Barack Obama (One Million Strong for Barack)

Closer To God, If One Would Dance, Chapter IX

James — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 22:00:15 EST

Closer To God

If One Would Dance

Chapter IX

The view in front of the train was wide and clear when seen through the huge open space at the back of the engine. It was windy, however, as our speed was about forty-five. Dawn was moments away and visibility was less than a quarter mile, but it was enough.

As we came in toward the area of the station, according to the engineer standing at my side, the track would curve left to head in around the outer edge of the station. He showed me the small radio console that controlled four switches in the yard, the left most of which was the one that, when thrown, would allow us to proceed straight into the yard.

“We’re going in hot,” I said, seeing the buildings of the yard appear out of the morning gray.

“Hot?” he asked, his voice rising an octave.

“There’s nothing there. We can see. Hold the speed,” I replied, keeping my eyes on the tracks, noting how many more spread out further ahead. I slipped another five thousand shilling note from my pocket, this time passing it directly to the man’s squatting wife, who grasped it quickly, smiling again. I saw the track curve away to our left.

“Hit the switch,” I instructed, but the engineer shook his head.

“One more moment. We must give them no time to switch it back.”

The man’s hand hovered over the board. We were only feet from the curve when he eased down on the small lever. I watched the track ahead break and spread, and then we were over it.

“How far to Moi Road?” I asked. Both of us peered intently ahead, not moving our heads to look at one another. If there were something ahead there would be no stopping in time to avoid a collision.

“Kilometer. Minute. Two,” he clipped off, his voice tense, both hands braced to push back on a huge lever rising from the steel floor. I presumed the lever to be the brake, not that it might matter. There were at least twenty cars behind us. The inertia of the train was tremendous. We blew by the yard buildings, one man running out to watch us go by, a look of wonder on his face.

“Better slow this thing down,” I mentioned, as if I knew anything about stopping a train. “Where does the line end?” I asked.

“Used to be the Lakoni ferry, but we don’t go that far anymore. Don’t think there’s any track,” he answered. I recalled that the Lebanese and his family ran a ferry at that location.

The train began to slow, the engineer reaching for a cable that ran along the top corner edge of our small space. I caught his arm.

“No whistle.”

The man returned to his position, gently pushing on his big lever.

Jack saw cars crossing the tracks ahead. A lot of cars for so early in the morning. The intersection had to be Moi. I heard the universal ding ding ding of the railroad alarms signaling, as wooden guards descended to the block the road.

“You’re doing fine,” I said, my voice calm, although I didn’t feel calm at all. Had Burt received and properly interpreted the message? Was there going to be a Pajero waiting, or were we on our own? I punched the auto dial button for Burt on the cell phone. He answered after the first ring.

“Hot, high and dry,” he said, and then hung up.

It was flight talk. I had not known that Burt was a flier. Hot, high and dry referenced the most dangerous kind of landing for an aircraft, outside of an emergency. If conditions were hot in temperature lift was less across the wing. High meant high altitude. There was less lift in thinner air. Dry finished the description. Dry air had less density than moist air, and ergo less lift. Using the expression as he had, meant that the Pajero was coming in but it was going to be a very risky landing.

“Gee, like I wouldn’t have guessed that,” I said to nobody, the engineer fully taken up with stopping the train. We were moving at about fifteen miles per hour when we approached to within fifty yards of Moi Road. I climbed around the rear guard of the engine, then jumped ten feet down to the slanted earth next to the tracks, using a series of Aikido rolls to minimize damage to my body as I decelerated.

The Pajero pulled around traffic, and then came right down the railroad right of way, bouncing to near where I was rising, patting the dust from my shirt and trousers. The train’s air brakes gave off a huge whooshing sound, up and down the sides of the long line of cars. Burt and the Earth Mothers ran toward us from that direction.

Sam jumped from the vehicle and opened the back door. The Pajero was big but it was going to need all of its space for the six of us getting aboard. It would have been much simpler and safer to leave the Earth Mothers behind, but I knew they would have nothing to do with that. Burt and I would have to ditch them when we found some place to stay, and get our act together.

I ran to the passenger side of the vehicle and opened the front door.

Joan smiled down at me.

“What?” I asked, in total surprise and confusion. “What are you…”? I began, but got no farther.

“I thought it would be a good idea to provide a little guidance. My ex-husband has had a hand in all this, and it’s my responsibility to make sure no more mistakes are made and that there’s no more violence.” She slammed the door in my face when she finished speaking. I got in the back.

Wendy was wedged between Burt and I, while the other three were crammed over the back seat into the cargo area. Sam hit the gas and rocketed around in a tight circle, throwing us roughly about the interior of the car.

“Where to?” he asked, looking back with a huge smile, obviously enjoying the driving and our obvious discomfort.

“We need a place out of the way where people won’t think to look,” I said to Wendy.

“The Beach Africa is it. Student hostel. About three hundred shillings a day

and okay. No air conditioning. You get a paraffin lamp and a mosquito net in a banda built for two. We got the sleeping bags though,” she said. “Go North on Moi,” she went on, leaning forward and pointing her finger for Sam to follow.

The wood crossing guards were still down. The engine had come to stop in the middle of the intersection, the engineer having delivered accurately for his money. Sam careened around the barrier, narrowly slipped between several cars and then accelerated in the direction Wendy had indicated. There were no cars in our way, as the barrier behind us blocked them all.

Wendy held to her center position, body wedged between the front seats, instructing Sam as to our direction. I peered over Joan’s right shoulder and grew ever more uncomfortable. We were headed back into the center of Mombasa, which was built on an island. The rail station was close to the center of town.

“Just head north and we’ll hit D eight, the highway and get off island. It doesn’t matter what road we take,” Wendy said.

We crossed another major road. There was little traffic. Sam did not bother to stop for the stop sign, and my worst fears were confirmed. A Maruki four-wheel drive drove right past the rear of our Pajero at high speed, narrowly avoiding a collision, before screeching to a halt, and then spinning around to pursue us. Sam hit the gas. There was a sharp crack from behind us. Our windshield turned into biting little chunks of safety glass, and blew inward. European safety glass, not the good stuff used in America, which has a thick sandwich of gooey plastic in the middle, to prevent just such catastrophic failure.

