Chapter 55 – Plan of Attack
Lewy said, “That fat little fucker had a gun on us the whole time, and what’d I have? Nothin. Not even a lousy brick with which to cave in his thick Russian skull.”
Priss said, “I don’t think that was fat on him; it was muscle. We better be careful of that guy.”
“Shit, those morons just invited us right into their pigpen of culture. We penetrated their inner sanctum without even trying. We could’ve snatched the Laleh woman right then if we’d had weapons. Be counting the money now. Where the hell is that diplomat spy, supposed to being getting me what I need to do my job.”
The Colonel looked at his principle assassin and wondered what had gotten his dander up. He said, “Look, we’re on track. We’ve found our target and we know what we’re up against. One tough guy with a gun and a bunch of actors and dancers, up on the stage. We can do this. We just need to do a little planning, figure out our tactics, and we’ll be rolling in dough. We get the Laleh bitch to hand over the money, we take our turns with her, get rid of her, and, mission accomplished. We’re heroes.”
Both Priss and Lewy noted their boss had dispensed with all references to the People’s money, to their patriotic duty to their country, to everything associated with a higher calling, including future interludes with celestial virgins. And that was fine with both of them. At this point neither of them were adverse to a little violence followed by a little earthly infidel delight followed by cash in hand.
They were sitting on a bench down the street from The Hall, watching the coeds, when Hablibi appeared carrying his own College of Charleston tote bag, which was bulging. He said, “Hey. Got some stuff for you. What you been up to?”
The Colonel puffed himself up a little and said, “We have infiltrated the enemy’s camp and ascertained our mission objective. We have identified the enemy’s attributes and resources, formulated both a battle strategy and a redundancy of battle tactics, and are prepared to execute the next phase of the operation.” Priss and Lewy both gave him a fist pump, indicating, ‘Yeah, dude.’
Hablibi looked at them and said, “Right on.” He didn’t believe The Colonel, but figured maybe they’d done something while he was away, and even if they hadn’t, it was his responsibility as de facto leader to encourage them to the extent possible. “I couldn’t get the exact weapons you requisitioned, the cesium 235 and the rattlesnake poison, for example, but I was able to procure what I think you'll find to be an arsenal of weapons both lethal and entertaining to use. He sat down on the bench and reached into his bag, first extracting a ballpeen hammer. “Got that at the hardware store. Look at that knob. Imagine what it can do to a human skull,” and handed it to Priss. Next he took out a package of Dulcolax, and handed it to Lewy. “I couldn’t get the poison, but this stuff was easy to find at the drugstore, and is just as effective.”
Lewy said, “What is it?”
“It’s a laxative, industrial strength. Kickass stuff.”
“What’s a laxative?”
“It’s a purgative. It purges ones bowels.”
Lewy looked at The Colonel, indicating ‘This is a joke. This guy’s a fucking joke. I’m a certified third level vermilion belt assassin, and this is what this diplomat flunky gives me to do my job. Come on.’
The Colonel, sympathetic with his staffer, said, “Exactly how is he supposed to take revenge on this enemy of the People, secure justice for our cause and our great leader, The Ayatollah, with this substance?”
Hablibi answered, “Look, if he’s good enough to get the woman to eat a poison, he’s good enough to get her to eat a bunch of this. He’s just got to apply a really hefty dose, and voila, it drains all the moisture out of her body and she dies of desiccation.”
The boys looked at each other and thought, ‘This is the best and brightest our country can offer the diplomatic corps?’
The Colonel said, “What else you got?”
In rapid succession Hablibi removed from his bag a set of imitation bone handled steak knives, a ball of waxed twine one sixty-fourth of an inch thick, a length of three inch diameter PVC pipe with a canister of propane and a small sack of potatoes, and a bag of plastic straws with a package of large sewing needles. He spread these out on the ground in front of the bench and beamed at the guys from the Elite Corps. “I couldn’t find piano wire for garroting, but the waxed twine should give the same feel to the executioner of the infidel’s precious breadth slipping away. Being the innovative guys you are, you should be able to fashion deadly blow darts from the straws and needles. The knives speak for themselves, and I thought the matching set was a nice touch.” Here he paused, looking at the PVC. “I really liked your idea, your request, for a bazooka. That would make a real splash here in quaint, charming Charleston. Up in some of the sections of DC or New York, maybe Chicago, not so much. But down here, that would be huge. KABOOM ! Only problem is I couldn’t find one. Someone has one for sale on Ebay, but I don’t really trust them, ya know? So what I did was get the stuff you need to make something similar. Not as big, not as mean looking as a bazooka, probably not as loud, but still the same principle.”
Lewy said, “What’s that?”
“A potato launcher. Some people call them spudzookas. Get it? Nearly like the real thing.”
“What’s a potato launcher?”
“You make it out of pieces of PVC and a combustible gas, like propane. Looks like a shoulder fired missile, sort of, but fires a potato. Kids make ‘em all the time, shoot ‘em at cars and people’s houses, get in trouble. Could be really badass, we paint the PVC army green, maybe a little camo. Can fire up to two hundred yards with deadly accuracy.” Hablibi was exaggerating this last part, about the accuracy, but he was sensing some concern among the troops. Jesus, he was doing his best to procure advanced weaponry under difficult battlefield conditions. And the pressure.
Priss picked up the straws and needles, started playing with them. Lewy picked a potato out of the bag and tried fitting it in the end of the PVC pipe. The Colonel unrolled a length of twine from the ball, wrapped the ends around his hands, and tried slip it around Priss’ neck, see if it held up under some throat tension. Priss said, “Get outta here,” joking around with his boss, pretended to shoot him in the crotch with a poison dart out of a straw. They played with their toys for a few minutes, then looked at each other and shrugged. Priss asked, “No guns? No Glocks or Berettas or H&Ks?”
Hablibi said, “I checked the college bookstore, but they don’t carry them anymore. The guy said they used to, back in the good ole days before Civil Rights, but not anymore. Said you have to go to the swap meet now to get them. I’m not sure what a swap meet is, but I’ll work on that.”
The Colonel said, “This stuff may do. After infiltrating their camp and seeing their setup and defenses, we don’t think this is going to be much of a challenge. They have one fat guy with a gun, but we can take care of him. The rest look like creampuffs; actors and intellectuals, probably a writer of some kind in there. You did ok. Got anything else for us?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said with a smirk. He hesitated, milking the guys' interest, hoping to add value to his efforts. “We been working hard since arriving in this pestilence pit, so I thought we needed a little relaxation, recharge the batteries. A little downtime coupled with a little excitement.”
Priss thought, ‘We just arrived day before yesterday; been working day and a half; these diplomats got a sweet deal if they think this is working hard.’
“How you boys like to try some infidel nooky? Some American terrestrial virginity material?”
The Colonel, bringing his sophisticated cosmopolitan acculturated suspiciousness to bear on the issue said, “They got virgins here? In this place? America, seat of all that is evil and corrupt in the world, exemplar of that which shall be resisted with our last breaths of Islamic purity of heart and purpose?”
Hablibi now feigned nonchalance, saying, “They got terrestrial virgins just like we got ‘em in Tehran. Ya ask them, ‘Are you pure’, they say yes, and it’s off to the races. What’s the problem?”
The Colonel looked at The Lieutenant who looked at The Private. Employing communication codes and processes only known among brethren of the Guard Elite Assassination Corps, they searched their souls and presented their findings. The Colonel collated the findings and said, “Let’s go.”