Where's the Long Form Osama or How My Friend Summer DiVino and I Killed Osama Bin Laden
It is March 2004, I'm huddled outside a bar in Vernal, Utah. Summer DiVino is coming out the side door, walking towards me. "He won't come" she is mouthing. "Did you show him some cleavage?" She nods affirmatively, like an enthusiastic and yet disheartened puppy. "Well, did you tell him you're a virgin?" Her face erupts in an explosion of dismay and self recrimination as she immediately turns back and reenters the bar. A few moments later she returns with "him", the Big Kahuna, in tow. Osama's 6'5" frame is difficult to hide, even in Vernal, Utah, but his polished returned missionary look fooled everyone, except Summer. She had gone to Vernal in October 2003 to binge drink and pick asparagus when she says she spied Osama looking lustily in her direction and recognized him immediately. She remembers the moment, the exact moment distinctly, because she remembers thinking "Bingo!".
Summer knows 25 million dollars when she sees it and paramour and prey all wrapped up in one package made her feel powerful and sexy, like a preying mantis getting in the mood. "Hey sweetie", she called out over the crowd, "wanna buy me a drink?" And from there blossomed a relationship between black widow patriot and Islamic paramour that rivaled that of Anthony and Cleopatra. Once, while they were out walking in the January snow in 2004 Osama almost blew everything as he blurted to Summer in a burst of adolescent gushing "this snow reminds me of Afganis...." but recovered expertly "...Afghans my mother used to make for me...they were so warm and cozy and made me think of mountain goats". Osama Bin Laden, it turns out, was quite the outdoor enthusiast and had a deep appreciation for nature and goat's milk.
In March 2004, Summer's plan to murder Osama Bin Laden, which by then included me as a co-conspirator, was well underway. We decided to kill him for love instead of money, or a love of money, or something like that. And revenge. To Summer, Osama stood as the potential proxy for many of her past boyfriends from relationships that were less than she'd expected. She'd ramble on about keeping "them" in a jar on the mantle above her bed as a little reminder keepsake of the man she planned to brutally murder. What Summer did to Osama on that fateful evening in the high desert with wolves and coyotes baying in the distance as if they were singing in concert with Bin Laden's anguished shrieks, is between her and her inner demons. Let me just say by the time I finally pulled the trigger, the poor man was thanking me. The night immediately before the execution I left the toilet seat up but was able to convince Summer that it was Bin Laden who had done it. That, and the fact that Bin Laden never paid for drinks despite his reputed wealth really riled Summer. "Men!" she would scream between manic puffs on her cigarette. Once, when he called to ask her out she threw her phone against the wall, screaming "Screw you loser!". She then turned to me, "Don't just stand there, go buy my tampons."
A great deal of planning went into our operation. By the time we hitchhiked with one long hauler after another, carrying Osama's remains in a lugubrious ice chest hastily stolen from a gas station we left owing $80 for gas, our brilliant plan was unfolding with steel like precision. During our haste fleeing the gas n go, Summer left the oil cap off the dingy stolen beat up VW micro-bus and we ended up abandoning it on the Interstate. I was depressed and discouraged, but Summer, in her usual cheer, assured me "It's all part of the improvisation. No one will suspect us of any mischief here, on the open Interstate with a casket sized cooler. It's unpredictable, spontaneous-much like my art." She shrugged adorably and flashed me a smile. Summer's eccentric, if not brilliant approach to problem solving always left me in awe, and if I appeared baffled, it was due to my own short sightedness.
It was Summer's idea that I steal the small schooner guarded by two dobermans with spiked diamond studded collars. The owner of the schooner fed these dogs by draping steaks over mannequins but, as Summer pointed out, I liked dogs, and she would viciously murder me if I refused. Her two pronged argument persuaded me; and a couple of hookers and a ruffie laced can of Alpo later Summer and I were safe at sea heading for the North Atlantic with Osama's body in a cooler full of melted ice and two diamond studded dog collars.
Not long after we fish baited Bin Laden's body in the traditional way, weighted on a board greased with bacon fat and fish guts, listened as it slurped down the board in its white sheet like a gigantic slug and watched it satisfactorily sink beneath the surface, spiraling down into the misty deep like a whirling top, we both screamed simultaneously in horror-not at Osama's body rising eerily from the depths in some majestic horrid resurrection but at the realization that we had consigned our only claim to the $25 million dollar reward to the bottom of the deep Atlantic without even the benefit of a GPS beacon. We consoled ourselves with the depth of our altruism, our staunch defense of the American way, our selfless sense of duty and purpose. We buoyed ourselves with the realization that it was our altruism and purpose, not abject stupidity that led us to dispose $25 million dollars in the Atlantic like so many burned hundred dollar bills. On the way home we played Yahtzee and Scrabble. Summer always won, I whined, the sun beat down like an accusing eye. Were we criminals? We vowed never to reveal our murder of Bin Laden or our happy adventure cross country and then to sea...how we weathered the perfect storm, committed the perfect assassination...a rogue crack paramilitary unit destined to go down not as a footnote, but as a mere shadow in the passage of history.
That was then. This is now. Summer DiVino and I want what is rightfully ours. How dare the Navy Seals Team 6 steal the thunder of two ordinary Americans, motivated by Patriotism and enthusiasm for the two things that make this country great-money and intrigue? They can no more show you the body than can we, but at least we have our story straight. Sure, it's true-we don't have non-released photos or DNA. After all, we're just two American kids doing the best we can...
Eyes glued to news outlets around the world as details unfolded about Osama Bin Laden’s death. Channels doled out tasty details like morsels of candy one tiny bite at a time. First, he may have died. Next, he was certainly dead, followed by news of his bullet-riddled body. On and on the details unfolded. Unfortunately, the newsguys got the story all wrong.
Read the full story here.
Chronicles of Summer DiVino