Believe me, I never would have guessed I'd be sitting here with a quarter-ton of ammonium nitrate fertilizer and a vendetta against the South Pacific Logging Company. Not on my twenty-first birthday. Looking back, though, I should have. I was born in a volkswagen that ran on vegetable oil. Right in the back, with no painkillers, doctors, or florescent lighting. Lucky for me, my parent's hopeless eco-hippy fling was over in about a year, and I was on track to becoming a functioning member of society.
Unluckily, good old Max Cunningham had a nice spot of Wyoming forest that he didn't know what to do with. All of a sudden, someone found oil on it, and Poppa's old phase came back with ten times the force. Between the diesel fuel poured over everything, and the homemade anti-personnel mines, I shouldn't have walked out alive.
My dad didn't. Long story short, he died of blood loss from losing the lower part of his leg to a violent explosion.
I tried to promise myself that it wouldn't happen to me, that I'd learn from his fatal mistake, but, well, here I am. I just packed two tons of explosives around the support columns of the biggest tropical forestry company in the world. And if I had to tell you why I did it, I'd probably blame my dad. Not for letting his crazy thoughts into my head, but for letting me inhale too much of the gas the day he torched the oil drillers.