Well, here I sit, in my home office, reflecting on the weeks events. The War on Terror has finally hit home. And, while I am not exactly Delta Force material, I have certainly seen my share of action in the past few days.
It started while I was sitting at my desk, struggling with some geeky problem or another. I noticed a subtle motion to my left, on the side of the small television set I keep nearby. I have the television, with a cable hookup, so I can most expediently receive my orders from the Vast Right Wing Conspiracy.
At first I wasn't sure what I saw, but as I peeked around the corner of the set my worst fears were confirmed.
al Rachnid. Yep, the eight-legged terrorist leader himself. I shuddered.
As I peeked, he jumped. Man, I hate those little shits that jump. I mean, eight legs and fangs are bad enough, all creepy and running around. But jumping, damn! That just freaks me out. Some critters should not be allowed to jump. It's just plain unscrupulous.
But then, that's what makes us hate them so.
Well, he got away that time, but at least twice more I saw him again, circling back to possibly launch an attack. I did my best to get him, but kept missing. As the afternoon wore on, the collateral battle damage started piling up. The "3" key on my laptop is stuck bad, now. Collateral damage, indeed.
Well, I did my best to ignore him, but I could not. Then, I got a lucky break. I received some intelligence-- I cannot divulge my source, of course-- that al Rachnid was heading to a meeting near the window.
I called in an air strike.
Using the best technology I could find-- namely, a rolled up piece of paper-- I went into reconnaisance mode. Once I spotted him, I eyed the target. My high technology weapons system provides for direct neural communication between eyes-on-target and fire control. It's basically a point-and-shoot system, so I knew I had a pretty good shot at getting the jihadi bastard.
Still, it took two hits to knock the fanatical bastard down. Even then he struggled to get away, but he at least knew who had gotten him. It was time for "boots on the ground" to take over and finish the job.
He died a short time thereafter.
Well, I know there are more out there like him. He was one of about fourteen similar terrorist groups, all with me in their sights. Still, I am truly glad to have him gone.
Later That Same Day
That very evening, as my wife and I were surveying the landscape in the back yard we noticed our horror of horrors: a sniper bunny had crept into the garden.
We have had rabbit trouble for years, but this one had gone too far. I ran down to my office and grabbed my weapon of choice: a single-shot Daisy Powerline 880 air rifle.
Projecting a .177 calibre lead pellet at 685 feet per second, would it be enough to take out an adult Sylvilagus floridanus bent on raising jihadi hell? We would soon find out.
The Daisy is a great weapon, but has some drawbacks. One, you have to practice once in a while. I had not fired that thing in nearly two years, and was a bit unsure of my residual shooting skill. Another issue is that it is single shot, and takes some time to load and pump up. Ten pumps gives you maximum hitting power, but that takes time and makes noise. I would have to act quickly and quietly.
I gently opened my office door, stepped softly onto the patio and set my ammo can on the table just outside. The sniper bunny was at the lower end of the property, arrogantly munching stems of the Hosta plants. The Hostas! My blood was boiling.
The lawn slopes downhill, so when I took my preferred seated position, arm propped securely on the table, the evil-doer was just over the horizon and out of sight.
No good, I would have to take a standing shot. And, one shot only. The evil-doers never give you a second chance. Furthermore, without a secure shooting position, an optimal head shot was out of the question. I would have to make do with a body-mass shot and hope for a solid hit and a quick bleed-out.
With steely-nerved determination, I stood quietly, quickly aimed and fired.
The bunny flopped. Stretched out supine, ears subtly twitching. Clearly he was a goner. As an act of mercy, I quickly reloaded and put another round into his body for the coup de grace. He would meet his 72 virgin bunnies soon enough.
He stopped twitching. It was over.
The next morning, I walked the now quiet battlefield as the sun rose to begin the slow warming of the sprinkler-soaked lawn. As a compassionate Buddhist, I felt compelled to say a quick prayer before I flung the stiff, dead sniper over the fence, deep into the woods whence he came.
There had been another bunny sighting shortly after the demise of this sniper bunny. I missed the second one, as he leaped-- and I mean leaped-- out of harms way into the bushes. Scared as he might be, he will return. And I will be ready.
I have no illusion about this war. It is far from over. They will keep coming, I know. And coming. And coming. The horror!
And a few might even succeed. But I will never give up. I will stand guard and protect my family from the crazy jihadis that live in those woods, who want to take over civilization and impose their ways on human kind. Those animals!
Yet, even though they will keep coming, I am reminded of the words of the Marines who stand guard at Guantanamo: "Not on my watch."
As for the sniper bunny, his cold, stiff corpse would send just the right message. 72 virgins, indeed!