No – I hated that fuck. Always an insult – always demeaning. Why couldn’t he just have a massive heart attack right there? Why couldn’t some derailed jihadi run across the lobby – scream “Allah Akbar” and plunge a saber right through his pickled chest? His liver would spill out and do a brief soft shoe dance on the weathered carpet before collapsing into deep sleep. I would secretly applaud the misguided soldier as would thousands back home. Perhaps he then assaults me as well. Jed would die immediately provided his spirited natural blood thinner did its final job, but I would not suffer a mortal wound. My abundant fat cells would protect my prized organs. A long convalescence surrounded by flowers, well wishes and gifts of cash. I survived a sleeper agent of the caliphate, and that fuck did not. I would lose my excess weight – pen a bestselling book based on my experience, and finally inherit the charmed life I so desired and deserved. Unfortunately, reality had different designs.