The War on Terror Thanos KALAMIDAS and Asa BUTCHER Thanos Kalamidas & Asa Butcher An Ovi Magazine Books Publication 2021 Ovi Project Publication - All material is copyright of the Ovi magazine & the writer C Ovi books are available in Ovi magazine pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: submissions@ovimagazine.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book. The War on Terror Thanos Kalamidas & Asa Butcher A short story The War on Terror ChApTer 1 M y brain was down on its knees begging for a painkiller, but it would have to satisfy itself with a quick temple massage because this journey had gone on for too long and an end had to be in sight soon...I hoped. Ahead of me lay a flight of heavy concrete steps that would take me to a pair of equally heavy doors of the city’s main police station. Begrudgingly my brain told my feet to climb the steps and was happy enough to remind me of each torturous step that had resulted in this moment. I had called twice already and nothing had happened. I had filled out an extensive official complaint form that a friend had found from a few years ago. This form, according to the many laws and by-laws, had been returned after four weeks because it required a ten-digit registry number obtained from the phone number that nobody ever answered. I swallowed the dry lump in my throat and my brain flashed back many years to when I would have bounded up these steps three at a time with an Thanos Kalamidas & Asa Butcher endless supply of energy and motivation to fight the Man. Now, well now I was just hoping that I wouldn’t need to fill out anything in triplicate because my wrist was clicking from all the form writing and calls made over the past months. Oh yeah, I mustn’t forget the three-page description of former complaints; one in red pen, one in green and one in black, with all Ts crossed and Is dotted. My hand hovered ahead of me unsure of where to go. Should it go straight for the door handle or maybe dig out the hip flask of cognac nestled in my jacket pocket. The liquid would give me a boost for the bureaucracy waiting for me inside, naturally in triplicate, but they might smell alcohol on my breath and treat me with no courtesy. I couldn’t help but smile to myself, courtesy...when was the last time I had used that word and did anybody know its meaning today. The final decision was made for me when the door swung open from the inside and two uniformed officers dashed past – one of them really did stink of booze. Despite its earlier protests, my brain was working sharply and realized that this would save it from the effort of pulling open these formidable doors alone. I slipped inside before the lock clicked shut behind me and I found myself blinking in the darkness of my new surroundings. Once my pupils had stopped pulsating, I really regretted not opening the flask for some - What did my father used to call it? – oh yes, salvation. He believed that a splash of cognac would bring the best into focus and make the worst a little softer around the edges; it was a nice sentiment unfortunately his edges became a little too soft and he died miserable and alone, but thankfully I didn’t have to deal with that stack of paperwork. Right now the edges of my reality were sharp, as was the harsh décor in the lobby of the police station. The room contained a closed door to my left, an old wooden school chair to my right, and ahead of me was a counter. Above the counter was a huge sheet of frosted glass that only left a blurry silhouette of a large man standing behind, although I could see he was dressed like a traditional police officer and his belt was gold, which I could see through a letterbox hole in the glass. The air in the room was stale and smelt of alcohol from the officer who had just left, plus it was a few degrees above tolerable. The War on Terror My forehead began to sweat, which the poet in me thought to be my brain crying in desperation, and my hands were clammy in fear of the pen chained to the counter ahead of me. I approached the counter and waited for the man to speak, although I wasn’t sure if I would be able to reply considering how dry my mouth had become. A few more minutes past, yet there was still no movement behind the glass or even behind me. I coughed. I coughed louder. Nothing. The man didn’t even twitch. I started to play scenarios through my head like he had died on his feet while on duty, maybe he was asleep, maybe he was daydreaming, maybe he was being an arrogant son of a...”Excuse me, sir! Please refrain from playing with the chain attached to the pen. It is not a toy.” I dropped the pen in surprise, “Oh, hello, sorry, err, I didn’t realize...Can you help me?” There was a slight movement behind the glass as the officer opened a large book on the desk, “Certainly, sir. Do you have an appointment?” Thanos Kalamidas & Asa Butcher Chapter 2 a n appointment! I needed to have a bloody appointment! The whole damned place was empty, so why did I need an appointment. My brain had melted into a cranial mush and seemed to be swishing about inside my skull, although at least, on a positive note, the headache had gone. The slam and click of the double