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Killing the Cross Page 4


  Foley

  Dad,

  Here’s some more about Hitler. He infected the world with his madness. It wasn’t his fault, he didn’t know he was crazy, it’s just that he thought differently than anyone else, and instead of going down into ruin and oblivion like most maladjusted people do, he went up to great heights because of his grit and determination. Of course, it didn’t turn out all right, but if you read what he wrote before it all went down, he was prepared to die for his beliefs. He said without that character of conviction, that no man and no country will achieve true greatness.

  For all his grandiose ideals of racial superiority and ethnic cleansing, he could not hold a candle to the superior attitude that the Dutch have to all other races. That’s right, Daddio, talk about racism, the Dutch consider all other “white” people to be inferior. Like the “Negro” is to the nazi, the Germans are to the Dutch. And they see the Americans as the same way. White trash. That’s what Ingrid tells me. Well, she didn’t tell me directly, but I picked up on it from the stories she tells me about her old man. Seems as though she’s got some issues with her father as well. That’s why we get along so well.

  It’s funny, though, how the Dutch seem to think of the world, and especially Americans, or so I gather second-handedly from only the recounting of a single source – Ingrid’s father. It seems that we are a curious nation to them, one to be emulated and mocked at the same time. Their children begin watching state-run television at the age of three. American and British shows with Dutch subtitles, so that by the age of five, the kids are all bilingual English and Dutch, and have absorbed the particulars of both foreign cultures. An advanced form of Social Studies as it would seem. Yet, we grow up learning so little about the Dutch, or even that it is really two countries united, Holland and The Netherlands. I asked Ingrid why they are so interested in us, and she couldn’t answer. I asked why we knew so little about them, and she couldn’t answer. But it seems almost intentional, really, like hiding in plain sight. Tulips, windmills, and wooden shoes is all most Americans on the street could answer about the Dutch, and you would be lucky to find any that could name all three. Most people don’t know that the Dutch colonized much more of the world than did Napoleon and Cook combined, and they did it quietly. No grandiose stories about campaigning across Egypt and discovering the Rosetta Stone, no tales about being harpooned on the shores of Hawaii. The Dutch seamen just quietly went about their business taking over all the choice islands with all the prettiest women and nicest climates. Back when it was a three-way race to take over the world between England, France, and Holland, the Dutch nearly had the others edged out when some big damn floods came and wiped out most of their country. That’s what all the windmills and wooden shoes are about. The windmills drive big Archimedes screws to pump the flood water away, and the wooden shoes float.

  Ingrid says that for every great British or American thing, a Dutchman has either done it before or done it better. She says they invented banking. Imagine that, a people smart enough to get other countries to give them their money for safekeeping. That’s brilliant. She says that the Royal Dutch own ninety percent of the oil production companies in the world. Forget the Saudis and their oil-producing land, Ingrid, says, it is the Dutch who really control the world oil supplies. She says that they have their eyes set on the all the American food production companies next, and also the pharmaceutical manufacturers after that.

  Look at every corner of every major city, and you will see it turn to a Shell station soon. That is because the little guys and other companies cannot compete. And the hotels? They are snapping those up also. And every hotel and motel should have a convenient gas station and mini-mart next to it, right? I love it when she uses logic. She says that the Dutch actually like Americans. I bet, I told her. Sleep, eat, and drive. Like good little cows on a farm to them we are. Why does she tell me all of this? Hell if I know. Seems like it would be top secret doesn’t it?

  She says that you could tell people in America point blank that the world as they know it is run by the Dutch, that they have no military except for the one that they rent from America and use to control the oil fields, that all major American foreign policies and military actions are determined by the World Court in the Hague, Netherlands, and the American People would stare at you like those cows on the farm we worked on. Never even blink. I told her that her secret is safe with me. She says that she doesn’t care who I will tell. Doesn’t that rock, Dad? The Dutch are taking over the world, and no one gives a rat’s ass!

