The Insurrectionist (5 page)

 

            Deni’s hospital door swung open and two federal agents, a doctor, and a nurse walked in. The doctor checked Deni’s chart and all his vital signs, while the nurse raised the front of Deni’s bed to an upright position.

            “Let the interrogations continue,” said Deni.

            “Good afternoon, Mr. Daudov. How are we feeling today?” asked Agent Andrews with a chipper tone.

            “Ask the doctor; it should say on my chart,” Deni replied.

            The doctor nodded to Agent Andrews. “He’s all yours.”

             “This is my associate Agent Saunders. I’m not sure if you were introduced yesterday,” said Agent Andrews.

            “Not properly, no,” replied Deni.

            Agent Andrews pulled up a chair and gestured for Agent Saunders to do the same. “Now, where were we?”

            Deni grinned. “You let me know. It’s your dog and pony show.”

            “My dog and pony show is nothing without your circus.” Agent Andrews nodded to Agent Saunders. Agent Saunders pulled photographs out of manila envelope and showed them to Deni.

            The pictures were gruesome—bloody and scorched body parts lying strewn in the green grass. A young girl mutilated by shrapnel, a mother bloodied and buried by shards of metal covering her young child, and a young couple lying side-by-side.

            Deni studied the pictures with careless inspection and handed them back to Agent Saunders. “Am I supposed to be affected by this? Is this when I’m supposed to break down into tears and express my remorse?”

            Agent Saunders glanced at Agent Andrews.

            “For each of those pictures, I can show you a thousand civilian causalities in Iraq and Afghanistan. Explain to me Agent Saunders, how is it that American life is more valuable than the lives of others around the world? Do you only care when it is white American Christians?” questioned Deni.

            “This is on American soil; therefore an American crime,” responded Agent Saunders.

            “I don’t care what fucking soil it is. It’s all earth. It’s all just dirt no matter what part of the globe you’re on,” said Deni.

            Agent Andrews took the pictures from Agent Saunders. “It’s not about the deaths; it’s your lack of human connection.” He took the picture of the young girl. “Missy Rutledge was celebrating her tenth birthday and because of you and your brother, she will not see her eleventh. Sandy Holcomb died protecting her three-year-old son, and David Ulrich proposed to his girlfriend, Stacy.”

            Deni took the picture and stared at it. He handed it back to Agent Andrews. “I like stories. You know what my favorite story is?” He glanced at both Federal Agents. “That Saddam Hussein had WMDs. I love that one. I didn’t care too much for Abu Ghraib, but then I don’t think the American government did either. That one kind of slipped out. Everyone’s got a story Agent Andrews; it is just which story the American media wants to tell. What kind of stories are the media telling about me?”

            “You?” Agent Saunders laughed. “You’re not worthy of a story.”

            “I highly doubt that. I expect the American media is making up a whole bunch of stories about my brother and me now. My brother ate babies for breakfast. I tortured puppy dogs as a boy. My mother poisoned our neighbor. My father molested school children. My sisters are prostitutes. Come on, I’m dying to know,” Deni said.

            “Well if you want to know, your family is under heavy scrutiny,” replied Agent Andrews.

            “For what, raising a family in America?” questioned Deni.

            “For raising terrorists in America,” replied Agent Saunders.

            Deni stared at Agent Saunders. “Vin Diesel. Yeah, that’s who I see playing you in the Hollywood movie. Who do you think will play me? Cuz you know there’s going to be a movie. All the proceeds will go to the victims and then they will be millionaires all thanks to my brother and me. Money in America cures a lot of ills.”

            “Let’s bring it back to the subject matter at hand,” said Agent Andrews.

