Chapter 30. Can't get you out of my brain.
I spent all day Sunday thinking about Luis, his body, and his flawless baby soft skin and youthful beauty. Too bad I didn't take pictures (it was too dark), all I had left were memories of him naked and melting deeper into my sofa cushions. His dick proudly pointed at the ceiling, erect and ready. His boner was unusually long, he was easily an inch longer than Dan and just as big around. He was at least two inches longer than me. Despite all those physical assets he looked embarrassed as he pulled his t-shirt off. I guess that just shows you that having a seven inch boner won't always make you happy and confident.
When Luis relaxed naked on my sofa he actually looked like he melted into the cushions, he sunk very low. It was almost funny. His dick stuck up like some kind of rescue flag asking for help, he was going down ass first and had nobody to save him. He had his eyes closed and a relaxed look on his face, but the room was very dark. Dan has been in that exact same spot with a similar boner pointed at the same spot on the ceiling. They all know what's coming: professional extraction of a large load of semen, ready or not! It was hard not to think about that sight all damn day!
I did laundry and scrubbed my bathroom with the music cranked to distract myself from non-stop mental replays of last night. It was a struggle to focus on anything other than last night. My obsessive brain sometimes becomes its own little prison. I was born in Texas to a family with little time for a special needs child. Autism was my big secret and it's cost me several friendships. Yes, some people actually turned away and never spoke to me again. Dan was indifferent, but his father was a head shrinker so he probably knew more than most kids what the A-word actually meant. He was more concerned about actual behaviors than names from the DSM.
One time I was at a party in college and was talking to someone I thought was gay, he asked why I was so nerdy so I told him bluntly I was born with autism. He got really quiet and got up to get another beer but never came back. In fact he left the party and never spoke to me again. We had two classes together that semester and he even changed his seat assignment.
A lot of people only know autism from Special Ed classes in middle school, or characters in movies. Perhaps they are right to not want to get involved. But let me say there is an enormous difference between a 5 year old with Autism and a 28 year old with autism. And something else is kind of sad but I bet in the USA alone there are at least half a million people with autism that were never diagnosed struggling through life never understanding why they sucked at so many basic skills and why life was always such a struggle.
.
I kept reaching for my dick and rubbing my nipples all day but Little Alex kept saying, `not today honey, I need more time off to re-load.' I suppose that's a good thing when your dick needs all day Sunday and Monday to recover from Saturday night, right? I think that means the little guy is happy and well fed. I've often fantasized about having a dick pleasure slave for an entire weekend but now I'm not sure Little Alex could keep up. Maybe God put me on Earth to be more of a provider than a recipient. That's fine with me because there is little else I love as much as having boner in my mouth.
Yet when Luis and I parted I sensed I'd done something wrong. I did my best to give him a record breaking orgasm, I mean the way to a man's heart is through his dick, right? It surprised me how willing he was to do everything I suggested, we even walked behind a darkened cafe to make out and he never once said: ENOUGH!!
It's been about 4 months since the last time I heard from Patrik, my friend from Christian University in Lubbock Texas. I forgot his contact information so I went back through my daily notebook. I buy these little leather covered notebooks with stitched-in pages that Amazon sells and I make one entry per-day. Anytime I contact someone who might become a friend I write down contact information so I went back through my previous notebook in search of the day Patrik walked alone into my office and explained himself. I remember some of what he said. It took a while, especially because my handwriting sucks. I located the page where he told me about his university in Lubbock, and his major (Sociology), I called the campus from my fax phone so it might show State Department in Tangier Morocco on their caller ID screen. It took a while but I spoke to his advisor and identified myself and my reason for calling.
"My name is Alex Ellis, I am a US State Department agent, and I manage a satellite office in Tangier Morocco. A young man came into my office about 9 months ago and identified himself as a student working on his Master's in Sociology at your school. He contacted me so he had at least one friendly American contact in Morocco, someone to check-in with regularly for his safety. But I have not heard from him in months and his cell phone account is closed. All I wanted to know is if he has turned in his weekly reports lately and if he is okay."
"Mister Ellis, I cannot release any information about any student...."
I immediately interrupted her, "You didn't hear anything I said. Let me re-state what I said. All I want to know is if he has been in contact with the university recently, and seems to be alive and well."
"Mister Ellis, like I said I cannot release" and I interrupted her again.
"Can you hear me okay? I know this is a long distance call across the ocean, but are you able to understand every word I say?"
"Yes sir, I can hear you fine."
Then I started speaking very slowly, one word at a time. "I. Am. Not. Asking. For. Personal. Information. About. Patrik. He. Told. Me. He. Is. Required. To. Send. In. Weekly. Reports. All. I. Need. To. Know. Is. If. You. Have. Heard. From. Him. Recently. In. And. I'll. Repeat: I. Am. Not. Asking. For. Or. Want. Any. Personal. Information. About. Him."
"Yes, his last report was five days ago, everything was normal. He is currently in Tiznit Morocco."
"Thank you, that's all I need to know. Good day to you." And I hung up the fax phone before she had time to parrot more scripted BS again. It just sickens me talking to people like that, they just do not listen to anything people say. She probably recited the exact same speech a dozen times a day.
During the next week I talked to Dan every day. On Monday he spent $480 at the hardware store and bought every can of white exterior house paint they had. I had a mental image of him using a chalk line to outline the marks I wanted and painted them with a roller and a pan full of white paint. What I wanted was a bright white triangle 29x29x29 ft at both ends of the runway, but paint the west-end first. It seems everything about our runway will be non-standard so the markings should also be non-standard but understandable to everyone. Every pilot will understand the landing zone markings and the threshold marker. Those two things say: this is the end of the pavement, and this is where your wheels should touch.
