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CounterPunch
November
2, 2002
Samson Agonistes
(Confession
of a Terrorist/Martyr)
by ADAM ENGEL
"But what more oft in Nations grown
corrupt, And by their vices brought to servitude, Than to love
Bondage more than Liberty; Bondage with ease than strenuous liberty..."
Milton,
Samson Agonistes
"She's so cool, wanna see her tonight...
She's so cool, wanna see her tonight..."
The Damned,
Damned, Damned, Damned
Mother visited me in my cell not long after the
Philistines, having nabbed me, The Warrior, sacked my town.
"Of all the shiksas in Hebron, you
have to s shtup a narc with "government agent" scratched
all over her painted face?"
"But I knew that ma! I was using
her, to, to get to the 'inside.'"
"Hah! Inside of who?"
"Mom!"
"I died the day you married a Goy!"
Mothers can be so cruel and unforgiving. Also, right. I had no
idea Delilah was working for The Man. Not like my first Philistine
bride, who I married for the Wedding Banquet. Big Bash. Wasted
the guests and servants, then ambled into town to finish their
kin. And finally, my betrothed, after I "consummated"
the marriage.
What was The Man gonna do, kill me? Him
and whose army? I'd already destroyed so damn many.
"Tell me a secret," whispered
Delilah one night when I could see her (though not through her,
an ability which would have helped my cause immensely).
"I don't wanna."
"You don't love me."
"Lemme sleep on it. I'll tell you
in the morning."
"Get out! Get out and don't come
back until you're ready to talk."
She was hot, sizzling, like oil upon
an altar. Sure there were maidens "as fair" from my
own people. But you read Genesis: forbidden fruit, etc. So one
night I whispered in her ear while we were fucking. She hadn't
even asked me that evening - cause for suspicion. Perhaps that
was her plan.
I woke up next morning bald as an egg.
Not even strength enough to break the cords they bound me with
much less kill the goons who proceeded to hang me upside down
and scorch my eyes with molten bronze. No excuses. She didn't
even get me drunk - I don't drink wine. All brawn and no brains?
Stupid? Or just tired and in love? Really in love. Even warrior/saviors,
go soft and human and squishy inside, on occasion. That's when
The Man gets you.
Delilah light of my life, before you
cut my hair off and your goons put out my eyes, I was your Hercules
your dreadful circumcised...
Back in the day I crushed their legions
with a bone. Back in the day. Had I a sword upon me I'd have
skinned them like the lion I tore apart with my infant fingers
- how old was I when I smote that rough beast, five, six? On
a level field I was unbeatable. On a level field. I wasn't born
for this, to be led before them by a slave-boy for their thrills;
to be worked like a slave and beaten like a slave and laughed
at like a clown and then dismissed to sleep on stones like an
old blind beggar fool!
I can't on. I must go on. The Man is
not all seeing and all powerful: his henchmen miss the obvious
things. The little things such as: the almost imperceptible growth
of my hair. In by inch day by day, in every way, I grow stronger.
"Oh Lord, what long-haired Nazarite
will next You call to sacrifice himself upon the alter of The
Man of Play Doh and his Silly Putty gods "in defense"
of the folks back home?"
DON'T BOTHER ME. I'M
BUSY.
"Honestly. Who's next? Your own
first born?"
THOU SPEAKEST VAIN WORDS UNTO THE LORD.
BUT, IT'S AN IDEA...
She visited me in my cell. Before the
festival of Dagon and the games - had I but eyes to see I could
have beaten their best youths... Olfactory rush of perfume and
her natural scent a burst of pheromones they knocked me for a
loop...
"Dare you come to me in my misery,
oh whore?"
"Just business, Sammy. You know
I always loved you," her voice was like a hand caressing
me. Then indeed, she caressed me with her hand.
"Business. What did they pay you
for my ruin?"
"Not money. Blood. These are my
people."
"Your people who make servants of
mine."
"And when you were on top? Who were
the servants then?"
She reached under my tunic -
"I...why do you..."
-- and ran her fingers through my hair
- "It grows..."
"What - the hair..."
"That too-"
She squeezed -
"Why do you come to me?"
Harder.
"To 'level the playing field.'"
"The -
"Tomorrow they will parade you,
a trophy, before the games -"
"Uh-"
"Blind, tired under the burning
sun...you will beg to rest against the pillars of the Great Statue
of Dagon..."
"Buh-
"Yes. I will be there too. No more
business. You and I. Together."
"Together."
"The end."
I came in her hand. She rubbed my gray
Jewish spunk on her bronze Philistine breast. Nothing more was
spoken when she left.
They came for me in the morning. The
slave boy whose lot in life it was to lead me, reluctant dog
that he was, took my hand, wiped snot on my shoulder. Drums,
trumpets, roar of the drunken crowd. Happy to have tamed the
Hebrew beast. Fat and drunk with wine and music. Powerful. Safe.
What right have the philistines to drink and eat and celebrate
their games while Israel starves, the men of Judea bent under
fat masters? Our women abused by worshippers of Dagon serpent
fish-god or whatever reeking of sex he's so damned ugly at least
Yahweh has the decency to keep himself unseen...
"Boy! Lead me to the pillars of
Dagon. I would like to rest..."
He sighed and spat upon my feet. Apparently,
I'd waken him, this brat born to serve as I was born to... kill?
defend? I pressed a palm against each cold stone pillar and prayed.
"C'mon, Yahweh. After all I've done
for you and our 'People.'"
WHAT HAST THOU DONE FOR ME LATELY?
"Well, look at me. I'm all messed
up. Blind."
I GAVEST THOU TWO HEADS. IS IT MY FAULT
THOU THINKEST WITH THE ONE BENEATH THY TUNIC?
"Just one more job. For old times'
sake."
WHOSE 'OLD TIMES?' MINE, OR THAT STRUMPET'S
IN THE STANDS?
"She's your creation, Almighty,
All-seeing, All-knowing Lord. If You created such a whore, was
it not for a reason? To tempt me? To get me here, now, in a stadium
packed with idol-worshippers, that I might smite them?"
AND THE WOMAN.
And myself.
ABOVE THE PILLARS IS THE STATUE OF DAGON.
"So I'm told."
I AM A JEALOUS GOD. I HATETH DAGON'S
FISHY GUTS. TAKEST OUT DAGON AND THE REST WILL FOLLOW...
"Read you, Lord. Roger and out."
Flaccid Philistines and glitter wives.
Roar of faces. Trumpets. Drums. You're out there Delilah I can
smell you though my eyes are black holes my living senses burn
like 10,000 Samson-blinding suns...
So, I leaned against the pillars that
supported the Great Statue of Dagon (as well as the rest of the
stadium) and with a shake of my suddenly very long, very thick
and very curly black hair, I huffed and I puffed and I pushed
the house down.
Adam Engel
lives and works in NYC. He can be reached at asengel@attglobal.net.
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