            “Right. Where were we? Stories: I gotta good one. It’s real good and true too. My great grandparents were Russian partisans in WWII. They, among others, terrorized Nazi soldiers on the march to and from Stalingrad. My great grandmother set booby traps and bombs alongside the road and my great grandfather was a sniper. He collected all the weapons of the Nazi’s he killed. I learned to shoot with a Nazi Gewehr 41 that my great grandfather stole from a Nazi corpse. That story should go off real well with the American media. If it’s not about Muslims, Americans love stories about Russians and Nazis. Geez, I’m a Russian Muslim who’s family were Nazi killers. I just hit the American media trifecta. And ya know, Americans should know all about Russia. Sarah Palin can see Russia from her house.”

            “You know what kid; you’re not doing yourself any favors. You’re lucky you’re not at Gitmo,” said Agent Saunders.

            Deni laughed. “What the fuck? All of America already has me on death row. I might as well say whatever the fuck I want.”

            Agent Andrews leaned toward Deni and calmly said, “Tell me more about Russia. What was it like as a child? Did you like it?”

            “I miss Russia. It’s my home,” said Deni.

            “It was your home,” replied Agent Saunders.

            Deni looked hard at Agent Saunders. “It is
my
home.”

            “You were just a small boy when you lived there. Most of your life was spent in America. You chose to become an American citizen. What is it about Russia that makes you proclaim it home?”

            Resting back on his bed, Deni thought of a response. This question deserved a more thoughtful answer. There was little he could actually say because he was young. His memories were scattered between Muslim holidays, balalaika music played by his Uncle Aslan on the farm in Volgograd, the Russian fairytales read by his father, and the vast countryside that constantly inspired his imagination. Besides all that it was his history, the home of his ancestors. There simply was none of that for him growing up in eastern Pennsylvania which was a mostly German-Christian culture.

            Deni smiled. “Americans think they are the best country in the world because they have a lot of stuff, but Americans are like a cat swatting at string that it will never get its claws on, yet they are foolish to believe they have it.”

            “Yesterday you cited an example of Russian atrocity in your birth city, Grozny. You think that’s better than here?” questioned Agent Andrews.

            “All governments are crap and fuck with the citizens. It is true. The American government fucks with Americans and all Americans do is pump their chest and wave the flag. The United States government is slowly taking away American civil rights, but Americans are too blinded by dim-witted television shows and movies to see. Russians stand up for what’s right. Russians stand up for each other and Russians defend against injustice,” explained Deni.

            “Like blowing up a theatre in Moscow,” Agent Andrews said.

            “It got everyone’s attention,” said Deni. “Just like my brother and I have everyone’s attention. I bet we’re the only thing people are talking about. Americans are probably consumed with our story.”

            “You seem to have a highly inflated sense of self,” said Agent Saunders.

            “Am I wrong? The media is not all a buzz?” questioned Deni.

            The nurse entered with Deni’s lunch and positioned the tray over his lap.

            Agent Saunders glanced at Deni’s lunch. “Looks good. You’re eating better than most Americans.”

            Deni lifted the limp lettuce from the salad and looked at the rubbery texture of the old Jell-O and mushy pasta. “This is not suitable for the most impoverished.”

            Agent Andrews rose from his chair and tapped Agent Saunders on the shoulders. “Let’s take a break ourselves. Let’s get ourselves a juicy steak sandwich.”

            When the federal agents left, Deni looked down at his lunch and sniffed. He would have pushed it aside if he wasn’t so hungry. With the tongs of his fork, he played with the strings of spaghetti.

 

            Deni stared down through his sunglasses at a mound of spaghetti on a paper plate. It was a varsity dinner for the Reading High School football team and their parents. The meal itself was not even fit for convicts. The sauce was bland, the pasta was gloopy, and the Italian bread was hard as a rock. Surrounded by his teammates and Heather seated by his side, Deni looked up and stared at his good friend and fellow football player, Brian Leipzig¾a big, muscular blond linebacker.

            The great thing about their football team was its diversity—every race, every religion and even some immigrants like himself. The Reading High School football team was a melting pot, brothers from around the world united as one team. No one postured to be superior, on the field they were all one, but occasionally old battle lines were drawn for fun and amusement.

            Brian eyed Deni, but only saw his own reflection in Deni’s sunglasses. “How about it, for Stalingrad?” he jokingly dared.

