My father's supper is in the oven, green pepper hamburger steak yuck and I am waiting for an FBI agent, his name is Richard speak about photos of two men who might be the bomb planters in Monday's Boston's marathon. The FBI usually isn't this needy, they are a closed group of peepers who tend to be hush-hush about all their internal workings. But today they feel desperate and will air videos of the possible suspects and hopefully someone will recognize the bastards.
The men appear to be in their twenties, too young to have so much hate and destruction swirling in their bellies but old enough to be stupid and callous and cowardly. They are Caucasian and some part of me is satisfied with that. All day I have listened to public radio interviews from Americans of Arab and Muslim descent and they were paralyzed by the craziness of the situation and worried the villians would be brown-skinned and they and their families would feel the awful aftermath.
These kids are dressed casually and neatly, black and white athletic clothes and caps and knapsacks. Almost a military stride to their cadence and the one kid wears his baseball cap backwards like the young skateboarders on my block. A fuzzy profile picture of the youth shows him striding behind his friend, his chin jutting forward, a sign of confidence and a sarcastic smile on his face. His right leg appears to be hurting, turning inward and this will be his destruction. The hunters will look for a boy with a limp.
Their bombs are primitive, one of them contained in a pressure cooker filled with nails and sharp metal pieces which leads us to believe a sophisticated terrorist group might not be involved. For this I am grateful, I do not want those Mideastern devils back in our borders killing and maiming the innocents, pushing us towards that last and final war.
They scheduled the bombs to go off approximately four hours into the race when the glut of the runners would have passed the finish line, the average run time being 4:18:27. And they placed those bombs at the end of the race, that moment when the athletes would taste the extreme fruit of their achievement, that ultra human instance when well-earned endorphins would flood their brains, the killers knew this would be the moment when pain would feel the most exquisite.
"And we are plagued by the devils around us, howling and cackling into the night and we bury ourselves in our soft beds knowing that in the clear light of dawn they are waiting for us, waiting for us in the cool green glen."
Alfred Tennyson or somebody quite like him
These kids are dressed casually and neatly, black and white athletic clothes and caps and knapsacks. Almost a military stride to their cadence and the one kid wears his baseball cap backwards like the young skateboarders on my block. A fuzzy profile picture of the youth shows him striding behind his friend, his chin jutting forward, a sign of confidence and a sarcastic smile on his face. His right leg appears to be hurting, turning inward and this will be his destruction. The hunters will look for a boy with a limp.
Their bombs are primitive, one of them contained in a pressure cooker filled with nails and sharp metal pieces which leads us to believe a sophisticated terrorist group might not be involved. For this I am grateful, I do not want those Mideastern devils back in our borders killing and maiming the innocents, pushing us towards that last and final war.
They scheduled the bombs to go off approximately four hours into the race when the glut of the runners would have passed the finish line, the average run time being 4:18:27. And they placed those bombs at the end of the race, that moment when the athletes would taste the extreme fruit of their achievement, that ultra human instance when well-earned endorphins would flood their brains, the killers knew this would be the moment when pain would feel the most exquisite.
"And we are plagued by the devils around us, howling and cackling into the night and we bury ourselves in our soft beds knowing that in the clear light of dawn they are waiting for us, waiting for us in the cool green glen."
Alfred Tennyson or somebody quite like him
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