I am a terrorist. I tried to bring transcontinental airliners crashing to the ground, accepting the hundredfold death of innocent people without blinking. I boarded a plane with weapons of mass destruction in my pockets, explosives of unfathomable power. It would have been enough to wipe the confidence off the face of a flight marshal, enough to blow a manhole into the fuselage of a 747 or rip a wing off in mid-flight.
I'm a terrorist, and no matter what crazy positive spin you put to it, I won't turn into a heroic freedom fighter, saving his tortured people from the yoke of an imperial oppressor or blood-thirsty dictator. I am a cold-hearted, nihilistic, self-denying criminal, a man with no morals or values. Total destruction is my goal.
I'm too dangerous to mention and unaware of the threat I pose. By being concealed from my own awareness, the violence within me is amplified out of control. Even if Hillary Clinton had taken to my nuts with a pair of burning pliers, I would not have betrayed my cause or leaked the identity of my fellow-jihadis. I would have vehemently denied the existence of a plot, even if authorities had made me dangle, feet up, from a rusty nail and whipped my naked back with a cat-o-nine-tails.
In my devious plan, there were no co-conspirators. I was acting alone. You might call it cowardly. You might call it brave. But truth be told, it was accidental, and I realized only upon my return to London what risk I had posed to international aviation. It took emptying my backpack to see what mortal danger I had been transporting.
Three months ago, I spent a hilarious three days in Lake Placid, New York. I rode a bike through the woods and hung out with friends. After one particularly grim morning of rain and mud, I purchased three Clif Shots that were on sale and promptly forgot about them.
Because of the explosive potential inherent in all liquids, gels and pastes, Clif Shots need to be declared at the airport and placed in resealable transparent plastic bags. This slipped my mind and, to my infinite relief when I found them in my luggage much later, escaped the scrutiny of the security screener.
Today, I booked a flight to Dresden for 23 Apr. I also put my name down for the marathon taking places there two days later. It will be my third marathon, and, in contrast to the two before – miserable failures both of them – I will run it in under three hours. I promise. Solemnly. I won't take a vacation before May of next year. No trip to Turkey at Easter or to Paris. The beginning of next year will be filled with focus and dedication and hours spent in the park running. I have a goal to work towards. The project is called three.
If I fail (mark my words), I will stuff my body of a loser into a t-shirt that says "most pathetic lard-ass ever to slog across this planet", but I don't think it will come that far. The omens are good and the numbers aligned. Three Clif Shots will carry me to glory in my third marathon, to a time of under three hours.