I wake up to the sound of helicopters circling overhead. The first thing I see when I open my eyes is a bright mosaic of me at the Last Supper, sitting next to Jesus, covering the entire ceiling of my bedroom. I move the light, white, down comforter to the side, and my Columbian wife sighs something and tries to pull me back into bed. I push her away forcefully. I stand up, look down at my linen white pajama top and bottom, and then look up towards an open window with white cotton curtains blowing in the wind. The bright Mexican sun shines in through 10-foot tall windows that make up the walls of the room, and creates a blinding illumination. The salty taste of the ocean splashing just outside the windows goes well with the leftover taste of cognac on my lips. I bend over to touch my toes, extend my arms to the sides, stretch my back, and yawn. Another great day to be John Badman. I snap my fingers at a servant as I exit my room, and suddenly the song Chan Chan starts playing throughout the entire house. I stand at the top of a grand marble staircase, look down at a dark mahogany table with five men wearing bright Hawaiian shirts playing cards, and whistle loudly. They all turn up towards me, put down their cigars and drinks, pick up their AK-47’s, and move to their respective security posts. The helicopters overhead are becoming louder and louder. I yell. “Hector, who in the f*ck has woken me up so early?” Hector, the only man remaining at the table looks up from pouring Ballantine Ale. “Senor Badman, it is the United States military again, and this time they say you must surrender the property to the Mexican government. I put the letter on your dresser. They will not agree to….” I hear over a loudspeaker from one of the helicopters, “The United States of America requires that John Badman IV surrender himself immediately. We repeat, surrender Mr. Badman. Your home is surrounded. You cannot escape…” They repeat the commands in the background. I walk over to a side table next to the servant outside my bedroom. I pick up a hand-held radio and turn to channel 19. “Jose, you get me the president of the United States on the phone. I have had enough with this bullshit.” I snap for the servant to hand me a phone, and hold it impatiently. What seems like hours goes by. I look down at my Patek Philippe, and a minute passes. The phone rings. It is the president. I hear, in perfect reception, “John, how are you?” I hold up the phone, and as I look up through a glass sun-roof covering the staircase and room downstairs, I look up at the two Black Hawk helicopters hovering powerfully. “Do you hear that Watson? What in the f*ck are you doing here? [I put on a thick accent, and whisper into the phone] You tell your silly little helicopters to stop flying around my property, [I start raising my voice] or I will have to find an alternative to getting them out of my air space. You back stabbing f*ck.” I nod at the servant, cover up the phone, and demand, “Get Donald in here NOW!” He picks up the hand-held radio, speaks in Spanish quickly, and out of a hallway downstairs a tall security guard comes in with a rocket launcher on his shoulder. “John, we have given you months to disarm and stop your illegal business ventures. We have been more than reasonable in…” “Watson, I didn’t go to Andover with you for 4 long, [yet delightful], years to listen to this shit. Where is your loyalty? I sent you a Christmas card every year. Our sons room at Andover.” “I am sorry, but this is out of my hands now. I handed it over to my Secretary of Defense, who handed it down to the Navy. Maybe it is time to end this game.” I smash the phone against a wall behind me, and it shatters. The pounding of the helicopters has obviously concerned my wife enough for her to come out wrapped in sheets; looking up at the huge, black helicopters hovering in the beautifully clear sky that has a row of purely white clouds, she pushes her body up against me. “Not now. Daddy has big boy work. Go back to bed.” “Juanito, te quiero mucho. Dame un beso.” I kiss her, and she runs back into the bedroom. I hear gunshots from the south garden. I yell to the servant by my bedroom door, and he picks up the radio. A channel 11 emergency frequency is sent, and moments later a blacked-out Range Rover crashes through the glass walls of the room below the staircase. I yell, “Maria, NOW!” My wife comes running out of the bedroom again, dressed in a sun dress. My three children are being loaded into the back of the car by servants. I take my wife’s hand, and we walk down the staircase. I open the door for her, and she gets in. I take the keys from Hector, whisper something in his ear, and get in the car. We smash through a different glass wall on the way out, skid down a pebble driveway past a 60 foot water fountain taking up a large cul-de-sac, and my eldest son, dressed in a suit, starts crying. I look back to scold him, and see a large explosion take out the West wing of my house. He is silent. I throw the wheel to the left, skid violently on the pebbles, and catch traction in the direction of a tunnel opening hidden by tall trees. As the Range Rover flies down the hole at the side of the stucco security wall, the helicopter that was following us hovers helplessly, and we are safely on our way to the weekend house.
