December 15, 2001

  • I am the future face of air terror.  It’s the bomb within me.  The one they missed at airport security even though some small change in my pocket set off the alarms and they repeatedly wanded me down.  Hell, even my new running shoes alarmed repetitively as if there was a knife hidden in them—though they didn’t check.  But it’s the bomb they missed.  The one implanted deep within and remotely triggerable by radio signal.  By the little seeming transistor radio I carried on in my handbag.  Or by a comrade bouncing a signal off a satellite in my vicinity.  And, oh yes, did I mention the demented doctor who implanted the bomb, also enwrapped it in a plastic-sealed bag of the bubonic plague.  He used to do tummy-tucks of cocaine for the Medelin Cartel but now he’s with our cause.  He knows it ain’t a science yet, but figures there’s a fair chance that as my body blows a hole in the plane’s fuselage, the plague will get jettisoned airborne over my departure or destination city.  What city?  Now that’s not a fair question.  I’m an equal-opportunity terrorist and would hate to see you personally miss out.  


     


    So today was a test run; tomorrow’s the targeted flight.  Think I’ll mosey on down to the tiddy bar, booze a little, and let a couple of those salacious babes fondle the unseen death within me for one very last time…

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