6 Degrees of Seperation

1980 – New York City, New York, United States of America
December 6th
        I sit hunched over at the meager desk in my cheap room.  You get what you pay for.  My oversized frame is too large for the small and rickety wooden chair provided; flabby portions of my midsection and backside poke through the spindles of the support structure.  
     This leakage is exacerbated by the fact that I’m clad only in my boxer briefs.  While it’s freezing outside, with intermittent flakes of snow in the air, I have the heater cranked up to full blast.  The perpetual rattle of the ancient hot-water-fueled radiator is annoying, but manageable since it enables my sauna-like environ.
        Ironically, I sat in this very same room, at this very same table, two months ago.  Back then, the outside weather was much more amenable, with classic Northeastern U.S. conditions personified: warm days, cool nights, and lots of colorful leaves.  That trip, I never even turned the heater on, and slept with the windows wide open, embracing the brisk evening air.
    Then, as now, I came to the “City That Never Sleeps” with a singular goal.  Putting a specific person to sleep.  Permanently.
       My current location, here in the heart of New York City, is a far cry from the location of my birth, in Ft. Worth, TX, during the summer of 1955.  The only reason I know my point of origin is because it’s written on my birth certificate.  As a result of my father’s Air Force posting, we moved so often I can’t even name all the towns our household was located throughout my youth.
        Considering the mental and physical abuse I suffered in those early years, it’s understandable most daily experiences went into the trash bin.
        My mother was a petite nurse and caregiver, for me, and my sister of 7 years younger.  While I wanted to offer up a protective element to these innocent female family members, my husky physique and sluggish brain weren’t up to the task.  Especially against a grown man with a few decades of military training.  The childhood I experienced was harsh and scaring.
        This stressful upbringing led to a downward spiral of anger, fantasy, and redemption.  It was like experiencing the traditional 5 stages of grief, but in a reverse and convoluted order.  As an accosted adolescent boy, my only safe outlet was my own lively imagination.  Often, I wished for supernatural powers, that would allow me to help the commoners in society, and punish the wrongdoers.  
       Too bad my parents didn’t make enough money to afford any comic books.  Which left me to my own sketchy creative ideas and imaginative schemes.  Former innocuous storylines conceived as a teenager have now turned much darker, and much realer.  
         My first attempt at this most recent envisioned task back in October didn’t go well.  As with many difficult activities in my life, I chickened out.  By God’s grace, my religious commitment saved me from heading down the path of darkness and sin.  Temporarily.
       These assassination aspirations were my own little secret at that point.  However, upon returning home to Hawaii, I told my wife about the scheme.  Having been married for over a year now, this was the only remaining secret between us.  At least on my side of the ledger.
        Many guts and tears were spilled that night; I was willing to accept any action she took.  Honestly, there was a portion of me who was hoping my spouse would turn me in to the authorities, or a psychiatrist, to set me straight.
       However, this accommodating woman took no action, aside from consoling me.  The love of my life indeed.  From that point on, with implied encouragement by my significant other, the path to this pivotal point was ordained.
        So clear in conscience when I left Honolulu last week, my mind is now oscillating again.  Both of my options involve taking a human life.  Him or me.  Public or private.  Impactful or inconsequential.  Murder or suicide.  These are the decisions I weigh, sitting here in my underwear.   
        Like my mind, my body is in a constant state of waffling bipolarity.  While my core, ass, back, and chest, are all hairy and dripping with sweat, my extremities, fingers, toes, and even ears, are uncontrollably quivering with chill.  I need to find a way to refocus and recenter myself.
      On the weathered wooden surface in front of me is a paperback book, with pages even more worn than any of the surroundings at this aged lodging complex.  My inspirational outlet, as it has been for many faithful folks over the centuries, used to be the Bible.
       However, in recent years, I’ve found a new form of scriptural guidance.  A very different fictional work.  “The Catcher in the Rye”, written by J.D. Salinger.
       This influential book was introduced to me by a friend, one of the few I had, at summer camp, during my formative teenage years.  The plot of the story aligned well with my own sad life trajectory.  There was one specific character with whom I closely resonated.  The aloof and mysterious Holden Caulfield, an adolescent antagonist of the highest order.
       Over time, while by no means a clone, I began to model my life after this invented individual.  The heinous acts he carried out in the imaginary realm, are now playing out is the realest of ways. 
        My current target is not the only celebrity I’ve contemplated offing.  In fact, my blacklist of famous public figures is lengthy: Johnny Carson, Elizabeth Taylor, Ronald Reagan, Jackie Kennedy Onassis.  Despised folks who occupy positions of privileged power, and don’t adhere to typical spiritual norms.  I’m an equal opportunity judger, agnostic to sex, age, or profession.
        But, there’s one specific band, with one specific member, who has continued to draw my ire.  This hatred is multi-faceted.  Dislike of the religion-adjacent lyrics in songs like “God” and “Imagine”.  The extremely lavish lifestyle lived while globetrotting.  Not to mention the audacity this ringleader had to dub his band “more popular than Jesus.”   
        All these bold activities are major transgressions in my mind, as a Christian lad raised in the American South, who spent nearly as much time growing up in church as in school.  The more I’ve learned about this celebrity, the more incensed I’ve become.  As this calendar year has progressed, my mental state has continued to deteriorate, now culminating in a dense fog of hatred, rage, and envy.
        My only outlet to release this bubbling cauldron of pressure is burying my mind in books.  On that note, I’ve done enough story reading for one night.  Time to switch to scripture.  The Good Book the only pious text I read.
        Formal schooling has never been for me.  Heavily bullied, for both my body and brains, both of which were lacking, by middle school I turned to drugs.  Seeking a stronger fix, I ran away from my suburban Decatur home to downtown Atlanta for several weeks, which represented some of the most degenerate times of my life.  Eventually, dragging myself out of the gutter, I returned home, becoming a born-again Presbyterian.
      In fact, working as a counselor at the YMCA camp in DeKalb County, GA was one of the high points of my life.  Starting in 1971, at age 16, I was distinctly in my formative years.  Well-liked by both guests and coworkers, this was the first time in my decade of functional memory on Earth that I was respected and appreciated.
        Here, I earned the nickname “Nemo”, an honorable nod to the ambitious captain in “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea”.  My skill set allowed me to quickly move up the management ranks.  I’d finally found my calling, however fleeting.
        This camp employment achievement led to another unforeseen benefit.  Successful interaction with the opposite sex, an experience I never envisioned possible, considering the lack of endearing quantities which the Lord dealt me.
       However, I met a lass who I eventually even felt comfortable calling my girlfriend.  Then another one at college, which made things much more complicated.  These sexual challenges resulted in me leaving both the dating scene and university.  Another failure to simply function as a normal human in basic societal pursuits.   
        My most recent relationship foray, half a decade later, has been made possible due to the passage of time, that healed these old wounds.  This marriage, which culminated last summer, is also a product of novel life experience.  
        This accommodating woman was the travel agent who helped me plan and execute my 6-week global adventure a few years ago.  On this journey, I visited a dozen major metropoles across Europe and Asia.  The convoluted route required extensive flight and lodging planning, which this nice lady conveniently supplied.
       She apparently took a fancy in me, for reasons which are still unclear on my side.  Not exactly joining the mile high club, but the relationship does have its perks.  I wish this Japanese lady was here now to help soothe me.
       It’s really starting to get warm in this tiny room.  My torso is sweating profusely, due to a combination of heat and stress.  It’s impressive that the human body can secrete this much moisture without passing out, especially while remaining essentially stoic, aside from my eyes moving progressively along letters on each subsequent page.
        The last time I felt this queasy was in my dilapidated car, way back in 1977.  At that time, the warmth was provided by a much more noxious concoction.  As the tailpipe was connected to a hose fed through the driver’s side window of an otherwise sealed vehicle.  Engine running, death was imminent.  Or so I thought.  In yet another display of ineptitude, I couldn’t even off myself without epically failing.  
       My past few years have been incredibly tumultuous, encompassing euphoric highs, like being married for the first time, and crushing lows, like not being able to financially support my significant other.  The latter sad situation is a product of my recent tenuous work history.   
       There’s some stinging irony to the fact that I ended up getting a job as a janitor at the same mental hospital where I was initially admitted for clinical depression.  Like my treatment, my employment wasn’t very successful.  After a violent argument with a nurse last year, I ended up quitting.  Hence the downward spiral of alcoholism I’m currently spinning into.
       The attraction of the bottle is like trying to resist the gravitational pull of a black hole.  Even when it seems an object has escaped, after exerting immense effort, a temporary lapse results in reversion back into the black emptiness.
      Speaking of emptiness, the handle of whiskey on the desk next to me has been exhausted.  No need for a proper glass, I’ve simply been swigging directly from the jug all night.
      My energy level is fading.  I’m not sure I have the strength to make it to bed.  That rock-hard mattress with threadbare blanket is too uncomfortable anyways.  I may as well just pass out in this rickety chair.  The liquor has numbed me the point where I can doze off anywhere.
     I really shouldn’t even have alcohol on the premises, considering my bootleg lodging arrangement.  I’m spending tonight at the West Side YMCA, a paltry bedding space procured by diligent volunteering efforts with this youth group over the years.  At this building, which sits at 63rd St., adjacent to Central Park, I’m positioned just blocks away from the object of my obsession.  
      Stacking my two favorite books on top of each other, the height is just sufficient to support my sturdy neck.  My last thought before dozing off is which paperback story is fact, and which is fiction.
       Time and space aligning, in the next few days, elements of both my favorite tales will play out.  The truth hurts.