It occurred to me we never actually measured the compass heading of the runway but my best guess was it sat at 250 to 70 degrees. But I strongly advised not painting compass heading numbers on it, because that would be an invitation for strangers to land and discover they were trapped with no fuel or services, not even a toilet or garden hose to drink from. I told him sooner or later local pilots would drive over and say hello. I suggested he make a sign for the end of his driveway to help people locate him. I also suggested he adopt the name: Danville Airport. I'm not sure if Danville could even be said in Arabic, I'm not sure if the vowel sounds of a hard D and an N and V are even in their alphabet. They can probably come close. I think the ancient Egyptians might have pronounced it: Dnvul because they really didn't have vowels. Imagine saying common words and names with all the vowels left out. My name would be Alkss in ancient Egyptian. I think Arabic was derived from ancient Egyptian but I could be wrong.
During the week we also discussed LED solar lighting along the sides just in case. Stores sell walkway lighting for outdoor patios that he could just press into the rocks along each side, one LED on each side every 1200 feet. They might work for an emergency landing late at night, six tiny blue spots of light all night long at no cost. They wouldn't be visible very far.
I also asked him to paint numbers on the runway (along the north edge) at 100 ft intervals to mark 500, 400, 300, 200, 100 feet to the east end, only paint the first digit. I knew at this airport the runway was too short to take off with a full tank or passengers (in the Citation). Dan texted me that he spent all day Wednesday on his hands and knees on the hot asphalt runway painting the marks I wanted.
I pictured him wearing jeans and shoes but no shirt, down on his hands and knees on the runway painting white house paint with a roller, with his hairless pale white butt crack showing the entire time. The way his body is shaped his jeans often slide down unless he wore a belt or suspenders. It's like he cannot tell when his butt crack is exposed, I certainly can. He'll end up with a rather unusual sunburn on his ass. And while he is on his hands and knees painting the runway he'll need to keep a close eye out for approaching snakes.
I know for sure he definitely does not want to be bitten by that one gay snake, just in case he might catch gay from the Puff Adder instead of toxic venom. I pictured him painting the triangle and the LZ box with the pellet rifle always within reach, gradually getting more and more white paint on one side! I'm going to make a point of looking at it on my next visit.
I was going to ask but decided not to ask about lizards and paint, how many were trapped alive in the paint as he went. They get into everything including the roller pan full of white exterior house paint. He said he doesn't care about lizards outside but inside the house they are trespassing but they are nearly impossible to catch. They move to fast to catch by hand unless then drop from the ceiling and land on your arm. The only way to catch them inside is by using sticky fly strips. He mounted one near every ceiling lamp fixture because that's usually where they hang out waiting for flying bugs to go by too close.
He texted me a photo of his truck parked in the hangar near the Citation. It looked like he swept the entire floor inside the hangar, which would take hours to do by hand with a push broom because it's a pretty big floor.
Dan said he also went online and updated the listing for his airport on the international database and listed Danville as PPR (prior permission required to land). And he never listed the headings but he added the length and width and directional restrictions and it was only for daytime use, no services, private, historical, and it might be used for drone competitions (which pilots would not be able to see during a landing).
People say a thirty foot wide runway is too narrow, but these local pilots are used to landing on dirt roads, and those tend to only be 12-16 feet across, the runway is 30 feet wide, plenty wide for the local pilots. And if there is a strong crosswind then the local guys will use a north-south dirt road instead. Crosswind days are rare but they do happen. Thirty feet wide in the states is three traffic lanes and one bicycle lane wide, curb to curb. The wingspan on most of the local crop dusters is about 30 feet or a little less.
One afternoon when it was quiet in my office I did some searching online for a local sign company, like the ones I remembered from Texas, I never saw them here but I had to assume they were around. It was a plastic sign made out of corrugated plastic, like a shipping box made of plastic. Then two cheap steel rods held them in place, like a campaign sign at election time. I could buy him one that maybe said Danville Airport (PVT) and let him place it near the end of his driveway.
On Thursday evening I called Jen (former Cat Lady) and updated her on both of us and the airport.
On Friday at work I got a weird call late in the day from Texas, at first I thought it was a scam caller. It was supposedly a guidance counselor at a Christian University in Lubbock. I called them last month to check if they had heard from Patrik because I stopped hearing from him months ago and the cell number he gave me no longer answers.
They said I was listed as a personal friend, and they required him to turn in weekly report papers and it's been two weeks since last word and none of his contacts in Morocco know anything about him, they considered him missing and notified his parents in Lubbock. I told them I know nothing about his situation but if they hear from him please contact me by phone or email, and I gave them my State Department email address. I almost wished they hadn't contacted me because all I could do now was worry.
On Friday Dan texted me, he'd just had another visitor. Some guy drove over and said he was a pilot and he ran a crop dusting service and saw the runway (from the air) and wanted to find out what was up at the old airport. They parked their butts on lawn chairs in the shade in the old hangar and talked about business for a couple hours. The guy said he was a pilot during the first Gulf War (medical evacuation helicopters for the Red Cross), but now he lived alone and flew his replica biplane on the weekends. Dan said he smelled like body odor but the photos of his biplane looked immaculate.
The guy commented that white triangles are non-standard so Dan defended it by saying everything about the airport was non-standard.
He told Dan there was no place north of the Atlas Mountains to land a small airplane and buy AV-Gas -- they were banned from the commercial airports but they didn't sell AV-Gas anyway. He also gave Dan a gift, he had a thumb drive loaded with HD photos and video of the Danville airport and a runway approach taken from the underside of his plane. Dan copied them to his computer, it was a collection of about 240 overlapping photos, and each shot was about 9mb and were taken with a 20mp video camera mounted under the biplane. It seemed the guy almost landed once, he flew down to 200 feet then up again, he must have filmed on one of the days Dan was waiting in line to fill his Bobcat gas cans.
