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The Bushiad Foreword Chapter 1- The Rage of George Chapter 2- Rattling of Sabres Chapter 3- Entreaties Rejected Chapter 4- Osama Speaks Chapter 5- The Underworld Chapter 6- Fatherly Advice Chapter 7- The Gods of War Chapter 8- Juggernaut Chapter 9- The Prisoners Chapter 10- Interrogation Chapter 11- George Dreams Chapter 12- In the Clouds Chapter 13- Déjeuner Chapter 14- Secret Agent Chapter 15- The Tyrant Flees Chapter 16- Out of Order Chapter 17- George Descends Chapter 18- Master Kim Chapter 19- Uncurious George Chapter 20- Asana Chapter 21- Doing the Patriot Act Chapter 22- Immaculate Reception Chapter 23- The Little Prince Chapter 24- Mission Accomplished
The Idyossey
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Marched for hours on bloodied bare feet, Mac and his band are locked in an old stone hut. Alone in a barren landscape devoid of life, It’s like some old abandoned ghost town - Doors off hinges, flapping wooden shutters - Home to snakes and desperate men. The boys try to act tough, while Mac, the leader, keeps his cool. He Won’t give in to these deceitful demons - Fighters with no uniforms, no honor, Not real soldiers who respect the rules of war, They heap dishonor on the fighting man’s tradition. Once inside, hands bound, they’re placed against a wall. One Fedayeen guard remains inside, the others leave. Stepping outside they argue in Arabic, but Their sentiments need no translation, They plan to kill us, Mac thinks to himself, And swallows thickly. Two men return inside, force Charles to his feet. “Name, rank and serial number, that’s all,” Mac instructs. “Shut up, you,” a Fedayeen with twisted nose kicks Mac Hard enough to make his point: harder kicks are coming. Charles gets up meekly, his crotch is wet. He’s pissed himself in fear, Mac looks away. The other boys tremble like frightened kids, No video game, this is the real thing, real blood. Twisted nose grabs Charles by the collar, And spouts orders needing no translation. Hands bound, Charles looks at the others, Searching for support or the promise of freedom. Not good at school, Charles enlisted at 18, Son of Miriam and Walter Charles of Ames Iowa, He joined up in hopes of starting a career Different than his dad’s, an insurance salesman, Who though a thoughtful father, never made a plan To write his only son a term life policy. Into the growing desert dark, they trudge, The muzzle of an M-16 in his back, Charles is shoved to his destination. The Fedayeen know the spot, been here before, No need for maps in one’s backyard, traversed Since childhood on foot or camel’s back. “OK, stop,” the voice is Gold Tooth, “Turn around.” Charles complies, unsure of what’s to come. “Here, have some water,” Gold Tooth gestures to another, And a canteen’s brought to Charles’s upturned face. He opens wide in anticipation, his lips chapped and dry. Sand pours into his mouth and down his throat. Charles gags and chokes. Fedayeen laugh. Falling to his knees he vomits moist sand Then choking, red-faced, looks up confused. The savage men enjoy the cruel game, Offer Charles the canteen again, then shout insults. The more he suffers the greater their delight. Gold Tooth nods to another, white scar across his cheek, Who walks behind young Charles, grabs his hair, Pulls his head back, draws a long sharp blade And swiftly arcs the knife across his throat. Red blood cascades down Charles’ hairless chest And blackness envelops his mind and limp body. One by one Mac’s boys are taken, Gold Tooth says, “Interrogation," but none return. Siever, son of Nick and Barbara Siever of Mt. Eden, TX Football star, quick halfback high school player Whose first kiss was Ellen Beskind in the gym last year– Bleeds swiftly into the parched earth. Holcomb, who’s red hair and boyish charm are legend In his home town of Newburgh, New York, Is pushed roughly out the door by White-scar, Who grinning, casts a glance at Mac and winks. Voices move off across the sands, then silence As Holcomb breathes his last, strangled with wire. Finally Evert, only son of Ruth Evert. Born poor into the projects of Detroit, He held his own against the local gangs, Resisted drugs and easy money, did well in school. Ruth’s handsome son in uniform dies slowly, suffocated By gas soaked rags wrapped ‘round his head. Mac sits alone in the stone shed, waiting. Gold Tooth enters, sits down facing him. “Where are my boys,” Mac asks, not friendly. “Moved on,” Gold Tooth says, “Interrogation.” “If they’re harmed you’ll pay, that’s a promise!” Mac hisses, “Let me talk to them, to say goodbye at least.” “They will be fine,” Gold Tooth lies smoothly, “It’s you I want to talk to,” his diction has improved. Mac Leans back against the cold stone wall behind him. “Why are you here?” asks Gold Tooth. “Why are you in Iraq?” “My mission?” says, Mac, “You know I’ll tell you nothing. I’m no young boy you can frighten.” "I don’t care about specifics,” Gold Tooth continues, “Your orders mean nothing. I’m asking you, McClellan Why are you here, invading my land and killing my people, What do you want?” He motions to Crooked-nose at the door, Who holds a small bronze tray with tea pot and glasses, Sets it down before Gold Tooth and leaves. Gold Tooth leans around Mac and cuts his bonds. Mac briefly courts a desperate move, then reconsiders, He might be killed; if the boys still live they’ll need him. Gold Tooth hands him a steaming glass, Mac takes it, brings it to his lips and smells the tea, Takes a small sip - it soothes his parched tongue. “Drink, McClellan, then we’ll talk,” Gold Tooth looks like a kindly uncle Beaming at his favorite nephew. Mac swallows, and Gold Tooth resumes his talking, “Answer my question,” he directs, used to giving orders, “Why are you here, what’s the point?” “Saddam’s evil and making weapons of mass destruction,” Mac recites it just like he’s been told: “We’re here to liberate you and the Iraqi people, Long held in the grip of a cruel dictator Who kills without a second thought And invades neighbors when it suits him.” It rolls off his tongue as easy as the still warm tea. Proud of his recitation, he has learned well. He knows it is unlikely that Gold Tooth Will embrace his U.S. military logic, Admit that Mac is right, give Mac a warm embrace Welcome him as savior and not enemy. Gold Tooth stares, then breaks up. Laughter bounces off the old stone walls, Body rocks in the dust, head shakes side to side. “How sweet and oh so simple, you Americans. Do you believe your own PR? I'll Tell you how it really is; you listen. “You in the West live an unbalanced life, I know, because I lived there as a teen. My Father worked for Exxon, oil man like George Bush, Jr. His knowledge of Iraqi oil fields extensive, he Used his knowledge to make a small fortune. When I was 15, he was killed by Saddam for his money. “I might have been killed too, halfway I did expect it, Instead I was adopted by a family near the Tigris. Inducted by the Fedayeen, raised to be a fighter, I was trained in close combat and assassination. Instructed in the arts of torture, taught classes in Quran I came to fully understand Islam’s holy mission.
“The West’s deluded, thinks that history has
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