The Man In The Bulletproof Pants

A Wilaru Satirical Short Story

(Author’s Note: I originally wrote this story when the Bush administration was locking American citizens in military prisons as enemy combatants. After Barack Obama became President I thought it was obsolete. Then He-Who- Must-Not-Be-Named was elected and after a couple of minor edits suddenly what was old is, sadly, new again.)

By David Wilaru*

“It was a quiet house on a quiet street, but evil lurked within.”

Wow! What a great opening line for my hard-hitting investigative report on domestic terrorism. Even my editor, Leslie Lumbago, was impressed. She gave me not one but two arched eyebrows as she read the first graph.

“So?”

“Hmm, Wilaru, this is not the usual crap I get day in and day out while my life slowly stalls and spins down into the furnace of a cruel and painful death. I have to admit that this is definitely high-class, first-rate crap.”

What did I tell you! I still get chills thinking about my days embedded with the Attorney General’s new anti-terrorism initiative. Originally it was called the SAFE Project, Suspicious And Foreign — but when I arrived the “E” didn’t mean anything.

They had just added it to make the word pronounce correctly. I suggested that it stand for “Émigrés” but they complained that that sounded too French.

“Jeez, Wilaru, we don’t want to sound like a bunch of limp-wristed Frog college professors,” my contact, Deputy Assistant Attorney General for Homeland Security, Mario “Buck” Andolini, growled.

“Certainly not, Buck. I don’t know what I was thinking. How about ‘Enemies’?”

“Hmmmm, ‘Suspicious And Foreign Enemies’ — I like it. But what if they aren’t foreign? What about Suspicious And Domestic Enemies? SADE? That doesn’t work very well, does it?”

Then I had my inspiration.

“How about Suspicious Troublemakers and Un-American Potential Enemies — STUPE?”

“STUPE, as in ‘You have to be a stupe to threaten America?’ I like it!” Buck exclaimed. So STUPE it was.

Our first target was Yassir “Bob” Fatehi. As the embedded correspondent for the American Inquisitor Weekly News Magazine, I was afforded unprecedented access to all aspects of the operation.

“Your paper represents the voice of Real Americans,” Buck told me. “None of that intellectual, namby-pamby nonsense for your readers, just good old American common sense.”

Well, of course. I’ve always contended that you will find more patriots per square mile in trailer parks and kick boxing arenas than in any ten colleges or, God forbid, at an American Bar Association convention. After all, what do lawyers know about what really makes America great?

Our final meeting before the take-down was in the backroom of a Subway sandwich shop two blocks from the target’s home. As a loyal and patriotic American, the shop owner, Andreas “Andy” Athanasoglou, not only donated the use of his stock room but also provided complementary meatball subs to the entire team.

“You guys are doing a great job for America,” Mr. Athanasoglou told us when he finished passing out the tortilla chips. “I wish I could stay and watch you put that scumball away, but I’m already late for Morty Eisenberg’s kid’s Bar Mitzvah. Give him one for me!” Smiling broadly as he surveyed the sixteen flack-jacketed men crammed into his storeroom, Andy flashed us a victory sign and scurried out the door.

“Okay,” Buck began, climbing up onto a case of jarred jalapeno peppers, “As you know, our attention focused on the suspect as the result of a reliable anonymous tip that Fatehi hated America and that suspicious foreigners were often seen entering but never leaving his residence.

“Round the clock surveillance by members of the elite Des Moines Municipal Police Reserve has confirmed that on at least thirty-seven occasions persons of Middle Eastern origin and on nine occasions African-American persons who conceivably might have converted to the Muslim religion were seen either entering or leaving the target’s residence.

“The anonymous informant also indicated that the target’s gardener, though posing as an Hispanic male, may well be a covert Iranian intelligence officer who speaks fluent Spanish as part of his cover identity.

“Pursuant to 18 USC 2701 and following we began surveillance of the target’s e-mail, telephone, and television. While e-mail and telephone surveillance have so far yielded no conclusive evidence of un-American activities, the suspect’s television viewing habits have disclosed a definite left wing bias, to wit, consistent viewing of Frontline, Saturday Night Live, re-runs of Politically Incorrect and no less than four Dixie Chicks concerts on HBO.”

