doqx (doqx) wrote,

How to Haiku and Other Useful Advice to Contemporary Traveler on the Go

In the past month a lot of things happened to me that I do not consider particularly enjoyable. I was groped and I was robbed, and I ate goulash. All of that was traumatic to various degrees.

I have to say though, that being pistol-whipped, sucks on a whole new level of sucky sucktitude.

It was all going so well too. I was literally hours away of reaching something resembling civilization. But no. See. That’d be too simple. No. Instead. “We’re just going to stop here for a second, “ Says Marat. “Got an errand to run. That ok?"

“Ahh, yeah.” I go, because I am complete fucking moron. “Fine with me.” Because hey. What can be more fun than stopping a car in a middle of a night somewhere in the depth of the country whose two famous personages are a guy who spent the entire movie dressed like a reject geisha and could not even kill Keanu Reeves. And also, of course, there’s bloodthirsty dictator killed by his own ministers. Yeah. See. That’s how you advertise Romania. Welcome to the home of Kabuki Vampire Lord and Mr. Ceusescu. NOW THAT’S ENTERTAINMENT!! I KNOW I’M FUCKING ENTERTAINED!! HOW ABOUT YOU?!!!


Nerves aren’t what they used to be.

So yeah we drive in some bumfuck little village on the edge of nowhere and stop. There’s a little plane that if it applies itself and works hard will grow up to be a Cessna one day. Marat gets out and says to me, “You want to meet real tough-guys?’

“Umm… yeah…. that would be a no.” I go, because I have not completely lost my mind. I don’t want to go out into the gentle Romanian night and meet yet more East European gangsters. I am just unbelievably clever like that. College material. You can tell.

“I’ll just stay here and make sure the dashboard doesn’t try anything funny.”

Marat shrug. “All right, suit yourself.” And steps out. So he goes over to talk to those two guys by the plane and I try to go back to dreamless oblivion when suddenly Marat goes and does something unexpected like shoot one of the guys in the face.

Ok, I think, and try to kickstart my brain into processing the new data.

Did my friend just shoot a person in the face, brain?

Why yes, Doqz. Your friend just shot a guy in the face.

That’s kinda peculiar, isn’t it, brain?

I would have to concur, yes. Don’t see much shooting in the face these days.


While I am trying to figure out what the hell is going on, someone reaches in and grabs me and yells something in what I assume to be Romanian.

Marat runs back and also yells something and waves his gun in what I thought was a completely unsafe manner.

I’m getting a whiplash from looking between the goon that’s holding me and quite clearly preparing to snap my neck and Marat who is running towards me while waving a gun. After shooting a guy in the FACE!

I don’t want to appear fixated or anything. But see. Marat did this thing with a gun. And then the other guy did not have a face.


So he gets there and grabs me back from the man-mountain. The Gorilla That Blinked Like An Idiot growls something and grabs me back. Marat screams something else and I change hands yet again.

“STOP IT! What the hell is going on?! Marat?!”
”WHAT?” The completely incensed Ukranian-Russian-Hungarian mobster yells back at me.
I back off slightly and quietly point out. “You just totally shot that guy.”
“Yeah?” He drawls out.
“In the face?”
“Yeaaah?” he smils kinda tightly. “I shot that guy in the face. And now he’s dead. So?”
“Wasn’t he working for Isstvan?” I go and belatedly realize that I really don’t want to know but hey – too late.

“yes, he was. I’ve decided to strike out on my own, you see.” Thumbs at the plane. "That should start me off nicely."

So I am standing there, next to me there is a corpse with a face missing, a goon with a brain missing and Marat with any sort of sanity missing but on a bright side with a very loaded pistol that’s waving erratically in front of my face. So the obvious thing for me to do is of course blink at him and sum it up. “Hey, man, that’s not cool.”

At which point he hit me in the jaw with his gun and I went down like my name was Monica.

By the time I wake up, guess what? It’s the middle of a Sunday and I am in Turkey! Where is the plane? We’re not in a plane anymore. We’re in a truck. Well. That’s much better. Marat is still there though.Oh, goody.

I always wanted to visit Turkey in a car hijacked by a homicidal lunatic with Scarface delusions! Wonderful! What a great adventure to tell folks back home. Sure beats Aunt Olga’s meatloaf story!

All it’s missing is Bug Bunny walking past and leaving a stick of dynamite in my hands.

I blink, make a superhuman but ultimately futile attempt to ignore the fact that my jaw is now the size of Rumsfeld’s ego, try to turn and look around… well, hey, there! Forget Bugs and his funny hijinxs. Dynamite is for wussies. No dynamite for me.

