Soils of War

I'm still hiding in my hole like Saddam, but unlike that idiot, I'll never be found by crack troops even if they turn over every rock in sub-Saharan Africa.

Hiding underground is a lot like prison -- you have time to kill. And insects. So I've been doing a lot of thinking about my past, the great adventure that has brought me to this hole in the ground. You may have asked yourself, How did this heroic missionary become so mercenary in his ways? Well, allow me to share a story from my past that will put it all into perspective.

It was late one night in Hillbrow. I was prowling the streets for potential pagans who needed to hear about their eternal destiny if they failed to surrender to Christ. Some Christians call this evangelism or witnessing, I simply call it Pete's Crusade. Anyway, back then I'm ashamed to say I was unarmed. Can you believe it? Unarmed except for the Sword of the Spirit and a heap of Jack Chick cartoon tracts (if you've never seen these animated depictions of hell, the conspiracies of the evil Catholic church, and the wicked ways of atheists and homosexuals, do yourself a favour and check them out).

So there I am wandering around the streets, handing out Chick tracts to whores and druggies, when I hear a woman screaming. I run in the direction of the screams, down a deserted side street where I saw the crime in progress. This large guy was attempting to rape a defenseless woman while holding a huge knife to her throat. I mean huge -- he could have passed for Crocodile Dundee or if he was Japanese, a samurai!

Like I said, I was unarmed, except for my Bible. So I threw it at him -- hit him square on the back of the head. He let go of the woman, who promptly ran away with her torn dress flapping in the cold wind. He turned and snarled with a crazed demonic look in his eyes that made my insides turn to water. I soiled my underpants. This guy was going to kill me. He came running at me with his gleaming knife slashing the air above his head and screaming profanity that sounded a lot like "I'm gonna cut your balls off and feed them to my pet rat you muthafukka!!!!" or could just have been "diemuthafukkaaaaaaahhh!!!" I may have soiled my pants again at that moment, but there was no time to stop and check just how bad the damage was while this crazed lunatic sliced me into little bits.

I ran. I ran for my life.

He chased me for several blocks, waving his huge knife in the air and shouting the most evil curses I'd ever heard, but he was no match for my swift legs.

If I had been properly armed it would have been a totally different scenario. He'd be stone cold dead for starters. And Hillbrow would be minus one godless criminal. And I would have been recognised for the hero I am, instead of simply referred to as a gun-toting, right wing fundamentalist like I have been ever since.

The next day I went straight to the gun shop and bought my first of many firearms. And then I tattooed 'Never Again' on my right shoulder beneath a smoking gun. (I've since had the tattoo surgically removed by laser. It was a lapse in judgment and I'd forgotten what the Bible says about tattoos -- "Thou shalt not tattoo thyself as the pagan devil worshippers," Leviticus 19:28.)

I also bought new underwear.

Fight the good fight, and always carry a spare pair of undies in case of an embarrassing incident.