The man asked about opening the runway for servicing crop dusters. Dan told him his concerns, like liability and responsibility. He explained to him he doesn't even have running water or a public toilet. There is no electricity available on the south side of the runway, no runway lighting or markings, not even a telephone to call for help in case of a fire or other emergency. How can he possibly let people use the runway without basic services?
"So why did you spend all that money to re-pave the runway if you don't want anyone to use it?" He asked Dan.
"Eventually, I might open it after I learn if it's possible to do so without ending up in court or jail for trying to be a nice guy."
"I see your concerns, some are serious. I'll tell you that as a lifelong citizen of Morocco, you do not understand our laws. You are thinking of liability in terms of America, but things here are different. But I want to explain what small independent crop dusters need. We need a place to land and park briefly, maybe 20 minutes. All flyers have a ground team in a pick-up truck. They carry two tanks, one with whatever farm chemical we are applying that day, most of the time it's a liquid. The other tank is AV-Gas. The plane lands and the truck parks beside it and they hand re-fuel and re-load farm chemicals. It takes twenty minutes if they're experienced. After that's done and the pilot has done minor checks on the aircraft, he takes off again and the ground crew truck leaves. Your runway would give us a safe place to do all that, worthy of paying a small fee. Right now we mostly use rural roads and for that we also lose about one airplane a year when they crash into an unseen obstacle beside the road, like a fence post or a tree limb. Plus, if we land on the street we get a police ticket and sometimes we get threats and risk being robbed for blocking the street. Street landings are against the law and very dangerous but it's all we have."
Dan said he asked the man, "What happens if they spill 200 gallons of herbicide on the ground? If that happens it becomes my problem and we share the risk because I was trying to be a nice guy."
"Those things are possible but not likely, in my entire life I never heard of such a thing happening in Morocco." Dan knew that was not necessarily true, and accidents will always happen. He told the pilot there were TV series in the States that play nothing but unanticipated accidents that turned into big problems, so don't try to say it can't happen here, because sooner or later it certainly will and he did not want to be associated with the worst ground water contamination in the history of Morocco.
Dan told him he considered building a few sloped concrete slabs with pits in the middle in case a crew spills, so it can be contained. Each one of those (10mx10m) slabs would cost about $2000E to make. And he said he had no idea if they had wide-tire cement trucks for soft ground construction sites around Tangier, if a cement truck could make it back to that part of the property near the runway. The pilot visitor told him yes, most cement trucks in Morocco have very wide tires for driving on soft ground.
So Dan told him: "...what about this: as an independent pilot you pay an annual membership which includes a security deposit. Then you can land at the airport for ten Euros as much as you want while the sun is up, and you must park on the cement loading area and be gone within 30 minutes or pay another $10e. If there are no available spots you park on the gravel and wait but do not re-fuel or re-load. The ground crew must not leave anything behind when the plane leaves and they must leave the airport immediately. I will provide one Porta-John that will be cleaned twice a month. Anyone trashing the Porta-John will be fired and told never to return to the airport. Spilling on bare ground causes a forfeiture of membership and access to the runway. If for any reason the airplane fails and cannot fly off within 30 minutes it must be moved by their ground crew off the re-loading pad immediately, then there will be a fee to park and the plane will be booted until paid. Any plane left for 30 days will be considered abandoned and sold. All these rules will be printed and handed out in Arabic when they sign the membership agreement.'
Then Dan continued: `...access to re-fueling pads on a first come -- first served basis. No reservations will be accepted, first person to pay in-cash goes first. Any ground grew with multiple planes in the air will have to wait their turn, airplanes will be seen in the order they land and pay in-cash. Any crew who leaks chemicals on the cement service pad must clean up their spill before leaving or they forfeit their security deposit as a clean-up fee. Crews with multiple spills related to carelessness or negligence will be fired for the season.'
The guy asked about the Porta-John rule and Dan explained how some men love trashing inside Porta-Johns, he thinks many times it is caused by them having a penis that is nearly impossible to aim. That is why you often see Porta-Johns that were totally trashed inside. Dan told him each member needed to be able to urinate and poop under good control to use the Porta-John otherwise they may walk to the fence and pee on the weeds. Anyone who sprays diarrhea all around inside the Porta-John and does not clean it all up will be fired. No trash service will be available, each ground crew must remove their own trash. The Porta-John will be video recorded outside daily and inspected after every use. Like old days at gas stations each user must ask for the key and both will inspect the unit before and after use.
The guy explained it could create another business opportunity for the airport to have their own ground crew to refill airplanes. The pilot's ground crew is usually his wife with a young child in the truck in a car seat. If the airport offered an affordable ground crew service the wife could focus on raising their kids instead of re-fueling airplanes. In some cases the crop duster is a small business with multiple planes and it's actually a father with two adult sons flying. Those are the kids that grew up in the ground crew truck. On the weekends he takes his family on pleasure flights and lets the kids take control of the plane so they are exposed to flying once they are about 4-5 years old.
The man offered his hand and they shook, then he asked how long it would take him to build two of those re-loading pads, ten meters square with a catchment in the center. Dan said he'd initially make one and could make another quickly if they had planes waiting in line. They shook hands again and the guy got out his wallet and asked how much for one year but Dan said he had to write the rules and have them translated into Arabic first and run it by the lawyer. He put his wallet away and got in his truck and asked Dan if he could do a few touch and goes on the runway and Dan said as long as it was just him and his airplane and it was done this week, and he agreed Dan was not responsible for anything that might happen, including snakebites. The guy agreed and said they would talk again soon and left in his truck (with two steel tanks and an air compressor in the back).
