“If some animals are good at hunting and others are suitable for hunting, then the Gods must clearly smile on hunting.” -Aristotle

  The 2010 Desert Sun was blotted out by the sleep mask Malcolm wore.

  “HOP TO IT NELSON!”

  Twenty-year-old Malcolm opened his eyes to Sergeant Henry Boyega with the Humvee door open. He leaned in, his grumbled face from the dust and sand was pockmarked.

  Malcolm’s head rose from the backseat, and Javier Chavez nudged him from the right. “We’ve had a minute here my dude.”

  “Power nap later! We need translation skills.” Boyega grunted before stepping to the side.

  Malcolm ensured the safety to his M-sixteen was on. “What’s happening in there?” He motioned to the farmstead outside in the sunlight.

  “Johnson is getting nowhere with the prisoner. He’s been playing dumb for twenty minutes!”

  “I don’t think he speaks English.” Javier stated.

  “And we’ll fucking indulge him on that one. Nelson, hop to!”

  Malcolm looked to the iPod he left on play when he had fallen asleep and sheathed the earbuds. Javier opened his right side and Malcolm left the Humvee. They marched past the other Humvee parked on the driveway to a desert farmstead.

  “Where’s his family?” Malcolm asked.

  “They’re all in the living room. We got the prisoner out back in a shed; don’t want him feeding them what to say.” Boyega responded.

  “And he’s said jack shit?” Malcolm continued.

  “He’s barking that Ali-Baba horseshit. We think he’s been left for dead, no reports of hostiles in the area.”

  “That’s if he’s actually what we think he is.” Javier said.

  “All these shepherd pricks are hiding something; it’s Iraq for Christ’s sake!”

  “I’ll see to that,” Malcolm said with a smile, “Let’s see how tuff he is when I say ‘Guantanamo.”

  “Easy,” Javier said, “wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

  The three had stopped by the front porch of the farmstead. Boyega drew a cigarette, “I’m seeing to the breed inside, go out back.”

  Malcolm and Javier saluted before sidestepping to circle the two-story house. When they weaved around, they were taken by the poppy field beyond the fence line. The big shed stood on a pathway from the backdoor, Malcolm and Javier spotted a private guarding the shed’s door and he waved to them. Javier greeted the private with a shake.

  “Good thing we happen to have you, Nelson.” Uttered the soldier.

  “Well, half our boys are only bilingual in Spanish.” Malcolm responded.

  “He’s just in here,” the private said before opening the door. They entered a room with Master Sergeant Kenneth ‘Fuckaroo Jack’ Johnson standing over an Arabic man handcuffed to a chair; four additional soldiers guarded the perimeter of the room.

  “Ahh, Space Dog!” said ‘Fuckaroo Jack’. “Glad to have some use for you, come here.” Johnson brought an arm around Malcolm’s shoulder while he stepped forward. The Arabic man stared with brown eyes that were filled with spite, and he frowned beneath a thick beard. “Help me help this man make it easier on him by confessing he’s dealing drugs to all sorts of illicit people.”

  “He’s just a farmer Jack.” Javier stated.

  Kenneth nodded in an over-the-top manner. “That’ll do Pig, that’ll do.”

  “Don’t see what we need him to confess to.” Malcolm interrupted. “He’s dead to rights with the crops.”

  “We could also get him dead to rights for his transactions to the Iraqi militants, the Taliban, the Chinese…the DEA will order this farm burned anyway, but Guantanamo could always use a new justification for existing.” Johnson smiled at the illiterate captive.

  Malcolm brushed Johnson’s arm off him before looking back at Javier. “Go deal with the family bro.”

  “Dude, this isn’t legal.”

  “And I want you to have no part in it; interrogations don’t call for partners. Go contend with the family, we’ll have to figure them out anyway.”

  Javier stared for half a minute before giving a single nod and backing out the door. With it now shut behind them, Malcolm cracked his knuckles as the soldiers brought forth a gallon of gasoline. Johnson pulled a rag out from a random bin, “There’s plenty of fertilizer to waterboard him too…in case you decide to run out.”

  “And what makes you think I’ll be doing that?” Malcolm asked coyly.

  “Why would you not?”

  “Because a champ at torture can do it with his mind.” Malcolm answered.

  Johnson pursed his lips, “After you, Corporal.”