There was a scream from the back at the same time. I turned, with glass pieces cascading from my throat and shirt.

“Helen’s hurt,” Anice stated, loudly, but not in panic. “I think the bullet hit the outside of her arm.”

“Get some material on it and apply pressure,” I instructed, hoping the projectile had not hit bone or an artery. We were in no condition to make for an emergency room, and we were not in a country where there was any decent medical care anyway.

I had not been angry since entering Kenya for the mission. I was not angry when we had been shot at earlier, and I wasn’t mad about the attempt on the train.

Those were the risks that went with the business. Fear I had experienced but not anger. However, I was getting sincerely pissed off that the Aegis people thought it was just fine to fire away at anything that moved.

“Give me the nine millimeter Burt,” I said, pulling the AMT from my pocket. I had one in the chamber and five in the magazine of the little back-up gun. The short barrel, and therefore lower muzzle velocity, would not allow for much penetration of the heavy .45 rounds however.

Burt handed me his gun.

“Loaded to fifty thousand C.P.I., one plus sixteen, “ he said, pushing the butt of the weapon into my open hand, behind Wendy’s back.

I examined the automatic for a brief second. The side of the slide read ‘F.N. 65.’ I knew the manufacturer. Belgian. The gun itself was made in the U.S. I liked that. Burt only seemed to carry American armament. Fifty thousand units of chamber pressure meant that the bullets, one third smaller than the .45 rounds, would launch from the barrel very fast indeed. Penetration was not going to be a problem.

“Take the next right hard, and then slow enough to drop me. Flip around

after a few more blocks and pick me up. Unless I go down. Then leave me and proceed.”

“Yes sir,” Sam replied crisply, veering the vehicle into a ninety-degree turn. I loved the Marines. The vehicle slowed as we passed a wall. With the AMT back in my pocket and the FN in my right hand, I operated the handle with my left hand, opened the door, and leaped out. Sam had slowed to the perfect speed for my egress.

I was able to run a few paces and stop, without having to go down and roll out. I pulled out the AMT, flicked the external safety off by pushing it with my right palm, as the sharp little lever was made for right-handed use.

The Matura rocketed around the corner. I stepped to the edge of the crumbling curb holding up the FN. When the SUV was twenty feet away I opened up, shooting at the front glass, then the passenger doors as the car drove by.

I emptied the gun, brought up the AMT and waited. The Maturi slowed to a stop.

I moved into the street and steadied to take down anyone stepping from one of the

four doors, but nothing happened. The car just sat there.

The Pajero braked to a halt next to me. The passenger door was thrown open right at my side. Sam Hill was one hell of a driver, I realized, jumping in.

The door slammed as Sam accelerated us away from the scene.

It had all taken only seconds. My ears rang from the gunfire. The FN had been loaded to the maximum and the vibrations generated had caused some damage to my ears. The AMT was back in my pocket. I handed the used up FN back across to Burt.

“What happened back there?” Joan asked, twisting back to face me, her eyes wide, her lip quivering, but just a little.

“If one would dance, one must expect to pay the piper,” I answered. “Those clowns have been getting away with murder, or at least trying to get away with murder for days. I gave them something to think about.”

Joan turned, giving me her back again.

“Are they dead, the guys in that car?’ she asked.

“I have no idea,” I answered, truthfully. That I didn’t give a damn I kept to myself. Citizens were, after all, citizens, and it did not pay to attempt to bring them into the real world Burt and I lived in world. The Earth Mothers had come into our world for a brief visit and one was already wounded.

I checked the rear cargo area. Only Dingo was visible.

“How’s Helen?” I asked.

Anice spoke from the floor. “She’s got a slice out of her outer left arm, but he bleeding has stopped. A bit of shock. She’s real tired. But it’s so cool. Helen’s got a bullet wound.”

I rubbed my face, noting the bleeding cut across my right hand when I did.

The safety had cut right into the meat my palm. I had not noticed. The adrenalin of combat had cut the pain receptors and quite possibly the bleeding. Now I had both.

I grimace, clenching the hand to apply pressure. We had to get cleaned up, both Helen and I, before we entered any kind of hostel. Blood gets reported to authorities, and there was going to be some kind of very active investigation over the mess I’d left behind us. Possibly, there were no dead bodies in the Maturi, but I doubted that that was true.

Burt methodically replaced the empty magazine in the handle of the FN, pulled back on the slide, and then seated a round in the chamber. It took him another minute to take out the magazine, squeeze an additional round into the top of it, and then reset it into the automatic. The gun disappeared back into his multi-faceted outfit. He looked over at me. We both communicated the simple fact; it was good to be working with a real professional, without word or expression.

I looked out the window and watched our vehicle pass over the bridge. Mombasa was behind us. My clenched hand shook. I caught the wrist in my left hand, securing it. I wasn’t used to shooting people, and it didn’t feel good, even when the people getting shot had it coming to them in the worst way.

Wind blew with gusto right through the Pajero. I didn’t realize that the vehicle was a different one than the one we’d rented until that moment. How had Stevens and Sam come up with a vehicle of the same type and color? At the Safari hotel we’d lost the driver side passenger window and the rear glass. Either the damages had been repaired in extremely short order or we were riding in a different car. I tucked the information away for later consideration.

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Let's Get Back to Work!!!!

Obama Donna — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 19:05:46 EST

Where is everyone? We have an important election coming up in 2010, and all the experts are predicting the Republicans will win back the House and gain seats in the Senate. Our grassroots effort in 2008 needs to be repeated with that "Fired Up and Ready to Go!" energy. The Republican talking points are working with the help of Dick Cheney's big mouth to turn all energy to the right,

Another Chance

James — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 14:58:45 EST

Another Chance

By James Strauss

He was the first out for the season. The lake had iced over days before, which was uncommon so early in the year, but he’d taken the opportunity to beat any other ice fisherman and establish his fishing hut in the best location. Ten degrees below zero for three days was sufficient to form an ice layer thick enough to drive his truck across, tow the shack out, then park back at the edge of the lake and walk. He trudged back toward the run down ‘out-house’ looking shed he’d left near the middle of the lake. Inside the clapboard structure was a propane heater, six-inch ice drill, fishing equipment and half a case of Bacardi Rum. It was Saturday. He would have two whole days to do nothing but ice fish and drink, with a strong emphasis on the drinking.