doors returned me to reality and I realized that I had left the station, now standing once again on the steps. In my hand there was a slip of paper that the policeman behind the opaque window had handed me. He had briefly explained the procedures behind making an appointment and then written down the official phone number in writing resembling a child’s sloppiest effort – was that a number 7 or the mathematical symbol for Pi? Anyway, I refused to be beaten by their little bureaucracy game; it was what they wanted. I would see this through to the very end and then they would see the extent of my caliber. The police have always been intimidating, even when I was a boy and nothing scared me. The sight of a cop filled my heart with dread and my head with guilt, I was sure they would arrest me for something I didn’t know The War on Terror I had done. During my college years we realized that cops were further up the food chain and their authoritative power feeds from your nerves. A lump came to my throat as I remembered my first arrest for underage drinking, then driving too fast and even possession – damn, why were they so efficient when you are in cuffs, yet when you want help you get a barely legible phone number? “Hello,” began the surprisingly sexy female voice, “You have reached the Official Central District Police Automated Call Centre.” I breathed a sigh of relief and laughed to myself, ‘Seventh time lucky!’ The line clicked and a phone began ringing, “Hello, you have reached the holding area for the Official Central District Police Automated Call Centre, please hold...” Here comes the irritating music...anytime soon...there was nothing but silence... had they hung up or had the line disconnected? A few minutes of silence passed and I was on the edge of hanging up when the same female voice clicked back on, “Thank you for holding. Your call is very important to the Official Central District Police Automated Call Centre, so please stay on the line and we will attempt to direct your call to the appropriate department.” I had experienced something similar before and was ready with a pen to jot down all the numbers and corresponding departments in this telephonic labyrinth. “Dial 1 if you wish to speak to an operator. Dial 2 if you have a ten-digit number. Dial 3 if you have been the victim of a robbery. Dial 4 for murder. Dial 5 for fraud. Dial 6 for domestic violence. Dial 7 for assault. Dial 8 for other crimes. Dial 9 for general enquiries. , Dial 10 to make an appointment.” There was silence, but I waited before making my choice, “Please dial your choice followed by hash after the beep...BEEP!” I hit one and then zero and then stared at the phone as though it had transformed into a penguin...there was no hash key. Thanos Kalamidas & Asa Butcher Chapter 3 M y telephone had represented my last stand against the rise of technology. Every year my stubborn refusal to adapt to the latest developments had been worn away, until only my now-antique Bakelite telephone remained as a symbol of the past. It had a circular dial on the front and handset cradle on top, plus it had told me one night that my father had died...well, it was my mother but her voice came through that earpiece. Now, all because of a missing hash key, I was forced to upgrade. The new cordless handset may have the elusive hash and even a star, but it has no character, it is totally devoid of personality. There is no dial tone when it is turned on, it feels cheap and lightweight in my hand, the beeps are alien and there is no spiral cord with which to play while I am placed on hold, and this last one is making me nervous. As soon as the new phone had been connected and the latest updates and security files had been installed, and I had read the instruction manual, I had dialed the number for the police helpline – a number engraved in my memory, so that saved me one space in the 100 speed dial positions. When I reached the same place as last time and then pressed the hash key for the first time, I looked at my old phone sat on the kitchen table and cried. I blamed mental exhaustion for the loss of emotional control and decided The War on Terror that a cigarette might calm the nervous fidgeting caused by the absence of the cord. I inhaled the smoke, felt my body relax and dialed the number, but nothing happened. I dialed again and again, but the phone had frozen on me. I put the cigarette down in order to reset the phone, but before I could do anything it switched back on. Yes, the phone was against smoking and the manual explained that it was programmed to worry about breathing in secondhand smoke. I cried some more. A week later I was ready to face the combined psychological task of combating the police helpline on this state-of-the-art phone. I dialed that number for the umpteenth time and was waiting for the usual sexy voice but everything had changed. A monotonous old man had replaced the sexy voice and he was listing the police’s new helpline procedures, plus the new twenty- six departments. I’m not joking. It took eleven repetitions to note down all the departments and sub-departments, none of which seemed to apply to my complaint. The phone had forced