  Malcolm knelt before the frowning Iraqi man and let out a deep sigh. “Do you know what Guantanamo Bay is?” Malcolm translated into Arabic.

  The Iraqi refused to answer.

  “It’s a place you’re going; that’s why I’m not going to hurt you.” Malcolm leaned in. “There’s no point in desensitizing you now.”

  The Iraqi Farmer’s head contorted at Malcolm’s gaze. “Why don’t you burn in Hell you thug!"

  Malcolm smiled. “Do you know what it’s like to have your ass searched for escape tools? To be given your food through a slot in the sealed door? I can paint the picture of your cell all day and it will be your haven from our interrogations. You can incentivize me to help you not go there by just saying who comes and goes to this farm of yours. Who are you selling drugs to?”

  “I don’t sell drugs!” The Iraqi spat to the floor. “I’m a farmer!”

  “Your crops are for heroin and opium. So, you can cut the shit and tell me what your deal with the terrorists.”

  “I have no deal with them!” The Iraqi spat in Malcolm’s face. “Go fuck yourself!”

  Malcolm wiped the saliva off. “I can also make your detainment a living hell.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Oh, believe me, I can. You want to be eating your own shit out the bucket? That will be the start of it. I’ll make sure you don’t go out for ten years and when you finally do, you'll never see your family again.”

  “Don’t you dare threaten my family! I’ll fucking kill you!”

  Malcolm faked a gasp. “Oh, we’re not going to do anything to your family. Think we need to? You’ll be over there, and they’ll be over here unsupported by you or your government. You’ll die poor and alone, praying to your God that you get to see their faces again one day.”

  This forced a contemplation in the farmer. “And what would you do if not abandon them?”

  Malcolm patted the Iraqi’s shoulder. “I can make sure they get immigrant status. All it will take is you finding them again when you get out, which remember, I can also make sooner.”

  The Farmer’s eyes dwelled. “God favors me; I’ll get back to them without your help.”

  Malcolm’s mouth clicked. “So now it’s about God? Loyalty to your compatriot too? My friend, do you think they will continue with you after our visit? I guarantee Militants will kill you for the simple suspicion of talking to us. And what of your family then?”

  “I’m just a farmer!”

  “And a well-fed farmer for someone who plants poppy; you don’t self-sustain on that. Just tell me who you’re in business with and everything will be okay.” The Farmer’s eyes dropped, avoiding Malcolm’s. “Me and my boys will keep your family safe. But if you don’t give us anything to go on, our bosses will think of them as an unnecessary expense. I promise you this, we are not here to hurt them.”

  Malcolm began to circle the chair the Farmer was cuffed to. “If I let you rub your wrists, you aren’t going to let me regret it. You know you’re surrounded.” The cuffs were wired, Malcolm simply had to untie them while the Farmer grunted beneath a hung chin. “I show you something.”

  The Farmer was loose and instantly rubbed the discomfort away. Malcolm patted his shoulder again while the soldiers around them prepared their trigger fingers. Malcolm helped the farmer stand up and with a hand on his elbow, he brought the jaded farmer out the door. They circled the shed, and together they absorbed the sight of the man’s poppy field.

  Malcolm leaned his head toward the farmer with a grin. “You think THIS is your life’s work, but it’s inside the house and in the flesh. You have a single wife, a commitment to one woman is admirable. How many children?”

  The Farmer spoke with a forlorn sigh. “Seven.”

  “That’s your legacy, not some crop. You think you must give them something when you gave them Life. All I’ve ever done is take. And all this? Our government will burn, it’s illegal where we come from. But you? We can make our protected informant. You could be set up with new land to give to your children. If that’s what you need to validate your life, though the kids you created should be enough.”

  The Farmer’s mouth hung, but refused to speak, as if he were thinking a prayer. The eyes darted from the field and back to Malcolm. The head began to shudder as his prayer became audible. “…Let me see the other side…”

  Malcolm leaned in, prepared for any confession, when the voice of Johnson reigned from behind. “Pause that, Nelson! Chavez just raised me!”

  Malcolm and the Farmer faced the squad.

  “He’s got one of ‘em talking!” Johnson boasted. “Don’t need this sob story.”

  Malcolm looked at the Farmer and wrapped an arm around his neck. “Family protections apply to anyone’s confession. They’ll be safe.”