When he arrived at the shack he turned around, and then studied the shore of the big lake for signs of other ice fishermen, but there was not a soul about. Smoke came from a few chimneys and he knew, even at six in the morning, his presence out on the ice was noted by many of the people who lived year around in the lakeside cabins. Several binoculars were probably sighted in on him, he thought, as he studied the shore. That conclusion did not give him any discomfort. Quite the opposite. If anything happened, like the ice not holding, then help would be only minutes away.

In past years many fishermen had gone through, one guy had even lost his Porsche, but all had been saved due to the ‘watchers’ on the shore and their quick actions. Because of the Porsche, and the potential pollution such a sinking might have on the lake ecosystem, no vehicles were allowed to park out on the ice during the frozen winter months. All the fishermen hated the discomfort and inconvenience that the rule caused, but they all understood the need to keep the lake pristine. Without the freshwater fish population there would be no ice fishing, and certainly no place to get as securely and quietly drunk as most ice fishermen loved to be.

Once inside, he turned the knob of the propane tank to full open and started the heater, making sure to pull down on the vent lever. Propane was clean but in a small enclosed space even the small waste of carbon monoxide it produced could be deadly. The next order of business was to mix a Rum and Coke, his favorite drink. Two parts rum and two parts coke mixed, without ice, inside a small ceramic cup.

He finished off two cups in as many minutes, warming him to the point where he could remove his heavy sheepskin coat and hat. The propane heater was extremely efficient. The thermometer read sixty degrees and he could see it slowly climbing.

He checked the ice surface around him. He had never built a floor into the shack. He preferred the walls to contact the ice directly, allowing him to pull fish right from the hole instead of up through a hole in a wood floor. He was a purist and proud of it.

Mixing a third drink, which he momentarily set aside, he worked on this fishing rig. A short flexible rod, light line and leader, two small hooks and a heavy sinker. He was going after bottom feeding bass. They were all fairly small, no bigger than nine or ten inches in length, but he loved their taste. Many of the other fishermen went after perch, a milder fish. The propane heater had a side burner. If he cared to, and was lucky enough to catch something early, he would have grilled bass for his breakfast. The thought made him smile. Downing the third rum and coke added humming to the smile. Auld Lang Syne. It was, after all, New Years Day, and he was dead set on changing his life. He was going to visit the children who’d gone away so long ago after the divorce. He was going to stop drinking after this last season of ice fishing. He was going to go back and get a real job, one more in keeping with his college diploma, rather than continue being a vacation cabin caretaker and handyman.

He set the prepared rod and line aside, built a back up, and then took hold of his powered ice drill. The guys at Home Depot said that it would drill a six-inch diameter hole through two feet of ice in one minute. Placing the point of the drill in the exact center of his small space he balanced the tip on the slippery ice, holding the machine perpendicular with his left hand while pulling on the rope handle sharply with his right. The machine screamed to top speed instantly, jerking him a little off balance with its torque. The blade bit into the ice, bounced upward, then slammed back into the ice, grinding in with great crunching sound.

He was under water. The impact of entering the thirty-two degree water was stunning. He body screamed in pain, and then flashed with a deadly numbness. He surfaced, dropping the drilling machine into the depths. He treaded water for a few seconds. Debris was all around him in the water. The heater, flame gone but gas bubbling from the tube, floated next to him, along with his hat and coat. Even the small stool floated inside the confines of the shack, bobbing among all the chunks of broken ice. He twisted around. The ice had broken under the shack he realized, his brain slowly recovering from shock. It had broken perfectly,

He moved to one wall of the shack and tried to lever himself up, grabbing hold of a cross-bracing two by four. The shack pulled down. He did not rise at all.

He paddled to the door. He pulled the shack downward, and then tried the handle. The door opened outward, designed to save as much of the shack’s small space for occupancy as possible. But it opened only two inches, and then jammed against the edge of ice outside. He started to panic. He was already losing the feeling in his hands, and strangely, in his hips and midsection. His legs still worked. His frog kick still kept him afloat, along with his weak grip on the wooden supports of the shack wall. He had to think, so he calmed himself. Help was not far away, if he could just maintain himself, get free of the frigid water and make his way outside. Simply waving his arms out in the open would bring immediate assistance.

More attempts at climbing failed. He fell back. A bottle thumped against his arm. He looked down. It was the half empty bottle of Bacardi. Treading water for a few seconds using only his legs, he grasped the bottle in deadened hands, got the cap off and took it to his lips. He drank the half bottle down in continuous swigs, but could not release it from his frozen hand when it was empty. Instant heat blossomed from his stomach. He could feel the heat move slowly up to his head. He could only prop his hand on the wooden support of the wall, his fingers no longer usable for grasping anything.

He half lay against the bobbing wall, wondering what was going to happen to him.

“Please God, help me. I’ll quit drinking. I’ll take care of my kids. Just give me another chance.” His last words were slurred, even to his own hearing. He tried them again, but he couldn’t improve the pronunciation. He had to rest or he was not going to be able to help himself, he knew. He closed his eyes for a second, to take a break.

On the shore William and Harriet Barrow stared across the mile of ice and snow that separated them from the shack.

“The damn thing was four feet higher, I swear, when he set it up out there earlier,” William said to his peering wife, “and I’d bet a season ticket to the Cubs that its moving around somehow.”

“Nope,” Harriet said, in finality, “that’s the wind and the temperature differential caused by sun reflecting off the ice. “That guy is in there, probably sitting in a drunken stupor, waiting to catch a fish he’d pay three dollars a pound for at the Sentry.

“We ought to call it in, just to be sure,” William said, still staring out across the lake with his binoculars.

