(As inspired by the Subic rape case and the acquittal of Lance Corporal Daniel Smith.)
DEAREST Joe, comrade and booze buddy,
What’s up? By the time your fat a** gets to sit in front of a computer and checks this loony e-mail of mine (from wherever you are in that God-forsaken republic), I ‘m already home, celebrating life anew after three years of being locked in a container van like some sort of Bin Laden operative up for rendition, Guantanamo style. Though I must say, that environment is kinda friendlier and more humane compared to the infamous holding area of suspected enemies of the state, terrorists as ex-president Dubya calls them.
I’m just not sure if Dubya and the CIA still consider leftist groups – who tirelessly flock to the (US) Embassy and protest the “imperialism” of the only superpower in the world – as terrorists. But with the way this stinking country’s president reacts against these leftist foogies, I suppose her government deems them as perennial lashes to the rib, therefore, enemies of their/her state. (Oh, pardon me. I should’ve been a little nice to her. After all, she was the one, through her lackeys, who made the necessary diplomatic arrangements for my release.)
For the record, your buddy is no enemy of neither state involved in his “romantic” episode with a hustler b****, whose false claims had eventually dragged him in that air-conditioned stockade. It just so happened that I, and the rest of you guys were tapped by a mutual defense treaty which our country has signed with the Philippines to train its pygmy army. After that was the fun part. You sure knew the rest of the story.
That b**** really caused a stir. She accused me and the rest of our fellas of raping her. Damn her! That’s a lot of bull. You know that we never forced ourselves, particular me, on her. In fact, she was the one who teased me like a Vegas bunny to drink and dance with her all night long. Sitting on my lap one time, she even told me that she’s already having the hots for me and that she’s all set to dig me. I was a bit surprised. Man, from what I’ve heard about Filipinas back home, they are of the modest type. Some Filipinos in my neighborhood describe their women as resembling that of a prim-and-proper country maiden. I don’t have any idea if such kinda gal still exists but I knew for a fact that Filipinas are gorgeous women. Only that most of them are shy. But certainly not the one I met in that Nov.1, 2005 tryst. She’s the complete opposite of that prim-and-proper country maiden image I was duped to believe, at least, by family friends who were married to lovely Filipinas.
Yet I must tell you that I didn’t buy the argument that she may have lost her inhibitions because of too much booze, that she became so intimate with me and did more than just dancing and talking to me “like everyone else on the dance floor.” From the get-go, she was the same whore I pinned (consensually) at the backseat as part of a young Marine’s rite of passage, Or so I thought. For a then 21-year old jarhead that time, I surely had a blast. I knew she enjoyed it with the way she planted her finger nails on my back as I raved over her.
But the b**** was a big-time squealer, the kind that will school Monica Lewinsky back to her kindergarten days at the kiss-and-tell academy. She gained a lot – sympathy, media exposure, fortune and what have you.
Your buddy? Well, I just happened to have lost a whole lot of everything in my young career as a Marine, all for banging bodies with a willing “victim.”
You know what popped out of my head the moment she cried rape after we “unmindfully dumped” her at the port, half-naked, wasted and…oh, satisfied (with my rubber case tucked on her pants as a sort of goodbye gift)? I thought she was just too embarrassed to have been spotted by on-lookers in creeping daylight like an overran kitten. And so the best way to save face, she figured, was to cry rape. What a clever move to shun public indignation and direct it toward me. You’re right, Joe. That b**** is a scheming whore in every sense of the word.
Fast-forward, I was found guilty “beyond reasonable doubt” while my R and R cheerleaders luckily go off the hook. But thank God, I’m an American.
You heard it right Joe. Our government loves its soldiers more than its politicians especially when US military pride is at stake. Look what good ‘ol Uncle Sam, through Barry, his chief butler, did to me or at least to my reputation as a Marine? First off, they phoned that whore’s president – whose surname, according to my aunt’s Spanish dictionary, means “ditch” (reminds me of the word “b****”) – and bargained for my release in exchange perhaps for some of our military junk (as part of that country’s armed forces “modernization” program) and/or a chunk of Barry’s economic stimulus beefcake. Honestly, I thought Uncle’s just gonna do some diplomatic hot-dogging with that whore’s president and let me rot like mustard crap on the fridge. But I’m dead wrong, Joe. That old a**hole, who wants us butchered in his Iraqi and Afghan vanity fairs over the years, has a caring heart after all.
