# 3: Abdul was smashed in the head

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Abdul was smashed in the head and face by the swinging truck door. The infidel driver had broken his NOSE! How infuriating. This was not to be born. Abdul stood up and started shouting. Things just weren’t going right for some reason. Abdul couldn’t understand it. He was the chosen martyr. His Holy Man had given him a holy Mission.

The Holy Man had said “Make some molotov cocktails...go to a nearby truck stop early in the morning…..set some trucks on fire....then shoot the drivers when they jump out of their trucks. Truckers don’t carry guns since this is Illinois. Law Abiding citizens don’t carry guns here...there is a law against it. You should be able to kill a large number of the infidel truckers before the police arrive to take you into custody”.

That sounded good to Abdul. He’d seen how other mass shooters had been treated. They’d been treated well. In fact it seemed that the odds were in his favor of surviving unless he killed himself. Abdul didn’t plan to do that. He planned to survive and be a hero. He would be hailed as a hero. He was striking against the Great Satan.

Being a hero would be nice and then there were the seventy-two virgins. He kinda liked redheads.

There was a problem though. He had not been able to find the big glass wine bottles his Holy Man had recommended, for the molotov cocktails. To tell the truth he didn’t like wine much and hadn’t looked very hard. He really DID like whisky.

He kept that a secret though. It was his secret vice. His Spiritual Advisor would not approve.

He’d had plenty of plastic pint whiskey bottles. Whiskey and Vodka. He’d saved his empties. He kept them hidden. If he threw them in the trash someone might notice. They should work. So he’d filled them all with gasoline...and stuffed them in all his pockets.

In his eagerness to be a hero, Abdul had arrived at the truck-stop early. Too early. It was before daylight and quite dark. It had also rained the night before and everything was wet. He’d picked a rundown truck-stop. It had a dirt lot full of potholes. Those potholes were full of water.

The molotov cocktails didn’t seem to be working. They kept going out...and bouncing. The plastic bottles wouldn’t shatter.

When the Infidel Trucker smashed him in the face with the door he’d fell on his butt...squashing several bottles that were in his back pockets. Plastic whisky bottles didn’t shatter like glass..but they split open when sat on hard..and Abdul was a bit overweight. Now his pants were soaked with gasoline.

He was enraged. All caution was forgotten. He was fuming, in both senses of the word.

The infidel would pay. Abdul stood up while jerking his gun out of a pant’s pocket. Unfortunately he didn’t practice proper safety procedures. For one thing the safety was OFF. For another thing he had his finger inside the trigger guard.

The gun went off. Luckily he didn’t shoot himself. Unluckily for him the muzzle flash ignited the gasoline fumes.

He was on fire.

Abdul, also known, briefly, as the human torch, dropped his gun and ran around the Truck Stop splashing through mud puddles and potholes as he went. The heat from the fire melted more of the plastic bottles. They just added fuel to the fire. The heat cooked off many of the rounds in the many spare magazines he had for his pistol, which he had dropped.

Abdul ran, screamed, burned and popped. If anyone had been watching it would have been quite impressive for a short time. No one was, it was too early. All the truckers were still in their bunks.

After a little while Abdul burned up. His charred remains lay on the ground...melting into a puddle...sizzling. Every now and then a bullet would cook off. Had anyone been awake no one would have wanted to get close to him.

It was still before sunup.

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