By S.R. Ayers

I found myself with time to kill at the CKS International Airport in Taipei. I was coming from Kolkata, India. I was mildly pissed off about my trusty Zippo, which had been not so much confiscated, as outright stolen at the Kolkata airport by a fat man in a tiny uniform with a big gun. I guess I was lucky for having gotten so far in the first place in this age of fear with this weapon of fiery destruction.

Having two hours to kill, I lingered by the smoking room. It was late and the room was vacant. I had no fire and wanted to breathe smoke. I tried to act nonchalant but that’s hard when anyone who has ever smoked knows exactly what you’re doing. You’re like the crusty old ragman pretending to be asleep by the ATM.

I saw a family of five coming down the corridor seeking to calm their nerves. Suddenly, a man wearing a parka with the hood pulled over his head joined me. He hunched slightly and kept his face in the shadows. He was tall and smelled of sweat and clay. This bastard was going to ruin everything.

The family went in and lit up. The hooded man followed them in before I had the chance to pants him and push him into the Duty-Free. I had to wait for the next jonesing fool.

After the family was done and gone, the hooded man stayed behind puffing his butt. I went in. I didn’t plan on getting an interview. I’m not sure whose Karmic wheel was turning, his or mine, but I was definitely on top while he ended up strapped to the center waiting for the knives.

It was his fingers that gave him away -- long stained fingers of yellow and brown, shaking slightly. He tried to keep them tucked away in the sleeves of his old, threadbare Billabong parka. But I knew.

“You’re Donald Rumsfield, right?” I said. “Good, I need to make up for an article I was supposed to write in India.”

“Shit, you ragmen are all the same! How long have you been on my tail you prick?” He snapped.

“I’m asking the questions now eight-ball. Fear not, I’m only a guileless hack e-mailing drivel to anonymous publications that are off your radar,” I said.

“Impossible, yer all on the radar,” he said. “The Pentagon is like a goddamned arcade with all you little blips.”

“Be that as it may, you’re stuck here without your muscle and make-up and I want to know why.”

“The Kaohsiung Games of course, you greedy socialist death-sucker. I came to see Pei-Weo Chang. Pool, my friend.” He said with a satisfied hiss.

This meant nothing to me. Had I missed something while I’d been away? Had I suddenly become world-dumb on my quest for brilliance? No, this man was talking gibberish. But why was he alone?

I pulled out my tobacco pouch and began rolling a cigarette. At the sight of my pouch Donald started to vibrate.

“Oh, gimme a fix fair countryman. Will you please son?”

“Get off me you felchburp, it’s only tobacco,” I said. “I’ll roll you one, but under two conditions: 1) You answer my questions and, 2) You nix my ‘blip’ in the Pentagon after you get home.”

“You got it son,” he said without removing his eyes from my pouch.