“Goddamn Pinko!” one of the men in the back row growled.

“Settle down, Schmidt. You and your team will go over the back fence and enter through the kitchen. Chang, you and your team will secure the perimeter. Korematsu, you and your team are with my guys at the front door. Wilaru you ride with me. Weapons check.”

Fourteen clips clacked into fourteen M-16s. Buck spun the cylinder on his Desert Eagle .50 caliber pistol. As a lowly reporter I was not allowed to carry any substantial ordinance and I had to content myself with snapping the safety on the puny nine millimeter Sig Saur automatic Buck had loaned me from his personal arsenal.

Not surprising, given the professionalism of the team, the arrest went off with clock-like precision — a digital clock mind you, not one of the old fashioned ones with hands.

Four men scaled the back fence, cut their way through the patio door and tossed a quarter-stick dynamite flash-bang into the guest bathroom. Buck, with seven M-16-armed men in black Kevlar body suits and STUPE emblazoned in yellow letters across their chests crashed through the front door, screaming: “Homeland Security! This is a raid!” at the top of their lungs.

The target was caught completely unawares. Sitting in his Lay-Z-Boy in front of a 55 inch Samsung flat screen, he was sent sprawling by a gentle gun-butt tap to the back of his head. I glanced at the TV — some speech by Bernie Sanders criticizing the proposed new war in Syria. As if we needed more proof that Fatehi was against America.

His shirt peppered with the remnants of a bowl of Orville Redenbacker Old Fashioned Double Butter Movie-Time popcorn, Fatehi was dragged to his feet.

“Yassir Fatehi,” Buck said in a loud, clear voice, “you are hereby notified that you are being taken into custody as a material witness pursuant to a warrant issued under the provisions of 18 USC 3144. You are not being charged with any crime. You are not entitled to have an attorney. You are not entitled to a public hearing. You are not entitled to bail. You are not entitled to know what it is that you may be a witness to. You do not have the right to a telephone call. You do not have the right to talk with any members of your family. You will be detained in solitary confinement for as long as the government deems it in the national interest to lock you up.

“Should you or some scumbag lawyer sufficiently confuse a soft-headed judge to order your release you will be charged with violations of 18 USC 2339A Material Support for Terrorists, 18 USC 2339B, Providing Material Support to a Foreign Terrorist Organization, and 18 USC 2384 Seditious Conspiracy.

“If any such charges are dismissed by some senile judge, you will be taken to Cuba and there found guilty of something really, really bad by a Military Tribunal. Do you understand these non-rights as I have explained them to you?”

“But I haven’t done anything!”

“Oh, the old ‘I Haven’t Done Anything’ defense is it? Well, tell me this, Mr. Fatehi, have you ever wanted to do something against our magnificent country?”

“When?”

“Ever.”

“Ever? Well, I did oppose the war in Iraq.”

The STUPE team members gasped and a hush fell over the room.

“He admits it!” one of the stunned agents muttered.

“Since when is it against the law to disagree with the government?” a terrified Fatehi demanded.

“Since a right-thinking Congress passed the Patriot Act, Mister!” Buck sneered. “And don’t think your innocent act will save your ass. Ignorance of the law is no defense.”

“What law?”

Buck gave Fatehi an evil smile and pulled a well worn copy of 18 USC 2339B from the back pocket of his bulletproof pants.

“You think the War to Save Iraq was wrong?”

“Yes, it was a terrible . . . .”

“Save your anti-American propaganda for traitors and stooges. You know, of course, that Saddam Hussein also opposed the war?”

“Yes, but . . . .”

“So you admit that you knowingly supported Saddam Hussein’s position on the war?”

“Well, yes, I guess so.” The packed men let out another gasp of disgust.

“And, of course, you know that the so-called government of Saddam Hussein was designated as a terrorist organization by the Attorney General?”

“I would assume so.”