​

December 8th
       It's freezing outside.  Granted, I’ve been posted up at this same streetcorner spot for hours, since just after dawn.  The days are currently short and chilly here in New York City, slotted in perfectly between the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays.
     I’m used to much more temperate weather, having grown up just east of Atlanta, in the center Georgia.  Now climatized to my Hawaii home, I’ve been standing here freezing my balls off since the sun came up.  At least I’m not alone on this venture.  Two folks, clearly true degenerate groupies, were already guarding the exterior door when I arrived.  The anticipatory throng has ebbed and flowed all morning, topping out at over a dozen characters.
       It’s not hard to differentiate between the real fans, decked out in colorful branded shirts and jackets honoring their beloved band, and the reporters, clad in neutral slacks and sport coats.  Nearly every participant, regardless of profession, has some type of camera, wishing to capture even a brief glimpse of their idol.  I’m hoping to provide them with substantially more of a show.
         This crew is knowledgeable, to the point of being creepy.  At least we all have a shared interest to discuss; the famous couple who inhabits the residence above.  I’ve done plenty of my own research on this duo.  It seems the general sentiment of infatuation is a far cry from my own, very cynical, take.  
      Despite my personal lack of bodily comfort, I’m committed to the current project at hand.  A stake-out.  Though decidedly not an official venture.  In fact, unathletic, unkept, and unemployed, I couldn’t be further from a representative of the NYC police force.
      The only connection I’ve had with my mark thus far today has been tangential.  Not meeting the man of honor himself, but instead his toddler son named Sean.
      At just 5 years old, out for a ride in his stroller with the babysitter, this really wasn’t much of an interaction.  I exchanged a few pleasantries with the nice woman in her native Spanish, a language picked up during the wanderlust travels of my early 20’s, then the toddler and chaperone went off on their way.
         No pictures or memorabilia to be had, aside from an addition to my memory backs.
         Since then, lunch time has come and gone, yet I refuse to leave this position.  Departing for just a few minutes could result in missing my chance.  Hence, I need to remain diligent.  Even though my grumbling stomach has other ideas.
        I’ve always been stocky, portly, husky, or just outright fat, depending on who’s judging my body.  My mother was very kind, using descriptors like sturdy and big boned to explain my childhood physique.  However, classmates in high school were much less tactful, enlisting demeaning terms like “chubs”, “porky” and “fatso”.  It’s no wonder my teenage years were a misery.
        Maybe I can sneak off down the street for the slice of pizza.  There’s a pie shop on seemingly every corner in this town.  Nope, I must persist at my post.
         Just as my mental boredom and empty belly are about to reach a climax, the object of my obsession appears from his fancy Dakota residence.  With his lady in tow.  They are even more beautiful, and condescending, than I anticipated.
       The man is average height and thin in build, toned verging on gaunt features visible through tight fitting leather pants and jacket.  His dark hair, nearly black, matches the color of this outfit, and the tint of his large glasses, which obscure much of his face.  Still, having examined countless pictures of this famous individual in various tabloids over the years, I recognize the persona instantly.  
       The male’s stature is enhanced due to the diminutive nature of the female walking next to him.  She can’t be more than 5 feet tall, even with the raised heel boots and winter beanie cap she’s sporting.  Weight is impossible to assess, on account of the oversized coat, light brown fabric trimmed with white fur, which extends down to her knees.  At least someone is prepared for the brisk weather. 
         Even though I’ve carefully prepared for this moment, I hesitate.  Only briefly.  Stepping forward out of the shadows cast by the tall buildings surrounding this residential complex, I’m thrust into full sun as I stride forward with purpose.  I need to close the distance to the courtesy car, which has magically appeared on the curb, before this pair of people are whisked off to their undoubtably fancy destination.
      As I huff and puff hastily across the pavement, I again curse my poor physique, and lack of nutrients, a pair of elements which are in complete contradiction.  Yet, by true force of will, I make it.
      Never one for words, I use a physical as opposed to verbal introduction.  By simply extending the record album, previously wedged under my armpit, with a shaking hand.  This copy is not a brand-new offering, still in plastic, like most music tourists, but a weathered offering, the printed graphic colors faded, and the cardboard edges worn.
       This is my beloved copy of the album “Double Fantasy”, which I’ve listen to countless times.  The music on this disc of vinyl is both the source of inspiration, and the source of infuriation, surrounding the performer who is now standing right in front of me.
       Both individuals are kind enough to pen their sprawling signature on the cover with red marker, each selecting open space below their own half of the kissing couple image.  I smirk at the irony that these famous folks are essentially signing their headshots, a classic entertainment activity on the opposite coast of America.
       Another piece of my life arc has been completed.  I’ve met my idol turned enemy.  The lovely duo accommodates a few more fans before ducking onto the waiting town car, then close the driver closes the door and speeds off.  Just as quickly as this miracle occurs, everything returns to normalcy.  
      With no specific knowledge of where the vehicle is headed, and what activities the pair is partaking in, the waiting game begins again.  If I’m going to get some sustenance, now is as good a time as any.  Maybe one of those hot Italian subs that the locals rave about.  Or is it a hero.  Or a hoagie.  I don’t care about the terminology, as long as there’s lots of fatty meat and melty cheese on a fresh baked roll.
      Briefly satiated, I’m soon back at my assigned spot, leaning against the same metal signpost that I’ve occupied for most of the day.  Which is now turning into night.  The cold has set in again, now that the sun’s short trajectory across the December sky has ended.  
    I wonder what the comely couple is up to, as I stand here shivering?  The reporters I talked with this afternoon mentioned a fine dining experience with New York City elites, followed by an intimate recording studio session.  Both activities with potentially lengthy timelines.
      It must be getting on toward midnight by now.  Another turn of the calendar will represent another day that I’ve failed to execute the plot which has been bouncing around in my disturbed mind for months.
      As my jumbled brain wanders listlessly, a visual observation snaps me back into reality.  A black limo is approaching, rapid and stealthy in the deepening night.  But nothing goes undetected when magnified by the bright lights of this busy metropolis.  Especially under my watchful eye.
    There are many rich folks who live here in the Dakota, bordering the west side of Central Park, in the heart of Manhattan.  However, nervous intuition tells me this vehicle is housing my mark.  I’m already in motion even before the chauffeur opens the rear door.
      While multitasking is not my specially, in this instant my body feels like it’s moving purely on innate, carnal instincts.  In this case, as predator, as opposed to prey.  Throughout the history of civilization, homo sapiens have landed on both side of this fine line.
      Striding my legs with purpose, at an angle which will allow me to head off the car’s occupants before they reach the lobby, I simultaneously thrust my hands into my coat pockets.  I’m hoping this action will help make me look like just another local on this blustery winter night.  However, my right arm is destined for a secret, sinister purpose.
     The gun in my pocket is a 0.38 Charter Arms special revolver, acquired after I submitted for and quickly received a weapon’s permit in Hawaii.  I selected this piece because the large grip easily accommodates my meaty palm, while still having a very short barrel that allows stealthy concealment.  The perfect tool for a chubby and clumsy assassin.  Provided I get close enough to the target.
      Considering the ammunition I’m packing, precision accuracy won’t be necessary.  These hollow-point rounds explode upon impact with anything, including the human body.  
       These projectiles were procured from a connected friend on a road trip back to Atlanta last month.  I heard bullets can be damaged by airplane travel, and can’t leave anything to chance.  Fortunately, there’s no shortage of militant crazies in the southeast.  My own mental instability and religious conservative leanings are just the tip of the iceberg.
      The happy couple is still oblivious to my presence, casually strolling towards the ornate, arched entrance to their residence, arm in arm.  Which is perfect, from both a surprise and framing standpoint.  I contemplate calling out to my hero, but decide to go the coward route.
        Just 10 feet away, I raise my unsteady arm, then rattle off 5 shots in rapid succession.  Quantity over quality should work in this case.  One of the first few volleys clearly hits my target in the back, pain and momentum causing the impacted individual to contort sideways.  Which results in a few subsequent rounds penetrating the shoulder and side.
        Any of these explosive impacts could be fatal.  But the quintet is clearly deadly, considering the close range and lethal charges.  I’ve left nothing to chance, or even worse, fate. 
         As the small woman collapses onto her man, already weeping in grief, I stand stoically in the archway.  It’s late at night, but hopefully someone captured these proceedings on camera.  This hypocritical, phony musician’s death needs to be documented.

