So I survived one more evil person trying to kill me

Today, you will all be thrilled to know that I am still alive and have survived to see another glorious day in Germany.  And so to celebrate, I ate spinach pizza and had a glass of the liquid acid, Schwarzriesling, to celebrate the fact that I foiled the evil plots of terror that consumed me after work today.  True story. 

Today was like any other sunny day in Germany.  Coffee, work, half chicken at lunch, work, rave on the iPod, work, phone calls, work, leave to drink vino so I can, yes, live the dream to do it all again 12 hours later.  *bliss.

So.  Around 5pm tonight I meander out to my car, enjoying the sunshine and on a mission to go home and pack for Lisbon this week.  Thrilled to be out in the warm weather and sunshine, I practically prance to the car.  I am ready for some windows down and loud music on my ride home.  As I approach my car (the always environmentally conscious Prius), I notice a large white object strategically placed directly behind my driver’s side tire and also directly beneath the engine.  I assume it’s trash.  As I get closer, I see that it is a big white ball, so now I assume pain in the ass children have been kicking balls near my car and I am prepared to check for dents, those irresponsible bastards. 

I’m now at my front door, but three feet away, cautiously surveying the area.  I am suddenly overwhelmed with a sickness of paranoia, fear and a very strong understanding that someone wants me dead.  I bend over to have a closer look and though I see one of those round, styrofoam craft globes, one we all used in 4th grade to create Earth with paint and then hung by a string somewhere in science class, I know better.

Someone had used the innocent craft ball to plant a bomb under my car.  Unlucky for my contract killers, I had just taken my latest terror and security class online and I know better than to fuck with unmarked packages left under cars.  In fact, I believe this was situation number 23.  I do what all normal people do.  I slowly, without drawing attention to myself, smiling and still wearing my sunglasses, like I don’t have a care in the world, case the situation by only moving my eyes to seek out my hunters behind trees, buildings, and perhaps those tricky enough to be crouching behind other parked cars, though the lot is cleared out, which is great because I am trying not to move my head.

I’ve seen this shit go down in movies and there is not a chance I am getting in that car.  Clearly once I insert my key, hit unlock or open the door, the Prius is going to blow to shit and I am going to be a firework in the Stuttgart sky and no thanks, I haven’t quite finished my work on this planet yet. 

But where is my Mr. H, I think?  Surely he should be here already, or is he being held up on purpose, those people of terror knowing that I would obviously make him open the car, start it and kick away the ball while I watched from at least 200 feet away.  At this point I’ve calculated that if I stand across the street, I will survive any sort of mid-day personal vengeance bombing.  I have also calculated the number of people who may or may not want me dead and am not alarmed at all when I can think of at least 3-5 people.   I consider jotting down their names and putting a note somewhere, just in case.

Just then, as I pace around the car and try to figure out if I remember how to cut wires of bombs…red or green, red or green or is it yellow?  Must be yellow, no one ever snips yellow, I have it.  Obviously I need to take a picture of the styrofoam craft sphere bomb.  Evidence is key.  I get on my knees, wearing a dress and tights, strategically taking a picture with my beyond worthless blackberry.

I promise, that thing that doesn't look scary could kill you.


Just as I was standing up, looking at my picture, wondering who I should send it to in case I am blown to bits in a few minutes, I hear,

“Ma’am, is that your car?”  I turn and look and an innocent looking American soldier is walking toward me.  Good timing, I think.  And I hate the ma’am stuff but now is no time to fight him about making me feel old.

I consider telling him no, it isn’t, as I’m parked illegally.  But I give in to see what he has to say.  “Yes, it is.”  I realize he has seen me on all fours, taking a picture of a craft ball under my car.

“Yeah, we called the military police about that today.”  He points at the ball.  “But it’s moved locations, so it must be fine.”

Or, I think, it’s been hooked up to a remote control. 

“Mmm, I’ve seen this in the movies.  This never ends well.  I own the Bourne series and we all know what happened to that pretty girlfriend of his.”  Except then I can’t remember if that girl died by a car combing or if her jeep was driven off a bridge because really, she ended up drowning but either way, at this point, it didn’t matter.  And for the record, my exchange with him seemed normal, regardless of the fact that he started looking at me with his eyebrows up and in a way I would consider mocking and therefore unappreciated. 

“Seems fine, though.”  Full of worthless comments, that one.  I stand firm in staying away from the car.

“Would you like me to get it for you?”  He asks, now seemingly laughing at me on the inside.  Keep laughing, I think.  As you swipe away the craft bomb, I’m going to stand back and watch with my blackberry camera.  “Seems to me they would have removed it if they thought it was something to be concerned about.”

“Removing it would be lovely.  I’m refraining from entering the car, not feeling like a good bombing today.”  We are on base and I am not supposed to be saying such things but obviously this was a textbook case of local terror about to go wrong.

He picks up the ball, looks at it like he has x-ray vision, moves it around a bit and offers it to me.  I flinch and stand still. 

“No, I’m good, thanks.”  He’s not handing that ball to me. 

“You don’t want it?”  He seems confused why I’m not interested in taking home a styrofoam craft ball.  At this point I’m sure it’s actually on a timer.  He thrusts it at me and I’m now upset with him for making me get all superhero on the world.

I consider my options.  I toss it in the front seat, quickly roll down the windows and drive the car straight across the street to the dumpsters that reside behind our buildings.  Mr. H is nowhere to be found still meaning 1. He is late making it to the car AGAIN and 2.  He is about to miss me saving myself and potentially the world.

I throw open the car door, tuck the craft ball under my arm like I’m about to score a winning and very important playoff touchdown and race to the dumpsters, tossing it as gently as you can from five feet away and then bolting back to my car, cringing and flinching while running, just waiting to hear the explosion.  I make it back to the car and peer around the corner, wide-eyed and now further convinced it’s on a longer timer, one that would have gone off when I made it home, therefore destroying me AND Moxie and MY HOUSE.  Fucking bastards. 

Just then, the Mr. strolls from behind another building and yells, “Hiiii,” but then looks at me like he knows I’ve been up to something and gives me the look like he’s not sure he wants to hear it, considering last time he talked to me was twenty minutes ago and I was mellow and had nothing to share.

“You ARE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE IT.  Well, you will.  But you won’t.”  He just stares at me and waits for it as I pull out of base.  I spend the remainder of the car ride telling him about my close encounter.

“And they chose to bomb the Prius?  THE PRIUS?”  Like those type of people discriminate over what kind of car you drive.  Must I teach him everything?  And must he emphasize words that come out of my mouth?

“I have access to the WORLD.  Unlucky for them, I was too smart.  I foiled their plan and…”

“Stop saying foiled.  And what would they want with YOU?”  I am only slightly offended.  “You have no value,” he so rudely continued.

“They know very well that I am a very important bargaining tool they could use.  But I won.  I won and I outsmarted them and now I will go home and write and tell the world that I have restored order.”  I am beginning to understand comic book writers.

“Who is THEM?”  He really asks this many questions all.the.time.

“If THEY wanted you to know who THEY were, they’d tell you.”  He has watched the same movies I have.  I have no idea why we’re even having this conversation. 

“Can we just go get some chicken at the grocery store?”  He is now uninterested in me and my story.

“Yes, perfect.  Because I am out of wine and tonight we are going to celebrate me defeating those novice bombers who underestimated my spy tactics and awesome bomb removal skills.”

And then, with the window down, I stuck out my arm, pumped my fist and yelled, “I win AGAIN!”