Exploding Bums
Apparently Al Qaeda has started sneaking explosives in their bums (via Gothamist). They tried to kill the Saudi counter-terrorism guy with exploding ass. He sustained minor injuries. I would say terrifying, but it’s also funny. However, this ass bomb was able to get through airport security and 30 hours with Saudi Security. Presumably he wasn’t eating much. Then they seem to have detonated it via cell phone, causing massive carnage but sparing the intended target. In this context I suppose cavity searches make sense. It is ingenious in a way, but I also think Al Qaeda should pull its head out of its ass.
This reminds me though, the future is becoming more and more Science Fiction every day. For example, I’ve been poking at this idea of a story about Spam Bots (artificial intelligences) beginning to dabble in piracy and international terrorism, and becoming somewhat self aware (and evil). This is one scene, which coincidentally involves exploding asses. Damn you Al Qaeda.
Malaccamax
Serang Ali looked out onto the Straits of Malacca and popped a Yaba. His eyes dilated and the night became more purple. The gang pushed the boat into the water and headed into the sea. He checked the text message tattoo on his muscled forearm as the boys doublechecked the folding machine guns. 2 AM, all’s well. Their inside man was on the watch.
A few hours later the pirates controlled the bridge. After delivering the butt end of a machete to an obligingly effusive nose the crew got the message. They were tied in a cabin, a bit smacked around. Ali felt the night prickly with violence and the hope of some all night Happy Happy with one of them Thai girls, dancing the zydeco. He popped another grape flavoured pill and flexed his elbows out in a little jig.
“Teman,” said a fellow pirate. “Risky bisnis. One missing,” he said, pointing to the ships log. Seventeen crew. Sixteen in the cabin. Ali went in to count but his concentration was shot.
“You, check again,” he said but went out to look anyways. There was no time for a life raft, he must have gone for their fibreglass boat moored offshore. They’d sail with signal jammers so the goaway would have to get a hundred meters out to call for help. If he could. He grabbed the FMG-9 Glock, which looked, for the moment, like an IBM smartbook with a flashlight on top. With a flick of the thumb, however, the shoulder brace swung out and the 9mm machine gun was ready to fire.
Serang Ali ran down the gangway to where they’d docked the fiberglass boat, the only quick way out. Sure enough, lucky Number 17 was ascending downwards. He strafed down with bullets, mostly stray, but enough to send the man crashing down, cracking his back across the side of the waiting boat with a sickening crack. Thankfully he flipped out and landed in the water. Ali didn’t want to waste an RPG sinking the skiff.
With everyone underwater or under control, one pirate changed course and another manned the engines. The rest were just muscle and they sat around popping Yaba and plugging from a bottle of pilfered Johnny Black.
“Job’s not over yet,” cautioned Ali, lighting a Marlboro Red.
They continued out into open sea. The ship was self-unloading, so it wasn’t that difficult to offload the armored BMW Series 15s to the Thai tanker. That was their cut. Meanwhile, Ali followed the encrypted RFID signal to the relevant container and loaded enough explosives to blast that and its neighbors beyond recognition. He did the same at three other spots, for randomness sake.
Serang Ali watched from the bridge as the charge went off and the offending cargo disappeared. With no small relief. Only then did the countdown on his arm disappear and he felt this cursed job to be over. Never again would he spend the night at a brothel. Woke up with a bomb in his ass and this mission in his Inbox. Ali still needed to get the explosives removed, but now he was at least sure that he wouldn’t blow up. Until, of course, he did.
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