Midnight came quickly for Marty.
He sat at the edge of his bed and, alone with his thoughts, wondered what the night would bring. The call had come earlier that day; he was needed. And despite his reservations, Marty honored his obligations.
His story was simple: a childhood of lower-class yearning, a failure at school, a disappointment to his parents. Rebellious, it was no suprise that he latched on to an eccentric with wild ideas and even wilder causes.
People hated Marty’s new friend and frequently took him aside to warn of his “dangerous” ideologies of hate. “He’s a real nut case,” they spat. “Hang around with him and you are going to end up in big trouble.” Marty cared little, choosing to roam the streets running errands and doing favors. He seldom asked questions; he learned long ago that the answers were never worth it.
But tonight was different. Tonight he was going to assist in a radical experiment. He’d never engendered this level of trust before, and even though it required breaking the law and heading out on foot to a destination miles away, he did so.
After all, the Doc needed him.
· · · · ·
Insanity had long been an adjective associated with the Doc. Associates shunned him, neigbors feared him. Tonight, though, years of careful planning would pay off. The world would never be the same.
He had arranged a connection with the Libyans months before. They wanted a bomb and he was happy to oblige them — all that was needed was the plutonium. Not the weapons-grade kind world leaders raged against during their weekly posturing, no. Enriched uranium suitable for a power plant would be more than adequate to get the job done. He’d made it happen — and he’d kept a little for himself in the process.
Any destruction tonight would be tightly controlled. And even though Allah revered all life, the doctor would subject his dog to the ultimate test first. Nothing could be left to chance.
· · · · ·
The surveillance device was working perfectly — and the conversation overheard was unbelievable.
“Uh, plutonium? Wait a minute — are you telling me that this sucker’s nuclear?”
“No no no no, this sucker’s electrical. But I need a nuclear reaction to generate the one-point-twenty-one gigawatts of electricity that I need.”
“You don’t just walk into a store and ask for plutonium. Did you rip this off?”
The reply was frank. “Of course. From a group of Libyan Nationalists. They wanted me to build them a bomb, so I took their plutonium and –”
Static filled the surveillance team’s ears. “Get it back! What did he say?!” Team Leader yelled. He pounded on the transceiver until dialogue crackled to life again.
“Let’s get you into a radiation suit, we must prepare to reload.”
Team Leader’s eyes widened as he whispered into his headset. “My God. Delta formation, move to strike immediately.”
· · · · ·
“Watch this. Not me, the car, the car.”
Marty stood in the middle of the parking lot as Doc’s experiment roared toward them. A remote controlled car? he thought to himself.
The car sped up. Marty blanched but Doc held him fast. You’re a part of this until the end, his grip said.
The car beared down on them, racing, speeding. Smoke poured from the car. This is the end, Marty thought. My only friend, the end.
The ensuing explosion rattled windows in a two-mile radius. A huge release of energy, light and sound. Fire, devastation, fear, yet Doc’s reaction was to jump around and yell in excitement. And why not? His plan was a success. A success Marty realized he could not be a part of anymore.
Unfortunately, that was the precise moment Doc’s Libyan benefactors decided they wanted the excess plutonium for their own political agenda.
· · · · ·
Team Leader’s jaw went slack. “Libyans! Get in there and mop up now!”
He shut off the intercom and raced towards the source of the gunfire, panting and gasping for air in his mad dash. He grabbed for his courage and slammed open the door with his shoulder. He’d found the serpent’s nest.
Inside the room lay two young women, completely oblivious to the danger around them. “Barbara, Jenna, for God’s sake get dressed! Al Qaeda is nearby!”
The brunette turned to Team Leader in revulsion. “Daddy, what are you talking about? We’re watching Back to the Future on TBS.”
“The Superstation?!”
“Daddy,” the blonde said, “you do know that television isn’t real, right?” She looked the President of the United States up and down. “Daddy, have you been drinking again?”
And George W. Bush quickly tucked his bottle of Jack Daniels under his arm and walked out of his daughter’s room, chagrined but confident his eavesdropping had foiled another attack on American freedom.
· · · · ·
People twist the truth all the time. It’s how a light-hearted comedy can morph into something out of a training film for terrorists, or how President Bush can pluck an Al Qaeda bust in 2002 from the ether. Does he honestly expect us to believe his sordid affair of spying on fellow Americans netted anything besides confidental business information?
I would imagine that, had his intrusion into American privacy uncovered a terror plot four years ago, it would have made front page news immediately instead of sitting on the back burner. Why is it that we’re just now hearing about a threat to downtown L.A.’s beautiful Library — not Liberty — Tower? Could it be because the terror attack is as fictional as Marty McFly’s foray into 1955 Hill Valley?
While both stories are hilarious when put in their proper context, assurances that wiretapping and listening for phone calls from Al Qaeda did anything except benefit the war on America’s psyche is a story fit for a Hollywood film. A film like, perhaps, Wag the Dog. Check it out — it did what few could only hope to achieve in terms of mopping up a scandal.
And next time, try to remember this: terrorists aren’t using the Internet or land lines to pass the booga booga. They are, after all, much smarter than that.
