My Homeland Fan Fiction

Carrie stands at Brody’s door. She knows she shouldn’t be doing this. One wrong move and she could blow up the whole operation. But, dammit. There’s an attack coming ‘ she doesn’t have time! Carrie knocks on the door. Twice, with urgency. After a moment, the door swings open and Brody stands before her.

“Dammit, Carrie. This is my home!” he hisses.

“Brody ‘ I need your help.”

Brody sighs. “Fine. But not here.” As he walks out the door, he turns over his shoulder: “Chris buddy, I have to ‘uh ‘ run out. I’ll be back.”

Chris Brody, watching basketball on the couch, looks up. “We’re up by 5 points against Phoenix!” But Brody is already gone.

The house remains in silence for a moment. Then another. Then another. And then ‘ a smile spreads across Chris’ face.

“It’s all going according to plan.” He laughs sinisterly through his braces as he turns and walks to his room, his ankles poking out of his too short khakis that were made for a man 50 years older than him.

Chris brushes a pile of legos off a large chest on the ground. “Those fools” he sneers. “They think I’m some simpleton. Some quasi-autistic prop that just putters around in the background of their lives, serving no purpose. Well, let’s see their faces when they realize the real threat has been living under their noses this whole time!”

He opens the crate revealing several assault rifles and over 100 pounds of plastic explosives. An evil grin creeps back onto his face.

“They think Abu Nazir is the threat? Hah! I am the greatest terrorist in the world, and soon my name will be known.” He lovingly strokes a block of explosive, while staring out the window at the fluttering American flag on the lawn.

“This will teach them to miss my karate matches. My precious, precious karate matches.”

Chris opens his closet, revealing the beaten and bloodied figure of Saul Berenson tied to a chair. He grabs the CIA man’s face and slaps him once more. “All that work for nothing, Mr. Berenson. Do you see? Do you see what a failure you are? Undone by a young boy who looks 15 but acts 8. HAHAHAHA!” A single tear rolls down Saul’s cheek. He knows he will not survive another night in the clutches of this sweater-vested mad man.

Chris picks up the phone he bought that one weekend in Bogota when he assassinated the French UN ambassador and walks back to the living room. He dials.

“It’s Chris. The plan is a go. Engage operation “Washington Falls.” As of tonight, the fires of freedom will burn brightly in the wreckage of American hubris. Also, I want pizza for dinner.”

All the pieces in place, his plan to destroy America finally ready, Chris Brody turns to the television hung on the wall.

“Oh awesome! A flat screen!!!!!!!”