​

Consequence
        The specialty bullets passing through John Lennon’s chest ruptured several major arteries.  He was rushed to the local Roosevelt Hospital, where doctors tried to resuscitate him and perform surgery, but these efforts were futile.  The death certificate lists Lennon deceased on arrival at 11:05 PM.  The entire world, especially the music community, and Beatlemania fanatics, mourned this tragic loss.  The 1980’s in NYC was an era of lawlessness; nearly 2,000 people were murdered by guns annually during this decade.
 
Complicit
        Mark David Chapman was arrested on site, and subsequently charged with 2nd degree murder, the highest possible crime not related to killing a law enforcement officer.  The defense tried to use an insanity plea, but Chapman was somewhat mentally coherent, and wanted to plead guilty, calling his actions the will of God.  Over a dozen psychiatrists interviewed Mark to assess his mental capacity during the trial.  Chapman ended up being sentenced 20+ years in 1980; having been up for parole over a dozen times since, he remains in prison.

 

Connection
        The obvious link between these two terrorist acts, which occurred just a year apart, is the fact that both Mountbatten and Lennon were English.  Neither man was a formal political entity, who are the typical target for assassination schemes.  However, the death of civilians, especially famous and adorned personalities, can be even more traumatic for the general public at large.  Understandably, both individuals received elaborate funerals befitting of British royalty, many of which were in attendance.