Oh, but wait. We got the next best thing.

RPGs and ground-to air missiles and everything else a growing psychotic leader needs to arm a small Latin American country. Crates and crates of the stuff

I scream and jump out of the truck. Hit the ground running, reach the Greek border in a day and make my way home disguised as a peasant washerwoman. Publish the memoirs and spend the rest of my days literally swimming in money.

Well. That was the plan. And I thought it was a pretty good plan. Except for the whole my mouth is taped shut and I am handcuffed to the car glitch.

So in stead of screaming and jumping and running I kinda warbled like a geriatric air siren and flopped around a bit. With the great result of attracting Marat’s attention.

“Hi.” He smiles. “I bet you’re wandering what you’re doing here.”

Not really, I think. Mostly I am wandering whether the next pothole is going to make me first Jewish astronaut.

As soon as I thought it, that car immediately hits another rock the size of Gibraltar and the crates full of a lot of stuff that goes KABOOM… jiggle.

My brain assesses the situation and quietly, seriously tells me. “Ohhhhkay, then. You’re on your own. Sod this for a game of soldiers. I am outta here.” All higher cerebral functions shut down and I try very hard to become one with the floor.

“You’re my little insurance policy.” Marat says and nods smugly. “in case Isstvan catches on quicker than I planned. See, I was planning on using Rena, but this way is better. I didn’t even have to shoot Vas’ku. Don’t worry kid.” Looks at his watch in three hours we’ll meet with my guy from PKK, sell the stuff get paid and you can go. I ain’t got nothing against you. It’s pretty much right on the border with Iraq. You can just walk over and wave to the nearest Yankee. And Isstvan can go whistle. Everybody wins. What do you think, clever, huh?”

I pause in my flopping. PKK are the Kurdish separatists. Ohh…. Oh, dude. Oh, this is just a whole entire staircase of not goodness. I don’t want to sell weapons to Kurdish separatists. I don’t want to meet any Kurdish separatists. In fact, I can say with great conviction, that there’s very slim chance that I can come down in favor of any situation that put me and Kurdish separatists in the same hemisphere. On the second thought let’s not even put us in the same sentence. I am quite comfortable all the way over here in the paragraph talking about me being handcuffed next to a pile of badly secured explosives!

I warble at him meaningfully. He scowls then shrugs and untapes my mouth. I stare at him for a long second than ask what in the bloody holy hell makes him think Isstvan gives a damn about a friend of a friend of a family friend.

At which point he hit me in the jaw with his gun.

Next time I wake up, the Kurds are shooting everything in sight and Marat is bleeding all over my new clothes and he’s uncuffing me.

“Drive.’ He coughs at me. “Drive away.’

“Sure,” I smile and kick the bastard right where it'd hurt. And it did. you could tell by the way his eyes just kinda rolled and he screamed like a little girl who has gone ultrasonic.

The only good things about the rest of my day is the fond mental image of Marat being found by the Kurds. And I got his laptop too. Poetic Justice, bitch!

Well maybe not poetic so much, but still. I win!

Except for the fact that I am somewhere in the middle of Fertile Crescent, driving a car stolen from Kurdish Militia.

I am fairly sure they’ll want it back at some point.

My life has passed beyond the mundane shades of limited perceptions and such shallow definitions as good and bad. There is no good. There is no bad. There is me. In the truck. Full Drugs, Guns and Money. Being chased by peshmerga and quite possibly Hungarian Mafia.

It all kinda puts you an introspective and philosophical mood .

Therefore I composed this haiku.

Truck. The leaves are falling
gonna get killt most heinously
by berserk Kurds.

Meanwhile I have no idea where I am. Therefore I am only a couple of inches to the left of being aware where the hell I am going. I am getting this uncomfortable suspicion however that that big star over there might be the north star. And if that’s the north star than I have been heading south for the last hour. And if I have been heading south from Turkey….

At this point I would like to address an email I received inquiring whether I was safe.

Safe? Safe?!! ARE YOU HIGH?! i am in iraq! I am in a fucking warzone being hunted by fucking Kurds! What about this says safe to you?!!

Bryant!!! It's all your goddamn fault! I blame YOU! YOU ARE TO ANSWER FOR THIS!

I’ll survive this! You reading me, you bastard?! Ill survive this just so that I can find you and kill you! Kill you a lot!
I’ll kill ya!
And then you’ll be dead!
You’ll be dead and I’ll be happy!

From the Iraq’s heart I’ll stab at THEE! Ohhh, I’ll stab you a so much! I’ll stab you all the way to HELL!

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