Free The Devil Is a Black Dog by Sandor Jaszberenyi

so fucking calm?”
    “I drink, work out, and I don’t give a shit.”
    Alistair fell silent for a moment, then took one of my Marlboros and lit up. He had only just started smoking, and he had to make an effort not to cough. I used the opportunity to order two more whiskeys. I liked how they served whiskey at the Marriot, giving you the ice in a separate glass. Alistair tossed his drink back in one gulp. It took immediate effect; he probably hadn’t eaten anything all day.
    “I can’t leave it like this,” he said, more relaxed now. “You think I should write something?”
    “Yes.”
    “But I don’t even know the woman’s name.”
    “Just write that it was a woman.”
    “Would you write that?”
    “Yes,” I lied.
    “OK, I am going now. I need to talk with my editor.”
    “Good.”
    He stood and with quick steps started for the exit. His cigarette continued to smolder in the ashtray. I watched it for a bit, then picked it up and continued to smoke. I ordered another daiquiri.
    He’ll be alright
, I thought.
He’ll drink a few more and fall asleep. Or find a girl.
    I closed my eyes.
    In Rafah a huge crowd had gathered in front of the Muhammad Ali Mosque. After the imam’s pronouncement of adultery, the men of the mosque had dug a nice little pit. In it a woman was buried up to her waist. Her hands were bound so tightly behindher that she couldn’t move. Her torso and head were covered with a flour sack, on which “UNRWA”—United Nations Relief and Works Agency—was clearly printed. It was surprising that the woman didn’t say anything or shake with sobbing. She kept obediently still in the pit. She only screamed when, from no more than ten yards, her husband threw a stone. It was a big stone. Large enough to break a bone, but not big enough that the fun came to a quick end. A red stain rose on the sack where it hit. After her husband, the judges each took a turn; then the relatives, and, finally, the men from the mosque. She withstood a surprising amount. After the first few blows she was still lucidly proclaiming her innocence, until a stone must have broke her jaw, because after that she just whimpered, then finally went quiet. The pit was tight, so she couldn’t collapse forward. The sack didn’t tear open; it just became drenched with blood. The soldiers standing at a nearby checkpoint watched the whole thing disinterestedly. It wasn’t their business to interfere.
    “Do something,” I snarled at him, and massaged my temples. I had taken a sip of the daiquiri, but found it sour. Omar had put in too much lime juice.
Do something.
    I turned to look around, but the bar was already empty, even the Saudis had left. Water was gurgling in the pool; the sun flushed red on the horizon.
    I took my smartphone in my hand and reloaded the saved settings on the game.
    Light boats
, I thought.
If I trade my frigates, I’ll be able to take Trinidad for sure.

Something About the Job
    M arosh knew everything about war. In the Balkans he knew when it was safe to leave cover, on the day when some seventeen-year-old sniper was taking two shots at every yellow press vest in the city because his mother happened to have slapped him that morning. He knew how to emphasize the “r” sound, like a Muslim, in the phrase
Assalamu alaikum wa rahmatullah
, the “Peace be upon you” greeting, when, for fun, the jihadist in Palestine put a gun to his head. He knew what a preemptive strike was, and knew that in war everyone was considered a woman, created with holes by a god in a bad mood.
    He knew everything about war, or as much as one can know without participating in armed combat. He had no illusions.
    If a young photojournalist found him in a bar and the topic of war photography came up, he shouted in English or in his unrecognizable Eastern European language, “Robert Capa and so-called humanist photojournalism is just a stupid joke, probably as unfunny as the Gospel!”
    “These days every corpse has a price