Hummer Holiday: Chapter Ten, ‘Mmmerican Waterlooo

Bone Marrow
Bone Marrow

by Richard Oxman

Good Al got good and tired of The Great Matilda’s *goodies* around the same time that he lost interest in *civilization* falling apart all around him. Bad Al’s most ingenious means of destruction no longer fazed him much, and he was so fed up with filling Matilda’s *cup*…he just gave up on hard…on all normal human intercourse.

Perhaps that’s how he landed in Merzouga, 33 miles southeast of Erfoud, a small oasis at the foot of Morocco’s Erg Chebbi Dunes.

His *Hummer Holiday* commenced with a 19-mile climb into the desert, 820-feet up…to greet the half-light of a Saharan sunrise. Fascinating colors climbed with him as his bloodlusty companions — strangers all — screamed out of scrunched faces…language most foul…most fatal for the fowl ahead.

Much like painted/tainted Bosox fans demanding the marrow of Orioles.

It was at Dayet Srji, a small lake west of Merzouga, that there had been a sudden rainfall — totally out of (the desert’s) character for that time of year — accommodating hundreds of pink flamingoes, storks and other migratory birds — their arrival another something totally out of whack for his pre-winter foray — and suiting the purposes of “Munch & Mengele’s Hummer Holiday” operation.

A gift beyond waste(d)land water, making the Americans ecstatic in their ignorance of the elements, expediting manifestation of their *raison d’etre* in the desert.

Boom, boom, boom from the half-pickup, half-SUV SUT (which they playfully coined The SLUT), flamingo after stork stiffened beakface down, feathers (flying) up…no more.

Felled from the firepower of the seventy-two-inch flatbed, unlike the mess from any previous *safari*. Or was it?

Howls over the dead fowl seemed to reach the library at Tamegroute, whose influence of great learning reached throughout Southern Morocco in the 17th-century.

Beneath the arcades of the courtyard there, the seat of the *zaouia* was in full swing.

Near the entrance to the tomb of Mohammed Bou Nasri, invalids and handicapped people were gathering to be cured.

And Bad Al, by some twisted serendipity of thanatological chronology, was recruiting from the religious brotherhood, the *marabout* turning over in his grave.