July 16th, 2006
It was a dark and stormy night. Her white skin was seared with the painful marks of his love-making. He had been neither pleasurable nor gentle and her purse was lined with his payment. He hadn’t even bothered to take it back. She was clearly an amateur who just didn’t know the importance of staying in control, of keeping her new customers at bay until she knew what buttons could be pressed…
“God damn-it.” Already the weak Tim Horton’s coffee was cold and a dark film swam along its edges. Peter knew that the editor wouldn’t accept anything so trashy. Karim Mawad was tough and rightly so. He had built the magazine from a massively in-debt student-run newsletter full of communist, pro-Che Guevara bullshit to a moderate left-of-centre social justice magazine revered from universities to Wall St. There was no way Mawad would ever print such drivel. But the puzzling story surrounding the death of a very public and publically disliked social activist was something that belonged in such trashy drugstore novels.
Although wealthy and well-respected Shari Stein Sinclair’s death was surrounded in a shroud of mystery. Why on earth would she be in the dank neighbourhood of Jarvis & Dundas at such an hour? And why the leather outfit and paraphenalia more in line with show-jumping horses than someone being groomed for the next leader of the NDP? Was it a set up? Had some crazy right-wing pro-Capitalist think tank tried to discredit her latest report on the Israeli occupation of Lebanon? Israel was hardly popular for it but killing an activist to cover something up? Why bother in this day and age of instant information – a movie or sound bite could travel around the world in seconds. The theory verged on retarded.
“Fucking hell” cursed Peter as the cigarette he had been holding burned his middle and index fingers. He hadn’t noticed its heat until it had already seared his finger. In haste he had thrown the burning filter to his desk to land on a photo of Shari and a hole had burned the photo right next to her heart. In anger he stubbed out the cigarette and lit another.
The police were investigating her last known whereabouts – a run down gay hangout named Pembrooke Castle. Long ago its location was secret amongst the LAMBDA community due to law enforcement officials raiding and arresting members for improperly soliciting very young boys.
Surely an intelligent reporter like himself could figure this out. Earlier with some well placed bribes and some unauthorized computer access he had obtained all the clues that the Police had gathered. If he could figure it out before they did, Peter felt he just might get a raise out of that cheapskate editor of his.
His computer had her emails for the week past. Some high placed Nigerian public official was in regular contact with her about a possible transaction of some spare government funds. Would someone kill over that? Peter noted the man’s email address to perhaps transfer the money to his account. For that kind of money the risk seemed minimal.
No the real question was why a hot little number like that would only charge $85 for something that would go for triple, even in that part of town. Peter took a long inhale in remembrance. No way that sort of thing comes cheap.
What if the Nigerian email was actually some kind of code? What if the money being transacted had nothing to do with getting interest payments while Nigerians thought up ways to spend the money? Peter reread the emails looking for clues.
Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. The money is available to be transferred right away but a fee of $85 needs to be sent before it can be released to cover wire payment costs. I am unable to pay this myself because it would leave a paper trail that would indicate to the authorities what I am doing. Please send the money via Western Union to account #3882227 and on its receipt I will send you a cashier’s cheque for $87,831,091 for you to store in your 4% savings account for 8 months (or $2.3 mill for us to split as previously agreed). Please send a email once you have sent the money.
If his theory were true he could forget about contacting the Nigerian. There probably wasn’t a Nigerian at all, the “Nigerian” was probably code for an Israeli informant who had assisted her with her report. Peter hadn’t actually read it yet but it was really thick and would require a lot of time to read. He had been putting it off for weeks now after Shari had sent it to a friend named Jared who promised he wouldn’t show it a soul. Except for Peter of course. Jared had described how detailed the report was with actual internal Israeli memos that, if released, could destroy support for the entire Occupation. Oddly enough he hadn’t heard from him for a while even though they were supposed to meet for lunch. Jared had simply not shown up without so much as a phone to say why.
Peter took a sip of the stale coffee which instantly extinguished his lit cigarette still hanging in his mouth. In frustration he spit out the unlit cigarette and looked over at the report. Heaving it up he flipped through the pages. The text was beautifully printed making use of different fonts and using bold, italic and even underlining. While reading Peter slowly walked over to the window. The curtain was drawn and the glass was foggy from the humidity of the night.
Some movement drew his attention. On the window a red dot was illuminated and could be seen on the glass. Balancing the report on his chest and with his left hand, he carefully rubbed the foggy glass to try and erase the odd red dot.
Glass shattered. Peter was lying halfway across the room completely dazed and confused. Dust was everywhere and slowly Peter realized the window was open. But the pain in his chest kept him from moving. He closed his eyes and tried to regain his breathing. It seemed like he lay there for eternity. Police sirens could be heard in the distance. Two police cars raced along the empty 401 to get to a Police Ball on time. A silencer had been used and no one had been called.
