Nigerian Kidnappers Need Mercenary Response

safe_image.phpI’ve been hit from several sources with Instagram pictures of famous folks clutching hashtag placards, earnest twitter tweets, petitions to “bring back our girls”–all in reference to the horrific kidnappings in Nigeria, and it just strikes me that neither petitions –nor the President’s team of negotiators, nor even the signatures of a few thousand really sincerely sympathetic suburbanites aren’t going to have a lot of weight with sociopaths who kidnap schoolchildren and pledge to sell them in the name of their god. Their merciful, loving god.  Something tells me they’re going to have some explaining to do.

It strikes me that what we need instead are bounties and mercenaries. Plenty of mercenaries in the world–lets’ get all Blood Meridian on the bastards, pay rewards per returned girls + bonuses for for the confirmed pelts of religious whack-jobs. Hell, for the right reward I’m betting that some of the locals who are hiding these people might very well slit a throat or two in the night, in exchange for a little bling. Or some clean water. Yep, I’m sliding right on this one–asking myself, what would Teddy Roosevelt do? He’d swing that stick. I mean, we invaded Iraq over a simple Bush family vendetta–the very least we can do is unleash a little hell on some sick stone age sumbitches.

Seriously, as the cost of searching for that mysteriously crashed airplane in the rises by millions every day–worldwide it’s hundreds of millions spent already, in a search for corpses.

Nigeria Kidnapped Girls hunters

AP Photo

In fact, it seems the modern, developed, “western” world is lagging far behind the pastoral, largely agrarian Nigerians themselves–a group of approximately 500 “traditional” hunters, armed to the teeth with homemade weapons and fortified with mystical talismans and super-righteous indignation, has gathered in the city of Maiduguri–they’re pissed, they’re impatient with the hesitant government response, they’re not afraid, and they’re out for blood.  Right on.

The government would be fools not to let these bad-asses go about their business–I’m remembering that old Patrick Swayze movie,  Next of Kin or something like that, where a southern kid gets killed by the Mafia in Chicago and all his scary cousins creep out of the swamps with their compound bows and hunting knives and go to the city to exact revenge.  Multiply that by a few hundred hardcore hunters, from teenagers to septuagenarians,  confident that God and Justice are behind them, and you’ve got a force to be reckoned with. Pair these guys up with some machine-gun toting mercenaries and Nigerian soldiers, then stand back and watch.

Hunters“We are seasoned hunters, the bush is our culture and we have the powers that defy guns and knives; we are real men of courage, we trust in Allah for protection, but we are not afraid of Boko Haram,” said one elderly hunter, Baban Kano.

I’m not a man of violence, because violence rarely provides a solution, but sometimes the enemy is so stubbornly unreasonable, it’s crimes so horrible, that force is required.  These madmen deserve nothing more than to be hastened into the judging company of their God–where I suspect things aren’t going to go so well for them.

So, like the old man said, “Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.”



Random Found Photo: Spring Frolic, With Automatic Weapons

Before you ask, I have no idea….










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Another Bonus Picture: Swimming Kids

Not much time to write while watching my kids and their teammates kick butt and qualify for the state swimming championships.  Boo-yah.  Here’s a picture to make up for my silence.  It started with this band of ragamuffins right here, about 8 years ago.IMG_1247_edited


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The Party Is Over

Santa works hard.  Santa plays hard.  Santa is The Man.328879565_ec36aa6c04

Short/Micro/Flash Fiction

An Hour From Boise (another excerpt from an abandoned story)

Motorcycle_CopThere’s this pit of the stomach feeling, I know you know it, when you blaze over the crest of a slope on the highway with the Pogues blaring Streams of Whiskey from a dozen speakers and that big block Chevy 454 thundering backup, and the unmistakable profile of a Ford Police Interceptor crouches on the median like a sullen lion. There’s no time to brake, no place to go, the speedo jiggling somewhere north of ninety.  You reel it in causally, will he buy it that the beast got away from you—and your normally grandmother-like driving—and what about those hippie-dippy girls in the backseat, stinking of patchouli and peanut butter.  The pretty one, the one with the freckles in her cleavage and the ice blue eyes, is snoring like a drunk.  It’s likely she is, in fact, still drunk—and god knows what else.  You don’t even want to know what she’s got in her purse, or if she’s got a prescription for that, and if so, what for?  Maybe it won’t even matter.