looking for new recruits to join his war against the Americans. What better place to start than a group of kids who have no hope. These are the ideal soldiers for Al Qaeda to manipulate. “Yo, yo… check this bitch out,” one of them snorts as he points to an approaching woman who’s trying to carry a grocery bundle home. “Hey girl… You got anything for us in that bag?” Mohammed asks as he stands in her way. She tries to walk around him, but the gang surrounds her from all sides. “I just want to go home,” she says trying to keep a brave front. They slap the bag of groceries out of her arms. “Why you wanna go home? We’re just about to have some fun. You like fun, right, girlie?” They corner her into an alley. She pushes Mohammed back. “LET ME GO!!” She shrieks, trying to struggle past him. “Man… hold that dirty girl down!” Mohammed shouts as another kid smacks her in the face. “Bitch gonna get a lesson in manners!”

“Charlie…” I hear the voice. Instead of unsettling me, it’s a comfort. “Charlie… you need to stop this. Kill them. I want you to destroy that fucking towel head…”

The voice goes on to tell me these youths are part of Al Qaeda. Part of a training program designed to infiltrate New York from the inside. The woman they’re slapping around right now could be Bridget. Then it dawns on me. In ten years, it could be Kayla.

Adrenaline pumps through my body like a potent drug. My heart is beating so fast I feel it will explode. I am no longer a cop. I am a warrior defending my City and my family. I am above the law.

Before I know it, my gun is drawn. I cross the street until I’m within a few feet of the hoodlums.

“Let the girl go, scum,” I order them.

They turn to face me. The glint of surprise and amusement in their eyes turn to fear as they see I’m holding a gun.

“Yo, what you doing, man?” Mohammed asks as his voice cracks. “We don’t want no trouble.”

I point the gun towards them. I can see the beads of sweat slide down his forehead, glistening under the streetlight. “You’re- You’re crazy. If this is about the girl, she can go. Me and my boys were just having a goof, y’know.”

“C’mon, man… Put the gun away!” One of the other punks scream, tears welling in his teenage eyes. “Aw shit…come-… come on, man.”

“So I’m crazy am I?”

“No, I didn’t mean that--… I didn’t…” Mohammed slides his hand into his pocket. I’m pretty sure he’s reaching for a gun.

I discharge three bullets. They burst out of the gun barrel in explosions of light and sound. When the smoke clears, two gang members are lying on the ground, bleeding. The rest flee. The woman lies slumped against the alley wall in shock. Those bastards already did some damage before I could stop them. The night isn’t a total loss however. That’s one potential terror cell I won’t have to worry about. Mohammed lies on the pavement, begging me to take him to a hospital. I stare into his glassy eyes and I see a reflection of my own pain. Briefly I consider whether what I’m doing is the right thing. Even though I’m a New York cop, I’ve never killed a man before. I turn away in horror. However, as I look away the voice in my mind commands me to ‘remember’. I hear sirens from up the street and the floodgates in my mind suddenly open. In a brief moment of clarity, every vivid repressed memory of September 11 comes boiling to the surface. I look back at the kid, rolling on the ground screaming, and now I see a burning tower reflected in each of his eyes. Every scream, every dead body, every tear of anguish is distilled into one single, concentrated action. For a moment in time I remember. I point the gun back at the kid’s head, squeeze the trigger and empty the rest of my chamber into his skull. As his life fades, so does my memory of September 11.

The sirens are getting closer. Leaving the body there as a message to Al Qaeda’s ranks, I sprint back towards my apartment. Halfway there, I stop and lurch over. Vomit starts streaming out of my mouth. I hold my sides and scream as the voice inside my head congratulates me on a job well done.

When I climb back into my bed, my wife is still peacefully sleeping. Instead of putting my gun back in my drawer, I place it under my pillow.


The Next Day:


As I’m sitting at the breakfast table, greeted by another beautiful day, and actually feeling somewhat happy for the first time since 9/11, my mood is ruined by the fact my good deed isn’t recognized as a pre-emptive strike against the same kind of bastards who put a crater in my city--- it’s seen as a hate crime. According to the New York Times, a full investigation is underway for a suspect who wounded one and killed another. The kid’s name was Mohammed Al-Zawahi, a Muslim whose family emigrated from the United Arab Emirates twelve years ago. Forensics probably already knows that the bullets came from an officer’s gun. It’s only a matter of time before they’re after me. I have trouble breathing.