1991 – Madras, Tamil Nadu, India
May 1st
        The small boat bobs unsteadily in the choppy seas.  A watery spray splashes over the bow intermittently, but I barely notice this misty intrusion.  It’s so humid here that moisture is a constant incumbrance, not just in the form of precipitation, but also sweat.  It’s perpetually steamy in this part of the world.
        We’re currently traversing the Palk Strait between Sri Lanka and India, an aquatic journey of nearly 50 km.  This is a fairly common commerce route, but we’re not traveling by the typical tanker means.  Our crew and cargo necessitate covert secrecy.   
       I was born nearby, on July 26th, 1968, on the Jaffna Peninsula, at the northernmost portion of Sri Lanka, near the southern tip of India.  As a youth, I followed the traditional Hindu religious preachings, which are quite common in this region of the globe.
        Long ago eschewing my lengthy given name for simpler to pronounce monikers, I have so many aliases now that it’s sometimes hard to keep track. “Dhanu”, “Thenmozhi”, “Gayatri”, “Andu”, and “Captain Akino”, the latter of which signifies my accepted leadership role within the community of ladies I’m surrounded by on this ship.
       Dropping out of high school as a tweenager, I was desperately in need of a structure and guidance.  Along came the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam, colloquially known as the LTTE.  Despite the non-descript name, this organization is a far cry from a youth soccer squad.
      Good thing, since my running skills are lame, after suffering a debilitating ankle injury at age 17.  This accident left my mobility limited, and my status in the stratified Indian caste hierarchy further inhibited.  I never wanted to be part of that imposing country’s segregation system anyways.
       Grasping how far I’ve come in life despite countless challenges, I take stock of my compatriots in this craft.  Few have completed their second decade on earth yet, and, if all goes well with the elaborate plot being set in motion, none of us will live through our third. 
     There are many important roles within the LTTE organizational structure.  My girlfriends and I amassed here represent one of the most important cohorts.  A cadre of Tamil female suicide bombers simply known as “tigresses”.  The drilling process is rigid and rigorous, with the privileged title not achievable until one’s 18th birthday, upon full completion of training.
        At 22 years old, fully committed to the cause, I represent one of the most knowledgeable members of our pride.  My diligent allegiance to the “Black Tigers” movement, from both a religious and righteous standpoint, has allowed me to quickly rise up the ranks, being an honored flagbearer at several recent LTTE marches.
         There’s a lone male in the boat with us 8 young gals.  This gentleman is the coordinator of our operation.  Short and stocky, even by Sri Lankan standards, this guy’s not much to look at.  That’s even before considering the eye patch, which covers up unsightly permeant vision damage suffered during the seemingly perpetual string of conflicts in our home nation.  The latest unresolved war is going on 3 years in duration.
       Fortunately, this character isn’t here for his charming charisma.  His clever connections are what this mission depends on.
         The logistics for our clandestine journey are quite complex.  Our adventure is just beginning, yet I’ve already seen this guide consult and annotate in his pocket notebook several times during this nighttime aquatic crossing.
       Checking naval coordinates in the bay?  Documenting us ladies’ demeanor on the water?  Recalling the contact’s name we’re meeting up with?  Who knows, as this diary is closely held and evidently private.  But it’s obvious this person is very meticulous in all matters regarding our important mission.  He’s clearly been well trained, like all us tigresses.
        Considering my father died when I was 7 years old, an inspiring male figure was lacking throughout my childhood.  Fortunately, my patriarch’s connections within the Sri Lankan Tamil nationalism movement left his offspring with back-up options.  My older brother has already died supporting this separatist cause, and I’m willing to do the same, if duty calls.
         Which it likely will, considering the elite role I’ve been selected for.
      In addition to my dad’s network of acquaintances, he also bestowed another valuable trait on his offspring.  The Rajaratnam-Pillai clan which we’re part of has unique genetics, allowing individuals to exhibit drastically different aesthetics when viewed from front and side profiles.  Perfect cover for folks who wish to maneuver through large crowds undetected.
        That's why a few of my close relatives are also involved in this pending plot, and thus on our infiltration team aboard this boat.  This is a family affair, involving both bloodline and adopted sisters.
       We haven’t brought too many possessions on this journey, besides the clothes on our backs, plus a small cache of food and water to sustain us during the strait passage.  Anything else we need moving forward can be purchased.  Using the one item of value on board, which is carefully placed in the exact center of the small dingy, carefully wrapped in a cashmere cloth.
       A 5-kilogram bar of solid gold.  Even sold discretely on the black market, this substantial chunk of precious metal should fetch a nice haul of local Indian rupee currency.  Such financial resources will be pivotal for acquiring the unique gear necessary to achieve our ultimate goal.
        Once we reach the beach, our crew will be separating into two distinct squads.  The main group, which I’m part of, is taking a relatively short trip, 400 km along the coast, to Madras, which will be our base of operations in the country’s southernmost state of Tamil Nadu.
      Meanwhile, a smaller cohort will make the longer journey, much further north, to India’s capital city of New Delhi.  As the epicenter of political activity, this location is perfect back-up option for engaging with our selected target.  But everyone is hopefully the primary plan, a carefully conceived plot, will work.  Still, it never hurts to hedge one’s bets.
      We have a string of safe houses and compatriots which will allow our discrete crew of ladies to travel undetected along both divergent paths.  Such stealth is the special skill that we’ve been extensively groomed for.
      Finally, land becomes visible off the starboard side of our vessel, aided by the sun just peaking up over the horizon.  We must get to shore in the next 30 minute to avoid detection.  This exposed aquatic transfer is the riskiest part of the journey.
     Right on cue, the portable radio we brought crackles to life.  Our squatty handler snatches up the unit, apparently sensing this communique, and holds the small speaker close to his ear.  Between the steady static and the low volume, I’m not able to make out any of the incoming words.  However, the rapid response from our captain suggests we are clear to come ashore.  And truly set the carefully conceived plot in motion.
      “The time has come for redemption,” I whisper under my breath in precise English.  I’ve been perfecting this dialect as a means of masking a heavy accent in my native tongue.  From now on, I’ll be posing as a university educated lass from Bombay, who is globally cultured, and politically active.  A complete crock of lies, which I’ve carefully rehearsed.
     Bring on the civic rallies and protest marches.  I’m ready.  I just need to pick an appropriate name for this new persona.  Dhanu should do nicely, and not require any extra thought to acknowledge when called upon.

