1 SHAMELESSNESS KNOWS NO BOUNDARIES.
š¶Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us, only sky
Imagine all the people
Livin' for todayš¶
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too
š¶Imagine all the people
Livin' life in peace
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you canš¶
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world
You may say I'm a dreamer
š¶But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as oneš¶
Near the Syrian border, a forest came alive with the chirping of birds darting between the trees. A group of people moved quietly through the undergrowth, the occasional crunch of a branch, dried leaves or small rocks underfoot breaking the silence. Low voices whispered sporadic conversations, punctuated by the repetitive strains of a song from a persistent singer since the start of their walk in the morning. He seemed oblivious to everything else.
"Kid, for God's sake, please stop singing! You're hurting my ears!" A voice commanded in a sharp tone.
The melodic rhythm was suddenly punctured, ending in an abrupt silence. A young boy, no more than a teenager, his back laden with the menacing outline of an AK-47 assault rifle and a machete held firmly in his hand, paused in his diligent battle against the dense underbrush. Turning around, his face wore a mask of bewilderment as he addressed the motley crew.
"Why the objection?" he asked. "Don't you guys yearn for peace? Long to return home safely, to have sex with your girlfriend each day? Aren't you, as Americans, striving hard to halt this war? I see your countrymen dispatching heaps of humanitarian aid here. I even savored a chocolate gifted by one of your compatriots last week."
A burly man, clad in a military tactical vest and brandishing an M16A4 rifle, chuckled heartily. A field pack was strapped to his back, matching his grime-smeared green army uniform. "Well, kid, we are Americans. But not those Americans. We're the kind of Americans who stoke the fires of war."
The young boy, donned in an oversized brown army shirt and green pants, with boots taken from a fallen soldier, could only ask, "Why?"
"You naive boy, we're mercenaries! What will we eat if there's no war?" There were seven more people following the big man, similarly dressed in military attire and armed, each one navigating cautiously through the dense foliage.
One of the mercenaries chimed in with a sneer, "Quit dreaming, kid. If there was no war, where do you think the arms dealers would find their profits? They'd instigate one. Sadly, this time, they chose your homeland. And your people played right into their hands, spending fortunes on weapons, just to kill your own kin."
"But aren't you here to stop the war..?" The young boy murmured. Two days ago, he'd been told these men were here to prevent further conflict.
'Had I received false information?'
Leading the mercenaries through the forest, the young boy mulled over the revelations. Something didn't add up. He didn't know what to believe - were they truly mercenaries, or something else entirely? AWOL soldiers, perhaps? He decided to tread carefully, his every word, every action, could make a difference. He couldn't afford a mistake.
"Kid, we mercenaries are paid to ensure this war never stops," said Jack, the group leader, his smile brimming with mockery. "You certain about the location?" He stared at the young boy, demanding assurance.
"Don't worry, we'll soon reach Al Habib's hideout. I checked out the location yesterday. Al Habib and most of his soldiers are still in East Syria, fighting for ISIS. Only about twenty soldiers remain to guard their wooden camp," the young boy answered with youthful excitement.
"You know, they're a splinter group of ISIS, notorious for their bank heists and the plundering of wealthy individuals. They hoard all their ill-gotten gains - money, gold, even confidential ISIS documents, right there. Believe me, you guys are about to hit a treasure trove," the young boy stated, his face radiating with a confident smirk. "You'll return laden with riches, and attract the affections of numerous attractive women! All of you will have sex everyday!"
Jack quickly smacked the young boy's head. "Don't get ahead of yourself! You're just cannon fodder."
"Love and Peace, man!" The young boy rubbed his head, protesting.
"Do you truly believe love can stop the war?" A mercenary questioned.
"No," the young boy sighed, stepping cautiously across a shallow river. "Only something more terrible than war can stop it. Like a nuclear bomb ended World War II. Peace is a farce, man."
"Then why the hell have you been singing that cursed song over and over since we left seven hours ago? You were even humming it while gobbling your lunch!" The mercenary eyed the young boy suspiciously, finding a discrepancy between his actions and words.
The young boy flashed a wide smile. "To make you Americans pity me, a civilian suffering in this war. See, I'm just 15, lost my family to this damned war. For ten years, I've eked out a living by collecting land mines, guiding mercenaries, even accepting jobs as cannon fodder. You should pity me and double my pay. Peace is a farce, but money never is." He declared with blatant honesty. Then he stepped onto protruding tree roots, leaping onto a pile of dried leaves, startling a squirrel from its hiding spot. Then he took out some wild berry, poped up into his mouth. And then he started to sing again.