I know I’m being staked out and watched. A white van is parked on the street outside my apartment building. The same van was there yesterday as well. It’s watching me, waiting for the perfect time to strike. I decide to keep my gun on me today. When I’m off duty, I usually don’t carry it. However, I know a war is coming. Not just in Afghanistan, but here on the home front, they will strike again. And more people will die. It’s a Saturday so Bridget didn’t go to work. She suggests we go out to lunch. I balk at this and tell her I have important work that cannot be interrupted. Crying, she leaves without me, Kayla in tow. I can hear her sobbing in the hallway, as I stare at the newspaper in front of me. It tears at me to hear my wife crying, and I consider going after her, bringing her to bed and telling her how much I love her while I feel her silky cream skin against mine. I put these thoughts to the back of my mind. A lover is what I used to be. Now, I’m a soldier. This is a rebirth out of necessity, so my children and my children’s children can live without the fear that haunts my every waking moment.

That afternoon I pull out a chess set. Staring at the polished pieces helps me to think. I set the pieces up, knowing I have no one to play with. I always play the white pieces. This represents good to me, while the black is dark and foreboding. I wish Danny boy was here; he’s the only one who can challenge me. Or at least, he’s the only one ever willing to play me. So here I sit, staring at the board in front me, the pieces lined up like soldiers in a war. “He’s coming, Charlie…” My father’s voice tells me. “The man behind it all is coming.”


A tall, lanky man dressed in white robes and a coat of fatigues enters the room. He has a wooly beard, piercing crazed eyes, a turban and a Kalashnikov rifle slung over his shoulder. It is the man behind the end of my world—the man who destroyed me, without even knowing who I am. It is Osama bin Laden. And now he is standing before me in my living room. I reach for my gun and pull the trigger. It lets out a hollow click. This is when I remember that I forgot to reload it after last night. I’m facing the biggest monster of them all and I have no bullets.

“You cannot kill me…” he mutters in a subdued voice. “Do not try. I have just come to play chess with you.”

I clench my fist so tightly, my nails pierce my palm. Blood seeps down my wrist. I can’t formulate words. I just scream until my voice becomes hoarse.

“I have just come to play chess,” he repeats. He studies my every move. He has probably heard stories of me. Probably knew that I’m the American “pig” that he should fear the most. I wonder how he got to the United States without detection, but this was the man who pulled off the feats of terror performed on September 11. All I know is that this means that more horror will follow. If he is here in the country, then no doubt his entire army is as well.

“Okay,” I relent. “Let’s play a game of Chess.”

He sits in the chair opposite of me, studying his black pieces.

“Why,” I ask.

“The Crusaders had to pay…” he responds in a matter of fact tone, as I move my pawn two spaces forward. “… For too many years the land and dignity of the Muslims have been plundered and destroyed by your people. Jihad was the only reasonable solution. For us to live, you must all die.”

He edges his pawn forward as well.

Outside, rain starts to splatter against my window. From one glance, I can tell a storm is coming. My shirt feels sticky against my back.

“There is no justification. You killed my friends that day. You killed me that day. I never had anything to do with this holy war of yours. Now that you’ve started it however, I feel obliged to end it.” I move my knight out.

“The Zionist Crusader entity that you and your filthy corrupt government represent is due for a fall, just like the Roman Empire before you.” He gives me a cold stare which sends a shiver down my spine. “You may have the superior weapons, but you are a paper tiger. Fat and weak. We are not scared to sacrifice everything to achieve our means. While you fight to live, we fight to die. Every martyr knows a reward awaits him.”

He opens up a space for his rook to enter the fray.

“I am going to make this world safe for my daughter. I am going to make sure that she and her classmates live lives in which they don’t have to deal with monsters like you. You say you would sacrifice everything for your cause--- I would sacrifice it all for my daughter and wife.”

“Yes, lovely Bridget and Kayla.” He slides another pawn forward.

“Shut up.”

I counter with my bishop.

“You can’t protect them all the time, Charles. When you are gone we will find them, cut them in to pieces and string their intestines all over your beautiful apartment.”

“You can’t unnerve me this easily.”

“Oh, I can’t?” His rook takes my bishop in a move I should have seen.

“I know my path is righteous. I know I’m the good guy here. In the end I’ll prevail.”

“You can’t win a simple game of chess against me. I doubt you can finish a real war.” He takes another of my pieces and my queen is exposed.

