The .45 is Mightier than the Pen

I don't like violence- I abhor it really- but it seems to shadow me wherever I go, as my inescapable soul-mate. And sometimes it is very difficult to escape from.

I had been keeping low in the village of Kijawwuh, in the Congo. And as I'm sure you all know, there has been alot of bloodshed recently in the Congo- factional tribal village battling and what not. Images plastered all over the BBC. There have also been alot of Western "journalists" snooping around, feeding off the death and carnage as Satanic parasites, or sharks to a feeding frenzy.

One of these such "journalists" popped into Kijawwuh yesterday, interrupting the peaceful village life as he barreled in here with his Jeep and his Congolese translator. He got all excited when he spotted a few corpses in a drainage ditch, and started taking pictures. At that point, I had enough.

I said, "What the hell are you doing?"

He flashed his press pass at me and kept snapping away- never even having the common decency to look up at me. I pulled out my .45 and blew away his translator.

Again I asked him, "What the hell are you doing?"

He was a bit more responsive this time. He explained he was an American journalist here taking pictures to publicize the Congolese atrocities to the world. He told me that people had to know what was going on here- that the "truth" had to come out.

Oh it did, huh? And wasn't he just the right man to bring it out? What a convenient explanation! Imagine this capitalist pig, invading the privacy of the village and the Kijawwan way of life just so he could take pictures of dead bodies and sell them to Western newspapers so they could be published for rich Americans to read and pass judgment upon from the safety of their secluded Beverly Hills bungalows. And to use "getting the truth out" as a motive for this nonsense?? What a load of crap- like all Americans, this spoiled, pampered, self-centered brat was motivated by the almighty dollar. And nothing more. He was receiving a salary from the newspaper, and this Kijawwan story would surely merit him vast amounts of prestige and accolades from the American media. But this deceitful coward told me he was doing it for the "truth." I looked at his $200 watch and spit on him. I didn't even have fifty cents when my grandmother died, and it disgusted me to see this deceitful journalist flaunting his wealth as he exploited the villagers by taking photos of their dead. It was only going to get worse for him.

I then kicked him to the ground and grabbed his press credentials. The Boston Globe- a reputable periodical. I asked him if he was a Red Sox fan and he said he didn't follow baseball. I raised my .45 to his head and told him he better be a baseball fan for the next 60 seconds. I was going to ask him a baseball question- he gets it wrong, he dies, he gets it right, he walks.

I asked, "What is the nickname of current Red Sox outfielder Christopher Nixon?"

He responded, "Uhh...I don't know."

I gave him a hint. I said, "Think homerun walk...homerun gallop...homerun stride..."

He said, "Uhh...Otis?"

My god. "Otis Nixon"- What a terrible answer. Otis Nixon played only briefly for the Red Sox, and was certainly not a homerun hitter.

I said, "No, it's 'Trot.' Christopher 'Trot' Nixon."

Then I blew his head off. I told the villagers to burn his body and the body of his translator. I was disgusted by all the violence, and I decided it was time to leave. I bid the villagers a final farewell as I headed for the African coast. Now I'm coming for that number one spot.

If the journalist knew who Trot Nixon was, he'd still be alive today