"Please stop."
The young boy, showing his hand and finger moving, asking for money.
Jack sighed, "Fine, I'll triple your pay if you cease your singing and lead us quicker to Al Habib's hideout."
"Deal!" The young boy announced, his pace quickening in anticipation. A satisfied grin spread across his face, suspecting he had indeed hit a jackpot.
His feet crunched over fallen leaves and twigs as he navigated the path ahead. The underbrush swished and snapped under his nimble movements. His machete sliced through the air, parting the dense foliage to reveal the hidden path. He deftly dodged low hanging branches, their gnarled forms laden with dark green leaves that scraped across his jacket.
Swatting at the occasional mosquitoes buzzing around his head, he noticed the ferns giving way to tall reeds that rustled quietly against his pant legs. The air was thick with the humid scent of damp earth and decaying vegetation. Underfoot, the ground was uneven, a challenging mosaic of roots, stones, and mossy patches. As he moved, his hand instinctively brushed against the rough bark of trees, the delicate lace of spider webs, and the cool, slick surface of broad leaves dewed with moisture. Every step he took, every rustle of his movement echoed his lively spirits and unquenched excitement.
"Damn this kid. If I knew he was bargaining for more pay, I would've paid him triple upfront to save my ears from his dreadful singing," Jack grimaced.
"Agreed!"
"Same here."
***
The camp was nestled in a forest clearing, surrounded by towering trees, their foliage forming a natural roof over the encampment, casting dappled shadows on the ground. It was intentionally modest in size and design to blend into its natural surroundings ā a perfect example of strategic military camouflage.
The outer boundaries of the camp were lined with weather-beaten tarps strung between the trees, their mottled green and brown hues imitating the environment. These screens provided an extra layer of concealment from prying eyes.
At the heart of the camp was a communal area. A large wooden table, roughly hewn from local timber, sat in the middle. Despite the apparent roughness, it was sturdy and well-used, with signs of knife marks and food stains that were remnants of past meals. Wooden benches flanked it, providing seating for the camp's inhabitants. It was a central gathering point, where meals were eaten, maps were examined, and plans were made.
The perimeter was dotted with several military-style tents. Made from durable, weather-resistant fabric, they were olive-drab in color, further assisting in their blending into the surroundings. Each was big enough to accommodate two or three people. They were laid out methodically, leaving clear, open pathways between them for easy navigation.
Near one of the tents was a make-shift fire pit, filled with half-burnt logs and ash from previous fires, signifying the spot where meals were prepared and warmth was sought during the colder nights. A metal grill sat next to the pit, stained black from repeated use.
The camp was manned by a few soldiers on duty. They were spread across the site, some wandering, some sitting idle, their guns never too far from their reach. It was a scene of relative calm, yet the air was tense with the potential for sudden violence.
The young boy and Jack took in the sight, observing every detail. They remained concealed in the shadows of the forest, waiting for their opportunity to strike.
Jack turned to the young boy, who was busy swatting mosquitoes, "Kid, do you know what to do?"
"Payment first, talk later," the young boy retorted, not breaking his mosquito-fighting rhythm. "No Money, no talk."
"You greedy brat, I've already paid your boss $20,000. Get your money from him," Jack said, his temper flaring. This young boy seemed to be playing games with them.
"Do you think I'm a fool? That money's for my protection around the city. All I'd get from my boss is a beating if I asked. I value my life, you know," the boy stood his ground. "Pay me or I leave now. You owe me $50 - $30 for guiding and $20 for being cannon fodder." He crossed his arms defiantly.
"How about I pay you once you've finished the job and if you're still alive? Dead men have no need for money," Jack teased.
"Pay me now. If I die, you can collect the money from my corpse. I'm just too lazy to loot it off your dead body later," the young boy retorted, his smile full of derision.
"Son of a bitch!" Jack muttered under his breath, loud enough for the boy to hear.
The boy recoiled in surprise, then cautiously asked, "Are you my long-lost father?" His expression softened, mimicking the longing of someone who had found a long-lost family member.
"What?" Jack was taken aback.
The young boy approached Jack and whispered, "You know, my mother was a prostitute, not many people are aware. Did you happen to engage her services about 15 years and 9 months ago? Her name was Helena, quite the stunner back then. I'm 15 today, today is my birthday. Maybe I'm your missing son!"
