December 08, 2009
Drone Wars: Rebel TV II
Cast iron sculptures of gagged figures strapped and bound on monolithic horizontal slabs lay face-up. In a moment of excessive exuberance the expatriate Greek artist had them electrically wired so they gave off a mild shock when you touched one. "Ants!" his son Tardif Disconesia yelled. He yelled it over and over again. The boy couldn't stop himself he got such a charge out of it. Every time he ran into one of the sculptures the jolt tickled like a million ants were crawling all over his body.
Rebel TV was filming the second episode of HitList from the Canary Islands.
"A plate of awful with a side of trouble," was the fat man's assessment of the waitress.
"Give her a coat of paint and maybe a little touch-up like a Hollywood movie star," his partner contradicted the fat man and smiled at her as she came over with their coffee.
Makeup and wardrobe decided on a trench coat for the skinny man and a velour sweat-suite and visor combo for his overweight partner. They both had on dark sunglasses the crew picked up at the local tourist trap.
Next the ex-Navy Seal entered the seaside cafe'. He inquired on queue from the assistant director about the two men. The Spanish waitress pinched her little nose to indicate that the men smelled bad and pointed to the rear booth.
"We didn't know who to call when our car broke down," the skinny man apologized.
"Goddamn Ford Clitoris," the fat one gurgled.
The retired soldier sat down: "Dangerous neighborhood to get stranded in. Roving gangs of boys everywhere. Up to no good as far as I can tell. I'm sure I saw one of them out there brandishing a bottle of suntan lotion."
He was given a manila envelope that he promptly emptied on the table. Some grainy photographs of Tardif Disconesia fell out along with a sheath of typed up notes. It was all for effect, of course. The cameras were rolling.
"Don't be too concerned with the letter of the law," the skinny man winked. "It's the spirit of the law that counts."
Quiet settled over the otherwise boisterous Montana Rogue Army mess hall. Yet another week running, Tardif Disconesia was the Drone War Idol board leader and that kept him at the top of the HitList "Most Wanted" list. The ex-Green Beret and Navy Seal had spotted him at a street-side kiosk flipping through a pornographic magazine he had secretly sandwiched in a comic book. Porter Hightower sat at the edge of his seat along with all the other militiamen in the hall. Everyone took a collective breath, but it was different for him. Tardif Disconesia was the gamer who supposedly pulled the trigger of his joystick to launch the Hellfire rocket that killed his mother and sister. Porter Hightower wanted nothing better than to see the little runt squirm.
At the exact moment the ex-Green Beret yelled "Move In!" on his walky-talky Tardif Disconesia's mother's Mercedes Benz showed up and the kid hopped onto the passenger side seat and closed the door behind him.
Everyone in the Rebel Cafeteria stared slack-jawed at the big-screen.
HitList followed the mother's car to a house at the edge of town. Balloons and brightly colored streamers covered the front door. "Somebody's birthday," the retired Green Beret whispered. The decision was made to surround the house and go in after the boy. "We're going to try and take him out right here," the former soldier intoned furtively into the camera and cocked his twelve-gage with the well-practiced motion of a professional killer. But it wasn't exactly like Keith Richards parachuting into a Sweet Sixteen party. There were screams and cries, food flew through the air, adolescents, parents and chaperons scattered. The scene was one of general chaos. When the confetti finally settled the ex-Navy Seal and Green Beret stood amid flipped over picnic tables in the backyard of the house alone with the camera crew and covered in birthday cake. None of them had the foggiest notion which direction the kid and his mother had run.
"Draw down," the ex-Green Beret barked with resignation.
Conversations in the Rebel Army mess hall slowly picked up where they had left off. "You wouldn't know it by lookin' at him," the man sitting on Porter Hightower's right had trouble getting his head around such a young criminal. "But that kid is a stone-cold killer." The codger looked like he was sent straight from central casting to play an old pirate or gold prospector down on his luck. Yukon Jack. That was the nickname the other Rebel soldiers gave him. "Just look at the scallywag. Already a mass murderer at his tender age."
Strange emotions Porter Hightower didn't understand swelled up inside him, so much so he felt like his eyes would well up. He closed them tight and stabbed his plastic fork into the shit-on-a-shingle scooped on his paper plate with so much force the flimsy utensil snapped in two.
After a commercial break that basically consisted of Rogue Army recruitment footage of Predator Drones firing at unarmed townsfolk in the heartland and the President shaking hands with various notorious war criminals there was telephoto surveillance-footage of Tardif Disconesia and an unknown girl from his grade school. The two stood in a quiet secluded corner of the playground with their unzipped pants and underwear pulled down to their knees. HitList's high-powered microphone picked up the exchange: "Yours looks funny," the boy seemed uncertain about his attraction. "So does yours," the girl nervously stared back and tried to cover her open mouth with the back of her hand.
At the head of the briefing-room regular Army Sergeant Killroy Townsend cursed: "Disgusting, vile shit." New boot-camp recruits were watching The Rebel Army Network as a training exercise. Slurs flew from the Sergeant's grim mouth. Some of them Private Kenmore Westell had never heard before. "This is the Drone Wars Version XII cow pile of dung your enemy is propagating," the old soldier growled with obvious disdain. Kenmore Westell felt the cold gray eyes of the Sergeant pause suspiciously on him as if the man instinctively new that he was thinking of Porter Hightower's family and how they got blown to smithereens by a drone missile fired by the kid on the screen. "No momma's boy crybabies allowed in my army, son!" the old soldier flicked his thumb in the direction of the door. The Private locked his jaw to show his resolve, but inside he tried to picture his friend. No doubt Porter Hightower was in a Rebel Camp by now, out there somewhere watching the same show. Kenmore Westell tried to imagine what his friend was feeling, but knew he couldn't come close to understanding that level of emotional trauma.
Somehow HitList had acquired some home video Christmas footage of a slightly younger and positively beaming Tardif Disconesia opening his presents on the rug in the living room of a sunny bungalow in some blue-water Aegean paradise. The boy tore into the candy-cane wrapper of his first Pentagon issued Pray Station III, the game-box he would later use to remotely guide the drones. It was an eerie segment of the show played up in slow motion. Behind the kid there was a plastic tree decorated with crystal balls, store bought gingerbread cookies, and plenty of tinsel. You could see Pine Trees through a side window. Tardif Disconesia ripped the paper from the box and threw it at whoever it was behind the camera awkwardly the way you would expect a child of his age to. HitList ran the footage of the boy's laugh as he danced and waved his arms even slower to make him look maniacal.
Part of Kenmore Westell was too serious. He knew he had to learn to shake it off, or he wasn't going to last long in this world. But it didn't stop the newly conscripted Private from feeling like the Christmas footage dragged on much longer than was necessary. To him it seemed hokey, a lame gimmick. But he also knew wherever his friend was at that moment Porter Hightower was hurting something bad inside. And he felt sure deep down to the marrow of his bones these images of Tardif Disconesia so happy and unaware of what it was all going to lead to in only a few months time, these images stretched out so interminably by HitList probably did his friend much more harm than good.
--Daniel Mendel-Black, copyright 2009