I move my queen out and take his rook off the board.

“I will fight to the last drop of blood, you murdering prick. I was born and raised in New York. My parents didn’t bring me up to quit. Until the last breathe leaves my body, I will stand against you and everything you represent.”

“What bitter irony.” He smiles and I see his crooked yellow teeth. “That’s exactly how I feel about you.”

Most of his pawns are now pushing in to my territory, forcing me into retreat.

“You see, Charles. You may have been the champion once, but all things eventually come to an end. A new age is dawning. There is no place for you and your people. Whether it takes years, decades or centuries, ultimately my ideology will prevail, just as I have prevailed here today.”

My eyes widen as I look down at the board. Having been so worked up, I ignored the threat until it had already become real. My king is stuck. His pieces have surrounded it from all sides.

“Check mate, Charles.”

“NO!” I flip the Chessboard. The pieces scatter across the floor, some breaking in half. As the board snaps against the floor, cracks form throughout it. My Dad’s chess set, now in shambles. Black has won. I suppose we were all too optimistic, thinking good always wins in the end.

When I look back up, Bin Laden is gone. However his words rattle back and forth in my head: ‘you can’t protect them all the time’. My life may be a shadow of what it was, but I will always protect my wife and daughter.

I run to my bedroom and immediately reload my gun. Just then I hear the fumbling of keys behind the front door. I hold my gun steady.

The door swings open. It’s Bridget and Kayla.

“C’mon!” I scream, swinging the weapon in hand. My wife asks what I’m doing. I tell her they’re coming for me. She shakes her head in disbelief and backs away from the door. I grab my wife and my daughter by the arms, as they cry for help. Telling them it’s for their own good I throw them in the closet and lock it. I hear them banging against the door so loudly I fear the lock will break off.

“I’m sorry. I love you. You’re my angels. Al Qaeda is coming. Please don’t make any noise. I’m doing this to protect you.” I can’t hold back my tears. “I’m sorry.”

I glance around the apartment. I feel as if I’m being watched. I know there are probably spies in the walls. Cameras everywhere, studying my every move with their electronic eyes.

“Call Jim. Call Danny.” The voice of my father advises me. “They will know what to do…”

If I get them on my side I can form some sort of ragtag army. I pick up the phone, while I hear screams from the closet.

The digits are punched in and I hear the monotone ringing as I wait for someone to pick up.

“Hello…” It’s Jim’s wife, Laurie.

“I need to speak to Jim,” I tell her, gasping for breath as the ones I love the most plead for my mercy.

Silence.

I hear heavy breathing.

“Is this--…” She pauses.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?!”

Without waiting for an explanation, she hangs up.

I suppose she might be mad at me, but for what, I have no idea.

I decide to try my chances with Danny.

I call his home. Once again, it is the wife who picks up. Her name is Michelle and a nicer person you’ve never met. I’ve known her since high school. There was even a brief period when we dated.

“Michelle, its Charlie… Is Danny there…?” I ask as I shield the mouthpiece so she can’t hear my wife’s cries for help.

There’s another pause.

I hear a faint sob on the other line.
“Cha- Charlie, why would you do this…? You know--… You know… Daniel is dead.” It’s a whisper, but no words have ever sounded louder.

My chest tightens.

“W-When did this happen?” My body feels heavy and I fall back into my chair. “WHEN?!?”

“Cha-… Charles… Daniel died on September 11. You were-… They said you were one of the last people with him.”

I drop the phone. It skitters across the floor. I hear the sobs on the other line, intermingled with the screams of my own family.

I am numb. Yet, deep inside, what she’s saying sounds right. It doesn’t sound like a lie.
…
I’ve known it all along.

Memories so horrible I denied they ever existed. But they were always there. Always digging away at my brain. Dr. Stevens knew this. He said they would come back. Now they have.

The screams from the closet stir up something primeval within me. Flashes and images now fall into place and form a finished puzzle.

As if it had just occurred, I remember September 11th.