“You would assume so. Yes, I bet you would.” With the glee of a geometry student who has just lined up the last step to prove a theorem, Buck raised the page to eye level and began to read:

“‘Whoever provides material support to a foreign terrorist organization shall be imprisoned for not more than 15 years and if the death of any person results may be imprisoned for life.’

“You supported Saddam Hussein’s government, a terrorist organization, and lots of people died in that war. You’re going away for life, Yassir.”

“But I didn’t do anything.”

“But you told people you thought the war in Iraq was wrong?”

“Yes, but . . . .”

“Ah, the old ‘Yes, But’ defense. Tell me this: did you ever encourage any of your friends to oppose the War to Save Iraq?”

“I suppose.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ And did you succeed in convincing any of them to oppose the war?”

“Well, I think Carl Emerson eventually agreed with me.”

“Aha!”

“Aha?”

“Whoever conspires to provide material support to a foreign terrorist organization,” Buck recited, holding up the dog-eared page, “shall be imprisoned for not more than 15 years and if the death of any person results may be imprisoned for life.’ Now, who’s this Carl Emerson and where can we find him?”

“I just expressed a political opinion.”

“Hmmm, a political opinion. Is that what you call it?” Buck gave a little snort. “All right, answer me this: Do you consider yourself an expert on political matters?”

“An expert? Well, I don’t know — ”

“None of your weaseling now! You watch Frontline, don’t you? You’ve voted in every election since you became a citizen, right? You read the New York Times and you even write letters to the Editor from time to time, don’t you? You’re active in the Socialist Worker’s Party, right?”

“I’m a registered Democrat.”

“Potato, potahto. Come on, admit it. You’re something of an expert on political matters aren’t you?”

“Well, maybe some people might think I’m an expert. What’s wrong with that?”

“He wants to know what’s wrong with that,” Buck said, turning to me and winking. “Maybe you should have paid better attention to the law instead of the editorials in the New Republic. The law defines ‘material support’ as, among other things, ‘expert advice.’

“Since you’re a political expert that means you conspired with this Carl Emerson to give material support, aka expert advice, regarding Saddam Hussein’s government, a terrorist organization. You and your buddy Emerson are getting locked up for a very long time. Take him away boys.”

Grinning broadly, three agents tackled Fatehi, handcuffed his wrists and ankles, affixed a black Kevlar blindfold across his face and dragged him from the room.

“But I didn’t do any — mmrph,” Fatehi shouted as a leather gag was strapped into place.

“Damn traitors!” Buck hissed.

“Do you think he’ll be convicted?” I asked Buck as we loaded the M-60 grenade launcher back in the Humvee.

“Convicted?”

“At his trial.”

“Trial? He’s material witness. ‘We don’t need no stinkin’ trial’“ Buck said in his best Alphonso Bidoya accent.

“What is he a witness to?”

“For the record, that’s classified. Off the record, we’ll figure that out once he’s told us everything he knows.”

“About what?”

“About everything he’s seen or done for the last five years. If he’s witnessed something criminal we’ll know it as soon as we hear it.”

“And then you’ll let him go?”

“Are you crazy? No, then we’ll arrest him as a co-conspirator.”

“Co-conspirator to what?”

“To whatever he’s told us he saw or did.”

“What if he doesn’t talk?”

“Then we’ll keep him locked up as a material witness until he does.”

“What about the Constitution?”

“What?”

“The Fifth Amendment, the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, freedom of speech and all that?”

“What are you, some kind of a terrorist fellow traveler?”

“Me? I’m as true red, white and blue as they come. Consider this an educational process — you, of course, are educating me, and indirectly my readers, on the government’s undoubtedly correct position on these issues.”

“Oh, yes, I see. And a very clever technique it is. Okay, Wilaru, here’s what you’ve got to understand. Sometimes you have to ask yourself, ‘What’s more important — a bunch of outmoded two-hundred year old rules or the safety of our citizens from a possible terrorist attack?”

“When you put it that way, the answer is obvious.”

“Of course, I mean if we had to wait until someone actually committed a crime and then hold a public trial and then present evidence we’d never have stopped the 9–11 hijackers.”

“But we didn’t stop the 9–11 hijackers,” I replied, confused.