“Nah, we’ll have us some hot coffee and consider. If you think its still moving then, we’ll call.”

Half an hour later the couple returned to the great window. Both agreed that the shack was not moving at all.

Inside the shack, ice sealed everything over, catching all the debris and broken chunks in a jumbled frozen setting. The highest thing to rise above the surface was a man’s arm. Thrust upward, almost from the elbow, was a plaid covered forearm ending in a hand tightly clutching an empty Bacardi bottle.

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Closer To God, Silver Streak, Chapter VIII

James — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 19:04:46 EST

Closer To God

Silver Streak

Chapter VIII

The train seemed to take forever to reach its maximum velocity, as dinner came and went inside our small cabin. We prepared for the night ahead. I sent Burt off to check on the men we had left in custody, while the Earth Mothers prepped our area for sleep. I moved into the top bunk, by direction. The laws of sociobiology reigned, much as I knew they would, and Wendy declined to join me, preferring the company of her friends on the floor. Burt would be relegated to the bench seat, which would suit his overly large body badly, while Dingo would remain zipped in below.

Women do not have sex for sport. No women. Men believe they do, because women perpetrate that myth, just as men claim to be in love in order to enjoy sex.

Each gender gets mad at the other when it is time for real cards to be turned over on the table of life. My card was the empty upper bunk, but I was not upset about it. Sex always comes with entanglements. No matter what is said going in, the old phrase: “will you respect me in the morning?” has true merit. Plus there was the group phenomenon. Women do not like to perform in front of their peers. And I was bone tired, which had to be close to Burt’s condition. You do not get shot at, or play the fugitive, without substantial psychological, and emotional, energy output.

Burt returned, but motioned me from the door.

“Secret stuff?” Wendy intoned. “I thought we’d thrown in together.”

There was a silence in the room following her remark. Burt had closed the door, no doubt pacing up and down in the outside passage. Whatever he had to say I knew I was not going to want to hear.

“I think Burt’s afraid to come in. I better go reassure him,” I said, getting some small snickers, but nothing from Wendy. I didn’t feel guilty. The Earth Mothers were bright, tough, and had been around the Horn, but they were not equipped or ready to deal with what was facing Burt and I. Collateral damage was acceptable, but I did not want it to be any, or all, of these women. I stepped out, closing the door carefully behind me. I didn’t say anything, leaning back against the hardwood.

“They’re gone. Room’s empty. None of the porters or the conductor is saying a word. What do you think happened?”

I could tell from Burt’s tone that he already knew what had happened.

The Aegis men had used the money I’d given them to bribe the train people. They had skipped right over the custody issue they’d committed to and gotten off while the train was still stopped. I had underestimated just how tough they were. I pictured the two guys with broken wrists trying to support the broken ankle off the train, and across the quarter mile, or so, of rough country to Mombasa Road. The passage would have been a physical nightmare to go through. But those guys had nightmares every night anyway, I knew. We were all brothers in Post Traumatic Stress.

“My mistake,” I said, seriously. “We’re now more than likely to have company at the station when we arrive. They don’t have cell phones but they might just find a willing soul passing by on that road tonight.”

Burt stared out of the window into the fading light. The sun was already down, but the play of evening sunset splayed through the tops of the Baobab trees.

Our movement magnified the great beauty of the Savannah.

“I don’t know. Three white guys, rough looking, damaged, and trying to thumb a ride on that road at night? We might just get lucky here.” Burt turned to meet my eyes. We both knew that we had been ungodly lucky just to be alive to ride the train.
Could our string last? But there were no options. We could stop the train and bail out ourselves. That would put us in the same pickle as the Aegis team. Our odds were best if we continued on down to Mombasa as we were doing, and rested for the day ahead.

“You’re on the bench. I’m up in the top bunk. Both alone,” I said, opening the door behind me.

“Figured. Life just isn’t that good,” he replied.

I didn’t know what time it was when a poking finger in my right side awakened me. I looked down at my wrist in the dark, but the Omega was long gone.

“Can I come in?” Wendy’s voice said quietly, near the edge of the bunk.

“Just to sleep. I haven’t slept with a man for years. I’d like that. Just too sleep?”

“Okay by me,” I replied to her request.

She settled in next to me, her back pressed into my side. I stared up into the dark, seeing nothing. Her body felt comforting and protective. I hadn’t slept with a woman in years, but I would never admit that to Wendy, or anyone else.

Kenya is one of only ten countries in the world through which the equator passes, and Mombasa was about a hundred kilometers from that imaginary line. Dawn was always, year round, at about six forty-five in the morning, and the sun set around seven at night. It was dark when I awakened to the sounds of the Earth Mothers preparing for a new day. A paraffin lamp burned atop what passed for a dresser inside the tiny cabin, sending an eerie wavering light flickering off the lacquered wood of the walls.

I checked my non-existent watch again, grimacing at the thought of not having one.

“What time is it,” I asked, noting that I was alone in the bunk.

“Five,” Burt said, his voice penetrating up from among the girl’s moving bodies. Burt appeared to be making believe he could fall back into sleep.

“What’s our plan?” Wendy said, her head popping up from below, chin

resting on the edge of the bunk. She looked like the portrait of a beautiful angel, backlit by soft yellow light from the lamp.

I slung my feet over the side of the bunk.

“What do you think, Burt?” I asked.

“Mmmmm,” was all he responded.

“They’re likely to be waiting at the depot in Mombasa, Wendy. We can’t exactly get off with everyone and get lost in the crowd.” I massaged my unshaven chin. I hated not having a shave in the morning, or brushing my teeth and a shower, for that matter.

“Silver Streak,” Burt mumbled from across the cabin, Dingo having pushed him into a sitting position, then hugging him closely.

“Yeah, it was a movie, what about it?” I shot back, impatiently.

Burt frowned at the girl, uncomfortable with her physical attention. I wondered if he was one of those people who hated any contact with humanity just after rising in the morning.

“In the movie the train ran out of control, right through the station. We could try that,” he said, massaging his temples with both hands. There had been a lot of wine consumed the night before.

