The Face of a Killer?

Halfway along the ride to Yerevan, the marshutney from my village stops in the regional capital still referred to by its Soviet name so the driver can smoke a cigarette and wait to fill the empty seats in the van.  A strange looking woman hangs out around the marshutney stop.  Once, on a particularly long wait, I went out for a soda.
[Wow, look at you!] said the strange marshutney woman [Look how big you are! You're a real American, alright!].
-Yup. I said.
Today, I'm staying in the van with headphones in and my mind in a book.  Mentally, it's a decent substitute for personal space, my own little nirvana where nothing can touch me.  Through a pause in the "Legend" album, I hear someone shout "Hey Amerikatsi" (Hey, that's the title of this blog!) I take off my headphones. It's the strange looking marshutney woman.  "Hey Amerikatsi!" she yells.  I wave. She turns to her friend [That's the American! He rides this marshutney!...] she whispers to her. I put the headphones back in.
Behind me, a passenger asks, in English, "Where you from?"
I don't want to leave Nirvana.  He asks again "Where you from? USA?" I take out one of the earphones and turn around. His face is the shape, smoothness and color of a brown chicken egg.  I nod.
"Osama Bin Laden" he says.
okay...
"Osama Bin Laden hero."
"huh?"
"hero, Osama Bin Laden hero."
"I don't understand you. Հայարեն հոսում ես? [Do you speak Armenian]"
"Osama Bin Laden hero. I killed American soldiers in Afghanistan."
"Yeah, I don't need this."
I put my headphones back in and try to go back to nirvana.  But I can't concentrate on my book.  The guy has me freaked out.  Sure, he's probably just a nutjob, but then how does he speak English? Plus he didn't understand Armenian.  We're near the nuclear powerplant, what if he's a terrorist? But then why would he be on a marshutney? And he wouldn't want to give himself away.  You shouldn't take this, man, you were there on 9/11, are you really going to let him get away with this? But you can't start throwing punches inside a marshutney. Maybe he's armed and dangerous. But you can't let him get away with this.  Should you tell someone? What if he is dangerous? Shouldn't you do something? Shouldn't you show him you're not scared of him.
I reach into my bag and take out my camera.  "This is what you'll do," I tell myself, "you'll turn around really slowly and calmly, smile, and take. his. picture. It's completely non-violent, but it'll freak him out, make him think he'll get in trouble. He's not going to do anything to you in the marshutney with all these people around."
I turn around slowly and calmly with a smile on my face and my camera out.
He's fast asleep.
I take a picture of him.  The woman next to him looks at me funny.  I realize she's a head taller than he is.  And he's a little silly looking.  Sortof pudgy with a plum-colored sweater.  He doesn't wake up until we're in Yerevan.  He gets out of the van.  His pants fit loosely, and he carries a handbag with a flower pattern.  He walks in a sort of stumbling rolypoly way to a city marshutney, and he's gone.