“My point exactly! Suppose that some time traveler had come back to September 10th and warned us about what was going to happen. If we had listened to all this whining about the Constitution and the Bill or Rights we would have been powerless to stop it.”

“Just playing Devil’s Advocate you understand, Buck, but couldn’t we have gotten search warrants to find out the hijackers’ plans, or put agents on the planes to grabbed them when they made their move?”

“I suppose, but then there would have been a chance that someone would have gotten hurt. People wouldn’t have been completely safe. If there’s one thing the American people want, it’s to be completely safe. Give the voters a choice between lawyers spouting legal mumbo-jumbo and being completely safe and they’ll pick safe every time.

“No, Wilaru, we have to recognize that there are circumstances the Founding Fathers never anticipated and we need to just lock up the dangerous people before they do something wrong. That’s why we need real leaders like Donald Trump and Jeff Sessions. When I think of Barack Obama and that whole bunch of . . . . If Dick Nixon had only burned the damn tapes . . .” Buck said, wistfully staring off into the distance. “But I digress.”

“One more question, who decides if someone is dangerous?”

“We do, of course.”

“We do?”

“Well, not you. The Attorney General, the President, STUPE, me. What’s the matter don’t you trust the government?” Buck asked with a suspicious gleam in his eye.

“Not trust the government?” I replied, incensed. “Are you mad? We all know that the government would never, ever do anything wrong. This is America, isn’t it?”

— David G. Wilaru

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*David G. Wilaru, A Brief Biography

David Wilaru’s early employment was in the creative paperwork allocation and re-allocation sector, but he always knew that his true calling was to be a Wordsmith.

After his divorce from his wife, Sharon, whom Mr. Wilaru once described as: “…as frigid as a penguin in a KitchenAid,” he pursued his dream of a writing career with a stint drafting product manuals for Godzilla Brothers, Inc., penning the user manuals for such cutting-edge Godzilla Brothers’ products as the Delilah Magic Hedge Trimmer, the Trident Electric Fork and Wordbuster, the world’s first solar powered fountain pen.

After leaving Godzilla Brother following his unfortunate involvement with Dr. Werner Buick’s Thirty Day Plan and overcome with ennui, Mr. Wilaru founded SCRAP, The Surrender Company Representing All People, a project that, unfortunately, led to his brief confinement in the Feldman-Margolis Memorial Psychiatric Ward where he edited the patient newsletter, Four Soft Walls.

After his release from the Feldman-Margolis Center, Mr. Wilaru accepted a position as a slogan writer with the 1001 Adult Greeting Cards For All Occasions Company of East Los Angeles, Inc. where he diligently honed his creative talents.

Thereafter, Mr. Wilaru went on to hold a senior public relations position with the Silicon City medical appliances company, BodySpares, Inc. where he directed the marketing effort for the Mirage Artificial Pancreas 690 RG.

After BodySpares’ unfortunate difficulties with the SEC, Mr. Wilaru joined the start-up, Xcitement, Inc., where he designed the marketing campaign for the Xcitement Confidential Adviser (popularly known as “The Brain Box”) and single-handedly coined the slogan “Get Sane At Warp Speed.”

After Xcitement’s sudden bankruptcy, Mr. Wilaru took over as the head of Marketing and Public Relations for Memories-R-Us, Inc. where he directed the advertising strategy for The Dog Box and other Memories-R-Us products.

It was during this high-tech marketing period that, in his spare time, Mr. Wilaru wrote his first paperback novel, the moderately successful Grip Melman, Garbage Detective: The Case Of The Hostess In The Can.

After the unfortunate litigation generated by the book’s Second-Printing Party, Mr. Wilaru obtained a position as a free-lance writer and later as a staff reporter for The American Inquisitor Weekly News Magazine, a post which he still holds today.

A self-described obsessive-compulsive Wordsmith, Mr. Wilaru regularly writes about subjects of topical interest including Gay Marriage, Hollywood Culture, the rapid growth of Amnesiaiology, the Patriot Act, Middle East Developments, and his specialty, UFO Babies, together with other matters of broad general appeal.