SAMPLE CIA WAR MEMOIRS
By David T.
Edited by Karen S. Cole
“Politicians: little tin gods on wheels.” – Rudyard Kipling
THE LAST WALK – for CIA War Memoirs
Thoughts were racing through Tony’s mind. As always, he recalled how far he’d come since those early days. And he’d been on the shores of the Columbia River. What had only been an inspired idea had taken place. He had won the election – and nothing would be the same. In addition, he could not understand why John was changing course – now that the victory was achieved. Was his mind a time stream, a sort of river like his?
The tin gods were defeated at their own games. The people had chosen not to throw their vote away. It was a quiet revolution, but too Spartan. Tony knew this only to himself – as John raised his voice louder and louder. Beforehand, Tony glanced at the red fuzz inches away from his feet.
“You cannot do this, Tony!” John belted out. His body jerked with vehement anger. “It was only to get elected. Not reality; it is only a book, Tony!” John was getting hotter by the second. Would this make any great CIA war memoirs? Not necessarily, however I died before I wrote them. Tony and John both guessed it.
But Tony knew otherwise, as it was more than a book; it was the future, it was providence, and it was the destiny of man. This was man’s beehive – and the course must be stayed. The people, they deserve better, Tony thought. They had accepted disappointment – and thus were worthy of success. The book was to be a key component of wealth and honor.
Outside the oval room, people could be heard. And inside as well.
Tony could feel the crowd building in chanting outside the building. It was a deafening roar, blowing ill winds – more like a rock concert than a political victory celebration: “Providence, Providence, PROVIDENCE!!!”
Over and over, louder and louder. As the hairs on his neck stood up, Tony felt a feeling of despair grip his body. He had won the election – and winning now meant actions had to be taken. Was he up to this perceived fate? Or was it only a mere book? Meanwhile, John was turning blue around the gills as he yelled.
Ignoring John’s rant, Tony turned to walk down the long hall of his estate to greet the thousands who had gathered throughout the night. Never had such a lopsided victory taken place.
This is an ode to CIA war memoirs. Very few of them ever made it back home. Period.
Certainly his foot pressed into the rose red carpet. Tony felt his entire body sink into the floor. And this was as if he suddenly had tripled in weight. He thought to himself, “This long hall, the red-stained wood panel walls, even the rose red carpet – I have seen this moment before.” He suddenly knew this was the end, one that he had described so many years back – when he was first inspired to write this…great book. One that had slowly revealed itself.
As fear began to claw into Tony’s heart, and his muscles began to tighten at what was to come, the words came into his mind. “Fear not, I am with thee.” Tony knew what must be done – and as the fear was replaced with relief, he turned around.
“This is the end – so this is it, it is finally over,” Tony thought.
He daydreamed of his daughter, partly because she was so beautiful. He would miss her much. Images of sweet Diana – his wife – began to flash through his head, as he knew she was always his best friend. “I love them,” he thought. “In a way, they almost belonged to me.”
He could see those closest to him. Only moments ago, they seemed to have been arguing with John. But they all jumped back in disbelief – somewhere in the back of his mind – as John pulled out the 9MM Blackhawk pistol. Suddenly, he himself was the center of attention. He had only been yelling before. Now he really meant business.
John’s hand trembled slightly at the weight of the hefty gun. Was there any point to firing it? Maybe it wasn’t the gun. It could be the idea that there was no turning back, he disgruntledly mused.
Damn it Tony, why wouldn’t you listen? Politics are not about providence and destiny, John thought. Politics are about keeping people in their place. He continued – as if he was convincing himself of the incredibly weighty nature of the matter. And do CIA war memoirs count for anything? Or really?
Tony could see the despair John faced, and could only imagine the battle that was raging within him about what he was doing.
For you see, Tony had known that a “tin god operative” had infiltrated his inner circle, but he had never imagined it to be John. It did not surprise him much, as his colleague had always seemed to be a bit of a traditionalist. He was always telling him how to do things.
The future is about Providence, but not tradition, Tony thought.
The words of Franklin Delano Roosevelt ran through his thoughts: “All we have to fear is fear itself…” as he set his right foot down and stepped towards John – in what he had known long ago would be his last walk.
“How can he look so calm?” John almost simpered. But he collected himself and fired. He pulled the trigger, but he could hear a loud gasp. It seemed to come from the gun as it WHOOMPHED. As the bullet lifted Tony into the air, spinning him around like a rag doll, they both could see that the doors were wide open – and the entire crowd had witnessed the non-event. You can’t get away with anything like CIA war memoirs in life, you know.
Tony’s head ripped sharp back – and his body spun through the air, wheeling, falling, tragically splitting and landing upon the ground lifeless. It seemed to pound it briefly, for about ten seconds.
Joyful celebration outside – and yet abruptly screeched dead silent.
How sad, John mused. How very, very sad. His “friend” spouted a tiny fountain, whittled down to a meaningless puddle of purple.
This, he sighed – as the crowd heard the thunder of one gun echo out forever into the world. It was as if the echo was the voice of Tony. And yet it was almost his buddy, crying out one last time for change, for action, and for providence. Or Providence? Even in his death, he was so much larger than life. He had fulfilled what he wrote, what he said, and what he believed. This book was more than a just book; it was self-fulfilled prophecy.
“It was all true!” one person screamed at lungs’ end.
“Revolution!” another briefly countered. This was as the crowd stormed into the carpeted red country estate. And it was lifting Tony’s lifeless, still spouting body. But it had to be upon their moving, restlessly black and shifting – shoulders.
As John felt his none too small arms crushed under the weight of the heavy-set officer cuffing him, he watched in disbelief at what was occurring. The “tin gods” were wrong about this, he knew. For it was more than a momentary social emotion.
Tony really was now the complete embodiment of what the people felt and believed. Despair gripped John’s soul – and he knew that this was not the end; it was only “Just Providence” beginning.