They don't call me a smart mine for nothing. Hey, I?m more than smart. I?m a genius, I?m the Einstein of land mines. I understand the string theory, take that, Stephen Hawkins. I can discuss the use of the letter K in Finnegans? Wake. Britney Spears holds no secrets for me. I could fall in love too, if only people tried to talk to me. Of course, nobody tries to talk to a half-buried pebble, since this is what I look like. Some of my colleagues are luckier than me. I wished I looked like them. Children toys, candy bars or vibrators.

Therefore, since I cannot prove a lover, to entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain, and to hate the idle pleasures of these days. Uh-oh, Shakespeare. Oh, well. Sue me. Seriously folks, I?m lethal. My little pebble-for-brain is able to analyse your DNA from your pungent sweat, little toy boy soldier, provided the wind blows in the right direction. DNA of friend, DNA of foe, this little genetic charade I made will have you walk away unharmed, or use a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Do anything that you want to do, but uh-uh, honey, lay off of my... no, just step on it, Carl Perkins. Boy, I can't believe the sort of crap they filled my memory with. Of what possible use pop songs can this be for a land mine? To keep me amused while I wait for you? Or do I fit in a larger, larger, larger design? What about whole beaches of smart pebbles, discussing the pros and cons of the universe before they blow it up?

I?m ranting now, while I should be paying attention to the subtle, false and treacherous vibrations in the topsoil which is my current home. Ten people, the third of a platoon, or a soccer team without a goalkeeper, or a litter of wild pigs, are coming over. Look Ma, I?m multitasking. Sniffing their genetic code like a pervert sniffes panties while I assess the amount of destruction I?m supposed to bring forth. In a few minutes, my little plastic body will either know its apotheosis, or return to