me to quit smoking, so I poured myself a generous measure of malt whisky and stared at the list of departments. Twenty-six departments. So let’s see, if there are twenty-six policemen waiting in the office for the telephone to ring with all the shifts that makes, let me see, twenty six multiplied by three equals seventy-eight people. If you think now holidays and everything that makes it nearly eighty-five people working in a police station just to answer damn telephones that nobody can ever contact. Well, it did explain why there were no policemen patrolling the streets. The medicinal properties of the malt were working their magic, so with a happy glow I decided to begin at number one on the list. Ten-minutes of stereophonic hold music thanks to my new phone was finally ended by a polite man explaining that my complaint should be redirected to the relevant department, but he could not advise me which that was. The whisky was still working, so I took his answer in good stead and phoned number two. “Hello, terrorist fraud squad. How can I help?” answered exactly the same voice as number one; my heart sank as I began to realise that there probably weren’t 85 police operators answering calls. Thanos Kalamidas & Asa Butcher Chapter 4 I t may have been the thirteenth or fourteenth department that finally agreed to deal with my request, which naturally jumped right out of brain the moment the police operator said he would happy to help. Okay, maybe it wasn’t only the shock of finally reaching the right department, since the blame could also be apportioned to the startlingly empty whisky bottle beside the phone – I swear it was full at the start of the night. Well, as my brain grasped for the reason I had begun this journey, my hand fumbled for a pen and paper to jot down whatever information was provided, although I admit the first thing written was to buy a new bottle of malt in the morning. I wish my head had been clearer for this defining telephonic moment of history because the operator was surprisingly helpful, eerily helpful...did he want something? He answered my questions, furnished me with a date for an appointment and asked if there was anything more with which he could assist. Stupidly I mumbled a no thanks and then he calmly informed that a bill for these services would be in the morning’s mail and hung-up. The War on Terror Huh? A bill? A bill! My lips went numb, really, I couldn’t feel them at all and then my left hand began to tremble, so I dropped the pen and ink splashed down my trousers. This was outrageous and the whisky was certainly in no mood to calm this anger, actually it was probably fueling the moment from my stomach. I went to pick up the bottle, swore under my breath and headed to the kitchen for anything with a percentage or warning label. I won’t reveal just what I swallowed in that instant, since you would scoff and shake your head at a crazy fool’s exaggeration. Nevertheless, it did the trick. I sobered, gathered my thoughts, hardened my resolve, vomited, and then hit the redial button. Straight through to the same department, yet the voice was different – typical, end your shift the moment I need you again and at 3am! “Good afternoon, how can we help you?” Damn them and their psychological games, “Good afternoon to you too!” I’d show them, “I want to make a complaint!” There was not a moment’s silence, “Certainly, sir!” replied the upbeat voice, “Please provide your complaint registration number.” More games, but I would call their bluff, “F/5609036KL.” There was silence this time, in fact it went on for a little too long. “Hello, are you still there?” More silence. I picked the pen up from the floor and stared at the ink stain now on the carpet, “Hello, what is going on? Are you there?” The phone clicked and another new voice broke the silence, “Good afternoon, sir!” fawned the man’s voice, although the pronunciation of ‘sir’ gave me a chill, “I believe you wish to make a complaint and have a complaint registration number.” I confirmed his statement. “Very well, sir, ” there it was again, “If you have a complaint registration number then that means you have already made a written complaint and have received a unique ID code.” I suddenly felt as though an invisible hand was trying to force a coconut down my throat, yet I pushed the bluff still further, “Yes. Yes, I do.” I rustled some papers to convince them I had it to hand, “Excellent, sir, you do seem well-prepared this fine afternoon. By the way, how is the weather with you?” I found myself leaning across the desk to peak through the curtains when common sense slapped me hard across the face, “Don’t change the subject. Thanos Kalamidas & Asa Butcher I want to make a complaint about your operator tonight and you will oblige me.” The voice dropped a tone and the coconut in my throat was replaced by a basketball, “Tonight, sir! Well in that case you have been lying to a police officer, which, as I am sure you are aware, is considerably illegal,” he left a short gap, “Your fine and the bill for these services will be in the morning’s mail. Good afternoon, sir,” and he hung-up. The War on Terror Chapter 5 C an you believe that I now am