May 21st
        I’ve attended all manner of political gatherings, but this event has to be one of the most crowded of my young career.  Granted, for once I’m peacefully participating in the throng, rather than violently inciting it.
         The center of attention currently is a motorcade rolling towards the packed stadium.  In the middle of this line of vehicles, primarily all-black, armor-protected, SUVs, is a bright white limousine.  I’m sure this long ride is equally protected structurally, but offers a stark visual contrast.  A beacon of light, in these dark times.  The imagery is clear.
       This official convoy has traveled 40 km west from the bustling Madras city center to this rural Sriperumbudur township venue, relatively unannounced to the public, and with little prior security planning.  Which represents an opportunity that can’t be missed.
          Our ride to the countryside was a little less refined.  
       Traveling an hour on bumpy roads by bus gave me plenty of time to silently contemplate what I’m about to do.  Considering the crowded public vehicle, it’s not like my compatriots and I could rehearse the plan out loud.  Apparently, the appearance of the former Prime Minister to the far south of India has drawn quite a lively throng.  It’s exactly this type commotion that we’re hoping to capitalize on.
        I watch from afar as the convoy comes to a halt, and an impromptu safety perimeter is established.  Within minutes, the political party starts moving towards the raised stage, which has been assembled at one end of the arena.
       In true showmanship fashion, a literal red carpet has been laid out for this distinguished guest, a 1-meter-wide swatch of fabric unrolled from his parked limo to the speaking podium.  Which make this leader’s movements quite easy to predict.  I just need to place myself in the pathway, and wait for an opportunity to engage.
     Considering the massive size of the amassed gathering, this walking approach is going to take a while.  And requires passing through hordes of well-wishing local workers and students.  Just like me, or at least my adopted identity.
     The turnout make sense, as this Congressional Committee tour through Madras, the capital city of Tamil Nadu, the southernmost state of India, is a rare occurrence in any political cycle, let alone one this contentious.
      This region was developed by British Imperialists, who established a coastal site on the Bay of Bengal as a key trading post during the 17th century.  Now, the modern Indian government is looking to execute a similar dictatorial rule on the local peoples who live here.  Surprisingly, few folks, aside from my LTTE colleagues, seem in opposition to this oppressive plan.
     The former Prime Minister of India is now back on the campaign circuit, hoping to return to the ultimate seat of power within the national government.  However, his policies aren’t popular with all of the country’s citizens.  Especially us Tamil nationalists.
        My own political sentiments, forged by the Sri Lankan revolutionaries I follow unwaveringly, are in stark opposition to the espoused messages of this candidate.  Defending the Indo-Sri Lanka Accord.  Sending the IPKF to disarm the LTTE.  Meddling in the ongoing civil war playing put across my native land.
     Bold campaign sentiments, that have been espoused in both video and text interviews.  Which makes this an important individual who must be eliminated.
        Objections to these policies have not gone unnoticed.  At least by folks in the official government protection detail.  There was a round of negotiation talks with both contentious parties back in March.  Which clearly didn’t go well, based on the scheme us Tamil Tigers have recently put in motion.  Granted, we’ve been far from transparent about our preferred plans and policies here at the southern tip of India.
       The two folks traveling with me currently are our fearless coordinator and the back-up bomber, both individuals who have proven their commitment to the cause over the past few weeks of planning.  Like me, they are both in disguise, though not nearly as flamboyant as my costume.
      The man is posing as a journalist, complete with rucksack, camera, and, of course, his trusty notebook, within which all key elements of the entire mission are entered.  The woman is also hoping to blend in, clad in a simple white dress that falls somewhere between casual and conservative.  I’m the active centerpiece of the strategy today, while my colleagues sit back and help facilitate success.
      It’s amazing how close one can get to a political leader in South Asia, provided one behaves respectfully and dresses well.  It also doesn’t hurt to be a female.  As such, I’m using all the charms and tack at my substantial disposal.
       I’m clad in an ornate green and orange salwar kameez dress, made from yards of flowing fabric.  These vibrant colors are non-coincidentally displayed prominently on India’s national flag.  The bright hues also nicely contrast my very dark skin, compared to many caramel countrywomen.  Another convenient point of aesthetic differentiation.
       I spent over an hour on my hair, incorporating orange ribbon embellishments in my curly black locks, matching my blouse’s hue, and creating a quite striking look relative to the more conventional outfits in the crowd.  For once in my life, I’m hoping to stand out as opposed to blend in.
      While I’m not privy to all the secret schemes, cryptic codes, and hidden houses associated with our LTTE operation, there’s one key term which has entered our team’s collective lexicon.  This assassination plot is simply dubbed “wedding preparations” when discussing in the company of folks outside the tight inner circle.
      In this regard, I guess it’s fitting that I was the subject of several pictures this morning before departing from our apartment hideout for the bus station.  While some of these included my beautiful flowing dress, the most telling shots were me clad in just my underwear, plus one other outfit accountment.  A ring of leather and metal, strapped directly around my dark waist.  Not a chastity belt or bondage item, this belt serves an even more sinister purpose.
      As we walked from the parking lot to the fairgrounds, I moved very methodically, taking care to keep my motions slow and smooth, despite the heavy load concealed under the folds of my skirt.  I was worried about security protocols, specifically metal detectors, discovering my surprise undergarments, but we were able to walk right into the venue.  Since then, my confidence, and my strut, has continued to become emboldened.
     There aren’t many folks in attendance at this rally dressed classier than me.  Except the individual for whom this entire gathering is centered around.  Who I’m dying to meet.  Literally.  Donning my Dhanu alias mentally, I press onward toward the red carpet line with conviction.
      I approach the object of interest with a mix of apprehension and intrigue.  This is the closest I’ve ever been to this individual.  He’s even taller than I anticipated.  This must be a trick, risers in his shoes and the tailored fit of his outfit creating an optical illusion.  Clearly an influential political figure of the highest order.
       The gentleman is wearing all white this evening, in an obvious suggestion of peaceful unification.  The fancy robe has folds which seem to defy gravity, with elaborate flaps that cover his neck and cheeks.
      Afforded by unlimited financial resources, the shimmering cloak appears iridescent.  There are so many layers of fabric, it’s impossible to determine where the clothing ends, and the body begins.  No wonder this lovely middle-aged man is surrounded by a throng of cute young Indian ladies enamored to meet him.  
          However, I’m by no means intimidated, after years of curated mental and physical training.
       Moving forward with purpose, I place a garland over his bald head, requiring me to extend all the way onto the tiptoes of my bedazzled thong sandals.  Every element of a disguise must be perfectly executed.
       The necklace I’ve brought to pass along is handmade, per tradition, a labor of love, that took me many hours to complete.  It’s composed of carved sandalwood beads, smooth tan ovals, interspersed with 4-pedal flowers from this same tree, which are crimson red in color.  This hue, reminiscent of blood, isn’t an accidently choice.  The bright plumage clearly stands out against other bouquets offered, but the foreshadowing of danger is the element that’s more interesting to me.
        Somehow, despite being the 100th person to adorn the guest of honor, his neck is still uncovered.  These organic ornaments are clearly being collected by handlers, to keep their master pristine and unincumbered.
         Enough with the formalities.  Time to pay true homage.  Executing an elaborate and graceful bow, I slowly drop to my knees, then continue downward, with my face approaching the ground.  As I get closer, I see the former national leader’s shoes, like the rest of his outfit, are curated and expensive.
         Moving in for the obligatory kiss, I wonder how many other pairs of lips have touched this footwear tonight.  At least the leather looks and smells fresh, with no sign of stains or soiling.  Still, this doesn’t seem like a very sanitary practice.  No matter, any disease incurred down here in the dirt won’t affect me.
        I feel honored to be in this privileged position of groveling, a classic show of admiration in South Asian culture.  Since it puts me in charge, despite my diminutive pose.
       Stealthily working my left hand through the layered folds of my dress, I quickly navigate to the desire wardrobe accoutrement.  My belt buckle, underneath my bend abdomen.  This ornate metal clasp is directly connected by wires to another loop around my waist, this one directly against my bare skin.
       This secondary strap is much uglier, heavier, and deadlier.  A ring of RDX explosives, highly volatile, and ready to ignite at the press of a button.  I’m in the position of power now.   
        It’s sad that my beautiful green and orange costume, the best gold money can buy, will be destroyed with this bomb’s deployment.  But the inevitable loss of life is welcome.  Even my own.  That’s the ultimate redemption for an LTTE Black Tigress.

 

Consequence
      The detonation occurred at 10:10 PM in the evening, instantly killing former Indian Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi, along with his attacker.  16 other bystanders also died in the blast, with 43 folks in the nearby area severely wounded.  Many of these casualties were police and security personnel, who were surrounding the politician in the large crowd.  Conspiracy theories continue to arise tying this assassination back to high-ranking officials within the incumbent India administrative régime at the time.
 

Complicit
       In addition to the female bomber, Kalaivani “Thenmozhi” Rajaratnam, the co-conspirator journalist, Haribabu, died in the explosion, but was able to capture the act on camera, which survived undamaged during the explosion.  Utilizing substantial government investigative resources, 7 accomplices were located and convicted in the plot, based primary on the detailed journal and photo records discovered by authorities.  This group was composed of both Sri Lankan and Indian nationals; roles included planning, logistics, supply of materials, and back-up bombers.  All were convicted to life imprisonment, but released in November 2022, at the behest of the Tamil Nadu government.