Despite dumping a huge load of rules on the guy in the airplane they parted with smiles and waves. I don't think Dan was being unreasonable, he wants everyone to treat everyone else with respect and he didn't want his Porta-John to turn into a typical airport bathroom where people routinely trash the room without any sense of guilt.
It sounded like Dan has come up with plan for making money at the airport. He told me he picked a spot beside the runway and started digging a square pit to pour a six inch reinforced concrete slab that sloped down toward the center. He was going to dig it with the Bobcat then place 2x6 boards all the way around, and lay pre-welded reinforcing re-bar across the entire slab and call the concrete truck to pour it and they would smooth the top for an extra fee. It would be a square pad about 30x30 feet and cost about $2100E each. He would start with just one then see how business actually went. He also hired a lawyer to write the agreement in Arabic and Spanish. It is on one sheet of paper he can print at home.
Dan commented to me that in Texas it was common to see people driving trucks with a tool box in back, but here in Morocco it was more common to see steel storage tanks and long rubber hoses coiled up in backs of trucks since farming is such a big industry here. Very few farmers can afford a tractor so they have no choice but to hire crop dusters. They can treat a field with several passes and get the job done in a fraction of the time it would take even with a tractor. They all have to hire someone to harvest and plant their crop too. Some crops can also be planted by air but corn ain't one of them because the seed needs to be pushed underground.
Hell week.
On Monday I got an email from Lubbock Christian University, it was a mass email that said the body of Patrik Rivera was found in a small town in southern Morocco. He will undergo an autopsy in Rabat in a few days and then they will release the findings but it is official, Patrik Rivera is dead, he actually died a few days ago. Relatives were notified. Today, his body is en-route to Rabat.
I felt sick to my stomach when I read that and started to do some of my own investigation motivated by powerful anger. I accessed the Interpol crime database and looked up Patrik by name and date of birth and found a prelim file on his life in Morocco and the investigation of his death. It said Patrik had a couple run-ins with modesty police in the town where he was currently doing his religion survey in far southwestern Morocco, it was a farming town of about 80,000 people, a mostly Islamic population. It said he was arrested for violating the laws of God by entering the Mosque without the proper preparation and was asked to not come back or continue trying to count the number of people attending Friday services. He sat on a public bench across the street with a mechanical hand counter to record how many people entered the building for Friday services. The Interpol report stated a local modesty cop felt he was paying too much attention to their mosque (after being warned) and killed him.
The report indicated they had a suspect in custody but did not expect to file charges until they had the autopsy results. The man Patrik had trouble with was a local (divorced) modesty cop who had been arrested before for beating his wife and teenage daughter. Those were his third and fourth arrests for domestic violence. He was unemployed and the modesty police job was the only one he could get due to his arrest record and history of anger management problems.
The report had initial crime scene photos. Patrik's body was found in a dumpster by the garbage haulers who called city police. His body had what appeared to be stab wounds and defensive wounds to his arms and hands. The initial report said it appeared he bled to death from multiple deep lacerations.
As I read the report and saw the photos of his body in the dumpster my hands shook and I began to cry uncontrollably and I also felt a sense of rage like I doubt I ever felt before. This would not stand, as one of Patrik's best friends I would most certainly track down the perp and end his life just like he did to Patrik. But I also had to wait for the autopsy results to be published by Interpol.
Like a zombie I left my apartment and walked to the store and bought a 12 pack of beer and carried it home and put half of `em in the freezer and set a timer for 40 minutes.
Thirty minutes later I called Jen and told her what happened. She never met Patrik but heard me talk about him, the college kid from Texas. Patrik was a few years older than Luis, and his body was shaped similar manner as Luis, a classic Femboy shape and appearance. Plus Patrik had a sweet boyish face and a slightly smaller boner than Daniel. Patrik was Hispanic and was a native Spanish speaker, but he corrected me once and said, `technically, at home we spoke Spanglish.' I seem to recall once Patrik told me he was more Texan than Hispanic. Mexican culture and language are a big part of normal life in Texas.
On Tuesday I got a copy of the agreement in Spanish that Dan's lawyer wrote for airport users. He said it would indemnify Dan for acts made by pilots, their equipment, and their crews. I read it and thought they got all their bases covered. Dan said he had the pit ready to pour and would have the cement truck deliver later in the week. The steel re-bar panels were due to be delivered tomorrow. He asked if I could come down but I told him I was going out of town.
Three days later the autopsy results were posted by Interpol, it said his cause of death was blood loss (leading to cardiac arrest) from multiple knife wounds on both arms and severed arteries, he had ten stab wounds to the abdomen in the front but none of them were life threatening. It appeared he was slashed then tortured while he bled to death then his body was transported and dumped in a trash dumpster behind a grocery store. They did not know where the murder occurred but it fixed an approximate time and date of six days ago. The report said one man was in custody but claimed he fought with Patrik to defend himself since Patrik appeared to be high on drugs, he slashed his arm twice to try to stop the attack. The report did not explain how the suspect became known to police as being involved in the murder but he was named early on after the body was found. The initial drug screen was negative and cause of death ruled homicide.
Tiznit police were intending on releasing the perp into parole with tracking and holding Patrik responsible for his own murder. But considering the perp's arrest record for fighting and violence, I didn't believe any of it. So I looked up the perp and located his last known address and that of his parents in town. If he was wearing tracking it might be easier to locate him, I was not sure how widespread the use in the injected prison tracking implant chip was in far southern Morocco.
I called Jen and told her what happened and we cried together. It was a rather long phone call, thank God for speaker phone. The perp spoke Arabic only and had the US equivalent of a fifth grade education. It was highly possible he had a drug use related case of mental illness too. The man was an admitted meth user. His name was Lamzah al-Abun, age 34. The perp was 6'3" 210lbs, rather large for a native resident. He was born and raised in Tiznit Morocco. His father also had an arrest record for domestic violence and his mother was deceased.