on the verge of having a drinking problem! Ever since I began this saga with the police department I have been polishing off a single bottle of malt liquor every two days and that is only because I sleep through one of them. It only began with one or two tumblers of whisky and ice to calm my nerves, but lately I have abandoned the rocks and am hitting up to six, ok, seven generous servings a day. Actually, I fell asleep on the telephone last night and awoke with the buttons digging into my left cheek – it now looks as though I have very organized acne pockmarks. I have decided to follow a different approach by posting a message on my blog and hope one of my fellow bloggers can offer some helpful advice. I opened a new message window and began typing: “I need to make a written complaint concerning police inability, plus I want to obtain one of those codes that are always requested and even try to make an appointment with a flesh and blood policeman.” Here I was posting a message to virtual people but not minding that they were faceless, unlike that cursed operator...or is the operator virtual? Better make this one a double. Thanos Kalamidas & Asa Butcher I couldn’t stop myself from checking for new comments every few minutes and it was a relief to slowly read words of moral support from fellow citizens, hear about their incredible stories and laugh at police ineptitude jokes. However, nobody answered the questions in the post or even attempted to do so, preferring to start off-topic discussions and promote their own blogs – if I wasn’t so immersed in the chaos of police bureaucracy I would attack their lack of Netiquette. The next day was a very slow day; it was the same after those one bottle of whisky days meaning I’d slept in my armchair most of the night and day, my body would ache and crack, and my brain felt as though it was a lump of soggy kitchen roll. I logged on to my blog and was stunned to see that the online police department had left a message. Before I became too excited, I checked the poster’s IP address and confirmed that this was an official posting – if I had been a cartoon character I am sure my eyes would have been popping from my head in surprise. The message informed me that I should visit their official website and follow the appropriate links. I had no idea they were even online, but I guess they have to be in order to catch hackers and online fraudsters – perhaps I could enlist the help of a hacker to attack their site...difficult and dangerous. I guess it was the word ‘inability’ in my post that caught their attention forcing them to prove their ability! I looked at the comments section again but nobody else had commented. That was common. Every time the online police makes a comment on your blog or your site nobody else writes anything else. After all, we must excuse them since they know the laws better than anybody else and it is part of their job to enforce the law. If there are any objections on their decisions or practices there is always the ‘online police, complaint department’ where you simply fill in the extensive form, but when you press send it simply reboots your PC – cunning. However, the link they had sent me in their post was different to the publicly available one. Did I mention that even though everybody could see that the online police had posted a reply to my question nobody else could read it? The War on Terror In an act of drunken stupidity and bravado I boasted on my blog that I had received a reply and knew exactly what to do. I received over 500 emails over the next 24-hours. Thanos Kalamidas & Asa Butcher Chapter 6 I am beginning to lose my grip on reality, although this is, in part, due to my nervous system causing my hands to sweat more than usual leaving me unable to even hold a towel. Honestly, it just slips out of my hands and then sits at my feet like an obedient puppy, without the puddles of obedient dog urine. Anyway, you may ask which reality was slipping from my grasp, since there are so many from which to choose, but that is a question only answerable by either a meta-physician, psychiatrist or taxi driver – I can’t afford any of them. A by-product of the worsening perspiration was to buy a new product for my telephone. Indeed, the lack of grip between my fingers and opposable thumbs has forced my hand – excuse the pun - to invest in a hands-free kit, which obviously didn’t come with the new phone purchased very recently. I am sure you can sympathize with my current plight of comparing my plastic phone handset to a bar of wet soap; the thing pops out from my fist in the comedy fashion of a Laurel and Hardy sketch. The War on Terror When I went to the same electronics store as before to buy this hands-free headset one of the staff actually recognized me and remembered my name, although I soon remembered that the store’s customer recognition system had recently been upgraded and notified sales assistant of a prodigal consumer returning to hallowed retail soil. The guy was friendly, listened attentively to my problem, thought about the type of model I should purchase and then went to lunch. His replacement reassured me that he had already taken his break and