            “Are you serious? Dude, you guys lost once big time. Why don’t you just get over it!” replied Deni.

            “Scared. Coward…chicken shit,” mocked Brian.

            Deni cocked his head and grinned at Brian. “You’re on.”

            “All right, first one to finish eating wins,” replied Brian.

            “Okay, but no silverware,” remarked Deni.

            “But of course. It wouldn’t be an eating contest if we used silverware. That would be too civilized,” joked Brian.

            “Okay, whoever finishes first claims victory!” exclaimed Brian.

            A crowd of fellow football players and cheerleaders surrounded them. Heather was ready to urge him on. T-Bone, who stood behind Deni, started the countdown. “Three!” Everyone around them yelled out, “Two! One!”

            Brian dug into the pasta with his fingers and started eating, while Deni lowered his entire face into the pasta and scoured his plate with his face.

            “Dude, you are fucking mad!” T-Bone laughed.

            As everyone cheered the guys on, Heather screamed hard at Deni, “Go! Go! Go!” She placed her hand on the back of his head and pressed his face into his plate.

            “Hey no help!” shouted Brian with spaghetti dangling from his lips.

            “Hey Leipshit, stop talking or you’ll lose!” yelled Heather.

            Deni lifted his plate and licked off any stray sauce and spaghetti. A few pieces of pasta fell onto his shirt. He sat back, his face and sunglasses covered in sauce, and raised his hands in the air and pointed at Brian. “Ha! You lose, Kraut!” he said and belched.

            “You’re insane!” yelled Brian.

            “Never fuck with Russia, cause Russia will fuck with you,” said Deni and then flicked his empty paper plate at Brian.

            “Double or nothing,” said Brian.

            “Give it up!” Deni laughed. He stood up, grabbed Heather around the waist and kissed her passionately. “Spoils of war,” he said and then twirled her while she wiped spaghetti sauce from her face.

            On the other side of the cafeteria, he saw Bashir gesturing for him to come to his parents’ table. “Ah shit.” He wiped his face and sunglasses as he walked over. “Hey pop.”

            “What’s going on son? You have spaghetti sauce on your sunglasses.” asked Bashir.

            Deni dusted crumbs from his t-shirt and glanced at Kamiila who was giving her son the most incredulous glare. He leaned over his father’s shoulder and whispered, “We are battling it out for Stalingrad.”

            “Why?” asked Bashir.

            “Because
some
people can’t give up the fact they lost,” Deni said looking over his shoulder at Brian who was approaching the table.

            Brian wrapped his arms around Deni’s waist and started shaking him up and down. “I like Russians. I like to hug them and squeeze them and call them Ivan.”

            “Dude, I’m gonna hurl,” said Deni.

            Kamiila glanced up at Brian. “Carry him away somewhere else, because if my son’s going to
hurl
, I don’t want him to do it here.”

            “Ma!” Deni joked. “You’re not going to help me?”

            Kamiila waved him away. “You’re on your own.”

 

            Deni took a bite of the mushy hospital spaghetti. If he had the energy, he’d dive his face into it like he did when he was in high school. At least he wouldn’t have to taste it. Poking at the food he wondered why he should even bother.
They’re going to kill me soon enough
.
Why eat this horrid crap
? Melancholy took over as he missed his high school friends. There were such fond memories.
I wonder what they all think of me now.
Everyone probably hates me
.

           
Why, why couldn’t things stay the way they were? Why did they have to change? Why did he have to graduate high school and move away to college?
He loved the guys on his team like they were brothers, most of the time. Of course, there were some skirmishes and words exchanged, but they were often in the heat of the moment. No one really held onto words or actions too tightly back then; forgiveness was easy.

             Deni stretched his legs and feet. Bedsores were now beginning to get to him. He longed to start moving again and hoped he could use an actual bathroom instead of the bedpan. He hated that thing. It was so damned humiliating not to be able to take a piss and a shit.