  The Squad entered the house with the Famer surrounded. Immediately, they were inside the kitchen where two soldiers stood beside the wife and the two of the youngest children; they were no older than six. Malcolm, still with the Farmer under shoulder, marched into the large, yet basic living room. Three more soldiers were sitting or posting around the room while the eldest son, seventeen, comforted the other kids.

  “Where’s Chavez?” Johnson asked.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Corporal Williams sat on the rocking chair across from the children. “He started getting sweet with the kids, now the eldest daughter is barking to him.”

  Johnson was puzzled. “She knows English?”

  Williams looked up. “Barely but just enough.”

  Malcolm eyed the Farmer. “Which means you know what we’ve been saying.”

  The Corporal spoke up as the Farmer ignored them, “Chavez took her to the front porch.”

  Malcolm let his arm off the Farmer while he marched down the adjacent hallway to the front door. Javier and a sixteen-year-old in a maskless hijab turned their heads; he put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, they aren’t going to do anything.”

  She still looked scared and spoke not a word. Malcolm cut a look between both. “We’ve had English speakers here the whole time?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Javier soothed. “She knows all about her dad’s dealings. Terrorists come and go every month or two, they trade poppy for anything! Guns, medicine, food.”

  Johnson approached behind Malcolm’s shoulder. “Well, good work. I was worried this Farmer was about to spin us some bullshit.”

  By now, several of the squad were at the door. “Get ready to fall out boys. We’ll bring ‘em in and the DEA will come for the rest.”

  Javier looked at the daughter, “It’s okay. Go inside. I promised you’ll be taken care of.”

  She nodded and stood, Malcolm parted ways for her to enter the house and she fled to the living room.

  “Sir.” Javier spoke. “The Family is entitled to our protection at this point. I promised her America.”

  “The way I see it; the Brass gets to decide that.” Johnson boasted.

  Malcolm stood with a pursed lip. “Sir. Even I promised the Farmer he’d get some kind of informant status.”

  “Well, he didn’t cooperate. His daughter did.” Johnson responded. “If anything-” A scream from the hallway interrupted them. Everyone snapped around and ran into each other with their weapons ready.

  Inside the living room, they witnessed the Famer standing over his eldest daughter. Despite the one soldier trying to pull him off, he bashed his fists against his girl until she was face down on the floor and was slamming repeatedly.

  In a flash, Malcolm pummeled the Farmer. They landed beside the cowering family and Malcolm instantly slammed the Farmer’s head into the floor, he kept the prisoner pinned; suddenly, a hand reached Malcolm’s sheathed knife. Malcolm caught the Farmer in a solid grip and stood with a boot on the torso while pulling his arm until the shoulder let out a sick pop. With the Farmer’s cry, it was then that Malcolm gripped the fingers and bent them backwards, making a collected snapping. The family in the room was a blur of yells and shrill screams. Malcolm dropped the Farmer’s hand, and he shriveled in pain, unable to move his right arm.

  Malcolm grabbed the Farmer by his shirt collar. “Oh, you motherfucker!”

  Johnson reared behind Malcolm. “Beat your children huh?!”

  The Squad crowded around the Farmer, exchanging turns to spit on him. The eldest son began to scream at the group.

  “Get these people out of here!” Johnson called.

  Malcolm proceeded to slap the Farmer. “You’ve gone and fucked up!” He spit on the Farmer’s face. “MAKE WAY!”

  He began to drag the Farmer through the living room, into the hallway. Javier stood with a face of disbelief.

  ***

  “We’ve got two more hours until the DEA shows up!” Johnson called from down the staircase.

  “We’re just doing another once over.” Malcolm called from the top. He and Javier entered a dull room with a full-sized bed.

  Javier spoke solemnly. “The boys have picked the place clean of valuables dude, what are you hoping to find?”

  “A memento.” Malcolm answered.

  “What’s a guy with a brain like yours need a memento for?”

  “Same reason as anyone else.”

  “What you’re doing to him bro…” Javier scratched the back of his neck.

  “Keep yourself uninvolved my man. Plausible deniability.” Malcolm’s hand began to hover over the bleak and empty dresser, photos of the Farmer and his family were on it.

  “Come on…It’s been half a day, please let him out.” Javier pleaded.

  “After I let him out the first time?” Malcolm waved a finger. “No can do, you saw that.”

  “You’re not going to have him in there when the DEA shows up.”

  “They’re not gonna find him.”