“ I’m not even sure we can reach the engine on this thing,” I replied, thinking about his idea. “And the depot is just a side building along the tracks, like the one in Nairobi, but maybe the tracks continue somewhere for shipping purposes.”

I climbed down to the floor, and then put my shoes on. “We’ve got a lot of shillings. Let’s see what I can find out. Wendy, you see if you can get hold of some coffee from the dining car, maybe something sweet to get the blood flowing. I pulled out a five thousand shilling note. She took the money. We both headed for the door.

“Be right back,” I said to Burt. “Maybe you can handle all these women on your own.” The light was sufficient for me to see that Helen and Anice, unlike Wendy and Dingo, were dressed in only panties, as they prepared for the day ahead.

I followed Wendy through the dining car, and then went on into the fourth class carriages until I found the conductor. I wondered, as I shelled out another five thousand, whether he also held some of the money I had given the Aegis guys. He informed me that the engine could be reached, but it would be a climb, as the thing was attached backwards. I would have to jump down to a catwalk, and then make my way back to the engineer’s small capsule on the other end. He didn’t bother to ask why I wanted to reach the man. The conductor was having a rewarding run down to Mombasa, no matter what I might be up to.

When I got back to the cabin, coffee steamed up from a pot set next to the paraffin lamp. Everyone was eating some sort of pastry, including Burt, who had grown more accustomed to Dingo having attached herself to his right side. The women were dressed, and all the packs were lined up near the door. Things could not have been more organized on a Marine Corps operation.

I explained the plan over coffee, standing with my back pressed against the door. Wendy poked a hole in the plan immediately.

“Right past the station the rail ends. We could only get fifty or sixty feet past it, which wouldn’t be enough to help at all. Unless the train didn’t switch tracks to run into the station, I mean.”

“What switch?” I asked, my coffee ignored in my left hand.

“The train storage facility and turn-around is right there, on the other side of the station. We have to switch tracks to curve into the station or we go right past on the other side,” she answered.

“Time?” I asked the room.

“Six,” Burt said, checking his watch. The window next to him was beginning to give off faint light. Dawn was minutes away. We were supposed to arrive in Mombasa at dawn. I wondered if the engineer had run faster because of our stop or whether we were going to be late, not that it mattered.

“Wendy, what’s the first major road the train would cross if it went through the storage facility?” I inquired.

“I don’t know Mombasa that well,” she answered, but Helen has a Michelin map.”

Helen of Troy opened a zipper in her pack, and then began unfolding a large road map. Mombasa took up on whole corner. Anice brought the paraffin lamp to the floor, holding it just above the flattened paper. I peered at the map.

“Moi,” I said, pointing at the only main road to cross the tracks after the depot. If we can get to that interchange, then we’ll be a good mile or more from the station, and I’d be willing to bet the Aegis people will take a while getting organized before they figure out what we’ve pulled, anyway. If we pull it off.”

“I’ve got to go forward, see if this can be done, then come back,” I went on. “If we can do it then you’ve got to call our Marine on the cell and have him meet us. If he’s made it himself, that is.” I pointed at Burt’s chest when I spoke.

“You have to go back up there if we can,” Burt said, after a moment. “You can’t just pay the engineer, then expect he’ll do the job. Our lives are riding on this.”

I did not miss his slight inflection, the words left unsaid, the words that would have stated my complicity in risking ourselves so badly.

“Yeah,” I replied, simply, gulping my coffee down, then went through the door. I checked my pockets filled with shillings and the small automatic. One way or the other we were going to Mombasa, but not to the station, not if I had anything to do say about it.

Standing on a small platform outside the passage car, I realized that the job I had taken on so casually was going to be fairly challenging. I stood at least eight feet above the coupling that connected us to the engine. There were no handholds to use in climbing down, or back up on the engine on the other side, if I was able to get there. The catwalk that ran around the noisy diesel was not open at the end. The only way to get over was to jump six feet through the air, catch the rail at my waist as my feet found purchase under it, and then vault over the top. Everything was made of very hard looking metal, and the light was so slight that I could not fully make out the far end of the engine. The jump was three feet down to the engine’s catwalk level. There would be no jumping back. I was a field agent in pretty good shape. I was not a gymnast. I returned to the cabin.

“Here it is,” I said, grabbing another cup of coffee from Helen. “The trip to the engine is one way. You’re right Burt, I can’t leave the man to change his mind, if this can be done. And I can’t make it back. We have to gamble that we can do it. Bailout is that I have him stop before we hit the station.” I motioned for the map again.

“There it is,” I pointed. “Makande. Quite a ways before the station, and in a lousy area, but it’ll do. If we have to bail there we’ll be running across a lot of tracks, then some through some swamp and cardboard housing. I know that area.

Give me the extra throwaway cell,” I said to Burt. He handed it over. The phone only had half a charge left. We had no charger. I checked the autodial screen.

The other phone was the only number listed. I hit ‘send.’ Burt’s phone rang once and I hung up.

“I’ll call. If I don’t, then I’ll use the train’s whistle. Three short means Plan A is a go. Two means Plan B. If there’s no call, and no use of the whistle, then you’re on your own.” I looked around the brightening room. I noted that the Earth Mother’s no longer seemed as certain of the adventure, as they’d been the night before, but there was nothing to be said. Mortal danger was upon us, and nobody sane ever took that lightly.

I wanted to grab Wendy, bend her over for a kiss and say something like “Here’s lookin’ at you kid,” but that feeling quickly passed. I headed back to the front of the car. We were operational. My body and mind were running on all twelve cylinders. I was doing what I lived to do and I felt the adrenalin kicking in to help.

The leap to the engine was not as difficult as I had considered earlier. The pain of hitting my hips on the single pipe, which served as the rail, was worse. I almost bent over the rail and fell into the face of the engine’s metal cover, but I caught myself. It took a few seconds sitting on the catwalk to get my breath back, and let the pain lessen to a tolerable level.

