“By the way, what was it like when the shit pit blew out?” he ast.

“Well,” I says, “it was a sight.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I bet.” An I thought I might have seen a little smile on his face just then, but I ain’t sure.

An so we gone on over to Iran.

It was a big city with a lot of bulblike things on top of the buildins, look like upside-down turnips, an them fellers was all dressed in black robes an wearin hats look like a overturn basket on they heads an tryin to look fierce an everthin.

Fiercest lookin of them all was the Ayatolja.

He be glarin an scowlin, an is not exactly the most pleasant-lookin feller I would want to meet.

Colonel North whispers to me, “Just remember, Gump, ‘tact and diplomacy.’ It’s all that matters!” Then he done stick out his hand an try to shake it with the Ayatolja, but the Ayatolja, he just set with his arms crossed an scowl at the colonel an don’t say nothin.

Colonel North look at me an say, “This sombitch is weird, man. I mean, everbody I ever met was willin to shake hands—you know what I’m sayin?”

Standin behin the Ayatolja was two guys in baggy-lookin diapers, have big swords in they belts, an one of em say, “Don’t you never call the Ayatolja a ‘sombitch.’ He might figger out what it means an then we gotta chop off your heads.”

In this, I figger he is correct.

Anyhow, I am tryin to break the ice, so to speak, so I ast the Ayatolja how come he is always so fierce an mad-lookin an scowlin all the time?

“It is because,” he say, “that for thirty years I have been tryin to become president of the World Council of Churches, an them heathen assholes won’t even let me in! Who is more religious than the Ayatolja, anyhow?”

“Why you let that worry you?” I ast, an he says back, “On account of I am a dignified feller, an don’t take no shit off nobody, an who is these turds that will not let me in the World Council of Churches? I am the Ayatolja of Iran, after all. I am a big cheese, you dummy.”

“Now, wait a minute,” say Colonel North. “My man Forrest, here, might not be the brightest feller around, but you oughtn’t be callin him names.”

“The Ayatolja does whatever he wants—You don’t like it, kiss my ass.”

“Yeah, well, I am a marine colonel and I don’t kiss asses.”

At this, the Ayatolja commenced slappin his thighs an bust out laughin.

“Very good, Colonel, very good. I think we can do some bidness here.”

Anyhow, Colonel North done start explainin his deal to the Ayatolja.

“Look here,” he says, “some of your fellers over in Lebanon done took a bunch of our people for hostages, and it is causin considerable embarrassment to the President of our United States.”

“Oh, yeah,” the Ayatolja says. “So why don’t you just go over there and get em out?”

“It ain’t that easy,” the colonel says.

The Ayatolja begun to chuckle. “Really. Tell me about it. I know somethin about hostage takin mysef, you know. Look what happened when that other numbnuts president of yours came over here an tried to screw with our hostage-takin enterprise. What was his name…?”

“It don’t matter, he ain’t there anymore,” say the colonel.

“Yeah, I know all about that, too!” The Ayatolja begun to laugh again, an slap his thighs.

“Well, that may be true,” the colonel says, “but look here, we gotta get down to bidness. Time is money, you know?”

“What is time to the Ayatolja?” he say, holdin his palms up in the air, an just about then, one of them fellers with the baggy underpants an the swords beat twice on a huge gong, sort of like the one Mrs. Hopewell, from the CokeCola scheme, had in her rubdown room.

“Ah, speakin of time,” announces the Ayatolja, “we are about ready for lunch. You boys had anythin to eat yet?”

“No, sir,” I piped up, an Colonel North, he gave me a dirty look.

“Well, then,” the Ayatolja shouts, “let the feast begin!”

At this, about a hundrit A-rabs come runnin into the room carryin trays an platters of all kinds of shit, an it is the most mysterious-lookin food I have ever seen. They is big heaps of what appear to be salami wrapped in cabbage an hams an olives an fruits an maybe cottage cheese or somethin—an I don’t know what-all else. They laid it all down in front of us on a big Persian rug an stood back with they arms folded across they chests.

“Well, Mr. Gump, and what would you like to eat?” says the Ayatolja.

“Maybe a ham sambwich,” I answered.

“Father of God!” screams the Ayatolja. “Don’t say them kinds of things in here! We people ain’t ate no nasty ham in three thousand years!” He begun wavin his hands an scowlin again.

Colonel North be givin me the real evil eye now, an from the corner of my own eye, I seen them fellers in the baggy diapers have begun drawin they swords. I figger I have said somethin wrong, so I says, “Well, how about a few of them olives or somethin.”

A feller begun collectin a plate of olives for me, an I am thinkin that this is okay, too, account of I reckon I ate enough ham back at the pig farm to last me a lifetime.

Anyhow, when the food was served to Colonel North, he begun eatin it with his fingers an oohin an ahin about how good it was, an I picked up a olive or two an put em in my mouth. The Ayatolja took out a fork an started eatin his lunch with it, an kinda raised his eyebrows at the colonel an me. When we was finished, the A-rabs took the plates away, an the colonel tried to get down to bidness again.