 

Connection
     One of the cities Mark David Chapman stopped by on his 6-month trip around the world was New Delhi, India; Kalaivani Rajaratnam was just 10 years old when this visit occurred.  Both these individuals, in their mid-20’s at the time of the assassination, were incredibly religious, spending many hours per day honoring their chosen deity.  Devout cults are a recurring source of both public murders and suicides, especially over the past half century.

1995 – Tel Aviv, Israel

November 3rd

        We sit cross-legged on the cold floor, covered only by a threadbare rug, heads bowed.  There’s a dozen of us in a large circle, all silent and stoic.  For now.

       Religion has been a staple of my life since being brought into the world in 1970, an understandable experience considering my Herzliya, Israel birth location.  As 1 of 8 children, evenly split quartets of boys and girls, in a large Orthodox Yemenite Jewish family, my upbringing couldn’t have been more basic, mundane, and illustrative of this lower-middle-class existence.

         My father, seated just to my left, serves as a scribe, and also supervises kosher butchering practices in the region.  My mother, positioned directly across the round table, is the primary breadwinner, serving as proprietor and kindergarten teacher and an efficacious elementary education practice she built from scratch.

        Considering the sequential troop of toddlers to manage, this operation started as a nursery run out of the family home, until all of us kids came of age.  By then, many other households in the neighborhood were happy to pay for similar diligent daycare and teaching services.

          Playing in the sandy yard outside, and praying on the dusty floor inside, with kids of varying ages and affluence, are the defining moments of my youth.  While a some of my siblings, including a few gathered around today, and most of my friends, found this inundation of devout principles draining, I thrived on it.

        Anxious for the opportunity, I attended a highly religious “yeshiva” high school, which required me to make an hour-long bus ride into downtown Tel Aviv daily, starting at age 12.  There, I got to study both Talmudic literature and Torah philosophy.  If I wasn’t hooked on the spiritual scripture before, this linkage between language and history cemented my intrigue.  I found my lifelong calling, in my teenage years.

        The discovered passion was so acute that even during my mandatory military service, I was able to continue these enjoyable religious studies.  Serving as a “hesder” in the Israeli Defense Forces, I continued my own Zionist experiential journey, and facilitated the spread of pious insight to others.

         This same regimented commitment to the country explains the absence of two of my siblings from this traditional family meal.  Considering the constant strife in this religious holy sanctuary, the nation needs every able body to serve and protect the homeland. 

        Honorary thankful acknowledgement of sustenance complete, we all settle in for the actual feasting.  As the plates are passed, I take stock of who’s in attendance today.

         Each Friday evening after sundown, kicking off the traditional Jewish “Shabbat” 24 hours of rest, my parents gather as many of their offspring, and their offspring, as possible for a substantial session of prayer and partaking.  The spread which my mom and sisters are able to pull together is always impressive.  Granted, my dad’s food industry side gig provides him with access to some quality products.

    As we share appetizer platters of chilled watermelon salsa, fresh goat cheese, and char grilled eggplant, the conversation bounces around sporadically, sometimes between just a few adjacent individuals, sometimes encompassing the entire room of attendees.  Eventually, a true topic of interest for me arises.  Current country politics.

        I have much to say on this front, but decide to simply stay silent and enjoy the savory spread.  However, just thinking about how the screwed up the governance policies are in the country I patriotically call home ruins my appetite.

      There’s one specific individual who I blame for the recent religious concessions of devout Jews in my native land.  The current Prime Minister of Israel, the 5th ever in this relatively new governmental structure, which is less than half a century old.  This character was democratically elected three years ago, using the same sneaky tactics as most politicians in the modern era.  Blatant lying.

       I become more and more enraged as I listen to younger siblings herald our leader as a champion of brilliant peace negotiations.  At one point, following an especially egregious comment by my little sister, I’m tempted to extract a firm matza ball from the salty soup in my bowl, and fling this projectile at her.  It takes all my resolve not to interject with food and facts.

        As the first native-born citizen to hold this elite PM post, apparently voters thought this young man had the good of the homeland in mind.  Clearly not, based on diplomatic actions pursued immediately upon occupying office.

     Espousing a platform of Israel first, soon after taking power this turncoat started bartering away our religious independence.  The Oslo Accords, initially signed in September of 1993, then further strengthened just 2 months ago, unfathomably promotes peace with the neighboring Palestinians.

        To make matters worse, during the time between these abhorrent contracts, our governmental head had the audacity to make concessions with adjacent Jordan, a weak and insignificant country on the local map.  Those poor folks should be kowtowing to our Middle Eastern might, not the other way around.

       Adding insult to injury, this diminutive pacifism was lauded on the global stage, further emboldening these careless pacts.  How this governmental failure earned the Nobel Peace last year, in collaboration with that infamous Palestinian rat dictator, is beyond me.  Something needs to be done to rectify the situation.

        As we progress through the hearty main courses to sweet deserts, I can feel my stomach, and mind, churning.  Biting down on a flakey baklava pastry, crunchy nut and sticky honey textures mingling in my mouth, helps me bite my tongue.  No need to facilitate another fighting on this holy day.  My father and I have already had many tiffs on this touchy topic. 

      Uncharacteristically, I take leave early from my family tonight, fainting urgent tasks which need to be completed.  Typically, I would stay until last morsel of food is consumed, and the last drop of liquid drank.  Then, make sure that all the cleaning tasks are completed.  But this evening, I have too much on my metaphorical plate.

        In reality, as my observant parent’s likely already know, now is the only portion of the entire week that I allow myself to take a break from my rigorous collegiate work pursuits.  The Shabbat, originating from the Hebrew word “shavat”, is literally a day of rest.

     Currently, I’m a student at Bar-Ilan University in Tel Aviv, continuing to expand my spiritual knowledge through Jewish Law education.  This “kollel” curriculum combines all my intellectual interests: history, language, culture, legality, and, of course, religion. 

      When I’m not in class or studying, I spend my free time representing the topics I’m passionate about.  I’ve quickly become an ardent political activist amongst my mates, leading protest rallies and enlightenment sessions against the compromise between Israel and Palestine. 

       This passive resistance has only yielded minimal gains, both personally and professionally.  Which is exactly why I’m pursuing a new, more active, revolutionary tact of late.

      My faith has been both a blessing and curse throughout life.  My displayed enthusiasm hasn’t always been accepted with open arms, as several colleagues during both my military and university stints identified me as a maniacal religious fanatic, completely absorbed with will of God.  This lack of pious acceptance is a theme which has continued to infuriate, and motivate, me in recent years.  How can other individuals be so irrational?

     It’s incredible how polarizing religious preferences have become in the West Bank, amongst folks who are quite accepting and open in other elements of everyday life.

      My most recent discriminatory incident occurred last year while at college.  Without notice, one of my closest, and only, female acquaintances at school broke ties with me.  Distraught, I enquired, through my grapevine of connections, to find an explanation for this abandonment.  The truth, when discovered, hurt infinitely more than the lack of knowing.

      Apparently, heavily advocated by her parents, this lady friend separated contact due to my “Mizrahi” background.  This somewhat slanderous terminology is associated with Jews that have connection to the Muslim world throughout the Middle East, in my case, via being the product of Yemenite immigrant parents.