"..."
The young boy stared at Jack intensely. "I'm starting to feel like you really are my father. Dad..."
"Enough." Jack shook his head and pulled out $50, which the young boy promptly snatched. "You know what to do, right?"
"Easy, man. I've been doing this since you were still wet behind the ears. Relax, I'm a professional. No need to teach a fish how to swim, you'll only embarrass yourself," the young boy said, counting the money before shoving it into his dirty pocket. His face quickly brightened again.
Jack sighed. He was forty years old, and this damn kid was only fifteen. When he was a baby, this kid was nowhere in sight. Yet his audacity knew no bounds.
"You're to make your move in the next 20 minutes," Jack said, noting the young boy's outstretched hand. "What?"
"A watch, obviously. How am I supposed to know the exact time without one?" the young boy insisted, his eyes locked onto Jack's wristwatch.
"But you had your own watch this morning," Jack remembered. It was an expensive piece that had caught his eye.
"I buried it at the edge of the jungle before we came in," the boy confessed, now meeting Jack's gaze.
"Why would you do that?" Jack was perplexed.
"So I could get a new one from you," the young boy flashed a sly grin. "Or do you want me to use my astounding counting skills? 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 8, 20, 60 seconds. 1 minute. I'll count up to 20 minutes," he said, counting on his dirty fingers.
"Dave, give him your watch," Jack ordered one of his subordinates. "The sooner we're done with this little devil, the better. He'll rob us blind!"
"But boss?" A short mercenary protested, reluctant to part with his timepiece.
"I'll buy you a new one after this," Jack assured him quickly.
"But it was a gift from my mom," he said, looking distressed.
"You can take it back from the kid when he dies."
"But it'll bring bad luck!" he whined.
"Here, take this one," a tall mercenary offered, unclasping his watch from his wrist and passing it to Jack. "Just make sure you buy me a new one."
"Deal," the young boy said instantly, plucking the watch from Jack's hand. His eyes sparkled with delight. "Rolex. Not a bad choice!"
"20 minutes from now," Jack said tersely, motioning his mercenaries to move. They left the young boy standing alone.
"That damn kid," Jack muttered, shaking his head. "His fee for being cannon fodder is $20 and he says 'not bad' to a Rolex!"
"I can hear you!" the young boy's voice echoed from behind them, close enough to be heard without shouting. "My pay might be less than yours, but my dreams are bigger!"
Jack and his mercenaries ignored him and continued their march.
"Boss, that kid reminds me of your wife. She also has big dreams," Dave said, trying to stifle a laugh. "Despite your low salary, she keeps buying branded stuff."
Jack's face turned grim.
***
Eighteen agonizing minutes later, the young boy found himself nestled behind the gnarled trunk of an ancient oak tree. With every shallow breath, he could feel the gritty texture of the bark against his back, and the moist earth beneath him. His small hands were clenched tightly around the cold, metal frame of his AK-47, the gun seeming foreign and heavy in his hands.
He shut his eyes tightly, murmuring a fervent prayer under his breath, "Dear God, when men pick up guns, they make the choice to kill or be killed. If I take a life of those who have willingly embraced this fate, let their sins of dying be theirs alone. I'm but a child, so young, so innocent, not yet of age. Let me bear no sins for my actions today. Instead, let the burden fall upon the shoulders of my departed parents. Amen."
'They're already consigned to hell, forever. Adding a little time to forever makes no difference.'
His heart pounded in his chest, reverberating through his very soul. A lone soldier, a silhouette against the dimming dusk, methodically patrolled the periphery of the wooden camp. His body moved with a mechanical precision, his footsteps muffled by the forest floor.
"I don't want to kill anyone... I'm weary of all this death," he whispered into the heavy silence, his voice trembling. He took aim, his finger slowly squeezing the trigger.
"kill or be killed!"
The silence of the forest was shattered by the deafening explosion of the gunshot, a sound that echoed ominously through the dense undergrowth. The bullet tore through the air, its deadly path unerring, and burrowed itself into the soldier's skull, snuffing out his life in an instant. His body crumpled, falling heavily onto the forest floor.
"Under attack! We're under attack!" The alarmed shouts of the other soldiers pierced the chaos, their voices filled with fear and determination. They scrambled to their feet, hastily retrieving their weapons and returning fire. Bullets sprayed in every direction, peppering the tree behind which the young boy hid, wood splinters flying into the air from the force of their impact.
