T. Sean Collins' 2nd Interview

BRIDGETOWN, BARBADOS, WEST INDIES FEDERATION

 [The bar is almost empty. Most of the patrons have either left by their
 own power, or been carried out by the police. The last of the night
staff clean the broken chairs, broken glass, and pools of blood off the
floor. In the corner, the last of the South Africans sings an emotional, inebriated version of Johnny Clegg’s wartime rendition of “Asimbonaga.” T. Sean Collins absentmindedly hums a few bars, then downs his shot of rum, and hurriedly signals for another.]

 I’m addicted to murder, and that’s about the nicest way I can put it.
You might say that’s not technically true, that since they’re already
dead I’m not really killing. Horseshit; it’s murder, and it’s a rush
like nothing else. Sure, I can dis those prewar mercenaries all I want,
the ’Nam vets and Hell’s Angels, but at this point I’m no different from
 them, no different from those jungle humpers who never came home, even
when they did, or those World War II fighter jocks who traded in their
Mustangs for hogs. You’re living on such a high, so keyed up all the
time, that anything else seems like death.

 I tried to fit in, settle down, make some friends, get a job and do my
part to help put America back together. But not only was I dead, I
couldn’t think about anything else but killing. I’d start to study
people’s necks, their heads. I’d think, “Hmmmm, that dude’s probably got
 a thick frontal lobe, I gotta go in through the eye socket.” Or “hard
blow to the occipital’d drop that chick pretty fast.” It was when the
new prez, “the Whacko”—Jesus, who the hell am I to call anybody else
that?—when I heard him speak at a rally, I must have thought of at least
 fifty ways to bring him down. That’s when I got out, as much for
everyone else’s sake as my own. I knew one day I’d hit my limit, get
drunk, get in a fight, lose control. I knew once I started, I couldn’t
stop, so I said good-bye and joined the Impisi, same name as the South
African Special Forces. Impisi: Zulu for Hyena, the one who cleans up
the dead.

 We’re a private outfit, no rules, no red tape, which is why I chose
them over a regular gig with the UN. We set our own hours, choose our
own weapons.

 [He motions to what looks like a sharpened steel paddle at his side.]

 “Pouwhenua”—got it from a Maori brother who used to play for the All
Blacks before the war. Bad motherfuckers, the Maori. That battle at One
Tree Hill, five hundred of them versus half of reanimated Auckland. The
pouwhenua’s a tough weapon to use, even if this one’s steel instead of
wood. But that’s the other perk of being a soldier of fortune. Who can
get a rush anymore from pulling a trigger? It’s gotta be hard,
dangerous, and the more Gs you gotta take on, the better. Of course,
sooner or later there’s not gonna be any of them left. And when that
happens…

 [At that point the Imfingo rings its cast-off bell.]

 There’s my ride.

 [T. Sean signals to the waiter, then flips a few silver rand on the table.]

 I still got hope. Sounds crazy, but you never know. That’s why I save
most of my fees instead of giving back to the host country or blowing it
 on who knows what. It can happen, finally getting the monkey off your
back. A Canadian brother, “Mackee” Macdonald, right after clearing
Baffin Island, he just decided he’d had enough. I hear he’s in Greece
now, some monastery or something. It can happen. Maybe there’s still a
life out there for me. Hey, a man can dream, right? Of course, if it
doesn’t work out that way, if one day there’s still a monkey but no more
 Zack…

 [He rises to leave, shouldering his weapon.]

 Then the last skull I crack’ll probably be my own.