     As a religious scholar, I don’t see why learning as much about the various influential historical preachings of the region I call home is a bad thing. 

      Even more insulting, this Orthodox Jew woman I liked, and at times even loved, soon married a close associate of mine.  This was a low blow, considering my lifelong commitment to sacred pursuits.  Purity is a virtue.  Thus, since the start of the 1995 calendar cycle, I’ve been on a downward spiral of depression.  Approaching a full year on at this point, my mental machinations are coming to a head.

       As is becoming increasingly common, I’m spending the night alone, in my own small bedroom, with also serves as my study space, and payer chamber.

       Aside from my committed family, I have very few close friends these days.  And those I now chose to hang out with aren’t the most savory characters.  My best buddy, who I met at a university campus protest, understandably has very similar views to my own on the current embarrassment that is Israeli politics.  Many an evening we’ve stayed up late, dissecting how our nation got to this sad state, and what bold actions can be taken to rectify the situation.

       My brother and this lone true pal are the only individuals I’ve felt comfortable sharing my thoughts with in recent months.  As these ideas have become increasingly dark and dangerous.

       This pair of close confidents have encouraged and enabled my bold ambitions.  My friend, a connected right-wing extremist, has provided guidance on security protocols related to government protection services.  And my brother, in the process of forming an anti-Palestine militia unit, has access to all manner of weaponry. 

        Beyond the support of this duo, there’s one other entity providing me with guidance on my determined quest.  The divine Yahweh, who I speak with daily.  All-knowing and ever-present, frequent council has cemented the fact that I’m doing what’s righteous, and right.  Blessing granted, I can move forward with the planned assassination unburdened by guilt.

        This isn’t the first attempt I’ve made on the sitting Prime Minister’s life.  The trio of prior efforts have been audibled out of last minute due to various adverse conditions which thwarted the conceived schemes.  Hopefully, the fourth time is the charm.

        As I sit stoically in the tiny, dark chamber where I often take prayer, I contemplate which connection I should make with God.  I quickly realize I’m ready to partake in a new ritual.

      A “vidui” concession, typically in the Jewish religion, for those who anticipate they are close to the end.  This sacrament is usually performed by the elderly in society, on their death bed, with little time left in the world.  As I’m just 25 years old, this last rite seems a little odd.  But when a person’s calling has come, there’s no reason to fight it.

         This impromptu plea session has verified that the heavens are aligned.  I take many minutes to thank the Holy Spirit for guidance and support, then rise a rejuvenated man.  I have my marching orders.

        Shabbat Saturday is supposed to be a period of relaxed recovery.  But if Yahweh wants me to work, I’ll gladly do his bidding.  Especially, on a task in service of the greater good for all his religious minions.  I just need to wait until the sun goes down tomorrow.

​

November 4th

        The progress of this #264 bus has slowed to a crawl.  I use public transportation frequently, and know the routes well.  We shouldn’t be stopping here, 18 minutes into the journey south from my Herzliya home to downtown Tel Aviv.  What’s the hold-up?

          Peering out the broad side window, I see the streetlight-lit sidewalks packed with people.  Which makes sense after sunset, on a Saturday night, in the city center.  But this influx of individuals isn’t the product of an ordinary weekend on the standardized Western agenda.

          Today is the 12th day of Cheshvan, in the 8th month of the Hebrew calendar, a significant Jewish holiday observed throughout Israel, and other regions of the globe where this religion is practiced.  As such, a celebratory event has been coordinated in the Kings of Israel Square, a popular assembly point for peaceful demonstrations.  Hence the massive evening crowds.

          We’re not far from the rectangular park of interest now.  At the sluggish rate this bus is traveling, I may as well just get out and walk.  Pushing through the bifold doors in the middle of the long vehicle, I’m immediately immersed is a sea of flowing folks, all generally moving in the same direction.  It’s like being thrown into a rapidly flowing river; there’s no way to fight against the robust current. 

       According to Friday’s newspaper reports, this was supposed to be a small rally.  That’s not what appears to be materializing, as I get increasingly jostled in the fervent mob.  I won’t have any trouble blending in physically, as the throng is primarily secular Israeli students and young professionals, the exact liberal type who are intrigued by this newly legislated fake peace.

       Dressed nonchalant and modern, in jeans and a t-shirt, both different shades of blue, I decide to remove my traditional Jewish “kippah” headgear, to enable further religious anonymity.  I stuff this domed swatch into the left pocket of my khaki-colored jacket, as the right side is already full.  While I may now look like these other folks, my mental leanings are distinctly disparate.

           This crowd is euphoric, clearly embracing the message of unity between Jews and Palestinians in Israel, a holy land which is divided by centuries of conflict.  How quickly the next generation forgets the transgressions of the past.

           Through these same news articles, I also gleaned more information on the run of show for this evening’s gathering, and what distinguished guests will be in attendance.  Considering the recently updated Oslo Accords, further cementing religious compromise, and a tenuous calm throughout the Gaza Strip, I’m not surprised at the headline speaker.  Our Prime Minister, the architect of this preposterous pact.

          As we near the sprawling square, movement slows, and the bodies thicken.  I don’t need to have a good view of the pending speech, and have no desired to become immobile in this horde.  I have other motives for tonight.

       Tacking right, I wriggle my way through unseen gaps and tiny holes that emerge then disappear in the densely packed people.  Good thing my youthful figure is lean and spry.  Considering all the bumping and banging, I make sure to frequently check my right coat pocket, within which an important item is housed.  If I lose this tool, my pending plan is shot, literally.

        Finally, emerging from the masses, I find myself parallel with the Tel Aviv City Hall, on the front steps of which a makeshift stage is set up.  That explains why no one is over here.  The low-angle view is terrible, but I’m not in attendance to hear or watch the character who will soon take the podium.  I’m interested in a more intimate conversation.

      Continuing down the street, away from the plaza, flanking the government building, I soon come to a narrow driveway.  Loading dock access, most likely.  I wonder how tight security is tonight?  There’s only one way to find out.

          Not very, it turns out, as I stroll casually down the dark alley, then find one overhead door raised, with a van parked at the opening.  This bay, designed to accommodate full-sized delivery trucks, leaves plenty of room for me to sneak inside, leveraging the bumper of the vehicle as a step.  So far, so good. 

        Based on the equipment stashed here, black cases in shapes suggestive of music instruments, and enough cords to power and transmit sound for a rock concert, I ascertain the usage of this space.  A behind-the-scenes prepping area for the live band who will be performing as part of this celebratory event.  Which provides me with a convenient alibi.

         Maybe I can just post up here and see what materializes.  I can’t be that far from the stage, if these performers have chosen to leave their gear.  And I can hear the dull roar of the gathering horde, wafting in from the hallway which leads out the back of this wide room.

      I’ve been standing around for about 10 minutes before my first interaction, with what appears to be a building security guard.  Not much older than me, but definitely larger, I decide to keep the lies simple.

          As the big guy approaches, firing off questions, I simply nod at the nearby van, conveying the disinterested vibe of a menial delivery driver.  When this official doesn’t seem completely convinced, I break out the charm.

