Peeping Bomb

It’s so funny. You live your life blowing buildings up. Sometimes it’s because the foundation is too weak. The wooden support beams are infested with termites or rattled to death by endless streams of planes flying overhead. Or it was teenagers and their damn new surround systems with four million deciwatts of ear shattering screeching that passes for music. Demo album my ass. It can be in the aftermath of a natural disaster: A hurricane on the coasts, a tornado in plains, or an avalanche in the mountains. The building now sticks out like an oily pimple. It’s time to push the reset button. Strip malls. Condos. The works. Let the bidding wars begin. Thus you’re not only destroying a worn out shell, you’re putting a tough old bird out of its misery.

That’s not the right job for a man coming home from war. I was supposed to find a cushioned desk job and be a leader of people, not using skills meant to destroy the enemy, to destroy empty husks that had once been habitable. When I entered the service at sixteen, lying my way in to get away from my father, they told me I was too small to be a soldier. That didn’t matter. I was small enough to be an engineer. For six years I found every way in the book to stay overseas. If they needed someone to blow up an old fortress, I was there. If an old beaver dam was in the way of a convoy, I was there. Explosives became my calling, until I might’ve pushed it too far. They said that the rulebook clearly stated you could not use high explosives to hunt bears, especially in Colorado. I got that memo too late. That brown bear splattered nice on the billboards heading to Denver. Discharge came a week later.

When I got home my mail was full of threats and chastising letters from animal rights groups. My father would’ve laughed and wiped his ass with them. Saves money on toilet paper. I settled for using it as kindling to start my grill. There was, however, one letter from the Wainright Demolition Company who liked my style. That style turned into a begrudging life for thirteen years. In Iraq I destroyed an abandoned mosque that once housed artifacts from the Crusades. In Germany I brought down a concrete bunker that Hitler used at one time. The Japanese hired me to implode a decayed samurai castle. An American businessman sent me in to Mexico to flatten an old fishing village that claimed to go as far back as the Aztecs. I became known as the Records Reaper. Each time I saw another building fall, I kept wondering. Why am I not outraged by this? I was getting too comfortable with the profession. No man in their right mind destroys history willingly. So I retired and picked a quiet job as a graveyard watchman. My fathers’ laughing grew louder after that.

If you asked me then how I got myself to the point of what most would say is terrorism, I couldn’t have said. Now, looking back, I think it started when I was six. All those hot days in the factory yards playing with friends in the abandoned warehouses was my first escape before Uncle Sam came calling. We played hide and seek. We smashed old windows. I even kissed my first girl in there. One day we were heading back to go exploring when we saw bulldozers rampaging across the yard. The old tin sidings were no match for the rugged scythe-like scoops as they cut their way through. Our playground was falling away. I hadn’t known at the time it had also been where thousands of tanks had been stored before shipping off to fight the Nazis. Why were they trampling it like that? You could say my love for destruction and history both began that day.

One good thing that came out of me going to high school was the discovery of my brilliant understanding for chemistry. For that reason alone I snuck by the recruiting officers. The moment I dazzled them with atomic numbers and elemental knowhow, I was off to be all I could be. I reveled in the endless sessions of being called every sissy name in existence while running for miles and dropping for pushups. Whenever I got to drinking with my comrades at any local bar in Korea we could pile into, I would schmooze the waitresses with my deconstruction of a bottle of beer down to the atomic level, in Korean of course. Then when their boyfriends started fights that tore up the place, I would continue to have a chance encounter with a lady MP and her blood hound. Her name was Elmira. The blood hound was named Thor. Me being new to things, Elmira kind of took me under her wing; those angled elegant wings that I bet could bring a man to death and orgasm in the same instance. Thor was brown and black; face drooped low in a permanent frown but nose always sniffing something.

They’d take me to the base to sleep it off. She would make hair pin turns on the dark streets. Her thin voice would cut through the wind.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)