Gabe
Once long ago Mogadishu, Somalia was a hub for fine commerce. Those days had long since passed, leaving the
city in a chaotic mess of violent rival militias and medieval style politics.
An old white pickup pulls up on a dusty side street facing the Bakaaraha market; the closest thing to functioning
commercial space in Somalia. A Western man, face submerged in a mess of hair winding into tangled brown
beard steps out. He is dressed strangely for the summer heat, wearing a thick black fleece, heavy brown work
pants and a pair of tough looking leather boots. Shutting the car door, he walks across the dusty street until he
comes to the busy market. Taking once glance at the swarm of glistening, cloaked bodies scampering here and
there, the man proceeds to sternly push his way through the swarm. The thick crowd gives way, failing to notice
the white mans presence.
DeWitt wasn’t some snot nosed, suite-wearing rookie straight off a plane from Saint Petersburg anymore. He had
been deflowered; he had seen the abandoned mothers, the thirsty children, fighting for water from a hose that
would only make them sick. And most importantly DeWitt had seen the violence, the total disregard for the
value of a human life. As many a gun dealer had said to him as casually a possible, valuing human life was a
“Silly Westerner” thing to do. Stepping out of the sunny smog lingering in the afternoon air, DeWitt entered the
small yellow building that veterans of the trade grimly referred to as “The Pond.” This was the other organized
market in Somalia, far away from pregnant teen mothers and hungry, rotting children. The pond is the weapons
market, the dark space where the wealthiest Somalis, below an intoxicating plume of cigar smoke, would
purchase weapons from Westerners. With the newly acquired weapons, the Somali gun dealers would then sell
for greater value to Somali Militias who, now armed with fresh machine guns, could litter the streets with each
others bodies as they so pleased. The interior of the building was bland; fold out tables for the arms dealers to
inspect weapons lined the cracked walls. A filthy coffee machine stood in one corner and an elegant, hand carved
wooden coat rack, contrasting aesthetically somewhat with the rest of the room, stood in the other. DeWitt was
recognized immediately upon entering the desolate room, this was his fifth trip the Somalia, thus making him a
veteran. It was rare for a dealer to risk making three trips, maybe four at most. DeWitt took off his dark
sunglasses, exposing grim, bloodshot eyes. Slinging the U.S military issued duffle bag off his shoulder, Dewitt
exposed a line of polished new machine guns, which seemed to twinkle even in the scarcely lit room. Crowding
around the weapons the Somali dealers murmured among themselves, finally beginning to hand DeWitt neat
stacks of Somali money in exchange for the weapons. Nodding in approval the dealers packaged up their newly
acquired weapons, some dispersed out into the bright light and some hid in the corner, whispering amongst
themselves. DeWitt centered his glasses back over his eyes. Hastily he slung the U.S army bag over his shoulder
and proceeded towards beam of light flowing in from the busy street. As DeWitt stepped outside the market
erupted in gunfire, on cue a scattering of civilians, arms flailing, crumpled to the dusty floor. Stumbling back into
the pond, DeWitt approached one of the Somali weapon dealers, tossing a wad of Somali money onto the dealers
lap DeWitt snatched up one of his rifles in exchange. As DeWitt reproached the door it was apparent that the
gunfire had increased, although he could not see where it was coming from. The mass of people in the market
had been riled into a frenzy, running and pushing in every direction preventing anyone from actually escaping.
Below the jungle of scrambling feet law twisted, barefoot bodies; clothes stained deep crimson red. DeWitt had
really started to sweat now. Taking a step into the street, DeWitt stumbled, firing off a dozen shots into the
crowd, which absorbed the bullets, keeping its perfect rhythm in panicked dance. From where DeWitt stood he
still make out no armed Militia. Forgetting about who was shooting who, DeWitt, lowering his shoulder rushed
through the crowd, sending the underweight bodies flying like a linebacker smashing into a quarterback. Making it
through between volleys of gunfire, DeWitt caught site of his car, a man lay face down, arms outstretched on the
vehicles hood. As he approached the car, DeWitt grabbed the body by the back of its shirt, exposing the man’s
heaving bloody chest. Tossing the hardly consciences man to the floor with one hand, DeWitt violently pulled
open his driver door with the other. The man rolled limply to the side, mouth ajar, head dangling over the side of
the curb. DeWitt and the Militiaman spotted each other at the same time, the skinny Somali who was running
across the street stopped dead five yards in front of DeWitt’s car, oversized machine gun balanced low on his
bony hip. DeWitt, fumbling for his gun; grabbing it off the passenger seat he let out a round of bullets through
the windshield just as the Somali, knees bent in some sort of athletic stance, fired right back in the opposite
direction. The windshield shattered sending an explosion of heavy glass raining down on DeWitt, who, was
clutching three quarter sized holes in his chest let out a angry scream. Face sliced into fleshy flaps from the
broken windshield and hands trying the contain the spurting blood from his chest, DeWitt jammed his foot down
on the gas. The white pickup lurched forward driving right through the Somali man, sending him limply head over
heals through the air until he crashed down hard like a rag doll, rolling loosely to a fractured standstill. The white
pickup plowed onwards, clearing the adjacent curb it lodged itself with a terrific crash of crunching metal in an
unfortunate brick house. The crowd who had watched this unfold had fallen silent now, the chaos of the afternoon
dulled to a silence by the car which sat smoking through an avalanche of yellow brick which the broken vehicle
lay submerged beneath.
Gender:
Points: 890
Reviews: 14