I made my way to the angled window where the catwalk ended. A small door was cut into the side of the engine cover just forward of the window. There was no handle on the outside. I breathed in and out deeply, considering. Finally, I took out the automatic, and then smacked the window several times hard, but not hard enough to break it. I quickly put the gun back in my pocket, took out a handful of shillings and pressed them against the glass. The engineer’s face appeared over the splayed bills. His eyes grew large. He disappeared and the door opened.

Once down inside the small enclosure I realized that the engineer and I were not alone. A woman crouched in one corner, clutching two small children to her with both arms. The children stared at me as if I had landed from outer space.

“My family. They ride for free here. You not notice. I not notice you.”

The engineer smiled a big smile, extending both arms out wide. I looked at him and smiled back. His family’s illegal presence might help me. I told him what I wanted.

“Yardmaster and switch operator control everything in the yard. I can use the remote control switches here when we get near the yard, but the yardmaster will be very very angry. The switch operator there may change the track back. He knows we are supposed to go to the station, and we don’t know what is on the tracks up ahead. There is terrible risk.”

I produced thirty thousand shillings. More than the man made in a year of operating the train.

“If you don’t tell them, go very slow, and we make it to Moi Road,” I said, handing him ten thousand. “The rest when we’re there. You can tell them what you want, but not about me.” Kenya took its railroad system very seriously. I did not want the authorities to pursue us with any kind of zeal. The engineer took the two bills, and then handed them to his wife. Her face lit up. I stared into the darkness ahead, hoping that I’d made the right decision. If we hit something, the engineer, his family, and I would certainly be among the earliest fatalities.

I pushed the button for Burt on the cell phone. He answered on the first ring.

“Three quick blips on the whistle,” I told the engineer. He complied, a look of question on his forehead.

“Got it?” I asked into the device. The sound of the engine was too loud for me to hear anything. I imagined it was the same for Burt on the other end, but there could be no misunderstanding the signal from the engine’s whistle.

The Silver Streak was headed on in to Mombasa, come what may.

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The Mythical Mandate

Keite Young — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 16:38:12 EST

If the Democrats lose Congress in 2010 or the presidency in 2012, it will be the fault of the Far-left. All of the lack of compromise and ignorance on the part of people who DEMAND this and DEMAND that is TOTALLY COUNTERPRODUCTIVE AND WILL ONLY LEAD TO MORE STAGNATION.

Chameleon, Line of Sight, Part IV

James — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 20:15:28 EST

Chameleon

Line of Sight

Part IV

Peter stayed on at Rendezvous for a full week, learning something new each day about the art of a mountain man’s daily life, and his survival. He did not get his rifle back until the day he was ready to leave. On his second day at the encampment, the day Johnson, discharged by Bridger from his service, left with a small band of followers, Peter ran into an armorer while practicing at the shooting range. The man was trying to sell a newly invented device called a telescopic sight. It consisted of a brass tube with lenses running its length. It magnified any target about four times normal size, or so the armorer said. He asked the armorer why nobody else used them, but the man replied he had only one and nobody at the rendezvous would pay the twenty dollars for purchase and installation.

Peter had not been sold until the man had taken him down range. The range ended at two hundred paces, about as far as a man could see a fist sized target. He demonstrated how an imaginary line from the tip of the barrel, two hundred paces away, to the center of the target was called the line of site. Line of site always remained the same. Then he pointed to the tree line, about five hundred paces distant, and asked Peter what he could make out from the bark of a tall oak.

“Can’t make out a thing,” he told the man, honestly.

“That’s right. The line of site to any spot on that tree, however, remains

the same. It’s straight and true, but what you really see is called the line of sight, and you don’t have any sight of that tree trunk at all. Now look through this Chapman device.” He handed a long brass tube over.

Peter squinted, staring with one eye through the tube. He could make out almost all the detail of the oak’s bark.

“That there beautiful Percussion you got can shoot accurately all the way to that tree and beyond, but your line of sight is lacking. This here invention fixes that, and its got regular blades atop it for short stuff.”

Peter was convinced. He handed the man, almost unwillingly, his rifle.

“I got one double eagle. You can have it if you’re done by the end of the week.”

The armorer left with his rifle. Peter was happy that the man trusted him for the money, until he reflected upon the simple fact that the man also his rifle, while he himself had nothing.

With his rifle once more comfortably positioned, hanging from his shoulder, Peter hefted his pack, loaded with powder, shot, beans and flour, plus a folded supply of calico material covered with a pleasing floral print for Neema. He planned to return later to pick up the beaver traps he’d ordered along with some Castor lure. He’d never trapped a thing, but he figured he could learn during the long winter. Beaver pelts were bringing top dollar. Peter didn’t need the money but he’d found out how easy it was to spend at Rendezvous. He was leaving four double eagles lighter than when he’d gone in.

If you bought traps, then you had to have a sled to tow them, and, nothing was cheap to buy at Rendezvous. Most mountain men were constantly indebted to the operation they worked for, drinking away whatever profits they might make.

He was three days in, about half way to the camp along the side of the river when Cat joined him. He could hear it in the brush nearby for hours before it revealed itself. He knew it had been making all that noise on purpose, but he couldn’t figure out why. The animal was well capable of moving through any terrain with the silence of death. Peter could not help but smile at its loping presence nearby. Before he encamped for the night, Peter noted something else. A number of men were traveling the same trail before him. Their tracks criss-crossed back and forth but they were definitely headed south, through the exact same valleys he himself was following.

By the fifth day a knot began to form in Peter’s mid-section. There was not going to be any way that the troop of men before him, if they continued to the river, could miss the encampment. The thicket of birch and willow would conceal it somewhat, but he now had a healthy respect for the perception and capability of mountain men. They would not miss it.

When he came to the top of the hill, overlooking the camp, he was immediately able to ascertain that the cache was intact. The snows were long gone, even from the higher altitudes, and there was no beaten path. Neema was smarter than to leave one. Peter stopped at the very edge of the ridge. The cat stopped with him, sitting erect, staring down toward the river below, where Neema stood naked, tied between two trees by her wrists. Peter knew it was she, even from the distance, as it could be no one else.

