The Holy Book in my heart–my shield against all enemies. My means of attack under the jacket of my pagan western-style clothes (all black), so out-of-place on Nairobi's streets, but not here, in this playground of the rich.
God and guns. Great good. Death’s dearest wish.
The car at an open back entrance to the mall (the work of an inside accomplice). I, through the shadows, now inside, and in a casual stroll toward the central transept, to my assigned place (no notice, please!). Others here, too, on time. Perfect planning.
From behind the northwest pillar, a clear view of the ignorant masses. Gun now in hand in plain sight, arm horizontal. No retreat now. Finger at trigger: CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! A dozen explosions of blood and fleshy pieces. Screams of men, women, and children in the chaos. No near exit, no safe place for any of them. None! Retribution and victory over the infidel, even fellow believers different in their believing. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! So purifying, so satisfying, so cleansing, so just: blood sacrifice for the almighty's glory. Righteous terror, clean execution!
But in a flash, a bullet with my name on it into my heart. From where? From whom? Blood and arm and gun down to the floor. Blurring vision. Gurgles of blood in my throat. A muffled scream (my turn): "God...good!" in the death of the innocent, and of me, now guilty.
"Gun?...God?...Good?" Yes, and in Ohio, too.
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