  You know what else they own? They own the Nielsen ratings now. And to complete the set, they also bought the company that collects the data when you swipe your card at the grocery store. So, they have formed the perfect Triad: They can tell which of the dumb American cows are watching which commercial, and how soon they get in their big fat car and drive their big fat ass down to the store to buy what they just saw on TV. Isn’t that awesome? The consumption of a country of hundreds of millions of people being monitored in real time by a foreign country that we know essentially nothing about! And nobody cares. And they wouldn’t give a shit if people did know. That is why they love us, Dad! We are a good breed of milk cow!

  Love,

  Foley

  Dear Dad,

  Ingrid and I split up for awhile. It got kind of hairy what with banging that other chick and stuff. She didn’t last long either. She was kind of freaking me out with all of her hero worship. Said she had seen me on the TV and knew that I was that guy who rode the tornado. I let her ride the tornado a few times, if you know what I mean. I am staying in a hostel in downtown Cairo now. It is run by Dutch people. We sit up on the roof and smoke hash at night and look at the stars and listen to music and sip beers. It is great. The Dutch people love to give me shit about being American. Everything in the world is our fault. We are to blame for everything. There is no escaping it, they drive me nuts. I knew I should have told them that I am Canadian, but I forgot again. Next time, I swear, I will remember. They call me a moron all the time. All day long. You American moron this, and you American moron that. Then they pull out their guitars and play Southern Blues, and everyone sings American Pie and Sweet Home Alabama. Drives me crazy.

  They talk with the worst accents, and they are so obnoxious. They all have some hard-luck story about some American that did them wrong. All of them, poor bastards, have some whiny-ass tale about being fucked over by an American. Then they just stop and look at me, like I am going to get up like some organ grinder’s monkey and dance on the table or something. I am starting to hate them fucking all. But I hang out and keep my voice down, and by and by the hash bowl comes around to me and I puff my feelings down a little deeper and I look at some of these Dutch chicks and they aren’t so bad cause they all got those huge ass down on the farm tits and they all wear their little skimpy, tight, cotton tank tops in fruity colors and I like sitting next to them in the cool desert breeze as it blows across the roof top. Then I whisper in their ear and watch their nipples rise.

  Plus, after awhile they all break down and loosen up and lay off of the politics and everyone starts playing grabass. God, they need to learn to wash their socks, though. I never smelt foot odor like in these hostels they got. And four of us to a little tiny room, it smells like something rotten. I walk in at night and they got 3 of them laying there in the dark snoring with the window down tight and all their hash smoking, beer drinking, foot stinking asses are more than I can take. But the rent is cheap, and the women are fine, and I like the easy life. I still got plenty of cash left over from what Ingrid gave me for the experiment, and oh yeah, I still got plenty of Fennies. I don’t share those with no one, though. Those are for me when I get to feeling really frisky just before lunch time and one of these lasses with a great ass is sitting around the TV lounge with her legs curled up under all side saddle looking pretty because her shaved head Euro soccer punk dumbass boyfriend has gone off to one of his cash-under-the-table daily labor jobs and I get to c
hatting her up about the weather.

  I got one all talked up and all the way into the room, door closed behind, roommates all out sightseeing, sitting on the bed all ready to go and sample that ass, and who should walk in but the funny looking redheaded Dutch fellow who runs the front desk. Go figure. Says sorry, wrong room, bowing and backing out, carry on, but by then the damage was done and off and away she ran. I felt like killing that motherfucking Dutch dude cause he knew exactly what he had done. So my nickname for him from then on was Van Dork. He ain’t no dummy, no not that one. He’s got all of the master keys for the hostel.