Eventually Peter rolled over. The report and its 4 inches of high quality paper had somehow stopped the two bullets that had been fired at Peter’s chest. Amazingly he didn’t have a scratch. “Who would do such a thing?” he thought blandly.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost time to go to work.
“Where’s the goddamn effin’ article on Shari Stein Sinclair Peter?”. Karim Mawad’s dreads were tied in a pony tail in an effort to look both European and hip.
“But Karim I was SHOT! Look at this report! There’s two Israeli Uzi bullets embedded in here! I think they’re trying to kill me!”
“I think you shot the report yourself just to come up with that dumbass excuse! But I’m simply not buyin’ it” Karim returned with fiery. “You’re a low level uninspired reporter without a shred of inspiration and that’s hardly a reason to kill you. Unless you’re me and you’re tired of putting up with your bullshit.”
“Now clear off your desk and find somewhere else to work. I hear they have an opening at the Star. They’re always looking for made up articles about the Israelis. I’ll give you a personal recommendation myself to that communist dimwit Jack Brianson if you like – just get out of my office!”
Peter stumbled out of his editor’s office unsure of what to do. If whoever was trying to kill him found out they hadn’t succeeded, they’d surely be after him again. His only hope was to find someplace safe. Someplace they couldn’t get to him.
Within hours he had booked a flight to Beirut.
Posted in: Writings
September 14th, 2006
Peter stood in the airport, alone and stationary amongst a sea of humanity. The report was snugly nestled under his arm next to his quickly beating heart. In his other hand he held a black carry-on bag which held all his life’s possessions. He wore a pin-striped navy suit in hopes that he might be bumped to first class if coach was full. He walked to the ticket counter. The girl behind the counter had strawberry blond hair with ringlets that fell from beneath her navy blue beret. In his loins he felt the first feelings of what might be love. He approached with what confidence he could muster.
“Did you just bud in front of all those people?” she asked.
“Hey asshole. Get to the back of the line!” said a fat old man who was first in line.
“Yo fuck-face. I don’t know who you think you are but get to the back of the god-damn line!”
“Sir, you need to go to the back of the line. I have to deal with all those under people first.” Her hand gestured to the others behind him.
“Uh… I booked a flight to Beirut on Air Lebanon and I…”
“Sir, this is the Air Canada terminal for national flights only. You’re not just in the wrong line, you’re in the wrong terminal. You need to go to Terminal 2.”
“Oh.”
He was considering asking for her number when she dismissed him and began talking to the fat old man who had waddled up beside them. “Go fuck your mother asshole” he said as Peter headed towards the sliding automatic airport doors.
He left the terminal, downtrodden and wondering if he might be gay. How else could he have been attracted to that fat man with the lethal tongue. He found a free bus that escorted travelers from one terminal to the next. On arriving on Terminal 2 a bearded man wearing glasses approached unnoticed.
“Peter! Where have you been? Your flight leaves in 20 minutes and I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour!” said the ominous stranger.
“Jared is that you?” gushed Peter on recognizing his informant. “You stood me up for that lunch” he whined.
“Look Peter. Don’t use my real name okay?” Jared looked suspiciously around him. “I think you’re being watched by the MOSSAD. They’re dangerous people – they’re behind 9/11, Waco, The DaVinci Code – you don’t want to mess with those guys. They’re after the report!”
“I haven’t actually read the report,” said Peter sheepishly. “I’ve been meaning to but it’s really thick… and there are bullet holes in it now” he mumbled off as he held up the report.
“Buhgeezez you’re kidding me! You haven’t read it yet? Don’t you know how many people have died to bring you that damn report? And you’re too lazy to the read it?” Jared looked both disgusted and unimpressed.
“You’ve had it for weeks now. You must be the laziest, most pathetic newspaper reporter EVER!”
“I’m no longer a newspaper reporter,” said Peter haughtily. “I’m a freelance writer.”
“Yeah well, not everyone can be employed…” Jared couldn’t resist the dig. “Just give me the report and I’ll be on my way. My secret copy was found and destroyed by international spies. I need that copy for CBC when I give an interview tonight.”
Peter looked at Jared closely. “Were they really responsible for the DaVinci code? That was two hours wasted – time I will never get back.” Peter considered that and grew angry. His heartbeat slowly rose as he remembered the ridiculous dialogue and incredulous plot twists. He actually saw red as the veins in his eyes expanded and pulsed. “And don’t even get me started on what that crime of a movie did to the careers of Tom Hanks and Ian McKellen! I want to see those fuckers burn in HELL.”
“You’re an idiot” replied Jared. “Just give me the report.”