***
"It's begun!" Jack announced, observing the chaos at the camp through his binoculars from a hidden location. "Do your job well, kid. Draw more guards before you drop."
"How's the kid doing?" Dave asked.
"He's holding up pretty well. He's taken out three soldiers and is still firing. He certainly knows his job." Jack flashed a broad grin. "It's time to strike them from behind. Get ready."
***
"Cease fire!" the leader of the soldiers commanded, noticing that no more shots were coming from the thick tree. He gestured towards one of his soldiers. "You, lob a grenade there!"
"Sir!" The soldier quickly pulled the pin from his grenade and hurled it at the thick tree. The explosion shook the ground, and the massive tree came crashing down.
"You, you, and you - go check it out!" the leader commanded. But before the soldiers could move, a sudden volley of gunfire erupted from their rear.
"Ambush! The enemy is behind us!" cried a soldier, his warning cut short as bullets tore through him. The soldiers were completely exposed and unprepared for the assault from the rear. Within a few minutes, all of them were down.
Jack and his mercenaries cautiously advanced into the camp, firing additional rounds into the fallen soldiers to ensure none were playing dead.
"Hold your fire!" Jack commanded, scanning the area. Seeing no sign of the young boy who was supposed to be their cannon fodder, he ordered his men to search the wooden camp. "Tom, go find that kid. If he's still alive, finish him. We can't leave any loose ends."
"Roger that." Tom sprinted off into the jungle, towards the spot where they'd left the young boy.
Jack waited several minutes before Tom returned with the boy's weapon, an AK-47. "Sir, I found his gun and traces of blood around the area. It looks like he took some hits, dropped his weapon, and ran. There's a blood trail leading into the bushes. Should I follow it?"
Jack thought for a moment. "No need. We can track him down when we come back. Injured and unarmed, he won't get far. In the meantime, grab everything you can find. We leave in 15 minutes."
"Yes, Sir."
After 15 minutes, under Jack's orders, the mercenaries exited the camp, their backpacks bulging with loot. Their faces were beaming with satisfaction.
An hour later, the young boy emerged at the wooden camp, miraculously unharmed. He rifled through whatever the mercenaries had left behind. "You take the meat, I'll have the soup and gnaw the bones."
He picked pockets of the dead, gathered their weapons, and seized anything he could. His filthy backpack quickly filled up. When he spotted his own gun, he chuckled. "I'm a professional, man. How long do you think I've been playing guide and bullet fodder? Every mercenary I've led tried to kill me. You guys forced me to carry fake blood packs everywhere I go just to throw you off my trail."
"Ah, I suspected as much," came Jack's measured voice. The young boy was taken aback to see Jack standing just 5 meters in front of him. An icy chill ran down his spine, rendering his body rigid.
"I'd been lying in wait behind the door for you, kid," Jack said, his dangerous smile bared as he leveled his handgun at the young boy's head. "What kept you so long?"
"How did you know I'd come back?" The young boy's face blanched, his body immobilized with fear.
"I shelled out $500 to your boss for your dossier. I was well aware of your habit of scavenging after the mercenaries you've guided. Don't cast the blame on me, your boss is the one who sold you down the river."
"That rotten swine! I'll make him pay when I get back!" The young boy swore under his breath.
"No need for that, I took him out this morning before we set off. You should be thanking me," Jack responded with a cold, grim smile.
"Please, don't kill me. I swear to god, I won't breathe a word of this to anyone. No one will know you were here or what you took. Even if the American military tortures me, I won't spill anything about you and your comrades. They won't have any clue you guys have gone AWOL."
"How did you figure out we're AWOL?" Jack questioned, taken aback.
"Dude, trust me. I've guided a fair share of AWOL soldiers pretending to be mercenaries, all in it for their own gains in this godforsaken war. I'm a professional. I take my client's secrets to the grave," the young boy pleaded earnestly.
"Unfortunately, only a dead man can truly keep a secret. Goodbye." Jack aimed his handgun and pulled the trigger.
In a split-second, the young boy hurled a small knife towards Jack, aiming for his neck. At that very moment, everything seemed to lose its reality. Jack's movements slowed down, almost to a standstill.
Now, the young boy could see a bullet suspended in mid-air, mere inches away from his forehead. His small knife too, was hovering in the air, just a couple of meters away from Jack's neck.
He himself was frozen in place, but his mind was racing. What was happening?
Had they been frozen in time? No, it was as if time itself had ceased to tick.
