I’m putting this story up first because it’s now a bit out-dated. I wrote it in 2007 and won $100 for it in a contest! Enjoy!
The Playground Act
In a Monday morning interview with Barbara Walters, Osama bin Laden claimed that he was planning a massive and devastating attack upon the US within the week. When Walters pressed him for specifics, however, he grew coy and teased with her that the details were all in his autobiography Osama: My Life, My Dream, and Why I’m Better Than Oprah, due in bookstores that Friday.
The news had America shaken, yet none more shaken than President Shrub. There were demands at every minute for press conferences and for an official statement about bin Laden’s recent threat. The President had been told not to speak to reporters until a risk analysis had been completed of a copy of bin Laden’s book that the Department of Homeland Security had bought on the black market. However, as President Shrub headed to lunch on Tuesday afternoon, a crowd of reporters managed to finagle a response out of him. “I ain’t too worried about bin, Laden,” he snapped at the journalists. “Any man who wears a diaper on his head instead of his ass don’t seem like much of a threat to me.”
The unofficial statement from the President, unfortunately, only made the nation more anxious. The twenty-four hour news networks were holding constant discourse on the possibility of a terrorists attack at any moment, criticizing the Shrub administration for taking no preventative action.
By Tuesday evening, the Department of Homeland Security had finished analyzing bin Laden’s book and called for an emergency meeting. President Shrub strode in and took his seat. “Alright, what’ve we got?”
Secretary Winslow licked his lips and opened his pirated copy of the book. “Well, Mr. President, bin Laden’s writing is actually quite impressive.”
The President nodded. “I expected as much.”
Secretary Winslow continued. “His use of the subjunctive is shockingly mastered for a-”
“Not to mention his careful attention to allusion and metaphor,” Secretary Cavanaugh chimed in.
Winslow nodded. “I mean, he has some stuff in here that is just beautiful-”
“Secretary Winslow,” the President barked. “What is the promised attack?”
Both Winslow and Cavanaugh exchanged a nervous look. Cavanaugh spoke first, adjusting her glasses as she cleared her throat. “Well, you see, Mr. President, we’re not entirely certain-”
“Mr. bin Laden’s writing style is very impressionistic,” added Winslow, “rather Kafkaesque, even, and at times his message gets weighted down by his imagery-”
“It’s all very dreamlike, Sir, and difficult to discern what is his plan of attack and what are his philosophical musings,” finished Cavanaugh.
The President sighed and rubbed his beady eyes. “Are you two telling me that you don’t have anything to tell me?”
Winslow began reading from the book. “‘A tattered grey curtain surrounds the possibilities of what are and what may be, however one only has to examine the weave of this immortal tapestry to realize the inherent and undeniable nature of the garment’s weaver; it is then and only then that one may discover the meaning of Truth and witness the sublime birth of the disembodied self, unencumbered by notions of the rudimentary and mundane state of living, and breathe in the freedom of knowing that we exist in the moment and that the fires of infidels shall not stain our inner beings.’”
President Shrub realized that saliva had begun to dribble from a corner of his mouth and wiped at it with his tie.
Secretary Winslow laughed incredulously, flipping through the book. “It’s like poetry, Mr. President, it’s-”
The President slammed his hand down on the table, causing the Secretaries surrounding him to jump in their seats. “Poetry never saved anyone’s lives, damnit! We have a serious matter of national security at hand here, Winslow!” He looked around at the rapt faces fringing the oval table. “These lax standards are not acceptable. We must raise the pie higher, people!”
A few nodded in agreement while the Vice President mumbled an “amen.” Winslow adjusted his glasses and wiped at his balding head with a handkerchief. “What would you like us to do, Mr. President?”
Shrub turned to him. “Since you clearly cannot do your job, I want you to find someone who can.”
Winslow nodded and leaned towards Cavanaugh, whispering for her to make a list of possible academic assistants. “Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir. We’ll have the best English professors the country has to offer on it, Sir.”
Shrub nodded. “Good. And in the meantime, the nation wants results. And we will give them results.” He inclined his head at an assistant who hurriedly turned on a television set and began to play footage of a terrorist training camp. “This footage recently arrived via satellite feed via our top secret hidden spies among al-Qaeda.” The President pointed to the screen. “Observe, people.”
A terrorist-in-training, clad in ragtag camouflage and a black ski mask, climbed monkey bars above a sand pit while others waited patiently behind him for their turn.
