Find Love in a Disco

The Terrorist wants to find love he tells me. The Terrorist sleeps eats defecates in bunkers caves safe houses at the local bar. Sometimes I think it is just about the sex. The Terrorist is not PC. Chicks are chicks & dudes are dudes. I am sure he has a list somewhere of old conquests. I think he rates them one to ten. He carries a stack of VHS tapes around in a shopping bag. His two favorite Stars are Peter North & Kip Noll. Milk gives him the shits. From the mountaintop he telephones the boys and tells them that he loves them and soon they will be in Heaven together. The telephone calls are long and instructive and he is tender and loving. The Terrorist prohibits lonely masturbation but group masturbation is permitted. The Terrorist loves Pumping Iron with a passion. Being deaf the Terrorist tolerates loud music but forbids dancing unless the dancing is a form of terrorism. The Terrorist cries at night when the sky is unblemished and the moon is shimmering and the stars are blinking and all are impassive to death and destruction because he is lonely and he just wants to be loved. The Terrorist is always five hundred and fifty-three feet behind the suicide bomber. The Terrorist is there to pick up the pieces and to create his own monster. The arm has to be muscular and the leg to be slender and the torso to be Michelangeloan. The Terrorist just wants somebody to hold his hand, to whisper sweet nothings, to kiss him, to tell him that everything is wonderful. The Terrorist has a SS haircut. The Terrorist likes to parade and sing songs. The Terrorist dresses like a British Lord. ‘At eighteen hundred hours we will shower but not together,’ says the Terrorist, ‘and you will order a taxi for nineteen hundred hours while waiting we will ready ourselves which means clean under the armpits and then we will jump in the taxi and at twenty hundred hours we will enter the Fascist Disco and there I will find love pure love.’ I say ‘you hate discos.’ The Terrorist says, ‘I am ninety nine percent certain I will find love after all we are white and pure and God Loves.’  

B. K. Anderson