Mom, I’ve already discovered there’s a lot of crazy stuff going on at PSU, or at any college, I’m sure. But you’re right—you and Dad have given me good values and taught me to think for myself, so I’m not worried about any of that. And I am very grateful for you two. You should be proud of yourselves. I couldn’t have asked for better parents,” he smiled. “Hey, let’s have some of that cherry pie I saw on the kitchen counter when I came in—this conversation is getting way too heavy for me!”
“Well put, son,” Anwar agreed. “Enough seriousness! Let’s kick back in front of the fire and enjoy the evening. I love sitting out here on a nice summer evening! Can you believe the view tonight? The way the sun lit up Mt. Hood, just before it went down—you could see the glow for miles!”
Ben nodded in agreement as he devoured a rather large piece of Margaret’s cherry pie. “Your pies are awesome, Mom!” he grinned. “And I’m sure they’re nice Washington organic cherries, too, right?”
“Would I serve my family anything less?” Margaret beamed, enjoying all the attention from her son. “AND, sweetened with stevia,” she proudly added, unable to conceal her pleasure that her influence was going to make a major difference in Ben’s life and ensuing career. Even if he didn’t follow directly in her footsteps, she knew that his priorities couldn’t help but reflect all the effort she had put into teaching him the value of a proper diet and lifestyle.
Even Anwar nodded in tacit agreement. As different as their respective careers had been, he had a deep respect for Margaret and a great appreciation for all her health-promoting ideas. With a twinkle in his eye, he leaned over and spoke softly (yet deliberately loud enough for Ben to hear) in her direction. “You think living with a pharmacist was tough? In another five years, we’re going to have a Minor Deity in the family, and guess what? He’ll be telling BOTH OF US what to do!”
Ben looked up at both parents, smiling and shaking his head. I guess the battle’s over for tonight, he thought. I’m pretty sure the war isn’t yet won, but I’ll enjoy the cease-fire while it lasts, he assured himself before responding, “I do like the sound of that—it’s about time I get some due respect around here!” As he reached for another piece of his mother’s cherry pie, Ben couldn’t help but realize that the path toward that outcome would surely not be an easy one. “And I’ll have the two of you to thank for it!” he added graciously, nodding toward the parents whom he knew had supported, and would continue to support him, every step of the way.
Later That Same Night
Not Far Away
The flag was draped loosely above the old warehouse door at 300 Front Street in Portland’s industrial waterfront district. It was dark now, but a spotlight illuminated the red flag displaying its distinctive emblem—a black eagle clutching a wreath of olive leaves circumscribing a white circle with a black swastika at its center. Three black Ns were strategically placed right, left, and beneath the wreath symbolizing the subversive group known locally as the Northwest Neo-Nazis. To surmise that the rough-looking men presently entering the building were not nice people would be a serious underestimate. To conjecture that they were almost totally lacking in that virtuous quality known in religious circles as “soul” would probably be a more accurate assessment.
Ralph “Buzz” Henderson parked his ’69 Harley in the lot across the street from the gang’s meeting place and waited for his friend Barry to dismount. He and Barry had been with the Neo-Nazis for four years now, and both were well respected by members and leaders alike. They would have a lot to talk about tonight. A recent report of another al-Qaeda strike had been circulating through the members, and there was talk of the group taking their own revenge. As the two men walked toward the warehouse door, Buzz glanced up at the flag and growled to his friend, “Fuckin’ sand niggers! After what they did to us on 9/11, I hope we blow ’em all to hell, and soon too! Bomb their asses! Show ’em not to fuck with white power!”
“Heil Hitler, man,” Barry agreed. “We should blast those cocksuckers into smithereens! Turn that desert of theirs into a giant litter box! Teach them a thing or two about jihad!” he laughed as the two entered the building. “Wonder what Damien’s goin’ to say about all this tonight? I bet he’s pissed! I’d sure hate to be one of them Iraqis livin’ around here when he gets ahold of ’em. Those stupid fuckers better hightail it back to the desert if they know what’s good for ’em. No tellin’ what he’ll have us do to those poor bastards! I’m lookin’ forward to THIS meetin’—hell, they deserve anything we give ’em!”
Other than being big talkers and looking like they just rolled off the Harley-Davidson “bad biker” assembly line, both Buzz and Barry had much-bigger barks than bites. They were right about one thing, though: the gang’s leader, Damien Darden, had no love lost for Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Syria, or any other country in that general vicinity. Having served in the Gulf War, and then witnessing the atrocities of 9/11, he was personally determined to do all he could to completely wipe their culture out of the United States of America. He now hated all Middle Easterners with an unbridled fury and would love nothing more than to see them all exported, preferably in a box, back to their own wretched countries.
Buzz and Barry recognized Damien’s voice blaring over the PA as they entered the room. “Sit down guys, it’s time to get goin’. I guess you know by now there’s been another warning of an al-Qaeda strike somewhere in the US, and I think it’s time to take some action ourselves, rather than wait around for George Fucking Bush to get his head out of his ass! Right, guys? It’s way past time to teach those sand-fuckers a lesson, huh?”
Clenched right fists were raised throughout the room, accompanied by an assortment of expletives. “Yeah, teach ’em to fuck with the US of A! Let’s get them before they get us again!”
“Damn right!” echoed Damien, strutting back and forth across the stage, shaking his fists and whipping his motley band of followers into a frenzy of revenge. His towering, heavily muscled, six-foot-six frame, liberally adorned with an assortment of tattoos, was made all the more striking by an eerie, almost-deifying glow resulting from the overhead lights reflecting off his freshly shaven head. His shirtless torso, clad only in a denim vest, unbuttoned to the waist, accented the fury of his speech. “If I was president,” he warned, “I’d blow those motherfuckers right off the map. By God, they want jihad? They’d sure as hell get it from me! They’d need a microscope to find what was left of Baghdad when I was finished with that city. Teach those goddamn desert rats a thing or two! Remember the World Trade Center!” he screamed, slamming one fist into the open palm of his other hand. “Cocksuckers! We’ll teach ’em to fuck with the United States of America! Right, guys?”
“Yeah, yeah!” came a resounding chorus mixed with an escalating crescendo of “Heil Hitlers!” Right arms raised in unison as an almost-palpable rage and the lust for revenge spread throughout the dimly lit old warehouse. Damien continued, “So what’r WE gonna do about it?” he shouted to the group, egging them on. “Hurt ’em bad, I say! Burn their mosques—hell, burn their houses! Get ’em where they live! Rape their women, cut the balls off their men, destroy their entire race!” he screamed, with hatred permeating every fiber of his being. “Heil Hitler!” he shrieked again, thrusting his right arm into the air, then rotating his palm up with extended middle finger—a gesture of unmitigated derision unique to their perceived enemy. “Fuck ’em all!” he bellowed a few decibels above the resounding “Heils!” throughout the room.
Damien continued, now a bit more subdued. “Guys, we’re gonna do somethin’ a little different tonight. I’ve got five group leaders up here, and we’re gonna break you up into five action groups. I want each group to put your heads together and come up with some ideas for putting these goddam Muslims on the run right back to the desert where they came from. Oscar will take the guys from downtown and meet in the corner to my left, Billy
