The One-Eyed Jihadist, or Our New Perfect Enemy

Mokhtar Belmokhtar is perfect for the interests of the West! Not because he is a master terrorist, but rather because he enjoys attention, and is missing an eye; he looks like he was born for villainy. Though he seems to be more of an opportunist and profiteer than a devout Muslim -- his previous history of cigarette smuggling is evidence enough -- he is willing to portray himself as a self-less fighter for the Islamic cause.

Western powers will not bother to dispute Belmokhtar's desire simply to attract attention to himself, they will simply continue giving the public the general impression that he represents the Islamist rebels in the Azawad. The truth, however, is that we have no idea who he truly works for, or if he is simply a personal profiteer or self-aggrandizer.

I wouldn't be surprised if he becomes incredibly difficult to catch, and if every new terrorist attack is attributed to him. The new Bin Laden has been unveiled to us, and this one doesn't bother to hide the fact that he is blind to how the CIA will protect him, help him grow, make him powerful, and use him to scare the population into further submission.

The One-Eyed Jihadist, or Our New Perfect Enemy

Mokhtar Belmokhtar is perfect for the interests of the West! Not because he is a master terrorist, but rather because he enjoys attention, and is missing an eye; he looks like he was born for villainy. Though he seems to be more of an opportunist and profiteer than a devout Muslim -- his previous history of cigarette smuggling is evidence enough -- he is willing to portray himself as a self-less fighter for the Islamic cause.

Western powers will not bother to dispute Belmokhtar's desire simply to attract attention to himself, they will simply continue giving the public the general impression that he represents the Islamist rebels in the Azawad. The truth, however, is that we have no idea who he truly works for, or if he is simply a personal profiteer or self-aggrandizer.

I wouldn't be surprised if he becomes incredibly difficult to catch, and if every new terrorist attack is attributed to him. The new Bin Laden has been unveiled to us, and this one doesn't bother to hide the fact that he is blind to how the CIA will protect him, help him grow, make him powerful, and use him to scare the population into further submission.

The CIA Pin in my Closet

I went to Belgium last month. I can't be bothered to remember when exactly I wound up at that 24 hour bar in Antwerp with my girlfriend. The series of events in the bar mirror Korea, and at some point I had one too many beers and informed her that I was heading to the bathroom for a nap. 

"You are a great girlfriend, thanks for understanding and waiting," I said as I stumbled towards the darkly-lit bathcave hiding the reality of sunlight outside. 

I walked into a toilet stall, and sat on the toilet after putting the cover down. I knew I wouldn't be needing a hotel room that night; the stall would provide me with all the sleep I needed for the day, be it an hour or three. 

I closed my eyes, and began to dream. I was at my apartment in Diemen, just overlooking the A-10 ring, the highway surrounding Amsterdam. In this dream, I was with an ex of mine, and we were smoking on the balcony, the amazing view of cars moving in the night and the whole of East Amsterdam -- all the way over to Diemen train station, and the Ijburg bridge just over -- leaving her bombarded with images. 

"I feel like I'm in a Sim City simulation," she said. It was full panoramic experience, and I knew the spliff I'd gotten for her at Speakeasy was making her horny. We started kissing on the balcony, and I immediately started guiding her towards the bedroom. I like to keep it Korean style, so she knew she was going to be pounded on not much more than a blanket. I had been considerate enough to get a pillow for the night before, but, given the life of simplicity I have chosen to live, I couldn't yield on much more. 

We began making love, and even before I started penetrating her, we heard a noise, as if something had fallen and broken. I ran out of the bedroom and found my closet open. I looked to the left, at the kitchen door, and it too was also open. I ran out to the balcony and saw ropes dangling; they were the ropes from Hemubo, a window cleaning company that'd been doing work for a few days. 

I looked up at the roof and noticed movement. I figured that anyone that could rope themselves from a 10th to a 12th story floor would be impossible for me to catch even if I managed to get dressed and run to the roof like the Flash, so I instead decided to stay put. I looked inside my closet to see if my cellphones were still there. I shouted to my ex, "Help me look in the closet!"

After turning on more lights, I looked to the ornamental hooks a voodoo priest had given me, and noticed that the magnetism they created had attracted something. I looked in and found a CIA pin. I knew immediately my past career was catching up with me; all those missions out of Pyongyang, I thought. 