  Egypt is funny, though. You don’t really hear about Egypt a lot. Did you know that Egypt produces a lot of oil? Just like the rest of the Middle East. I did not know that. Here among the pyramids and the camels and the papyrus stands, they got oil wells. Lots of them. Egypt is one the world’s largest oil producers. And it is a very popular tourist destination. The two go together very well here: Oil and Tourism. Not like the rest of the Middle East. I am starting to like it here. Nice place to work on my tan, drink some beers, and take in the local culture. Of course, most of that is done here at the hostel. This is an Islamic country, as you know, so most of us partake in all of our vices here at the “compound” as it were, up on the roof. That’s where I am now, in the hammock in the shade. I think I am getting sleepy.

  Love,

  Foley

  Dear Dad,

  I had to move back in with Ingrid. After I got out of the hospital, that is. You wouldn’t believe it. They blew up the bar right down the street from our hostel. A bunch of us were walking back one night and just walking into the hostel when the blast caught us from behind. It was unbelievably loud and the force broke my arms when I went to the ground. When I tried to get up, there was glass and dust all over and I turned around and smoldering people were running past me and they had purple ooze coming out of their clothes and they were terrified. I walked through them and I saw all the people near the center of the blast, or what was left of them. The car frame was on fire and people parts were searing and smoking black all around and the smell made me sick in the heat and I passed out. When I woke up they were all shouting and screaming and loading me in the ambulance and women in black robes were yelling and flailing their arms. They were looking at the sky and then down at the ground, but I remember that some of them were looking and yelling at me. I asked myself why, and I must have spoken out loud, even though I could not hear anything very well because my ears were ringing. The ambulance driver yelled, “They say it is your fault.” The last thing I remember was seeing that pattern of stars up in the sky like they have on the flag of Syria.

  The hospital was horrible. They never changed my sheets and the flies drove me crazy. The food was like garbage, and I could not understand a word my doctor said. Ingrid came to see me, and after about a week I absolutely could not stand it any longer and I begged her to get me out of there. She must know Arabic because she spoke to my doctor and before too long, they put me in a broken down wheel chair and I was out of there. I was glad to be back in an air-conditioned hotel room with all the amenities. It took her two sponge baths to get the smell off of me, and after a little room service from the kitchen and from Ingrid, I was right again. We have been back together for a few weeks now, and she tells me that it is not safe for me to go back to the hostel. I agree with her, even though I know that she just wants me to stay. That’s cool. I can humor her for a while, even in all of my body casts. She says that it is like fucking a mummy. It is hard to write with casts on both arms in a pulley.

  She has finally explained to me what it is all about. She has made it clear to me now, what the purpose of the experiment is, the drugs, the therapy, the reason that we are in this place. It is all to show me what my purpose is, my destiny, my plan for the world, and the Universe’s plan for me: I am the One who will see this scourge for who and what they are. These murderous wolves who parade in sheep’s wool, covering their heads like the cowards that they are. Ingrid has finally revealed it to me, and I am free. I am going to find the solution to this problem which threatens the very existence of humanity as we know and love it. I have discovered the true nature of this curse called Islam. It is up to me to find the solution. Ingrid is my angel, and I am the Savior.

  Love,

  Foley

  Foley,

  Again, get your fucking little ass home, NOW! I am not kidding, before you fuck up the world. So help me, God, if you start World War Three, I am going to kill you. This shrink broad and the drugs and the sex and the talk about shit you have no business dicking around with, enough, already. And the bombing? You got what you deserved. You need to come home now before you jeopardize the mission any further. If I can get a letter to you, just think, what else is coming your way? Just something to think about.

  Love,

  Dad

  P.S. Don’t worry about the shot. If you can’t make it, you can’t make it. It’s just a game. Jesus, you don’t have to feel like a failure. I will understand.

  Dear Dad,

  I guess I always knew that I was the One. Mom and me used to do the I-Ching on rainy Sunday afternoons, and I would always end up with some heavy outcome, and she would always just stop and ponder my results for hours afterward. It always happened. We’d get out the three pennies from the coin jar and start tossing them on the table. She’d ask me why I smelled my fingers, and I’d tell her that the pennies made my fingers smell like farts. “Whose farts she’d ask, and I would get embarrassed. Can you believe it, me in front of my own Mom, talking about farts! And her fortunes would always turn out like something simple and plain like flowers or fields of grass or how her life was like a river.