“No Jared – we do this together. I’m coming with you to your interview with CBC and we’re going to blow this thing sky wide open. It’s time that justice be served, and baby, it’s going to be served FRESH.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.” said Jared, his brow showing confusion. “Look, just give me the report. I want to hold it for a second.” Jared placed his hands on the bullet torn report. Peter refused to let go and in the middle of the airport a wrestling match of sorts broke out between the two men. Police eyed one another and approached from all directions.
“This report is important Jared!” exclaimed Peter between pulling on Jared’s beard, indirectly trying to dislodge the report from Jared’s grip. “It’s bigger than big – it’s da BOMB!”
Two security guards tackled both Jared and Peter. Three other guards approached with pistols drawn.
“He said bomb!” shouted one the armed guards. More grunting as Jared and Peter were manhandled to the ground and frisked. Peter felt vaguely aroused.
“Mother fu…” as Jared was probed inhumanely by one of the guards. “Dude that’s just not right.”
Handcuffs were applied to both men and then they both were escorted away from a gathering group of onlookers to an airport security cell.
Hours later both Jared and Peter were released after each endured the strip and cavity search with differing affections. The guards had paid little attention to the report that the two men had fought over, but had dutifully collected it and returned it… to Peter. Jared looked at his watch as the two walked out of Terminal 2.
“Look, I’ve got 32 minutes to get downtown for the interview with CBC,” started Jared as they approached a line of waiting cabs. “Give me the report and I’ll use it to blow this thing wide open. But I need the report now.”
“I’m coming with you Jared… you’ve given me purpose,” responded Peter purposely.
“Fine, but you pay for the cab.”
“Done and done.”
Bribing a cabbie they sped downtown, listening to the driver dwell on his wasted previous life as an anastesiologist in Pakistan. They ran from the cab into the CBC building and with a quick word to a security guard they rushed into a waiting elevator and arrived just in time to see Peter Mansbridge begin the National – the daily news for most Canadians who watch the news.
“Sorry pal. You can’t go in there” said a large black man in a blue t-shirt. “The news is on and no one is allowed.”
“You don’t understand” gasped Jared, the running clearly indicating his lack of physical training. “I’m Jared Partchke! I’m the one they’re going to interview for the MOSSAD story!”
“Mr. Partchke” said a man walking up to the three men. “Yes, we were going to do the interview live in order to accommodate your intense and very secret schedule…”
“Yes, yes” breathed Jared hopefully.
“But we did some digging and certain credibility issues have come up. In fact, we can’t, in good faith, show any sort of interview with a known Nazi-sympathizer and anti-Semite. Frankly I’m surprised they didn’t strip search you when you entered the country after that all-night vigil at Auschwitz. Frankly you and your kind make me sick. You can’t blame the Jews for everything.”
“Not the Jews – the Israelis. And I’m not a Nazi-sympa…”
Peter knew exactly what Jared was feeling right now. Peter looked down at this small pathetic man who held so much power. “You’re a fucking Jew aren’t you, you fucking Jew.”
“Peter you’re not helping. I have a report that explains everything…”
“Oh yes,” interrupted the short man moving away slightly from Peter, “I have heard of this report. Is it not true that on page 168 there is a picture of a half-naked boy in his tighty-whiteys?”
“You perverts make me sick,” boomed the guard, still towering over them.
“No! I mean yes” stuttered Jared, “but it’s just a movie poster in the background. In the foreground there is woman on her knees protecting her baby and begging for her life while a…”
“Sir I must interrupt. I cannot stand by while listening to you defend this kind of smut. And you sir,” for he turned towards Peter, “remove yourself from the premises or I will have you charged!”
The large black man, standing slightly behind the smaller man crossed his arms. Peter stood resolutely, his eyes seething in anger.
“Look” said Jared, trying to regain his composure. “This is just a big misunderstanding. We can solve this by…”
“First I’m gonna kick YOUR ass” began Peter pointing at the small (and now timid) man, “then I’m gonna kick YOUR ass” he said while pointing at the very large black man, “and then I’m gonna burn this whole fucking BUILDING down to the grou… Ooompf!” For Peter, everything went black.
Peter lay in the back alley outside the CBC. His face betrayed a large bruise above the right side of his jaw but other than than he looked like a child as he slept. Jared had twisted his ankle as he was thrown out of the back door and he was unable to stand or leave without Peter’s assistance. The report that he had brought had fluttered around the alley when the guard through it against the brick wall. Jared could only crawl short distances to try and gather the pages up, but it was hopeless to try and put them back into any sort of order.
“Fuck me. My head hurts.” Peter groaned as he awoke.
“You’re an idiot. I lost that interview because of you.”
“Jared,” said Peter choosing his words carefully, “you lost that interview because you’re a Nazi-sympathizing anti-semetic pedophilic pornographer. I had nothing to do with it.”
