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Feature Story February 6, 2003
 
666: The Number Of The Bust
 
Page 3 of 4
 
We didn't think so. They had to be as scared as we'd been in high school. The whole of America had to be reduced to the blubbering wreck we'd been when the Seniors trashed our locker and everybody laughed. It was time for the public humiliation of the land that gave us birth.

Super Bowl Sunday, 2003 was supposed to be the culmination of everything the eXile had worked for throughout these long six years. If our plan worked, the delicate scar tissue that had begun to form after the WTC attacks would be ripped open once and for all during the half-time show. Sting, the most loathsome figure in all pop culture, had been lured from Tuscany to sing in his famous sodomized-schoolboy shriek at halftime for the hundreds of thousands in the stands and hundreds of millions watching at home.

Our plan was simple. An eXile operative who was already on the field would sprint over to Sting just as his larynx was fully extended to hit the high notes on "Message in A Bottle" and simply pull the Brit's head off in front of a horrified America. There was many a hearty joke at the eXile's nuclear-hardened bunker hundreds of meters underground in the Urals about the song's title: "We'll send them a message, all right!" chuckled eXile staffers. "A message in a skull!"

The eXile's Red Chinese psy-war specialists calculated that the psychic shock of Sting's decapitation at the high point of the nation's biggest celebration would have the destructive potential of several H-bombs.

Of course, the plan required that our agent not only be on the field, well disguised, but that he also possess the sheer strength to tear Sting's head off as easily as he would a chicken's. Of course the neck of a Brit is not nearly as strong as that of a normal person, but it would still require unusual upper-body strength to tear the head off before the thousands of stadium security men could rescue the singer.

Luckily, we had a man already in position. His name is Barrett Robbins, Pro Bowl center for the Oakland Raiders and longtime eXile enforcer on the West Coast. Links between the Raiders and the eXile go way, way back. We were working with the Rosicrucians and Cuban Intelligence when Al Davis first floated his plan to infect the NFL, the favorite sport of America's emerging suburban consensus, with low-grade nihilism. Robbins was a trusted eXile operative with many murky, bloody missions to his credit. Barrett Robbins

At first Robbins was enthusiastic about the plan, and his explosive speed and power made him a natural. Our head-ripping coaches were astonished at the ease with which Robbins decapitated the life-size Sting dummies. As one of the coaches says sadly, "He was never what you'd call squeamish, if you know what I mean. He was pulling the heads off dairy cows in practice -- without working up a sweat."

Al Davis, a committed if discreet devotee of Maoist revolution and Nuclear Winter, was also enthused about the plan, and "volunteered" Robbins for the actual Sting-ripping mission. But Robbins apparently suffered an ill-timed bout of remorse. As everyone now knows, he tried to drink himself into oblivion the day before the game so that he would not have to carry out his mission, and pleaded "a history of depression" in his defense. He fooled the press, but not the eXile.

We have issued a fatwa upon him and his days on this earth shall not be long, now that the eXile's feared Mongolian assassins are on his scent. Robbins' betrayal was a setback, of course. But in a sense, his attack of conscience actually served our purposes: he was dropped from the Raiders' roster before the game, and the Raiders lost, thanks in large part to low morale and poor offensive-line play. The defeat of the Raiders led to a massive increase in suicides and higher ratings for "Sex and the City" in the weeks following the game. And we at eXile are patient. We will wait until our next opportunity to strike again. America, the nation that once dared not to notice us, will be sorry, and vengeance shall be ours.


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Save The eXile: The War Nerd Calls Mayday
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