Tag Archives: terror manifesto

Why I Did It, A Terrorist Manifesto (part 18, End)

[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I have published the story in serial installments, every Monday for the past little while. Read the entire story here.]

In this dream I burn
And so does the world
Everything
Even the pavement beneath my feet
The glass hanging vertically above me
The air shot through with hot white embers.

Here I breathe the freshest air I have ever tasted
Burning flesh and hair smells sweet, not acrid.

Despite the fire I am cool, at room temperature.
I listen as screams fill the air when night descends

Even the stars fall, icy to the touch
Striking me with a cold burn
Not the explosive heat of a sun.

The burning beings of the world flock to the stars
But the heavenly glaciers do not save them.

A drunken moon devours the junkie sun
Regurgitates it into a burning ocean
It fizzles and dies with a hiss.

Yet when the dream ends
I do not wake in a sweat.

Why I Did It, A Terrorist Manifesto (part 17)

[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I will be publishing the story in serial installments, every Monday for the next little while. Stay tuned.]

I shouldn’t have been surprised that they prevented me from ending my life as I planned.

By this, they committed another act of terror. They kept me alive when they wanted to see me die.

My final attack went awry and a S.W.A.T. team apprehended me. I offered no resistance, I dropped the detonator I held in my left hand, I put my hands behind my head, and I lay down – face down. They surrounded me, assault weapons ready. Handcuffs were placed tightly around my wrists and my feet were cuffed as well. I was treated roughly, just at the limits of abuse. Predictably, the officers held back from true violence.

The headlines surrounding my capture were numerous. I even heard that a few of the radical presses were hailing me as a “hero,” which I never considered myself. I received hate mail while in prison, mixed with an occasional letter professing admiration, even – absurdly – affection. I was offered several interviews by the major national networks. I declined them all.

On my way to my preliminary hearing, the public showed up in droves brandishing pictures and relics of the ones they had lost due to my attacks. There were screams of anger directed at me. I could feel the hatred emanating from the crowd. I could feel their rage, but not one of them had what it takes to act; I commend the police for intimidating these animals into merely vocalizing their discontent. The situation was not without a certain sense of humor. The police, in their heavy riot gear, had to protect me from them. I told them, “We can dance,” and smiled widely. The media assumed I was gloating in my victory (what victory?). We arrived at the courthouse over two hours late.

*

I hired the best lawyer I could, and I got off with life in solitary – a disappointment in more than one way. I was placed in maximum security with criminals arguably worse than myself. They created a community amongst themselves out of their hatred for me.

Even in prison, a criminal among criminals, I am an exile.

For some reason, people wanted to visit me. Reporters of all sorts, leftist politicians, right-wing religious extremists, academics who were studying the “terrorist mind,” women with a taste for “bad boys,” and simply individuals I may have inspired or ones who may have wanted to kill me – I refused them all.

*

I take responsibility for my own unhappiness. If I am unhappy, it is not because of others. That is the way society says it has to be: to each his own. Never mind what they took away from me and continue to take. I live with the rules they set up and I put up with their politics, day after day. Each day I see people succeed and fail, I see them rise above and get trampled. Most of all, I see people just getting by and they seem happy. I do not make the rules, yet I am forced to obey them. I am in prison, but who will be punished for what they have done and what they continue to do?

Why I Did It, A Terrorist Manifesto (part 16)

[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I will be publishing the story in serial installments, every Monday for the next little while. Stay tuned.]

You may think I am cruel, that I am a sadist. Nothing could be farther from the truth of my desire. I took no pleasure in hurting and killing people. What I took pleasure in is the fear that hurting and killing inspires in others. If terror could be achieved some other way, it is quite possible I would have opted for that. But nothing – NOTHING – makes people afraid like the threat of being hurt, possibly killed, and “nothing” is not an option for me.

*

To inspire terror in God, does one torture an angel?

*

I am not sure when, but at a certain point, I lost my passion for terror. It just seemed like everything else.