As I investigated further I learned getting to Tiznit might be complicated, it had no airport or train station, which leaves taking the train to the nearest tow, which is 80 miles away. From the train station you go by bus or car to Tiznit and since the area is isolated because of the desert.
Tiznit is a historic farming city (82k citizens) in the desert about eight miles from the ocean. Parts of the city are walled. Tiznit is approximately 170 miles southwest of Marrakesh. The city is far south in Morocco, it's almost in the disputed area along the border with Western Sahara and Algeria.
In the Interpol records they listed the last known phone number and residence for their suspect, it was a condition of his release that he not leave Tiznit until the matter is resolved, he is sort of on house arrest (with an ankle monitor) until then. I got his address and cell number. I also entered his cell into my State cell tracking app and saw a red dot in a residential block in Tiznit, a section-8 housing block like are all over Tangier and Rabat. While I was reading the police files I also went online and notified my supervisor that I was taking next weekend off to go hiking in the mountains with a friend from the USA. He admonished me to be careful not to get hurt, many areas of rural Morocco have no rescue squads so if you slip and break a leg then the only ones coming to your rescue will be vultures.
It was unclear in the paperwork but it appears Lamzah did not receive a jail tracking implant, which is why he was wearing an ankle monitor. He is allowed limited travel around the city but must not leave the city. I can promise you that he will leave the city when they ship his corpse to Rabat for autopsy!
I had the shakes the rest of the week as I prepared for my trip that weekend. I also described my plan to Daniel and he offered to come, in fact he said we could drive down in his truck but I declined and said I needed to do this alone. Dan was worried about my safety coming up against a dude who was 5-6 inches taller and 40 pounds heavier than me. I told Dan I was not planning on touching him myself, but I did plan on spraying him with the faster acting botulinum.
During my research I discovered there was a large mountain range east of Tiznit and it had lots of trails and small parks, there was rain in the forecast for the mountains this weekend, Saturday and Sunday. I was thinking of kidnapping the perp and taking him at gun point to the mountains and spraying (and stabbing) him and staying there until he was too sick to escape and get medical help. By that point the buzzards would be circling overhead and he knew what was coming.
I started packing and also got myself a suitable plastic tarp, I packed my folding knife, three cans of spray, my pistol, ammo, and a small first aid kit, just in case. I told myself I needed to do this job like Dexter would: do not create any evidence or a crime scene. But my partners were a flock of vultures so there would be a crime scene for a few weeks until they hauled off all his body parts.
During the week I also talked to Jen, she invited me up to Madrid but I told her I was going hiking in southern Morocco this weekend, her response was to call me a liar. So I hung up on her and finished out my week with a constant sense of anxiety and fear about what I was about to do.
I spent time trying to invent a scenario where I could capture Lamzah with minimal risk for injury. I planned on some kind of outdoor ambush at night, maybe a baseball bat crack to the back of the skull to immobilize him then wrestle his body into the trunk of a rental car and drive him into the mountains and tie him to a couple trees and slowly bleed him like he did to Patrik. After that he faced a sky burial. So I'd cut off his clothes and slice open his flesh let the vultures enjoy a big buffet meal with less effort. Lamzah was large enough to feed all the critters. This dude really pissed me off and I was going to avenge Patrik's senseless murder.
I usually don't get hands-on with perps but I think this asshole earned it.
On Friday evening I walked down to the train station and rode overnight and most of the next day down to the city of Agadir, which is on the coast, and it's also the southern end of the line for Moroccan "high speed" rail service. I rented a small car and I also purchased a pint of whiskey, and some snack foods, and bottled water, and took off down the highway, the N1 coastal highway heading south to Tiznit.
The rental car agent was very curious what I was going to do in Tiznit, I suspect she was also a government agent. As you get closer to the southern border you encounter intelligence services and military and everyone is suspect. That is what I was told at the Embassy, another reason why the Ambassador wanted to fly down instead of drive or train to Ghana.
That name Tiznit really annoys me but that demonstrates the language difference between Arabic and English and their cultures, so I forced myself to ignore my brain silently laughing at the name (I assumed Tiznit was someone's last name). The N1 highway is the main highway across Morocco; it's sort of like Route-66 across the States back in the 1940s. Morocco has no limited access highways like we have in the USA. You cannot make good speed since there are traffic lights, roundabout intersections, strip malls, truck stops, farm tractors, and all sorts of tiny towns and abandoned buildings the entire drive. The highway averaged four miles from the coast, a few times I caught a glimpse of a huge grayish blue area off to the right as I drove south. The rental car did not have cruise control. Most of the trip the N1 was a four lane-divided highway like one of the old US-Route highways in Texas. I got stuck a few times behind farm tractors on the highway, but mostly it was trucks and some cars. I think I saw two motorcycles, which are not common in Morocco. Actually, in rural areas people do own vehicles. Sometimes groups of families get together and jointly buy a used truck and share expenses.
There are actually groups of wealthy Europeans who try to motorcycle across Africa on those 1200cc dual sport bikes with rigid cargo bags, knobby tires, hi-fi stereo in the helmet, and satellite comms. They try to ride from northern Norway to Bredasdorp South Africa along the west coast. It takes months and costs a lot of cash. I've seen them on the N1 riding south in groups of like ten bikes. If they're really wealthy they bring along a truck (support vehicle) pulling a camper (toy hauler) with spare tires, tools, fuel, and food. I guess that's what you do if you are too far out of shape to climb Mount Everest or race cars at Monaco and still have way too much money. I think its 24 countries to cross driving down the west coast of Africa.
