Shootout at the Baghdad Cafe by Bill Johnson

Tugging at his father's flowing robe, the young Arabic child turned his tear stained face upwards as he watched his father's first born son climb into the camouflaged troop carrier, which headed for the dusty horizon. He waved until they disappeared, wondering if he would ever see his big brother again. His father grabbed his tiny hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Why must he go father? And what did he mean when he said it was okay...it's a just war?"

"He means my son that it is a war between just people and unjust people."
"I still don't understand. He might be killed. How can that be just?"
"Let me tell you the story about what happened when I was your age. My father told it to me, and all fathers since have passed on the story."
The two sat on the scrubby grass under an antique olive tree and he began to tell his story.
"It all began near the end of the twentieth century..."
"Is it a true story father?"
"As far as I know. But true or not, I think it explains some of the things which happened."
"It seems it was decided after months of the cruelest kind of destruction, the nations of the world suddenly came to their senses and demanded a new way to resolve the conflict. They decided their new way, which was really an old way, would end this insanity.
"Stretching to the horizon on both sides of the small Arabian water hole, called,"The Baghdad Café", were thousands of warriors gathered for what the media had termed, "Little Armageddon". Under the agreement of the United Nations, the leaders of the two fighting forces would meet in a test of champions.
"First through the swinging doors, dressed in black, was the tall slim dude from Texas, "Read-My-Lips" Bush. Glancing towards his saddle buddy Jimbo Baker he acknowledged his presence with a slight tip of the finger. Despite the 130 degree desert heat, the man in black was cool.
"Suddenly the blinding brilliant white of a waving Arab cloak, cleared the swinging doors, as "Hard Rock Hussein, The Butcher of Baghdad", made his entrance, to the cheering roars of countless survivors. Bowing deeply to the east he provoked another tumultuous rumbling.
"Refusing to shake hands, the combatants positioned themselves on each side of King Saud who had been selected to toss the coin to determine who would have to face the sun when the countdown started. Winning the toss, the man in white started down the dusty road with his aide who was carrying a rolled up bundle under his arm. When they were several paces apart, the aide unrolled a brightly patterned rug on the sand and his leader fell to his knees.
"I don't get it," said Bush. "What the hell is that all about?"
"He's gettin' ready to pray."
"Pray! You outa' your mind? It's too late for prayer."
"He's askin' God to give him the strength to cream you."
"Why that miserable son of a camel driver! Doesn't he know God's on our side?...Get outa' my way. One shot. That's all I need. Let me send the creep straight to hell."
"You can't shoot him while he's prayin' George."
"Who says I can't?"
"We're on TV George. The whole world is watching."
Bush checked his weapon as Saddam got back to his feet. An Iraqi with a bull horn started the countdown in Arabic first and then translated into English. Bush was certain Saddam would screw up trying to quick draw an Uzzi through all that fabric. He stood confidently in his form hugging Levis, a champion through and through.
Saddam fired first. Bush had forgotten about the time delay in the translation. The shell caught him just below the left shoulder, and as he fell, he squeezed off five automatic rounds, smashing the windows in the café. A deep red stain oozed out from under his shoulder as he lay face down in the sand.
"Did I get the sonofa...?"
Baker hesitated.
"I asked you a question Jimbo. Was God on our side?'
That was all he said. Baker trembled as he tried to read his lips, but there was nothing. The world wondered and forever asked, "Was God on his side?"
When the story was finished the boy asked,"Did the man called Bush die?"
"No. He was never the same after that. In fact as strange as it may seem, he had a son called George W. who vowed he would avenge his father's shame, and he convinced many countries that the monster Saddam had to be found and destroyed. In time he was discovered living underground in a body tight spider hole. In time, everything works out."
"Why after all that fighting, and killing, are we still doing it?"
"It's what men do my son."
"But why father?"
"I wish I knew."

You realize of course I may have taken advantage of my poetic freedom to fabricate some of the details in my story. {Read-my-lips} George wasn't wearing skin tight jeans. Watch for more. They let me out now on weekends.

View the original art and biography of William James Johnson at www.noozoon.com