The next thing I knew, that b**** issued a sworn statement, in effect recanting her accusations against me. Yeah, there was money involved, about a hundred thousand bucks which that b****, according to my Filipino lawyer, coolly received. To top it all, she was granted a visa to start a new life over again. Her chosen destination? In our very own turf, Joe so that she can be with her new beau (a fellow American) for good.
At that moment alone, I felt dear Uncle swallow his pride. Imagine harboring a gold-digger in your own backyard just to save a prodigal, uh, kid from his hellish plight? But Uncle was a realist. He knew this has to be done, perhaps moved by the most telling line in that Black Hawk Down movie: “No one shall be left behind.” True enough, he never left me behind.
On April 23, I walked a free man, thanks to a court decision (brokered by Uncle and his undersized mistress, as I was told) that reversed my guilty verdict, therefore affirming my innocence against a crime that never was.
Looking back, I asked myself: why did I have to endure three years of solitary confinement for merely dating and bedding (though inside a van) a flirt? Sounds weird man ‘coz I could have just sneaked out of that iron box and mugged that b**** to Kingdom Come as what men in uniform in that country does to their offenders, whom newspapers refer to as desaparecidos. That b**** deserves to be one.
Mind you Joe, that country’s government is a generous backer of such dagger-under-cloak vendettas. A military officer hatching such vendetta attacks can even be elected to Congress. And so I told myself, if that country’s lousy foot soldiers can do it, how much more a US Marine like me?
Escaping from detention isn’t a problem, I also thought. As what I’ve read in the papers, cops in that country have icy fingers. Loose translation: they can hardly aim at, much more shoot their targets so ducking their bullets in the event of a hot pursuit for a Marine (like me) won’t be a problem. By default, I know they can’t gun me down like a stray dog, even if push comes to shove. They are just too chicken to face American wrath.
Prior to my flight back home, I’ve also read about this Chip Tsao, who branded that country as a “nation of servants” in response to the Philippines’ alleged occupation of a group of islands that belongs to China. In a roundabout manner, I guess I have to agree with that Hong Kong poodle. He’s somehow right. The Philippines is a nation of servants, let alone opportunists like that b****. I must admit however that the hostess served me well and I paid her like an honored guest, ironically through some kinda three-year mortgage plan – in detention.
How I wish this thing never happened at all. I should’ve stayed on board the ship and whiled the night away playing checkers and stuff. How I wish that this swine flu thing had arrived in that country three year earlier so that our superiors may have kept us from hugging and kissing strangers — in the unholy hours of the night. How I wish I was never assigned to that country. How I wish I never met that b****. Having said that, how I wish one day I’ll cross paths with that b**** somewhere in the United States and make her pay for what she’s done to me. The public humiliation and condemnation caused by that incident still linger inside me.
Some would say that I was given special treatment all for the heck that I’m a Yank. That could be true, at least materially. But deep inside I still felt like a sucker for a crime I never did, for compassion that hardly came, for understanding that wallowed in silence.
People back there have called me names, the harshest I’ve heard since I was bullied in sixth grade. The way they curse me, it’s as if they own heaven and earth. I just don’t get it but whenever a Filipino commits a crime abroad, his fellowmen would hastily rally behind him, and drum up his innocence, no matter how guilty he turns out to be.
Talk about double standards. Or brazen jingoism, I must say. Funny thing is, they hate us but they keep on “patronizing” everything American, from our burgers, chips, cookies and stuff, clothes, music and what have you. Now I know. They don’t actually hate us. They envy us…they envy us because no matter what its leaders do, that pathetic nation of theives and whores cannot, and will never be a part of our mighty homeland.
Let me pause here for now. I just hope you and the rest of our fellas back there are doing fine. Let’s get drunk in St. Louis when you return. Take care bro. Watch your curfew.
Your comrade and booze buddy,
Danny Boy
P.S. Don’t throw your rubber case anywhere else while you’re out there. You might be jailed (like me) for doing so. Choose your whore (I mean date)…wisely. Peace.