He confirmed his fearful angry suspicion using the Chapman device. Even in such a state, he still felt a great pang of longing when he stared through the scope at her naked body. One of the men he had been following came through the thicket. He was as naked as Neema. He took her while Peter watched.

He pulled the rifle down, then, with shaking fingers, unstrapped and opened his pack. He’d purchased the new paper cartridges. No more pouring powder down the barrel. And the paper was marked with the number of grains it held. He took out a half dozen marked ‘hundred,’ for the one hundred grains of powder it held.

It was the longest-range cartridge the store sold. One was already set at the bottom of his rifle’s barrel.

Peter lay across the top of the hill, using his pack to brace the rifle. The cat lay next to him, about five feet away.

“Its tough to estimate range, Cat,” he told the animal, trying to calm himself down. You could not shoot long distance with the kind of shaking he was doing. He breathed in and out deeply, sighting the glass cross hairs, then adjusting the knob that raised and lowered the brass tube above the barrel. He set it for seven hundred yards and hoped he was close.

“Windage is even harder than range, Cat,” he murmured, trying to gauge the wind, but the air seemed completely still. He waited for the man to step back from Neema. It was an agonizing wait.

When the man finally stepped back, Peter squeezed right through the trigger. The gun bucked and the cat raced away with the blast. Peter didn’t try to see through the billowing smoke. He stood and reloaded in his now automatic fashion.

He dropped and lay as before, studying the terrain. Neema stared out toward where he lay. He wanted to wave, but did not. The naked man was down, not moving. Two clothed men rushed to his side. When they stopped to consider the downed man, Peter fired. Again he reloaded as the smoke cleared. When he returned to his position he could see that one of the buckskin clad figures was down next to the naked man. He was moving, but not much. Nobody else was visible.

Quickly, he picked up his pack, backed from the edge of the berm, and then ran east for about two hundred yards. He set up, as before, the warming rifle across the back of the pack. Two men came into view. He knew that one of them was Johnson. The man had found another garish coonskin cap. Peter resolved never to wear his own again. They stood, peering through the bracken of the thicket, trying to see their attacker. Both men had their rifles braced against the sides of willow trunks. Peter heard the cat behind him.

“Not much of a shot this time, Cat, they’re in the trees,” he said, his voice now smooth, his breathing steady. “Looks like seven hundred was right on, for the range, I mean.” The cat made some kind of purring noise behind him, as if in assent.

Peter fired at the tree one of the men was braced against. He reloaded,

this time hearing an awful scream from below, as well as the first return rifle-fire.

He smiled to himself, coldly. Unless those men had a Chapman device and had invested in paper cartridges, which was most unlikely, then they were firing out of fear and frustration. Seven hundred yards was well beyond their line of sight.

He stared down through the smoke and trees. Both men were down.

“Now how did that happen, Cat?” he asked the animal, knowing it was just behind him. There was not answer.

“Wood splinters,” he whispered, after observing for a few more moments.

“I love you, Mr. Chapman, wherever you are,” he finished, patting the rifle before he held it out before him. Dragging the pack, he headed down the hill toward the camp, remaining aware that wounded men could still be extremely dangerous.

The cat preceded him. Before he could come upon the scene he heard one more loud scream, then it was suddenly cut off. Peter peered around the trunk of thick birch. The cat had one downed man by the throat. He shook once, and then cast the body aside. The strength of the animal was astounding to observe. The cat stared at the remaining man. It was Johnson. He held his rifle up, as if that might deter the cat from attacking. His face was covered with blood. It appeared obvious that he’d been unable to reload after being hit, or Cat would have been shot.

“Don’t let him eat me?” Johnson begged, his voice quivering. Peter ignored him, collecting guns. Four rifles, all flintlocks. Up on the hill he was never in any danger, Peter realized. The importance of the new equipment came home to him.

Cat sat, ten feet from Johnson, looking at him quizzically, tilting his head upon occasion, as the quivering man shuddered and tried to ease backward in his half-sitting, half-laying position. Peter moved to cut the woman down from the trees.

Once released, she rubbed her wrists, quickly pulled her torn leathers over her, and then smiled. Peter stood stunned. He’d never seen the woman smile before.

“Did not think you come back,” she stated, as if they were in the middle of some celebration.

Peter examined the men he’d shot. Both were dead. He’d aimed up around their shoulders but hit both in the center of their torsos. He walked over to Johnson. The man next to him was dead, his neck bent at a ninety degree angle. Cat still waited, watching Johnson in its curious manner.

“Please,” the man begged. Peter grabbed his leather jerkin, then dragged him all the way to the river and dumped him in. Johnson floundered for a while before recovering. He crawled to the edge of the water.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Do?” Peter asked. “I’m not doing anything. Get the hell out of here.

I’ve killed enough scum like you for one day.” Peter didn’t mention that the men were also the first men he’d ever killed, and the last he ever wanted to kill.

“Who are you?” Johnson asked, climbing to his feet, holding one hand against the damaged side of his skull. Peter just looked at him.

“First you were a tenderfoot. Then you were a mountain man. Now you’re some kind of shooting expert. Who are you?” Peter stared at him, unmoving. Slowly Johnson backed down the riverbank.

Neema stood beside Peter, Cat moving to sit next to the body of the man he’d killed. All of them looked in the direction of the slowly disappearing Johnson.

“Chameleon,” Neema said.

“He is chameleon,” she yelled through cupped hands, before turning to the river and throwing off her leathers. Suddenly, Peter realized, there seemed to be no barrier between them.

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Chameleon,Rendezvous, Part III

James — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 18:38:23 EST

Chameleon

Rendezvous

Part III

It was a hard winter, with snow coming regularly about every third day. Treks back and fort to the cache were long, and potentially treacherous. The Indian woman had proven to be more than simply difficult. She and Peter shared the lean-to, separated by a pile of supplies. The woman was cold, demanding and almost totally silent unless poked or prodded in some way. The cat demanded meat. Peter had become a good shot with the rifle by practicing on a target range he’d established by the river, and because it took fresh meat, at least every other day, to satisfy the damaged predator. He’d gotten so good at muzzle-loading that he could shoot twice in ten seconds, faster if he just spit the ball down the barrel without a patch, but not as accurately.