  “Bro.” Javier said. “I can’t put my name to that…”

  “You won’t. You had nothing to do with it. Just focus on what you promised the family.”

  Javier cupped his face. “Mal, I know what he did was fucked. But what you’re doing is torture!”

  Malcolm’s looked back at Javier. “That would be disrespectful...I call it karma.”

  Javier winced. “You can’t justify it like that…”

  Malcolm was beside the bed and took a seat. “Javi, remember when we first met in high school?”

  He seemed confused. “Shit. We were only in the same class.”

  Malcolm’s M-Sixteen rested on his lap. “You were with the group of meatheads throwing dweebs in their lockers. I kept my way from you back then and you all knew better than to change that; but you were there, taking part.”

  Javier shook his head. “There’s a reason I don’t talk to those assholes anymore.”

  Malcolm grinned. “You found better assholes to pal around with.”

  “...I was only trying to fit in.”

  “And you do that just well. Now please don’t get in the way of my fitting in.” Malcolm pleaded. “It seems to come easy for me here.”

  “Dude, I’m your friend. I can’t let you do this to yourself.”

  “Oh, I’m not doing anything to me.” Malcolm leaned against the bed frame and his hands cupped atop his helmet. “I’m just teaching an Iraqi criminal a thing or two about Crime and Punishment.”

  As Malcolm pressed the frame, a compartment opened from within, suddenly dropping an AK-forty-seven onto his shoulders. The force landed a sharp pain in Malcolm, who flinched as the gun dropped behind him.

  He slowly pulled it out and set his m-sixteen aside for the AK’s inspection. It was painted grey with white streaks which reminded Malcolm of crystals. Its magazine was fresh for emergencies and its barrel had been cleaned recently. The serial number was Chinese and upon releasing the chamber crank, a fresh round fell out.

  “Whoa.” Javier said.

  Malcolm chuckled as he held the rifle into the light, “Oh, indeed. This is a beautifully designed gun right here!”

  Javier stepped forward. “It’s more proof that he’s dealing the poppy.”

  Malcolm remembered the prisoner as Javier reached to feel the rifle. Malcolm stood with it at his side and wrapped his m-sixteen’s strap around his shoulder. He checked the time on his phone. “Speaking of which: This time it’s been four hours, lets say high to him!”

  Malcolm rushed out the door and was moving down the hallway with Javier following. They were down the stairs and out the front door where the dirt driveway sat with a car under the sunlit morning; its trunk end faced the house. Malcolm jumped down the porch and rushed to open the hood.

  A wireless audio speaker was also inside, its music was so loud that the soundwaves could be felt from the open door; to the occupant inside, it was loud enough to bleed the ears.

  Malcolm flung the hood open to see the Farmer crying with no gag or bindings. His other, now broken, hand raised to cowardly beg with a pinched face of purple bruises and cuts; he took to English to beg, “…Please just stop...”

  Malcolm slapped the hand to grab the Farmer by his dirty shirt collar, pulling him to a sitting position. At eye level, Malcolm began a series of synchronized slaps to the rhythm of fast drums. Blood spittle flung to both sides from drying wounds inside the mouth and chin. It was then that Malcolm began to bash the Farmer’s head into the roof of the trunk and gave a final punch to his diaphragm.

  Javier stood with a crossed arm and a hand over his mouth; Malcolm slammed the Famer back to his lying position and shut it. He breathed a repeated sigh of relief as the Red Jumpsuit Apparatus chorus repeated itself:

  “…Do you feel like a man….

  …When you push her around…

  …Do you feel better now…

  …As she falls to the ground?”

  The Farmer’s righteous suffering imbued Malcolm with poetic fulfillment. Before either he or Javier could speak, a Humvee pulled up beside their first one to the driveway’s end. Johnson stepped beside Malcolm and advanced on the Humvee, four soldiers got out and waved over as they walked.

  “You fucks got the family to base?” Johnson asked.

  “Yes sir! We got em there alright!” the Sergeant shouted.

  “So, where’s the DEA?”

  “They’re a no show!” The Sergeant was face-to-face with Johnson. “Garfield’s orders are to torch the farm ourselves and get back.”

  Javier marched passed Malcolm, who still rested over the trunk. “Hang on! We still have a prisoner here!”

  Johnson, the Sergeant and the squad all looked at each other.

  “No one asked about the Farmer actually.” A random private answered him.