  Mine, though, would turn out heavy and big like I was a tiger or a dragon or something. One day, she just gave up and we never did it again. Because the book said so. I had tossed the pennies a few times like always, and she looked up the fortune in that thousand-page book, and there in the middle of the book, she started reading out loud, “Your journey has come to an end. Do not seek wisdom from this book any longer. You have come upon the ultimate I-Ching. You will be the greatest leader that the world has ever known.” It went on, but she just got kind of foggy-eyed after that and she got real quiet and went off into the kitchen and started doing the dishes. It was a cloudy day, and she didn’t turn on the light in the kitchen. I can see her silhouette down the hallway now, her in the gray dim kitchen, me in the dining room under the bright bulb, elbows perched up on the table, reading that fortune. It scared me.

  It doesn’t scare me now. Neither does the Phenomenon. The Phenomenon is hard to explain to people, though. I can’t even explain it you, Dad, without worrying that I will lose some of my power. Some of “its” power. The short version? If I could, I would just tell people straight to their faces: “God doesn’t like it when people make fun of me.” But I couldn’t tell them that without making Him angry. So it’s like a Catch-22. Remember that movie, Dad? Old Alan Arkin running around trying to make sense of the War? Old Keller was a rye bastard, writing that one. But it’s true. I can’t tell people not to make fun of me because it will make God angry, but when I don’t tell them, and I never have told one of the dumb fucks because that is where all my power is, the not telling them, then they get literally stomped on by God. Hammered. Toast. And the tragic comedy of the whole thing is, they never make the connection. Poor dumb bastards, even after their lives are in shambles, never once wake up in the middle of the night and go, “I never should have picked on Foley!”

  It’s sad, really. And I am talking big things that should have set off alarms in their heads. Like, for example when I got fired from my one job. My boss lady’s husband was a flight officer in the navy, just about to make promotion. Two days after she fired me, he was taxiing down the runway for a routine training flight when his brakes on the landing gear failed. He skidded off the runway and caused about a million dollars worth of damage to the plane. The ensuing invest
igation turned up nothing wrong with the plane’s equipment. Nothing! Human error, the report said. His career was finished, in the toilet.

  After another job, the office building where I had gotten fired burned up inside. There was no security breach, and no suspicion of arson. But somehow, the fire had started from inside the network computer room on the one computer that had the main internet connection. The paper stated that it was as if an outside source had sent a signal for the computer’s power supply to overheat. Bizarre things like that, Dad, and I can go on and on. The bottom line is, “Do not fuck with Foley McMann!” Someone is looking out for him. I wish that I could just tell people that. That would make their lives a lot easier. Instead, they insist on going about the Phenomenon the long way. Putting in the long hours as it were.

  It all starts simple enough: I used to think that it was me. I really did. That’s what cracks me up, but I learned that no matter how many times that I encounter it, and how many different ways that I try to play it, it is always the same. That is the beauty of the Phenomenon. It starts like this: Someone at your school or your job always has to make a wisecrack at your expense. That’s where it starts. And that gives you two choices: You can either ignore it and seem not to mind any funning about you, thereby being “cool” and unconcerned about your loss of social status due to the sleight, or you can come back with a witty remark, thereby signaling to the aggressor that you take his remark as a serious enough threat to at least attempt to acknowledge it. Either way, you have made a choice. You have chosen a path and you have moved one square down that path on your social standing game board. It is there for everyone to see. It is imprinted in their minds where you currently stand. The next time that there is a gathering, your choice is to either be the aggressor and risk retaliation, or remain passive in the hopes of not being remarked upon again. Inevitably, however, you are always fired upon, and your response can mean the difference between your social life or death. For once your aggressor has an advantage, he will continue with that advantage and capitalize upon it to only one end: To drive you insane or drive you from the place, or both. Minority chicks in call centers are the best at it.