“This footage was taken this morning in northern Afghanistan, just south of Pakistan.” The terrorists-to-be were now jumping and rolling in the sand. “While bin Laden may have hidden the exact plans of his attack in alluviums and metaphysics, this footage clearly speaks for itself.” The President snapped his fingers and the assistant paused the footage, freezing it on an image of a surprised-looking terrorist trainee falling off of the monkey bars into the sand. “Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda are planning to attack America’s playgrounds.”
A collective gasp rose from the oval table.
“With any luck we’ll know when and where by further analyzing that book,” he pointed at the copy of Osama: My Life, My Dream, and Why I’m Better Than Oprah. “But I for one am not game to sit around and wait. I’m sending instructors from the School of the Americas to every playground in the nation to teach the yard duties how to spot terrorist activity and what to do about it. With any luck we’ll nip this thing in the bud before you can say ‘God bless Texas,’ and have a few Iraqis in prison, to boot.”
“You mean al-Qaeda Afghans, Sir?”
The President blinked at the Secretary of Defense. “What?”
“…Nothing, Mr. President.”
“Whatever. Anyway, let’s get a move on, people.” Shrub clapped his hands and the Secretaries all scuttled out of their seats, bumbling for the various exits.
On Wednesday morning, young Jimmy Johnson found himself in a holding cell in Washington D.C. The boy sighed as he watched the guards flip through files and make phone calls. He sat down next to an overweight Hawaiian man who looked about the same age as his dad.
“What’re you in for, kid?”
Jimmy looked up at the fat Hawaiian. “I don’t know. I think I was late for class. What about you?”
The Hawaiian sighed. “They busted me last night. I illegally downloaded a song.”
Jimmy grimaced. “Tough break. What’s your name?”
“Koi Leilani. What’s yours?”
“Jimmy Johnson. Nice to meet you, sir.” He shook the older man’s large hand.
“Likewise, Jimmy.”
There was a screech of metal as the cell door next to theirs opened. A tall, thin man wearing flannel rose from his bench as one of the guards told him he was free to go. Jimmy and Koi watched the man leave.
“He’d only been in here a few hours,” observed Koi.
“I wonder what he did…”
“Rape and attempted murder, but the girl survived.” Koi shrugged. “I heard the cops on the phone earlier. I guess she was too scared to press charges. It’s a shame they can make a computer admit what wrong was done to it but not another human being.”
Jimmy suddenly felt sick to his stomach and looked at his Batman watch. It was already almost time for first recess and he was missing it. “I hope my mom comes to pick me up soon. I had sharing today.”
“Really?” Koi shifted his weight to better see the child.
“Yeah…”
“What were you going to share?”
“I have a Tonka dump truck that I got yesterday for my birthday. I was playing with it in the sand with my friend Sebastian before school started but then the bell rang. It’s brand new so I didn’t want it to get rusty so I made sure I cleaned all the sand out of its wheels before I put it back into my backpack. I knew I was going to be late so I started to run to my classroom but yard duty Smith blew her whistle at me. She took me to the principal’s office and then the police brought me here.”
“They handcuff you?”
Jimmy nodded, hugging his knees to his chest. Koi sighed. “Yeah, those handcuffs are none too friendly…”
Around noon, Jimmy and Koi were joined by Anthony Franklin who had been busted for smoking marijuana.
“Do either of you have a spoon?” Anthony asked after introducing himself. Jimmy and Koi shook their heads.
“Why do you want a spoon?” asked Jimmy.
“Because I might as well start digging my way out of here, man,” replied Anthony, shooting a red-eyed look over his shoulder at the officers. “They’ve got my weed. I’m a goner for sure. Five years minimum these days. I’ll be old by then!”
“Hey – look on the bright side,” said Koi. “At least they’ve got Spam and TV in prison.”
Anthony looked slightly more hopeful.
Wednesday afternoon President Shrub turned on the TV in the Oval office while he ate his baloney sandwich. One of the news networks was running an interview with a woman named Karen Smith, who was identified as a yard duty in the East side of the district.
“He was behaving very suspiciously,” Smith was saying. “All the other children had gone inside for class. The second bell had already rung and he was still out there with his back turned to the classrooms, messing with something. His backpack was off to the side, right next to the slide. Slides are prime terrorism targets because, when exploded, they will not only take out the child on the slide but those waiting to go down it, as well. And the plastic serves as shrapnel, taking out even more children.”
“So you immediately recognized terrorist behavior?” the blonde reporter asked.