“Listen,” he says, “we got enough missiles we can lay our hands on to blow up half of Christendom. Now, you want some of these, you gotta promise to make them crackpots over in Lebanon let our fellers go free. Is that a deal?”

“The Ayatolja don’t make deals with the Great Satan,” he says.

“That so?” the colonel answers. “Well, why don’t you make your own missiles then?”

“We ain’t got time to,” say the Ayatolja. “We are too busy with our prayers.”

“Oh, yeah.” The colonel snickers. “Then why don’t you pray yourself up some missiles, then?”

The scowl on the Ayatolja’s face become darker an darker, an I could see that the colonel’s tact an diplomacy was fixin to get us into a lot of hot water. An so I tried to lighten the tension with a little joke.

“Scuse me, Mr. Ayatolja,” I says. “Have you heard the one about the drunk caught drivin down a one-way street?”

“Nope.”

“Well, the policeman says to him, ‘Say, din’t you see them arrows?’ An the drunk says, ‘Arrows? I din’t even see the Indians!’ “

“For Chrissakes, Gump…” the colonel hisses, but just then the Ayatolja busts out in a big laugh an begun slappin his thighs an stampin his feet.

“Why, Mr. Gump, you do have a sense of humor, don’t you? Why don’t you an me take a little walk in my garden?”

So that’s what we did. I looked back over my shoulder as we was goin out the door, an Colonel North was just standin there with his jaw hangin down past his chin.

“Look here, Mr. Gump,” the Ayatolja says when we get outside, “I don’t like this Colonel North of yours. His diplomacy is too slick, and my impression is that he is tryin to put a fast one over on me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I says. “He seems to me like a truthful feller.”

“Well, be that as it may, I ain’t got all day to listen to his bullshit. It’s about time for me to go pray again. So tell me, what do you think of all this arms for hostages stuff?”

“I don’t know much about it. I mean, if it’s a fair trade, I guess it’s okay. The President seemed to think it was. But, like I say, it ain’t exactly in my sphere of influence.”

“Just what is your sphere of influence, Mr. Gump?”

“Well, I was a pig farmer, before all this.”

“Father of God,” the Ayatolja mutters, claspin his hands an rollin his eyes up toward heaven. “Allah has sent me a swine merchant.”

“But basically,” I added, “I guess I am a military man.”

“Ah, that is a little better I suppose. So, from that standpoint, how do you think these missiles will help the poor ole Ayatolja in his war against the infidels in Iraq?”

“Damn if I know.”

“Ah—that’s the kind of answer the Ayatolja likes to hear. Not this slick car salesman crap of your Colonel North. You go back and tell your people we got a deal. Arms for hostages.”

“You gonna get our hostages out, then?”

“I can’t promise it, of course. Those fellers in Lebanon are a bunch of maniacs. All the Ayatolja can do is try—You just make sure them missiles get here on the double.”

So that’s how it was. Colonel North, when he got through chewin me out for hornin in on his diplomacy, he was happy as a pig in sunshine, so to speak.

“Great God, Gump,” he says on the flight home, “this is the deal of a lifetime! We have finally tricked that old moron into givin us back our hostages for some old beat-up missiles that an army of Norwegians wouldn’t know what to do with. What a lovely coup!”

All the way till we landed, the colonel be pattin hissef on the back for his brilliance. Me, I figger I might have found some kind of career in this bidness, so’s I can send some money home for little Forrest. As it turned out, that was not the way it worked.

We ain’t back in Washington but a while when all hell breaks loose.

But meantime, I tried to get my affairs straight. First, I gone on up to Walter Reed Hospital, and, sure enough, just like Colonel North said, there is ole Lieutenant Dan, lyin up in a hospital bed. And he was lookin one hell of a lot better than when I seen him last.

“Where’ve you been, you big asshole?” Dan ast.

“I have been on a top secret mission,” I says.

“Yeah? Where to?”

“To Iran.”

“What for?”

“To see the Ayatolja.”

“What’d you go to see that sombitch for?”

“We was there to make a deal for arms for hostages.”

“That so?”

“Yup.”

“What kind of arms?”

“Bunch of ole rusty missiles.”

“What kind of hostages?”

“Them over in Lebanon.”

“Deal go through?”

“Sort of.”

“What you mean, sort of?”

“Well, we give the Ayatolja his missiles.”

“You get back the hostages?”

“Not yet.”

“Yeah, an you never will, you dumb cluck! Not only have you just revealed to me, a civilian, all this top secret bullshit—which is a firin-squad offense—but it sounds like you have been had again! Forrest, you are a shit-for-brains for sure.”