The mundane beauty of a sunny day, interrupted by an explosion heard across New York. A giant black cloud hung over downtown as the World Trade Center burned. I recall being outside… watching rag dolls tumble out of 90 story windows. So many bodies hit the sidewalk that morning that a red haze rose from the ground. People were screaming, crying and beseeching God. Through the chaos of smoking debris and falling bodies, we made our way into the lobby of the south tower. There was a number of EMTs, firefighters and police in there. I was flanked on each side by my two best friends; James McCain and Daniel Rowland. We were briefed by our Captain. Our job was to evacuate the higher floors. So with heavy stomachs we walked in to the jaws of hell. We climbed stairs for maybe twenty minutes, but it felt like a dozen lifetimes. Occasionally, we would come across a straggler and tell him to hurry up. For the most part, the building was already a ghost. It was just us and the guys. And then we started to hear a distant moan. I don’t even know what floor it was. We were high up and it was hot. I was constantly wiping the sweat from my brow. We stopped at the fire exit door. We heard the moan one more time and then silence. We called out and asked the person to answer us. More silence. We kicked down the door and went in, and a flood of choking black smoke greeted us. The flames licked at all of us. I could feel the hair sizzle on my arms. Throughout it all, my friends James McCain and Daniel Rowland were still there. Best friends until the very end.

We continued to call out, desperate for anyone to answer us. There was nothing. Soon, we were more worried about our own survival. We could no longer see the fire exit. We got a call on the police radio to evacuate the building immediately. Everything was about to collapse. The smoke was obscuring our vision and as we continued to scream for survivors, we overturned desks and tripped over chairs. Beyond the growing flames, I saw Jim fall to his knees and crumple. Over the rumbling of unsteady structure, ready to buckle and burst in to billions of shards of debris, I heard the last groans of my oldest and dearest friend. I tried to get to him, but a wall of flame and heat held me at bay. Then another wail drew my attention to the other side of the floor as I stared in horror at a collapsing ceiling board crushing my friend Daniel. It happened so fast that one moment he was standing there, and the next all that was left was a limp arm sticking out of a ton of concrete. At the time, I didn’t know if it was the smoke that brought tears to my eyes or the pain. I blocked it all out, pretending Danny and Jim were still at ‘Brogans’ waiting for me to have a round of drinks with them. It’s the only way I knew to convince myself to leave their bodies and escape. I knew if I stayed and grieved, I would join them in death. Now I wish I had.

By the time I escaped the tower I was already in shock. My radio kept on going off, but I didn’t answer it. I walked past falling bits of flaming debris, bits of burnt paper and severed limbs all scattered around the plaza. I looked back at the burning tower. O’Reilly was screaming in my face, asking where Rowland and McCain were. And then he ran. Everyone around me started to run, screaming as if the apocalypse itself was here. I looked back and saw the building start to implode. My friends were in there, imploding with it. I didn’t bother to run. I just walked, as that huge cloud of death grew larger and swept past me, encompassing me in its hold. It swept me to the ground, and I started to choke on the cloud which was now crushing me. My vision went dark, but I wasn’t unconscious. When my vision cleared and I lifted myself off the ground, everything around me was gray. The sirens screeched like a thousand dying crickets. With that gut wrenching sound I was reborn. And the sirens have never stopped since.


I know now that everything was a lie. I wasn’t really having drinks with my friends at the bar every night. I was talking into space, imagining they were there, tricking myself into thinking they were. What else had I made up since then? Was anything real?

“It’s all real, Charlie. Don’t let self doubt stop you now.”

The voice isn’t real. My father is dead. Another delusion, that he was talking to me beyond the grave, to help me cope. I killed a kid last night. God, I killed a kid. Sitting in a heap to the floor, I finger my gun, begging the Lord for forgiveness.

I wasn’t playing a chess game with Osama Bin Laden. I was playing it against myself. I was black as well as white. And now black has won.

I hear a sudden pounding at the door. At the same time, there is a sudden pounding in my chest. I feel the hot rush of blood under my skin.

“Charles Rose. This is the NYPD. We have a warrant for your arrest in connection with the murder of Mohammed Al-Zawahi. Open up.”

I briefly entertain the thought that it’s agents of Al Qaeda, playing one final trick, so they can finish the job they began on September 11. Then I remember that I finished that job for them. I place the cold barrel of the gun against my chin. I’m sorry, Kayla.

“Okay. We’re bringing down the door!”

The last thing to go through my brain besides the bullet is the small consolation that I’ll be reunited with the ghosts that haunt me. I suppose this is the last call. Save a round of drinks for me up there, boys.


THE End









Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2004 reserved by Andrew Cutler. Any relation to people or situations, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Unpublished work © 2004 Andrew Cutler.


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