would assist me to the best of ability – his ability immediately began to worry me. We walked over to the interactive catalogue and he asked if I had used it before, so I decided to prove my metal by jumping straight into the search. An error popped up. The fully fed sales assistant reminded me that the system had also been upgraded to improve searches and halve shopping time, so he took over. Experience had taught me to take all the manuals of the product you wish to buy accessories for otherwise something sinister would happen between home and the store. I handed over the phone manual, almost the thickness of the actual phone book, pointed at the recommended hands-free headset and the charming man began his search. The first message informed us that this headset was discontinued, the second suggested an alternative but that was out of stock and the third message hinted at a cheaper generic model that could learn the functions. Exasperated I took it. Discount card? No, I don’t have one. 15% discount? Ok, I’ll take one. Fill in these forms? Oh, sorry, black ink. Do you really need all these details? Can I have new form? Sorry, I am suffering from extensive sweat. Why do you need my religion? Oh I see. Three signatures? What do you mean it doesn’t apply to this purchase? On my next visit! Oh, whatever. I can phone a number and claim my 15% back? Hmmm, no thanks. Goodbye. I saved some time by reading the new manual on the bus home. It actually looks simple for once. Five buttons and each has one allocated function. Great. Got home and the damned thing wouldn’t work. Tried repeatedly but with no luck. Reset everything and began from scratch. Became frustrated with the headset, so I tossed it gently against the wall. Back fell off and its Thanos Kalamidas & Asa Butcher empty battery department looked as though the depths of hell were staring back at me. Last night I realised that if I wear gloves the sweat is absorbed and the phone can be used normally. Shall I brave the returns department tomorrow, but then I’ll have to explain the broken back cover... The War on Terror Chapter 7 Y es, I’m still here, although even I have had my doubts. We all have those moments of clarity...is that the right word...when we suddenly stop whatever we are engaged in and ponder what the other seven billion souls are also doing at that moment. I wonder how many of them are doing exactly the same as me, you know, amateur philosophizing. Seven billion, how did the world suddenly get so big? When I was a kid the number stood at just under six, but there has been a population explosion, a new baby boom, and we can’t even blame the Catholics anymore since they legitimized birth control. God bless that Pope! Thankfully the seven billion are evenly spread across the globe, so we don’t have to worry over becoming top heavy and spilling over...I wonder if anybody else is thinking that. Of course, not everything has changed since I was a kid. We are still fighting this war of terror, or is it war on terror? Who knows, it is just semantics as my friend used to say before he too was arrested as a suspect. Come to think of it, I never did see him again...perhaps we should make that seven billion minus one. How many zeroes make up a billion? Thanos Kalamidas & Asa Butcher Ever since the beginning, the war has been terribly confusing. I remember the old Westerns where there was good guy in white and a bad guy in black – natural when all we had was black and white TV. Anyway, you knew where you were with the forces of good and evil, despite what the parables with which my Sunday school teacher used to frighten us. Poor Job, he had a rough time with the Big Man in White – again, it was white in the days before colour was invented. As I was saying, there is no distinction between the sides these days and it seems that even your neighbour could be a terrorist. The posters used to exclaim, “Suspect everyone and everything!” yet didn’t that mean we should suspect the posters too? My dad would clip me round the ear and warn against clever arses...maybe he was one of the terrorists. Over time we stopped playing cowboys and Indians out in the garden and began playing terrorist, which became really quite confusing for a ten-year- old. We never knew who was undercover, who was extremist, who was a CIA, who a Fed, and who was in it just for the money. I remember one kid decided to pretend being a suicide bomber, but we had to point out that he could never play with us again; he became a weapons dealer instead and managed to take all of our pocket money selling us sticks. Those were the days. Hmm, why does nostalgia always make the past look so much better? It wasn’t and I know it. Today, tomorrow, yesterday, they are all the same and you can barely distinguish between the three of them. You can’t. Take a moment to remember what you did every day of your life and the days merely blend into one two-minute montage, with a crap soundtrack. I need a holiday from this life. The police, my blog, the world of seven billion and probably a few more since I began this, are just getting me down. I don’t know. I wonder if anybody else is thinking the very same at this moment...