Smith nodded and tucked her graying hair behind her sunglasses. “Oh yes, definitely. After I had him in custody, I immediately notified the police who sent in a bomb squad.”
The two women were replaced with Jimmy Johnson’s school picture. He was smiling and missing one of his front teeth and had a small scab on his left ear. A newsman began to narrate. “This is a recent picture of Jimmy Johnson, the boy suspected of working for al-Qaeda after exhibiting suspicious behavior on the playground. Friends of the family say that Jimmy always seemed like such a sweet boy and cannot imagine that he lived a double life…”
President Shrub let out a loud “ha!” and turned down the volume, taking another bite of his sandwich. “Little terrorist bastard…”
Around four PM it was publicly announced that Jimmy Johnson’s backpack contained only school supplies and a Tonka toy dump truck which had been destroyed in the search for hidden explosives. A weeping Mrs. Johnson knelt next to the bars of the holding cell as the guard unlocked the door. She yanked Jimmy into her arms before he’d been able to reach her, sniffling and kissing his head, asking him over and over if he were alright.
The guard sighed. “Sorry again for the inconvenience, Mrs. Johnson.”
Mrs. Johnson glared up at the guard through her smeared mascara then rose, holding Jimmy, even if the eight-year-old had grown too large to be held properly. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!” she barked as she shoved past the guard. Jimmy looked to Koi over his mother’s shoulder and waved goodbye.
Koi waved back as the metal bars slammed into place again, lest he escape and download music onto one of their computers.
By five PM on Wednesday evening, when it was common knowledge that Jimmy Johnson was innocent, the nation was in an uproar. President Shrub didn’t dare pass by his windows any longer after several raw eggs had been chucked at him on sight. He’d crawled under his desk several minutes ago and now reached out to grope the desktop for his phone and dragged it underneath with him. He pounded on a button. “Secretary! Get me Winslow and Cavanaugh!”
“Yes, Sir, Mr. President, Sir,” she responded.
Cavanaugh’s quivering voice came on the line. “Mr. President, this is Secretary Cavanaugh.”
“It’s about damned time, woman! Where is that analysis?!”
“We have the nation’s top literary critic working on it right now, Sir…”
“Well? What’s he got so far?”
“So far, Sir, um, he’s on page five.”
Shrub’s beady eyes widened. “What?!”
“You see, Sir, apparently bin Laden’s imagery was more flawed than we previously thought and his writing contains many contradictions, as well as improper comma splices and a serious lack of understanding structure. His opening sentence would never make it past a New York publisher-”
“I thought you told me this afternoon that you were getting professors to analyze it.”
“We tried to, Mr. President, however, since the book isn’t due out until this Friday they all knew it was a stolen copy and chose to uphold the administration’s strict copyright rules. They don’t want anything to do with pirated material-”
Shrub slammed the receiver back down then took a few moments to breathe, feeling the blood slowly begin to recede from his cheeks. This is it, he thought. I’m never going to hold office again. I’ve headed the worst administration this country has ever seen. We’re all going to blow up just because some critic can’t get past mediocre writing. He absently turned the phone over in his hand as he fretted. Results. The nation needs results so that they can see we’re making progress. We need an enemy – we need people in jail. “Damn you, Jimmy Johnson!” he shouted.
It was then that he noticed the “Made in China” label on the bottom of his phone. Shrub cocked his head and read the stamp in the metal several times before crawling out from under his desk and looking at his letter opener. It, too, was made in China. He picked up his coffee mug, his red, white and blue pen, his stapler and his lamp. All were made in China. His beady eyes swiveled around the room and he spotted a decorative vase. Dashing over, he picked up the vase and squealed in triumph when he once again saw the “Made in China” label.
President Shrub ran back to his desk and picked up his phone. “Secretary? Get me the Secretary of Defense.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He was connected within moments. “Yes, Mr. President?”
“It’s time to schedule a press conference.” The President paused to catch his breath.
“What for, Mr. President? Do you have the results of the bin Laden analysis?”
“No, forget that. Osama bin Laden’s old news. It’s the Chinese we need to watch for.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow, Mr. President…”
“Look around your office. Have you ever noticed how much of your stuff was made in China? Hell, even my patriotic pen was made in China!”
The Secretary of Defense sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, Mr. President.”
“The Chinese are trying to undermine our economy! They’re stealing all of our stuff and selling it back to us for a profit!”
And thus began phase two of bin Laden’s planned terrorist attack.
Kellie's Corner 