I should be over there fighting Sammy bin Laden and the Taliban. I know how to be violent. I can kick some ass. This deadly talent comes as a result of my teenage grooming in Richmond, Va. I am programmed to kill.
When I was a fine youth, aged about eight or nine, our elementary school held a yearly rock ‘n’ roll concert in the auditorium featuring a band called “The Force.” They were a bunch of middle-aged county police officers who got onstage and lip-synced over the Beatles, Bill Haley, the Temptations and other oldies radio staples. Our teachers thought they were so cool, but I questioned their authority.
During a song break, they asked for volunteers to come on stage. Despite my shyness, my friend Nat made me raise my hand. They picked me! I made my way up to the stage with the other obnoxious kids, and they lined us up to ask us questions. It was my turn.
“So, what’s your name?”
“Peter.”
“OK, Peter, what’s your favorite food?” (Why they asked this, no one knows.)
“Um, I like tacos, I guess.”
“Haw-haw.” They expected spaghetti or pizza or some lame food common to the ignorant masses. But nay, I was different, I was worldly, I enjoyed spicy ground chuck. My flippant answer startled the cops. My potential as a lawbreaker was budding … their tyranny couldn’t contain me.
And so, eight years later, my disregard for the law was realized. Once my friends and I got driver’s licenses, we were free to roam the suburbs while listening to Squirrel Nut Zippers and Metallica, searching for trouble. Trouble had a funny way of not finding us, so my partner Kellan frequently brought along his potato gun to expedite the process. On a typical night, circa 1998, we rode in Kellan’s 1974 Ford Fiesta (popular in Europe these days) to a neighborhood park. There, Kellan, who once stabbed Nat, would bust out the gun and load it up with a fresh potato. We would stand back, the five or six of us, and watch as Kellan sparked the gun and fired his starchy tuber into a nearby neighborhood. It boomed like the voice of God.
We would run away and speed off to 7-Eleven for a Slurpee?preferably Pina-Colada flavor with a moderately runny consistency?while the heated projectile sped into suburbia. Those things are like mortars, capable of taking out fortified rebel installments in the rocky deserts of Iraq. Most likely, a refined elderly couple was sitting at home watching Nash Bridges when a potato crashed through their roof and landed on the living room floor like a smoking meteor.
Such was my progress into violent rebel. You may say that this was a childish thing to do, but you are wrong. Children toilet-paper houses and egg passing cars on Halloween. Real men shoot vegetable cannons. And while I never actually fired the gun, I’m still tough. In fact, several British exchange students can vouch for our daring exploits. They were in Richmond for a few weeks during our senior year, and we brought them along for some potato fun.
As we fired it off at a local elementary school one night, their amazed limey-speak verified the awesome power in our hands.
“Feckin’ A, mate, that bugger took ouff like a rockit!”
Down the street, a man in a robe stood on his porch and screamed at us, “What are you kids doing out there?” We mocked his anger and sped off like the rebels we were, probably to 7-Eleven again, or maybe to Burger King if it was “Free Fryday.”
I owe most of my violent nature to Kellan. He once drove down to the river with Nat and filled a CO2 cartridge with black powder intending to disturb the peace. We were standing there in the darkness, the thrill of the coming explosion already making our hearts pound. Then the asshole just lit it, dropped it next to Nat’s car and ran like a drunken squirrel into the ditch.
Kellan also once jump-kicked a fat kid named Kenny. Rumor has it Kenny is selling his body on the streets of Richmond nowadays. Kellan once got arrested for doing doughnuts in an icy parking lot with his crappy car. He also drove it into a ditch once while listening to Slipknot.
Come to think of it, send Kellan to Afghanistan. He can grow a fine beard, and his corduroys will make for nice camouflage. His potato gun will destroy many a Taliban pickup truck, which happens to be their weapon of choice. I’m serious. Kellan can take his cannon up against the Taliban’s early warning systems, and he can lob black-powder-filled CO2 cartridges at their anti-aircraft guns. He can drink Anthrax-laced water like Sprite. He can infiltrate the al Qaeda caves and smoke those bastards out faster than Charlie Sheen in that “Navy SEALS” movie. Was he even in Navy SEALS? Has anyone actually seen Navy SEALS?
Anyway, I lied. Kellan is a much better killer than I will ever be. The only thing I can kill is a conversation, or perhaps a small rodent. I did shoot a kid named Amol in the crotch with a paintball once, though. Does that count?
