I awake to a foul smell. I’m trying to lift my eyelids but the light is too intense. All I can make out are shadows. My face feels, well, sore. Headache.
“Well, well, look who’s awake,” says a familiar voice, “You missed all the action while you were getting your beauty sleep.”
I strain my eyes. They start to adjust. I’m propped up in the back compartment of the Subaru. The tailgate is open. He’s a couple of feet away, looking down at me. I’m remembering something. Guns N’ Roses on the stereo. This guy was driving.
Come on, think. I look down. There’s something on my shirt. Blood. I look up. The shadowy figure is holding something in his hand. I can’t quite make out what it is. This guy seems dangerous.
“Jeez-zus Christ,” he says, “Don’t you know it is good to be dangerous?”
Confusion. Was he reading my mind?
He continues, “Your mind. My mind. Hive mind. Mind your business. Mind your Ps and Qs. Don’t mind me. Mind the gap. Mind over matter. Never-fucking-mind…”
It is official. I have been kidnapped by a raving lunatic. It was time to get out of here. Only, where was here? I tried to get my bearings.
In the distance, I saw a plume of dark smoke coming from what appeared to be a tangled heap of metal. The smoke. That had to be the source of the terrible smell.
“Thermite,” he says, apparently still reading my mind, “The smell. That’s what you’re smelling. Thermite.”
“Where…” I try to speak.
“National Geographic,” he continues. Nothing I say is going to interrupt his little soliloquy. “Those assholes did a cute little TV special where they claimed that thermite couldn’t cut the columns of the World Trade Centre. Popular Mechanics. Discovery channel. All these Bilderberg Group motherfuckers did debunking episodes and they all said, ‘Thermite alone can’t cut the core columns. They’re too thick.”
“So then maybe these Illuminati fucks can explain to me how Jonathan H. Cole on fuckin’ YouTube cut up all these huge columns, in his backyard, using thermite? Hmm?”
He seems to be getting angry now. Maybe I should just bolt.
“Don’t. Even. Think. About it,” he says, emphasizing each word, “You’re so busy thinking about your old life. You’re so busy thinking about how to get back into your little sheep suit. Pathetic fuck. Look what we’ve started,” he shouts as he points to the mangled metal in the distance.
“What we’ve done,” I ask, “I didn’t do anything.”
Laughter. Hysterical laughter.
“You’re too fuckin’ funny man. Fuckin’ crack me up. ”
Sirens in the distance.
“Time to move,” he says. He reaches up and slams down the tailgate, causing my ears to ring. I give in to this feeling I’ve been having to lay down and go to sleep.