A letter from a Kiwi terrorist

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Dear Mum,

I thought I’d write, as the internet coverage where I am is rubbish, and the guys I’m with are a bit funny about letting me have access to email. Someone I met here said he could get a message out by donkey, so hopefully this comes your way soon. I hope you like the postcard I chose. This Osama guy’s some sort of legend in these parts, kind of like an Arab Richie McCaw.

I hope my writing isn’t too small for you to read, but I’ve got heaps to tell you.
I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner, but everything happened so quickly, and for some reason they didn’t want me telling anyone where I was going. They seemed like such nice people, and I didn’t want to upset them, but I expect you’ve been a bit worried about me.

Well you needn’t have worried, because I’ve landed on my feet and everything’s sweet. It started a couple of months ago when I met a guy on a London bus during my OE. He went on and on about his religion, and I just went along with it all, nodding and agreeing with all the stuff he was saying. I didn’t want to offend the guy, and he was super friendly, and he even invited me to come along to his church. It wasn’t a proper church, with crosses and shit, and it turned out that he was one of those Muslim people.

He and his mates had a lot to say about the United States and Britain, but I’ve never been big on politics, so I didn’t pay much attention. I just went along with it all, and then suddenly I got invited on a camping trip.

But get this—the camp’s in Pakistan! I thought “Yes! I’m well up for this!” I’ve always fancied taking a gander at that part of the world, and they were promising all kinds of cool things, like mountain treks, firing off guns, and donkey rides. And the bastards were willing to pay for everything!

Now, Mum, I know what you’re thinking. “He’s turned into one of those Islam types!” I can almost hear you saying it. Well don’t fret about that, because I’ve never been one for any of that religious mumbo-jumbo, though they seem quite big on it here. Most of the shit they go on about’s in their funny language anyway, so I don’t understand the bulk of it. They do pray a shitload, so I go through the motions just to keep them happy, and it seems to work most of the time.

I don’t really know where we are, but Aaqib, who’s one of the better blokes around here, reckons it’s somewhere in the northern provinces of Pakistan. It’s really rugged here, and it took us days to get in here, and I was sweating like a pig when we finally made it in. The facilities here are pretty crude, and we live in tents, and the food’s a bit rough, but it’s not all bad. We get to shoot off guns pretty much every day, and they tell me I’m a pretty good shot. Must be all those years shooting rabbits on the farm!

You should see me now, Mum. They don’t hold with shaving, so you probably wouldn’t recognise me with the beard. I look like Uncle Trev after he’s been a week out in the bush pig-hunting. And I probably smell as bad as Uncle Trev too, because there’s no running water here. I’ve lost a heap of weight, and my clothes were almost falling off me. Luckily they gave me a bunch of robes to wear, but they make me look ridiculous. Thankfully cameras aren’t allowed, so you’ll just have to take my word for it!

Last week some new guy with a big-as beard turned up with a bunch of seriously cool toys, and I got to fire off an RPG. This thing is like a hand-held rocket, and you should see the damage it does! Aaqib told me I should use it to take down a passenger plane when I get back home to New Zealand. I reckon it just about would bring down a jumbo jet. I’m pretty sure Aaqib was joking, by the way, because shooting down a plane would be seriously nuts.

They go on a bit about killing people, though. I was a bit worried at first, but then I realised it’s all just bullshit talk. Remember old Sparky Malone and what he would be like after half a crate of Double Brown? He’d go on about who he was going to waste and how many guys he was going to smack over, before having a puke and falling asleep with his head in the shitter. These guys are just the same, except it’s religion rather than piss that’s making them talk crazy. It’s still just all pub-talk, I reckon.

So I have a laugh and go along with it, and make up stuff about all the messed-up shit I’m going to do to people when I get home. They got super excited when I told them that the moment I got back to New Zealand I intended to strap a big-as bomb to my chest and walk into the nearest crowded bar. They said that if I followed through I would get 72 virgins as my reward, but they must have been taking the piss. “Good luck with finding any virgins back in my home town,” I said.
They also told me I would become a “martyr”. I think that basically means “bloody legend”.

Anyway, it’s been fun, but I am starting to get a bit homesick. When I got here I asked Aaqib and his mate Nasif if there was somewhere to go for a beer, but it turns out that the bastards don’t drink. I don’t much hold for all that teetotal business, but I guess they’re entitled to their opinions. Still, if I’d known the place would be dry I would have picked up a bottle or two at duty free on the way over.

The night life here’s pretty terrible, and it’s probably the worst thing about the place. The female company is almost non-existent, and I’ve only seen a couple of women since getting here, and the ones I saw were covered head to toe in these dark sheets, like black ghosts. It didn’t stop me, though. I tried to chat up one of the ladies, but she just ran off, and I haven’t seen her since. There are no bars or shops here, and they don’t even have TV or a McDonalds. When the sun goes down it’s pretty much lights out and straight to sleep, and being a social animal who likes a party, I’ve had a bit of trouble with that particular rule.

So I’ve decided it’s time to leave. It’s been cool as to fire off all those guns and pretend to kill all those civilians, but I’m getting bored, and I’m missing Bazza, Norrie and the boys back home.

The final straw for me was when I found out I wouldn’t be able to catch any of the upcoming ABs games. Yesterday I asked the boss-man here, a guy called Mohammed, whether there were any plans to head into the nearest decent-sized town to see any of the big matches, and he got real mad at me. I reckon he must have been joking when he threatened to cut my head off, but I’m not taking any chances. He has one of those big mean knives like Uncle Trev uses to gut pigs.

So hopefully I’ll be home soon. I just need to go talk to Mohammed when he’s in a better mood and ask if it’s okay for me to head home. He’s got my passport and all my stuff, but I reckon he’ll be sweet. They have talked about sending me home to start my own little group when my training’s done, but I’m done here. I just want to get home, have a few beers, play a bit of footy, and get back to the farm.

Say hi to Dad for me, and if you see Bazza or any of the boys down at the local, tell the buggers I’ll be home soon.


4 thoughts on “A letter from a Kiwi terrorist

  1. The saddest thing about this brilliant piece of satire is that the same people who are called up during Reid Research or Curia polls and asked if they think John Key is the most truthful Ex Derivatives Trader Currency speculator and jolly good Kiwi bloke and say YES, are likely to believe Deano is one of Madeline Sami’s ex boyfriends and actually trained in Yemen.
    Of course this will justify the whole subversive network of Leftwork comedians and fans like me being metadatad and subsequently charged with bringing Key and the economy of the truth he is actually best with into disrepute and at best have our careers ruined or worst imprisoned, once Palentir do their worst as they do in the USA.

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