How I Almost Became the Unibomber

Ever look back over your life and realize that had things been only slightly different, your life would have been drastically altered? For instance, had you arrived a mere 5 minutes earlier to that job interview you would have gotten your dream job at the cat food processing plant. Or had you not told your boss, “If you don’t give me a raise, I’m leaving and taking all my vast knowledge and talent elswhere. Now we don’t want a company crisis on our hands do we? Huh? Do we, Mr. Bossman?” then you would not be speeding down the highway to be on time for an interview for a job as “Cat Food Taste Quality Technician”.

I’ve had several pivotal moments in my life. For instance, once when I was a young boy about to get my tail kicked by the bully down the street, I decided that I would call his Momma a “big fatso”. My insult did not make him run away in tears as expected. Rather, it fueled his desire to pretzel me. Since then, I have never insulted a man’s momma. Even if she actually is a “big fatso”. It was a moment such as this that helped me see that a career as a redneck bomber was not for me.

It all started with Greg. Greg was the wayward teen in the neighborhood with a propensity for blowing things up as well as playing sniper with his BB gun. His dog, Snyder, was usually the primary target. Greg reminded me strongly of the kid in Toy Story who liked to take apart toys, torture them and then put them back together in unnatural ways. I thought Greg was the coolest guy I had ever met.

One Saturday afternoon in Greg’s backyard, Greg showed me his first attempt at a homemade explosive. It was a toilet paper tube packed with match heads. The ends were taped with scotch tape and he had left one match sticking out. That was to be the fuse. He lit the improvised fuse, and it just flashed up in a low flame and fizzled out. Needless to say, neither of us were impressed. However, our imaginations had been kickstarted.

Years went by, and Greg and I experimented with several design modifications never really getting anything more than a loud pop. This was before the internet was on the scene, so our lack of knowledge kept us out of any major trouble.

Then in high school I took Chemistry from Mr. Gunn. Mr. Gunn was a terribly boring lecturer, but he more than made up for it with his cool demonstrations. One of his demonstrations was a detailed lecture on how to make a good explosive out of standard fireworks found anywhere during the 4th of July. We learned all the principles of combustion, and the chemistry and physics involved in an explosion. We even made bombs in class and took them to the football field to set them off. I’m not making this up! We actually made explosives in class and detonated them on school grounds as part of a class project. (Ahh…remember the pre-Columbine world?) He had been doing this openly for years and everyone knew it and thought is was a great way to get the students interest.

Armed with my new knowledge I set out to make a way cool bomb. First, I drove down to the local hunting/fishing store and bought a large container of gunpowder used for loading black powder rifles (think “modern twist on Civil War era rifles”). The owner simply asked me if I was over 18. I said “yes”, paid up and walked out with the package under my arm and a look of glee on my face.

I went home and dug out my Mom’s stash of used medicine bottles. She had a lot of health problems at the time and for some reason she never seemed to throw the empty bottles away. They were in all sizes and perfect for packing in the powder. I used the fuses from some old bottle rockets and duct tape to cover the entire thing tightly. I made several and took them outside town to test them.

The results were nothing short of glorious! They made a horrendous noise and the black powder put up a giant plume of thick black smoke. Over several months I perfected my design until I was getting the most bang out of the least amount of powder.

My parent’s finally found out what I was doing and told me that I had to stop. I agreed and secretly decided that it would be a shame to waste the rest of my powder. I had a LOT left. It was roughly a quart. I decided to make one more huge bomb and then quit.

So I found the biggest medicine bottle in Mom’s drawer and packed all of the remaining powder inside as tightly as possible. I doubled the length of the fuse and wrapped it carefully in strips of duct tape. I then took my masterpiece to a small dirt road just outside town.

I dug out a little divot in the center of the road and placed the bomb in it. I packed some dirt around the sides to hold it virtical so I could light the fuse and run without it falling over and going out.

I lit the fuse, turned and ran back to where I had parked the car about 30 yards away. I turned to watch.

As the fuse burned slowly, I heard the distant sound of bass speakers thumping followed by the tell-tale rattle caused by the volume being turned up too loud inside the car causing it to vibrate. I noted that the sound was getting closer. Then to my dismay, at the end of the road I saw a white compact pickup truck ease around the corner into view. It was a custom low-rider. It had those huge spinner rims, tinted glass, and a custom paint job and body kit. The sound of the bass tones were clear now. It was so loud that I could feel the vibrations in my stomach. The truck was driving very slowly and carefully on this bumpy dirt road so as to not grind the lowered body on the ground.

Inbetween me and the truck, was my masterpiece. The fuse was already lit and I knew it would be foolish to approach it now and try to put it out. I panicked. All I could think to do was to run. I jumped in my car, and began turning it around. Half way through my turn, I froze. The front bumper of the pickup was beginning to pass over the bomb. The driver had not seen it. I knew it would go off at any second.

There was a flash of fire. Then an inpenetrable wall of black smoke. I couldn’t even see the truck. There was a tremendous noise, and the truck rolled a few feet through the smoke into view and stopped. The bomb had exploded right under the front bumper.

The bumper was now in two pieces. Both pieces hung from the truck dragging the ground. The hood was no longer white, but pitch black all the way back to the tinted windows. The front grill was shattered and there was steam pouring through it.

The bass was still thumping.

The driver side door opened, and out stepped the biggest black man I have ever seen. He was wearing a white tanktop t-shirt and jeans. He seemed upset. He pointed at me yelling something. I couldn’t quite make it out because of all the noise, but I can read lips well enough to know that it involved inflicting personal injury to myself and removing any hope that I may have had for procreation. I believe he said something about my mother too, but I’m not sure. I just remember his face was contorted in the angriest sneer I have ever seen and his large hands were pointing at me. That combined with the surrounding black smoke hanging in the air, made this guy look terrifying.

I decided to go with my original plan of running like a scared rabbit. I threw the car in drive and sped off. Looking in the rear view mirror, I saw my victim get back in his truck and attempt to chase me. As he took off, the bumper pieces were pulled under his truck and broke free. This caused the low-rider pickup to bump up and down violently on the road and he stopped. The last I saw of him as I turned off the road towards home, was him standing next to the wreckage giving me the universal hand signal for “you’re number one”.

Wow. What a forgiving fellow.