         A couple of silly jokes about how much crap these band divas require, as I wave my hand towards the adjacent pile of equipment, seems to disarm this sentry.  The offer of a cigarette, which we share sitting on the back of the loading dock, seals our friendship.  I’m in.

        While I was distracted with not getting my bluff discovered for most of what must have been a lengthy speech, I now sense a different sound emanating from the stage.  Music.  Despite being muffled, I recognize the tune within seconds.

       “Shir LaShalom” in the native tongue, which translates loosely to “A Song For Peace” in English.  In the past few years, this hymn has become the de facto national anthem of Israel, especially amongst the liberal lefties.  I despise this music, not just the specific lyrics, but also the great movement this melody has motivated.

      Clearly, pretty much everyone else of the 100,000 individuals amassed at Kings of Israel Square are much more enthusiastic.  Starting as just a murmur from my rearward position, by the time the first chorus starts, there’s a feverish roar in the air.  This is a popular song, but there’s no way the crowd would be shrieking this vehemently if their loved leader wasn’t still on stage.

       I assume this national chief isn’t planning to execute a full musical set, especially considering his raspy voice and clear lack of knowledge of the lyrics at the microphone, which is being amplified and disseminated across Tel Aviv.  I better get into position, before my mark is whisked away to whatever cozy confines from whence he came.

       Despite my hatred for this song, I’ve heard the ditty enough to know it only lasts a few minutes.  Heading back out through the loading dock area will take too long, and not guarantee me access to the target.  I need to try cutting through the building directly.  Here goes nothing.

       Setting off down the hallway towards what I perceive to be the front of the structure, I move at a pace as rapid as I feel comfortable will not draw attention.  Which equates to a very brisk walk.  Winding through a few corridors, I come to the main lobby.  Beyond the revolving doors is the stage where the choir serenade is occurring.  The last verse of the tune is coming to a crescendo, all eyes of the fans out front, and the guards behind, on the podium performers.

      I must get into position, but can’t simply charge out through the front entrance brandishing a loaded weapon, and pick off the Prime Minister.  More tact is required.  Begrudgingly, I start belting out the lyrics to the song being played, loud enough to be noticed by anyone in the interior space, while continuing my quick jaunt across the tiled entryway at an angle.

      I draw the attention of several security personnel, but am immediately dismissed, based on my patriotic flare, plus the fact that I’m moving away from, as opposed to towards, their prize possession.  Within seconds, I exit through a side door, and am back outside, and out of sight.  Sometimes the best way to blend is to be overtly obvious.

       As I’ve been hiding rearward for the entire performance, I don’t have any idea what my mark is wearing.  Fortunately, his image is in the newspaper almost every day, so I have a good sense of what this scoundrel looks like.  Plus, there’s currently only one person walking down the steps of city hall surrounded by a ring of security guards dressed in black.

      In stark contrast to his monochromatic handlers, the man himself is sporting a starched white shirt, charcoal grey tie, and navy-blue suit coat.  I’m so focused on the torso of this individual, which represent my bulls-eye, that I take no notice of his shoes or pants.

     The thinning white hair, slicked back, and wire frame glasses, oversized ovals, confirm the identity perfectly, matching black and white headshot photos distributed in the various tabloids.  We are a go!

     My random approach route, cutting through the loading dock then lobby of the building, provides a distinct element of surprise.  With all the sentries focused on the massive throng spread out across the lawn in front, there no attention being given to activity occurring behind the podium.

      Along the way, the man of the hour halts to shake hands with an acolyte, or get a picture taken with a dignitary.  This slow movement towards the street allows me to close the ground that separates predator and prey.

       The famous leader is now descending the last few steps, getting closer and closer to his courtesy car, which represents an exit vehicle to safety.  Time to act.

      Reaching my right hand into the associated jacket’s pocket, I find the implement of destruction still housed within.  Raising the Beretta 84F 0.380 ACP-caliber semi-automatic pistol provided by my brother, I take aim at the gentleman’s chest, and reel off a pair of shots in quick succession. 

        I have no idea if the Prime Minister is wearing a bulletproof vest; any sane individual of his political stature would be while in public.  I’m hoping this gentleman is too naïve to accept the fact that any of his citizens would want to harm him.  If so, this sentiment is misplaced, and will cost the politician his life.

    The result of these released rounds, and the failure of this figure to don a supplemental protective layer, is immediately evident.  The bullets directly impact the target, one in the abdomen, the other in the chest.  This combination results in a jerking contortion of the individual’s body, which suggests vital internal organs, potentially even the spinal cord, and central nervous system itself, are permanently impaired.

        Understandable, since this duo of close-range shots, with hollow point ammunition, are meant to kill as opposed to injure.  Also understandable, it doesn’t take long for the security detail to figure out what is going on.

       While I briefly contemplate the ruthless, albeit righteous, act I’ve just committed, the reactive retribution starts to materialize.  As the black swarm approaches, I’m able to get off one more round, hitting one of these incoming creatures in the shoulder, slightly delaying being overwhelmed.

        The next nearest protection agent pounces before I can turn and engage, arm tackling me around the neck, while swatting my gun away with the other hand.  These guards are clearly well trained, but the deadly deed is already done.  The irrational tyrant has been taken down.

       Yahweh’s wishes have been heard and acted on.  I will accept the consequences of these actions, including the beatings raining down upon me by aggressive sentinels and aggrieved supporters of the politician who I just put to rest.

​

Consequence

        After the 9:45 PM shooting, Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin was rushed by car to the local hospital, where he died on the operating table around 11 PM, from blood loss through a pair of punctured lungs.  The entire world mourned his passing, with a who’s-who of influential politicians attending the funeral, and the Kings of Israel Square was renamed in Rabin’s honor.  This was a very unexpected assassination, the first ever of a politician in Israel, and shaped the current and future of the nation; the core tenants of the Oslo Accords were never finalized or implemented.  Prime Minister Netanyahu, now in his third stint at the helm, has facilitated right-leaning Zionist isolationist policies, offering little chance of peacemaking with Palestine to this day.

 

Complicit

        Yigal Amir, the shooter, was immediately seized by police, taken into custody, quickly found guilty, and sentenced to life in prison.  After the arrest, Yigal told officials he was happy with the death, having been guided by God, and never showed remorse at any time during the trial.  In a very odd plot twist, while imprisoned Mr. Amir married Larisa Trembovler, an Orthodox Jew from Russia, who he met in Latvia while teaching Judaism.  She divorced her original husband of 4 children in 2003, facilitated a remote wedding with Yigal in 2005, attempted artificial insemination as a prison research study in 2006, and had a lengthy conjugal visit which resulted in Trembovler giving natural birth in 2007.  Mr. Amir is still in jail, having never been released, or even allowed to attend his son’s bar mitzvah in 2020.

 

Connection

        Both the India and Israel assassinations were based around religious differences, and carried out at political rallies.  Both antagonists were also motivated to maintain the status quo, as opposed to seeing collaborative change in their society.  There was essentially no guilt or empathy displayed in either case, with full commitment to spiritual cause and virtues.  These debated country borders, and other contentious religious regions of the world, continue to be hotbeds for assassins and terrorists.