The N1 highway ends at a very large and ornate roundabout in Tiznit where five main roads meet in the center of the city. I found a modern looking hotel, grabbed my suitcase and walked into the lobby. From what I saw it appeared Tiznit had a construction height limit of four stories high for all buildings in town, so it was spread out instead of up. The streets were clean and well maintained, they were wide and had lane lines like the USA. While I was checking-in the doorman offered to park my car, so I tossed the keys and he left to move my rental car to their private lot.
The room was fifty Euros a night, I paid for two nights. The desk clerk asked what my business was in town and she needed my passport. Once she saw I had a diplomatic passport she said she did not need to know the reason for my visit. But I had a lie all ready for anyone who asked: I came to buy tons of olives for factories in California and Mexico.
My room was on the second floor overlooking the palm tree lined roundabout. My room had two double beds, a desk, dresser, table and chairs, closet, and a small but very clean bathroom with a regular seated toilet, walk-in shower, and a sink on a long empty countertop. On the wall by the toilet was a sign demonstrating how to use the seated toilet. Many people from the Orient think they have to climb up and stand on the toilet seat and squat, the sign showed how to sit on the toilet seat like you sat on the airplane. There was even a microwave oven and a small refrigerator so I turned it on then leafed through the collection of restaurant menus and selected a big meal since it was late in the day. I ordered two lamb kebab dinners on skewers over rice with grilled broccoli and a pasta salad. Every pasta salad in Morocco has sliced olives since this country is a major world olive producer and they're dirt cheap here. No alcohol was on the menu and none of the menus listed booze, beer, or wine, disappointing but no surprise. But the menu did proclaim all the food was locally made, except the rice.
In anticipation of moments like this I unpacked one small white plastic squeeze bottle I had shipped from the States. I previously ordered a set of ten bottles of Grape Crush water enhancer from the States; some of the ingredients are outlawed for sale in Morocco, like HFCS.
I unpacked some of my clothes, like my 2-piece black suit, shirt, tie, socks, dress shoes, and belt. This sport coat was great for hiding my side holster. And the pockets in the sport coat had no flaps so I could quickly pull a knife or a spray can of you know what (aerosol death).
I called my food order to the front desk and turned on the TV and clicked through the channels, and as expected everything was in Arabic. I put it on the regional weather channel and muted the sound. The forecast said: this weekend: cloudy, 95% chance of storms, some could produce landslides and street flooding, high 94F degrees, humidity 98%, winds southwest at 9 mph, higher in storms. Coastal flooding was expected as the Atlantic Ocean storm moved onshore. The underlying message was: call-in sick to work and grab your surf board and head to the beach, Surf's up dude!
I turned on my State tracker and selected the number for Lamzah and gave it about 30 seconds to connect and start displaying his location. I shouted "YES!" with excitement when it displayed his location (which was the same as it was during the week) was maybe four blocks from the hotel! What luck! But it was showing his cell phone, not his ankle monitor.
But I did not know if he was with his phone. After tracking was done I got online with State and checked for updates on Patrik and Lamzah and his criminal prosecution. The last time I looked was yesterday. The prison tracking implant tracker showed very few people with implants in Tiznit, perhaps that was not widely deployed technology this far south. Although this is a nice looking city it sticks to its farming roots, but the lack of a train line surprised me. In most of the world they use trains to haul crops to market, since the mid 1800s.
During my train ride Interpol posted partial autopsy results but some of the blood work was still not finished, but his drug and TOX screens were negative, he was not raped, and did not have any STDs, he was a thin healthy young man. I shook my head and mumbled, "What a fucking waste of a life, and for what?"
I looked closely at the satellite images of Tiznit online but there were no Streetview images, so I would have to do most of the sleuthing myself the old fashioned way. I also unpacked my Djellaba, head covering, and soft leather shoes. (Djellaba pronounced: jah LAH bah)
Thirty minutes later my dinner arrived, so I made myself a tall glass of Grape Crush and sat at the table and ate with one eye on the weather channel for updates on the storm due all weekend. I picked a great time to kill someone outdoors. Somebody is gonna get wet this weekend.
The kebabs were great. They used short grain rice, which was different for me, I am used to long grain. And they even gave me a couple pats of butter for my rice along with some sauces for dipping. The kebabs were like medium rare inside and charred and crunchy on the outside crust. I wonder how they cook the kebabs on bamboo skewers without setting them on fire. I think they are stored in water but as thin as they are the water should boil off quickly then the skewer should catch fire too, but they were only blackened a little. Maybe they were not the skewers they used for cooking.
You see bamboo skewers on cooking shows often in places like India, Japan, and Vietnam where meat is frequently cooked on skewers and handed to the customer so you actually see them over the charcoal, like chicken yakitori places in Tokyo that cook at over 900 degrees and use wood skewers. At my home they always burn and smoke.
And let me tell you, for autistics like myself food is a big f-ing deal. We are usually obsessed with texture, scent, and flavor. Once we find foods we like most of us could eat that day after day and never grow tired. Think your cat is finicky about food? Try raising an autistic child, we're much worse. It's the reason why I seldom go out to eat with strangers or try new foods or new restaurants.
The pasta salad with the meal was also nice, of course heavy with olive oil and lots of pepper, vinegar, diced onion, and different bell pepper chunks too. They grow a lot of bell peppers here in Morocco along with cotton, but I have never seen rice grown here. It takes a lot of water to grow rice and I don't think Morocco has enough. In the USA the two big rice producing states are California and Arkansas. I think Uncle Ben's Rice is mostly grown in Arkansas. I think rice sold in Morocco comes from Nigeria and Ivory Coast, it is one of the trade items they always discuss in those meetings the Ambassador attends in Ghana.
After dinner and a healthy grape flavored belch I dressed like a local and went outside for a walk with my tracking app running, two spray cans, and my knife. Just about every man in Arab countries carries a knife of some type (Jambiya) so they're not questioned by police but the ones they carry are usually considered a men's fashion accessory. They are not like the knife Crocodile Dundee carried which was like two feet long.