Well, after exchangin our pleasantries, I took ole Dan in his wheelchair down to the cafeteria to get some ice cream. Since they don’t serve oysters on the half shell at the hospital, ice cream has become Dan’s favorite food. He says that aside from raw oysters, ice cream is sort of easy on his teeth. Anyhow, it kind of made me remember when I was a little kid settin out on Mama’s back porch, churnin away on Saturday afternoons, makin our own ice cream, an Mama would always let me lick the paddles when the ice cream was good an soft an cold.

“What you reckon is gonna happen to us, Dan?”

“What the hell kind of question is that?”

“I dunno. It just sort of come to me.”

“Hell it did—You been thinking again—which is not exactly your specialty.”

“Yeah, sort of, I guess. I mean, seems like everthin I touch turns to shit. I can’t keep no job more than a while, an even when it’s goin okay, I screw up. An I am always missin my mama an Jenny an Bubba an everbody. An now there is little Forrest to look after. Listen, I know I am not the smartest feller around, but people half the time be treatin me like some kinda freak. Seems like the only way I’m gettin anyplace is when I dream at night. I mean, when’s this shit gonna stop?”

“Probly it won’t,” Dan says. “That’s just the way it is sometimes. Folks like us, we is just screw-ups, an there’s no getting around it. Me, I ain’t worried what’s gonna happen, cause I know. I ain’t long for this earth, myself, an far as I’m concerned, good riddance.”

“Don’t say that kind of stuff, Dan. You’re about the only friend I got left.”

“I’ll say the truth if I want to. I probly done a lot of wrong shit in my life, but one thing you can’t say is that I don’t tell the truth.”

“Yeah, but that’s not how it is. Nobody can know how long they gonna live.”

“Forrest,” he say, “you got the mind of a mole.”

Anyway, this will sort of give you an idea of Dan’s frame of mind. Me, I was feelin pretty low mysef. I had begun to realize that Colonel North an me has been bamboozled by the Ayatolja, who has now got his missiles, an we ain’t seen no hostages returned. Colonel North done been busy arrangin for the money we got for the missiles to be sent down to Central America to the gorillas, an he is not feelin nearly as bad about things as me.

“Gump,” he says one mornin, “I gotta go up to Congress in a day or so to testify to some committee about my activities. Now, they may call you, too, or they may not, but in any case, you don’t know nothin about any deals for arms for hostages, do you?”

“I know somethin about the arms, but I ain’t seen no hostages yet.”

“That’s not what I meant, you big ox! Don’t you realize what we have done is illegal! We could all go to jail! So you better keep your big mouth shut and do what I tell you, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” I says.

Anyhow, I had other shit to worry about, namely, that Colonel North had got me billeted at the marine barracks, an it was not goin too pleasant there. Marines is different from army folks. They is always goin aroun hollerin at everbody an chewin ass an makin you keep everthin clean as a whistle. The one thing it seemed they liked least was havin an army private in their barracks, an frankly, they made my life so miserable that I finally moved out. I didn’t have nowhere to go, so I gone on back to Lafayette Park to see if I could find my crate. Turned out, somebody was usin it, so I went an found me another one. An after I got things fixed up, I got the bus out to the National Zoo to see if I could find ole Wanda.

Sure enough, she was there, right next to the seals an the tiger.

They had her in a little cage with some straw an shavins on the floor, an she was lookin pretty unhappy. Sign on the cage says Swinus Americanus.

When she seen me, she recognized me immediately, an I reached out over the fence an give her a pat on the snout. She give out a big ole grunt, an I felt so sorry for her I didn’t know what to do. If I could of, I’d of busted in that cage an turned her loose. Anyhow, I went on up to the concession stand an bought some popcorn an a Twinkie, an took it back to Wanda’s cage. I almost bought her a hotdog, but thought better of it. I gave her the Twinkie an was feedin her the popcorn, when a voice behin me says:

“An just what do you think you’re doin?”

I turn aroun an it is a big ole zoo guard standin there.

“I am givin Wanda some food.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, don’t you see that sign right there, says Do Not Feed the Animals?”

“I bet it wadn’t the animals put that sign there,” I says.

“Oh, a smartass, huh?” he say, an grapped me by the collar. “Let’s see how funny you are in the lockup.”

Well, frankly, I have had enough of this shit. I mean, I am feelin so low I almost got to look up to look down, an everthin is goin wrong, an all I done was try to feed little Forrest’s pig, an this bozo is givin me a hard time, an well, that was it!

I grapped him back an lifted him up in the air. Then I spun him aroun a few times, like I remember from my rasslin days with The Professor and The Turd, an then I let him loose. He sailed in the air over a fence, kinda like a Frisbee, an landed right in the middle of the seal pool with a big splash. All the seals done jumped in the water an come rushin up to him an whoppin him with they flippers, an he is hollerin an shoutin an shakin his fist. I walked on out of the zoo an caught the bus back downtown. Sometimes a man has got to do what he has got to do.

Sombitch is lucky I didn’t thow his ass in the tiger pit.