Somewhere a man, probably Uncle Babboo, promised Yasmeen and her brother Ahmed a sweet American fried pie in apple or cherry, their choice if they would ride with him on an errand in the old Toyota. Along the way they stopped and picked up Mo, a friend of Babboo's so he could help Babboo with a large package. It was a nice day, not too hot and promising a superb drive. The children were excited at the prospects of escaping their abusive unemployed father or at least he seemed unemployed but the explosions across town after which he would come home flush with pockets of gold coins seemed to indicate otherwise and their pathetic excuse for a mother who cowed under her veil in a dark corner her entire life unless of course their father wanted some and then she would produce another child to wander the streets several years later.
It was a glorious Praise God to be out in the fresh light of day kind of a day. The kids were happy. Uncle Babboo and Mo talked of grown up things the way grown ups do; in Code.
After much driving and jostling, promises of fried pies soon, Uncle Babboo finally stopped the car and he and his friend Mo got out and ran away. Yasmeen and Ahmed looked at each other the way curious siblings do and wondered. Someone was approaching and asking something. Yasmeen being the eldest, sat up in the backseat and tried to hear what this nice person was saying while whispering to Ahmed to be quiet.
The old Toyota started to expand, very slowly at first with a tearing sound the way sheet metal sounds when it tears very slowly before you can actually hear the tearing sound and a flash of light that was so slow that blinking several times fast would still not see it come and go and the drenching warmth that popped and snapped gave way to numbing cold and darkness and silence, compressing the puzzled yelps in a nanosecond. Then it stopped.
A slight breeze carries away the smoke, the plastique's primordial bark had reverberated back up the long narrow alleys to sleep at doorsteps of the living leaving the old Toyota behind now split open exposing it's charred contents in the middle of the street, the nice person sprawled nearby without a face.
"Everything's a matter of taste," said the Devil as he helped himself to another forkful of roast infant.
It was a glorious Praise God to be out in the fresh light of day kind of a day. The kids were happy. Uncle Babboo and Mo talked of grown up things the way grown ups do; in Code.
After much driving and jostling, promises of fried pies soon, Uncle Babboo finally stopped the car and he and his friend Mo got out and ran away. Yasmeen and Ahmed looked at each other the way curious siblings do and wondered. Someone was approaching and asking something. Yasmeen being the eldest, sat up in the backseat and tried to hear what this nice person was saying while whispering to Ahmed to be quiet.
The old Toyota started to expand, very slowly at first with a tearing sound the way sheet metal sounds when it tears very slowly before you can actually hear the tearing sound and a flash of light that was so slow that blinking several times fast would still not see it come and go and the drenching warmth that popped and snapped gave way to numbing cold and darkness and silence, compressing the puzzled yelps in a nanosecond. Then it stopped.
A slight breeze carries away the smoke, the plastique's primordial bark had reverberated back up the long narrow alleys to sleep at doorsteps of the living leaving the old Toyota behind now split open exposing it's charred contents in the middle of the street, the nice person sprawled nearby without a face.
"Everything's a matter of taste," said the Devil as he helped himself to another forkful of roast infant.
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