  “Well shit.” Said Johnson. “I mean, do we really need him? Family’s talking and all that. Not to mention he’s a child beating shit!”

  The squad seemed to concur; Javier was flabbergasted. “We can’t not bring him in! The man needs a doctor!”

  A guffaw erupted from the squad. “All these goat fuckers need healthcare!”

  “Beside that point,” Johnson rubbed his chin, “The way I see it, his guilt is past due process. Also, Nelson here got creative with his punishment…”

  They paused:

  “…While I’ll tell you my friend…

  …One day this World’s going to end…

  …As your lies crumble down…

  …A new life, she has found!”

  Javier was mortified. “Kenny! Are you seriously contemplating what I think you are!?”

  Johnson shrugged. “Just saying…might be more red tape bringing him in then if he just never got captured.”

  By now, a few members of the squad were walking away, taking a view of the country and some took selfies.

  Javier mouth hung loose. “You can’t do this!”

  Johnson put a hand on Javier. “Look man, don’t feel guilty about anything. You got the family talking, just by being you. You didn’t do anything today; you didn’t even see anything. Go sit in the Humvee, you behind on sleep.”

  “I-I can’t! I’m not turning my back on this; I’ll be no different!”

  “But you are! You’re the sticky idealism that makes us an American Unit! You made promises to the family, and you get to keep them when we get back to base. But say, for instance, we all get put under investigation. If that happens, nothing we collected here will matter and those people you made promises to will be back on the streets.” Johnson leaned in. “You’re the only one who can keep protecting them now. Think what American gangs do to snitches…think they’ll survive out here with no home to shelter in?”

  Javier raised a finger and looked back at Malcolm who stared at both.

  Johnson continued. “Don’t you look at him. He’s involved here and he’s ordered to help clean up. Remember that we’re all cut with red tape if you’re too squeamish.”

  Javier dropped his head before leaving. He turned to Malcolm one more time. “He’s been suffering, dude. Don’t drag it out.”

  Malcolm nodded as Javier turned and walked to one of the Humvees.

  Johnson clapped his hands. “RIGHT! You two, keep watching the road. Everyone else fall in now! I want the shed looted of gas and fertilizer, douse the field!” He then turned to Malcolm and motioned his hand over the car. “You. Deal with…this.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Yes sir.”

  He felt his pockets for the key to the car and crossed to the Driver’s seat.

  Best that he’s not identified. It's best not to have fired any bullets.

  He allowed his chosen karma track to play out as he started the ignition. Malcolm drove down the driveway and made a U-turn to the patch of road leading around the back of the house. His fingers drummed the wheel to the music’s rhythm as he pulled next to the Poppy field. Seeing no space between the plantations to park the car, Malcolm drove it directly through the fence.

  He plowed on until he was far enough into the field to blend with the environment and came to a stop. Malcolm turned the ignition off but did not bother to take the keys. He simply exited the vehicle and crossed to the back once again. The Farmer’s voice screamed through the shut trunk; it was garbled and clearly begging.

  With a pat on the trunk, Malcolm looked behind him to the farmhouse where he could see the squad emerging with flammables to douse the fields with.

  Malcolm contemplated Javier’s words and thought to himself: Am I really gonna make this guy burn?

  It was then that Malcolm looked once more to the polished AK-47 owned by the Farmer. He lost count of the seconds before tapping his earpiece. “Hey guys. It’s about to get loud.”

  Malcolm cautiously unlatched the trunk, stepped to the side of the car and disappeared into the poppy. He didn’t crouch like a Tiger in waiting, Malcolm checked the safety on his new rifle as his Camo Kevlar was brushed by the overgrown crop. Meanwhile, the trunk was slowly lifting, and the bruised, bloodied face of the poor farmer was revealed. He frantically looked in every direction while trying to crawl out the trunk with two broken hands.

  Any false hopes he had of escaping were gone when Malcolm leaped directly across from him with the widest open smile. “HI!”

  Malcolm sprayed a fully automatic volley until the magazine was empty. In seconds, the rifle silenced, and the wind now orchestrated his morbid depiction. The Farmer lay in the bullet ridden trunk with at least a score of rounds having passed through him. The limbs had already ceased twitching, and the face was unrecognizable as the brain dripped where a nose had been. All the blood was either spattered around or pooling at the trunk floor. There was a dripping sound which seemed to begin an echo.

  “I left my music player...goddammit!”