However, I had been terrorizing for so long that a life without killing and maiming not only seemed impossible but utterly unlivable. What was I to do? Return to school? Why? To prove, like a marathon runner, that I could achieve something meaningless, something anyone could do? Get a job? Again, the only possible reason I could see myself doing this would be to live the “American Dream,” trying to blend in despite my absolutely nightmarish existence.

No. In the end I decided to go out with a bang. I thought it better to end my life than live a life without being manifest terror.

Why I Did It, A Terrorist Manifesto (part 15)

[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I will be publishing the story in serial installments, every Monday for the next little while. Stay tuned.]

I poison medicine and finish the sick
So there is no hope of recovering
So families mourn my fallen patients.

I set spikes on roads where traffic roams
So the speed of life becomes fertilizer
So haste ends in hideous fusion of flesh and pavement.

I set libraries ablaze and immolate all inside
So desire for knowledge is turned to an oven
So ashes feed the future flames of ignorance.

I plant razors in beaches
So sand lovers turn cripple
So gulls feast on dried blood.

I design weapons that wound
So dying seems not too bad
So death is the choice to being maimed.

I create forces that annihilate
So no thing can flee from this sure end
So no will obstructs my revenge.

All of this, and more, I do from mortal hatred.

Why I Did It, A Terrorist Manifesto (part 14)

[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I will be publishing the story in serial installments, every Monday for the next little while. Stay tuned or look back.]

I saw it on television, where else?

It was the first time I had witnessed the effect and aftershock of one of my attacks. I had driven a few miles away from where it happened, to a seedy country western bar. I sat down and looked up. I surprised myself by how calm I was. My hands, though grimy and covered in sweat, did not shake.

The people in ambulances. The people with ash on their faces. Blood.

My heart took wings, and I watched.

It is futile to say that they had no idea what happened to them. They never would. This was life. It had been part of their lives before. It would always be part of their lives, with me or without me.

A reporter stood in front of the scene. Feigning shock and disbelief. Then a commercial break.

Others in the bar started to chatter amongst themselves, muttering lukewarm oaths about what they would do if they ever “got hold of that psycho bastard.” I felt like confessing right there, just to see if they were more than just ghosts, if they would put their flesh at risk to live their words. It was not worth it though – I had work to do.

After several minutes of commercial breaks, the news telecast went on to another story.

What gives advertisers the right to attack our psyches, with methodical, intentional, and frequently successful tactics based on fear, the aim of which is no less terrible than anything I have ever done?

Or, better yet: Whom?

Why I Did It, A Terrorist Manifesto (part 13)

[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I will be publishing the story in serial installments, every Monday for the next little while. Stay tuned or look back.]

To make it difficult for the authorities to track me down or anticipate my attacks, I used a completely random system to determine the timing. I would roll dice: one dice to determine in how many months, another to determine the weeks, and a last to determine days – three six-sided dice. Needless to say, I could not even predict when I would strike next: the dice told me when, but I decided where, and whoever happened to be there was how my victims were ultimately chosen. Much of it was always out of my control.

I did not choose my victims, as such.

I did not select any target based on who they are: it does not matter what religion, which political ideology, sexual orientation, race or ethnicity, young or old, male or female.

You might say victims of my crimes were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Even if someone I cared about were killed, it would simply mean one less person to care about – that is all.

In this sense I was truly democratic, totally despotic: My hatred was indiscriminate.

Why I Did It, A Terrorist Manifesto (part 12)

[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I will be publishing the story in serial installments, every Monday for the next little while. Stay tuned or look back.]

I can truly say
I am my own creation
You gave me all the pieces
All the worst pieces
And trampled them
Beneath your leather boots
I can truly say
I picked up all the rubble
You thought was worthless
All the spider webbed windshields
All the punctured tires
And all the broken toys
I can truly say
That with all your brutality
I will show you what a
Monster really is

And you will be speechless