Suddenly, I heard a knocking that grew louder and louder. Someone wanted to use my stall. I stood up from my dream and returned to my girlfriend. I didn't mention my dream to her, but I definitely told her on the road back to Amsterdam to stop at my apartment before we proceeded to hers. I went straight for my closet, and I found exactly what I knew I would: a CIA pin. I ran out of the apartment, and vowed not to return.

The CIA Pin in my Closet

I went to Belgium last month. I can't be bothered to remember when exactly I wound up at that 24 hour bar in Antwerp with my girlfriend. The series of events in the bar mirror Korea, and at some point I had one too many beers and informed her that I was heading to the bathroom for a nap. 

"You are a great girlfriend, thanks for understanding and waiting," I said as I stumbled towards the darkly-lit bathcave hiding the reality of sunlight outside. 

I walked into a toilet stall, and sat on the toilet after putting the cover down. I knew I wouldn't be needing a hotel room that night; the stall would provide me with all the sleep I needed for the day, be it an hour or three. 

I closed my eyes, and began to dream. I was at my apartment in Diemen, just overlooking the A-10 ring, the highway surrounding Amsterdam. In this dream, I was with an ex of mine, and we were smoking on the balcony, the amazing view of cars moving in the night and the whole of East Amsterdam -- all the way over to Diemen train station, and the Ijburg bridge just over -- leaving her bombarded with images. 

"I feel like I'm in a Sim City simulation," she said. It was full panoramic experience, and I knew the spliff I'd gotten for her at Speakeasy was making her horny. We started kissing on the balcony, and I immediately started guiding her towards the bedroom. I like to keep it Korean style, so she knew she was going to be pounded on not much more than a blanket. I had been considerate enough to get a pillow for the night before, but, given the life of simplicity I have chosen to live, I couldn't yield on much more. 

We began making love, and even before I started penetrating her, we heard a noise, as if something had fallen and broken. I ran out of the bedroom and found my closet open. I looked to the left, at the kitchen door, and it too was also open. I ran out to the balcony and saw ropes dangling; they were the ropes from Hemubo, a window cleaning company that'd been doing work for a few days. 

I looked up at the roof and noticed movement. I figured that anyone that could rope themselves from a 10th to a 12th story floor would be impossible for me to catch even if I managed to get dressed and run to the roof like the Flash, so I instead decided to stay put. I looked inside my closet to see if my cellphones were still there. I shouted to my ex, "Help me look in the closet!"

After turning on more lights, I looked to the ornamental hooks a voodoo priest had given me, and noticed that the magnetism they created had attracted something. I looked in and found a CIA pin. I knew immediately my past career was catching up with me; all those missions out of Pyongyang, I thought. 

Suddenly, I heard a knocking that grew louder and louder. Someone wanted to use my stall. I stood up from my dream and returned to my girlfriend. I didn't mention my dream to her, but I definitely told her on the road back to Amsterdam to stop at my apartment before we proceeded to hers. I went straight for my closet, and I found exactly what I knew I would: a CIA pin. I ran out of the apartment, and vowed not to return.

The Nervous Waiter

The Nervous Waiter. Copyrighted Material.

It was Monday morning, and my partner was off to a business meeting on the other side of Holland. Facing the prospect of being home alone, I decided to head to the Red Light District for a beer and a cigar. I eventually wound up at the Greenhouse on Warmoestraat.

I like the Greenhouse because you can drink for cheap and also smoke inside. I ordered my first beer and was approached by a waiter who stumbled side-to-side and spilled some of my beer on the table. Realizing that it was 10am on a Monday, I figured the young waiter was new on the job. 

"First day, huh? You look a bit nervous, but you're doing alright," I said trying to help him relax a bit.

"I'm not first day on the job," he said before wiping whiskey-like sweat from his forehead. "I came straight from a Friday night booze," he said with a Korean level of pride. 

Realizing that only a select number of individuals in Amsterdam were capable of such a casual test of resilience, I rang my good friend the artist "KC." Without a doubt, they knew each other, and KC decided to join us. 

Fully knowing that KC coming to the center would only result in either an artistic or drunken epiphany, I commissioned a painting for 2,000 euros. I still haven't paid, and KC hasn't delivered. He did, however, take a picture of the work he has done so far. 

I am sure that he will finish today or tomorrow. I am currently at his studio, and since we're snowed in here in Amsterdam, he has nothing but free time. How I wound up at his studio after drinking and smoking at the Greenhouse is a matter of drunken contention and of such a voluminous number of incidents, that there simply isn't enough time in the world for me to recount so many drunken steps, so many stumbles on the wrong tram(s?), and so many vicious afternoon words from old ladies. There simply isn't enough time.