I headed in the direction of the tracking blip and walked four blocks east and came to a group of four story apartments that had the same signage they had on the section-8 housing in Tangier, signs to show the building number and pointed toward which stairway to use. Along the sidewalk that lead to the staircase there was a group of bench seats so I walked over and sat down. I wanted this to be an intel gathering trip tonight, the sun was about to set and it was almost 7pm. I got out my cell and reviewed the recent booking photos of Lamzah and his address and looked all around the area. Just then a city bus pulled stopped about 90 feet away and about fifteen people got off the bus, others got on and the bus left. So far this city looks and sounds similar to Tangier, except in Tangier you smell the ocean and the buildings are twice as tall.
I saw a group of people walking toward me, two where school age children. One of the young girls looked suspiciously at me as she walked past, even though I wore sunglasses and a turban on my head, so very little bare skin was visible and I'm usually darker since I moved here.
There were too many people walking and talking to examine each one so I kept my eyes down and watched their shoes as they went by and I noticed one of them was wearing an ankle monitor like they put on parolees in the States. BINGO! I bet he was my target. After they walked by I watched the guy with the ankle monitor climb the stairs, he went to the third floor and walked down the correct hallway so he was very possibly my perp. I seemed to recall he had a white paper sack in his hand, probably hot food, or maybe some fresh pita. He looked like he was a rather large guy too.
In these apartment buildings the hallways and stairs are on the outside with only decorative railings for safety. So I was able to observe him climb to the third floor and then he walked down the outside hallway. Everything fit so I got up and reviewed his address: apartment 318. I casually strolled to the building, up the stairs, and down the hallway.
I slowly walked down the hallway looking at apartment numbers. Just then a door behind me opened and that same young girl (looked to be maybe 7 years old) stepped out and stood there staring at me as I slowly walked further away. Then she screamed really loud like someone was hurting her and moments later her mom ran out and put her hand over the girl's mouth. Mom glared at me as I continued to casually stroll down the hallway looking for apartment 318.
Just then her father stepped outside and stood there staring at me and I slightly increased my speed and noticed I was just passing 316. Then the father started walking toward me with his fists clenched so I walked up to 318 and pounded on the door. In a second the door opened and I pushed my way inside and the man closed and locked his door and asked me shit in Arabic. I had no clue what he said but I heard the word `retarded' so I assumed he knew about the girl and she had a problem. I could tell at a glance there was something abnormal about her by the way her forehead was shaped, it was huge and bulged out. She kind of reminded me of the little girl in the movie Meet the Robinsons, the little girl (Lizzie) with the fire ant farm at the science fair in the school gym. "Only my enemies" she growled about biting ants.
I sat at his kitchen table and wiped the sweat from my forehead. My heart was racing and I felt sick to my stomach. Then the gravity of the situation suddenly came to me and I realized I was inside the perp's kitchen. Then there was loud pounding on his hallway door. Lamzah opened the door unafraid. The two men stood and argued loudly, with arms waving around and words exchanged I couldn't understand. But it looked like the guy who murdered Patrik was defending me. While they were arguing I reached in my side pocket and opened my knife and hid it in my left hand.
When the guy down the hallway tried to see me by looking around Lamzah he moved his body to block the view then gestured for him to go away, the door slammed shut and he chuckled and gestured at the guy and said things, of course I understood none of it.
Then he got a weird look on his face and asked me something but I couldn't answer because I don't speak but maybe five phrases in Arabic (thank you, water, how much?, too high, and transfer please).
He started to look like he was getting frustrated because a total stranger dressed like him was seated at his kitchen table as he stood between the table and the hallway door demanding answers. I think he also suddenly noticed I was `English' but dressed like an Arab, which to most would be a warning sign. I think that was what upset the girl down the hallway.
I had not intended to kidnap him here or tonight. I wanted to knock him out and take him to the mountains but here we were. This guy was a perfect match for the booking photo and he already admitted stabbing Patrik to death. And he had what looked like a brand new tracking band on his ankle. I laughed and said in Spanish, "Thank you for rescuing me but I should be going." So I stood and gestured to the door, he stood aside and let me pass. I already had my knife in my hand. When I got near him I noticed how much taller he was than me, and then I extended my hand to shake his in appreciation. He reached out and with a tight grip on his right hand I raised my left hand and slashed his right forearm near the base of his thumb up toward his elbow, which filleted his arm wide open and it immediately started to rapidly drip blood. Lamzah was sort of pinned between the wall, the door, the kitchen counter, and me and didn't have room to swing and punch me with his left hand, so he was stuck in a bad spot. He quickly reached up to grab the long bloody slash on his forearm.
He stood there looking down at his enormous wound, perhaps it was 6-10 inches long and all the way to the bone. He grabbed it with his left hand which exposed his ulnar artery on the outside of his left forearm to me and I slashed again and cut open his other arm. On the left arm I hit red-gold and his bleeding increased dramatically, I must have severed his ulnar artery and several tendons with my second slash. Then I stepped back as I felt drops of blood hit my ankles.
I paused for a couple seconds then grabbed his upper arms and turned him sideways and walked him to his bathroom and shoved him as hard as I could. Lamzah fell forward into his bathtub and hit his head hard and landed on his back in the tub and was unconscious and let out a deep breath. I think he also cut his scalp on the bath tub faucet as he landed inside the porcelain coated tub.
Next I raised his Djellaba and exposed his groin and visually located his balls and shoved the knife into his lower pelvic region and then pushed it hard sideways and I felt something snap deep inside him and as I pulled out the knife blood gushed from the wound. I stood up and dropped my knife in his sink and looked back down at him as I scrubbed my hands and knife then dried them on a wad of toilet paper and dropped it in the toilet.
