Flying with fed-express

by Rundo

(the following is a excerpt from a project i am working on about my many wild experiences since entering the nationalist lifestyle )

I’m staring out the little airplane window, watching the Atlantic pass under us. Thinking about plane crashes. Not in a scared way just… logistical.

If I jump right before impact, maybe I’ll land softer. Maybe I survive it. Float. Drift. Get my own Castaway ending. Then the Fed sitting across from me ruins my kamikaze daydreams. “Hey champ, you need water or something? Got a few questions for you.”

I glance over. He’s got that dead-inside polite face. It’s the same face just about all U.S. government workers wear especially FBI agents. He clicks his pen a few times. His partner’s flipping through a manila folder like it’s a menu. I shift in the seat. The leg shackles rattle, scraping metal on metal. I’m in flip-flops. Government issue.

“You good down there?” he asks. “The cuffs cutting in?”

“They’re perfect,” I say. “Really. Top-tier comfort. I’m hoping you guys let me keep them.” His partner cracks a smile. He looks like a suburban dad balding, out of shape, dull eyes. I can’t believe these are the “elite operators” who have me sitting here at their mercy. Then the younger one leans in.

“We’re just curious, man. You were banned from Europe. Red-flagged. No-fly list. And you still made it in. Fake passport. Multiple borders. Honestly”

He grins like he’s doing me a favor.

“not bad for a high school dropout.”

I look at him for a second. Then shrug.

“I do what I can.” He nods like we’re both professionals in the same business.

“We don’t need to go deep,” he says. “We just want the highlights. You know how you got out of Serbia. How you crossed into Bulgaria. Where the documents came from. How the hell you got on a flight when every system says you shouldn’t be allowed on.”

I let the silence hang. Then I say:

“You know that I box, right?”

“Yeah,” he replies, somewhat nervously.

“Well, I took a lot of shots to the head. And I just don’t remember things too good anymore… so I’m really sorry, but I’ve only got fuck-all for your questions.”

They don’t laugh at that one. I go back to thinking about nose-diving into the Atlantic. And that’s when it hits me what makes this all worse. It’s not the plane. Not the cuffs. Not the questions or the tray of snacks I’m not eating because my stomach’s in knots. It’s that I’ve done this before. This is the second time I’ve been shackled on a plane like this, headed back to the States with feds sitting all around me. The last time was El Salvador. That was a very short-lived outlaw escapade. At least this time I managed to evade capture for a few years, not just a few weeks.

When I was caught and brought to prison last time, in a way it wasn’t so bad. My life was already on the down slope. Lost my fiancée. Fired from the union labor job. Not really a whole lot going on at the time, so a stint in prison wasn’t as shitty. This time I had things going on. A life in Europe. A woman. A movement. I was living my dream. And they took it. Again.

“You ever think about Queens?” the suburban dad says suddenly. “That’s where it started, right?”

I glance at him. He’s reading off a printout.

“Says here you ran into some MS-13 kids back in the day. Baseball bats. Switchblades. That was you, right? I mean, we saw the footage it’s even in the National Geographic documentary.”

I go quiet again. Look back out at the endless water. All that space, and still nowhere to go.

“What was it like growing up in Queens?” he asks, pointlessly since I wouldn’t even tell them the time of day if they asked. I shut my eyes and think back to that other life I lived. Back in Queens