Blaine Hussein shoveled a tiny chasm into the earth of Gloryland National Park in Gloryland, Maine.
He was on a two-week vacation from the security company he worked for. He worked forty-two weeks out of the year. Most other weeks he took long trips to national parks, famous monuments, and aquariums with especially good reputations so he could see and experience the great country he lived in. He was barely ever home.
His security company, RSA Inc., stationed him in a country his home country was at war with. The country was called Barack. He liked Barack because he liked to bird there. The work he did for his company did not appeal to him much, but since his country’s army trained him to comfortably and effectively engage in sophisticated and modern combat and pre-combat scenarios, it was fairly easy for him and didn’t often affect his mood.
Most days, he stood on a clay roof in Samarra. It was a good place to bird. There was the obvious advantage of the height, but also he was stationed on the outskirts of the city where there were less people to scare the birds away.
***
It turns out some of his company’s administrators paid money to the government of Barack to repay them for the deaths of sixty-seven of that country’s civilians. The civilians were killed one morning in about thirty seconds.
The village was crowded and bustling. Twelve RSAs crouched on a roof where they could survey the town and make sure everything was happening the way it was supposed to. They didn’t really know how things were supposed to happen, but they pretended they did. They were convincing pretenders. This was their stealthiest skill.
They had a clear view of a busy street. There was a lot of buying and selling happening. Keeping close watch, they gripped their automatic rifles and eyed the activity below. The head of the crew, Merrick, a Jest Point grad who after being dishonorably discharged immediately joined RSA, ran his finger across the frayed and bent brim of his baseball cap. Oddly, this cap had the logo of a football team, the Maritoba Vikings, embroidered on its face. The simple irony of this struck one of his subordinates at the moment of Merrick’s gesture. It did not sway his poise. They were one. They all ducked low and pointed their rifles toward the street and stared down the barrels, squinting.
A scuffle broke out between a teen-aged boy and an old man who ran a stand that sold fruit. The boy grabbed three pomegranates and started to run. He dropped one in front of him and stepped on it. The slip added to his inertia, pushing him toward a crowd. He tracked the crimson juice for his next three steps, just before he fell. The old man yelled something the RSAs heard but did not understand. Merrick made a loud noise they heard and understood. It was an order.
The government of Barack found that there was no viable reason for the massacre. They threatened to tell the RSA's home country, which would probably cost them their contract and get them into a heap of trouble with the 'people of their country'. RSA offered them one million dollars to keep quiet about the deaths, and the Baracki government accepted.
***
Months later, everyone on the planet learned about the deal. While Blaine Hussein camped in Gloryland, RSA lost its contract.
***
Blaine Hussein squatted over the chasm. Then he refilled it with the same dirt he dug out earlier, which he’d piled strategically next to the hole.