I lowered the toilet lid and sat down as he woke up and looked really pale, he already lost over three pints of blood down the bathtub drain. There was a bloody trail across the bathroom rug, across the floor and out the door heading toward the kitchen. The guy tried to talk but he almost looked like he was intoxicated as he was too light headed to even speak. The gash in his femoral artery let him bleed quickly so his time left on earth was limited to less than a few more seconds. I got out my cell and loaded a photo of Patrik and held it out so he could see why I was here. This was revenge. He saw the photo then shifted his gaze to mine and silently nodded acknowledgement.
My last act was torture like he tortured Patrik; I used my knife to cut the skin around his dick and balls and cut them totally off and dropped it in the sink. He tried to scream but all he could do was moan and when he tried to fight he had no strength. Now he only had seconds left. I rinsed his dick and nut sack in the sink and decided to use it as vulture food instead of his body.
Moments later he stopped moving and his very pale face became expressionless as he stared blankly at the bathroom ceiling. I went back to his kitchen and looked in cabinets for small plastic Ziploc bags and found one sandwich size. I went in the bathroom and tried to find a pulse on his neck but he had none and his face told the story, Lamzah was history. I heard the sound of blood rushing down the bathtub drain.
With his dick and balls bagged in my pocket I washed my hands and the knife in the kitchen sink and stood by his hallway door and when I heard silence outside I left and quickly walked the other direction to the stairs and down to the street. I walked past the bus stop and got to the main boulevard and headed back to the big roundabout. I had a few drops of blood on my clothes but since it was dark out I'm sure nobody would notice.
Near the big city-center roundabout I saw another hotel with beer signs in a small window so I walked over there and in the lobby I saw a sign over another door, they must have a bar inside the hotel. So I went inside and was greeted cheerfully and took a stool at the bar and ordered a THC chocolate candy and a glass of beer on tap. They had a small selection of beers from Spain and Germany on tap.
I drank my beer rather quickly then got another, then I ate my chocolate THC candy but first I cut it in half. I wrapped the other half in a bar napkin and put it in my pocket and ate some peanuts and started watching the soccer game on the TV above and behind the bar. I do not understand soccer except kicking the ball in the net, the rest of it makes no sense to me. I was born in Texas so I know a lot about American football. Dan and I often kidded about the word `American,' some people shortened the word and if you say it with a fake southern accent it sounds great, so we often say "Merkin" instead of American.
I'll tell you the reason why soccer will never be a success on TV in the USA is the game does not support TV commercial breaks, but American football certainly does. Football is made for TV, soccer is not. Both soccer and US football are highly rigged, I'm surprised people gamble on those games, it makes as much sense as betting on the outcome of a rerun of an episode of Dragnet.
During my third beer my sense of anxiety disappeared and my hands stopped trembling. After my fifth beer I paid my tab and slowly walked across the street to my hotel and in my room I took a long hot shower then went to bed. Nothing I wanted to do today happened as planned and I didn't want to stay here another day so I set the alarm in my phone for 6am and got under the blankets and went sleep.
The next morning I ate breakfast in the hotel conference room, and then I went back to my room and packed and checked out. I walked around the block and found my rental car and drove back north to the town at the end of the rail line. I returned the rental car and walked back to the train station and used my ticket but had to exchange it to ride today. My own estimate was the dead body was not discovered yet so any cops I saw on the train platform were not looking for me. Lamzah probably won't be discovered until late today when he misses his daily call-in with parole.
I got a seat by the window and within 20 minutes the train started to slowly roll out of the station and gradually pick up speed. It's about 11 hours back home with several stops along the way. We had a major stop in Marrakesh, maybe 45 minutes. At the Marrakesh station I could almost see the peak of the Atlas Mountains far to the north in the haze.
I sat in the food car where they had an observation area with lots of glass and someone selling pop and candy bars. Once we were out of the city in the desert I walked down and into the next car. In the gap between the cars you were outside, the enclosure to keep passengers from falling out was just several rungs of chains. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the little zipper bag and opened it and reached in with two fingers and pulled out the hairy limp dick and balls and tossed them out into the desert for the vultures. Then tossed the empty bag and flipped it my middle finger and turned around and went to my seat after a brief stop in the bathroom to pee and scrub my hands. In my seat I closed my eyes and leaned back and tried to take a nap.
This passenger rail network is similar to what we have in the USA. In Morocco they call it high speed rail but it only goes like 81mph, which is far from true high speed rail. You cannot run high speed passenger and freight trains on the same tracks. But the royal family here calls it high speed to the news media are obligated to do likewise. Everyone says it because they don't want to end up in the city courthouse yard tied to a utility pole across from the firing squad with hundreds of cheering citizens watching. In Morocco you are not hooded but you are allowed to smoke and I've heard they will sometimes allow you to get high an hour before your time. For some crimes you have to step off the courthouse roof. I hear that is actually a fast and painless way to go, but it is scary and dramatic as fuck. I'm not sure if I had to choose, which one I'd pick. If I was on the run with no way to escape I'd probably inhale my own Botulinum spray.
I got off the train at the Tangier station and walked home. It started to feel like I had a huge empty spot in my soul because my good friend Patrik died at such a young age, I cried again and drank the rest of the beers in the refrigerator and went to sleep. I felt drained and weak and sick to my stomach and my head was pounding too.
Contact the author: borischenazatmailfencecom
Note from the author: If you are reading every chapter after it is posted may I suggest about two weeks after it appears on Nifty go back and read it again. Often I make big changes to chapters after they appear online and if you don't read it again you'll never see the corrections and additions. The updated chapters are often a couple pages longer than the original version.
This book is written on an Asus Vivobook, running Word-7.