Neema had fashioned snowshoes from twine and twigs. The ungainly things worked well but they were extremely work intensive to use. In spite of the food supplies they had, and the constant flow of fresh game, Peter lost weight. He could cover miles in the shoes by the end of winter, however, and the rifle, which has once seemed so clumsy and heavy had become like an extra limb of his body. The woman came up with solutions to every problem they faced but never discussed any of them.

“The cat is a better companion than you,” Peter said to the woman, in exasperation one day.

“Cat likes you,” she responded.

“And you?” he asked, but there was no answer. He looked at her for a long while, waiting for the answer that never came. She worked on sewing some new piece of fur and leather adornment while she prepared their meal at the same time.

She was severely attractive. Peter felt longing deep inside his body, but rejected it. The woman was an Indian, and she had about as much regard for him as she had for the cat, which was close to nothing at all.

Peter could not touch the cat. Any time he came close the animal focused its eyes on him intently. The message was easy to read: ‘touch me and you die.’ Peter got the message clearly each time, drawing his hand back, happy to still possess the appendage. But Neema was not governed by the same rules. She shooed the animal, sometimes smacking it hard on the rump to get it further away from the fire or out from under the small leather tent Peter had built for it off to one side. The cat would simply move, and then sit a distance away, licking its bad paw. Those were the only times when the cat and he looked at one another with any understanding.

He’d taken to talking to the cat, which caused Neema to stare at him as if he was insane. The cat did not seem to mind. Somehow, Peter found it more comforting to be deliberately ignored by the beast rather than by the woman. He called the cat ‘Cat,’ which seemed to bother Neema all the more.

In the spring Peter prepared to leave for Rendezvous, hoping that he was guessing right about when the event was and what day it was in his life. The woman seemed to understand, equipping him with new lighter moccasins, new pouches for his ‘possibles’ and a fine coonskin cap. The cat simply disappeared one day in the week before. Peter had looked for the animal constantly, sometimes calling his name, then looking back to see if the woman had heard him. She never turned, however. Peter realized that the animal’s paw was probably healed and that the predator was doing what predators were set upon the earth to do. He missed whatever the cat had provided, as well as being forced to hunt successfully every few days. With that need no longer in place, his shots with the rifle seemed to miss as often as they hit.

One day, with the sun just above the horizon, Peter prepared himself to leave. Neema helped load the pack onto his back, strapping it down securely, then patting it sharply to indicate she was done. He turned to the woman, prepared to say something about his leaving and eventual return, but she walked away into the brush above the camp.

He walked for days; dry camping at night without a fire. He knew nothing about who or what might be about in the strange valley he was traversing. He moved north. He knew nothing about trapping, skinning, or even jerking beef. He also knew he was about the poorest excuse for a mountain man as had ever prowled the area. Only Rendezvous could help him. There he could find advice from real mountain men, some supplies and possibly friendship. He had money. He could pay for the advice and supplies. Friendship would be more difficult, he knew.

Once he had crossed the last swale into the final valley Peter knew he was headed for the right location. He had not run across a single living soul. In fact, he had not seen another man since he’d left rendezvous the year before. Peter heard movement in the brush off to his right side. He froze, and then slowly dropped down to his knees, swinging the beautiful rifle up smoothly. He stared over the top of the barrel into huge unblinking eyes.

“Cat,” he whispered, lowering the weapon. The mountain lion sauntered out of the brush, walked right by him, and then swatted him once across the thighs with its black-tipped tail. It sat ten feet from him, staring. Peter sad down too, cradling the rifle across his knees.

“So, you’re going to Rendezvous? That would be some scene,” he laughed out loud at the thought, “there would be real mountain men running for the hills, I’d be willing to bet.” The cat just stared, licking its lips, as if wondering whether Peter was worth biting into or not.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he cautioned the animal. “I’m pretty good with this thing now,” he said, gesturing with the rifle. The cat blinked once, very slowly, as if completely discounting the threat. Peter pulled his pack from his back, took out his remaining supply of Pemmican, about half a pound, and tossed it before the cat’s front paws. The cat sniffed, and then lay down to chew.

“There, I’ve bought momentary safety from your clutches. I’ve got to go down. Maybe we’ll see one another again some day.” The cat ignored him, as it chewed on the Pemmican. Peter began the long hike down to the bottom of the valley, where smoke rose up in the distance. He didn’t look back. He knew the cat would never give him the benefit of looking to see him leave.

Men began appearing out of the trees, walking parallel to his own path. He heard them before he saw them. His hearing had seemed to improve immensely since living through the winter. Peter came upon the welcome scene of the rendezvous. Fires burned everywhere. Temporary shacks had been thrown up that appeared as substantial as any built on the main street of a regular town. Animals were corralled behind fences all over the end of the valley, with open areas occupied by men playing games, riding horses or putting up new tents. Peter slowed as he walked through the area, from one end to the other. He looked for the men of Jim Bridger. The same men he’d tried to get on with the year before. They proved to be easy to find. Laughing, yelling and an occasional gunshot came from their camp.

Without preamble he stepped in among them, meaning to announce himself, but he never got the chance. The same man who had fooled him into being a target for the previous year’s spitting competition encountered him directly.

“That’d be Jed’s rife,” the man stated, flatly, bringing a quiet over the entire area. The man’s outstretched finger pointed directly toward Peter’s chest. Peter stopped. He thought for a moment about explaining how he had come by the dead mountain man’s rifle, and other stores, but he again did not get the chance.

“I’ll be taken that,” the man said, moving sinuously toward Peter, his hand still outstretched, but no longer pointing. He wore a huge coonskin cap, the kind with the Raccoon’s head set above his own.

“What?” Peter asked, shocked by the turn of events.

“The rifle. He promised it to me, if he went over to the other side. You wouldn’t be strutting around with his rifle if he weren’t a deader. Maybe you had something to do with that. The rifle is mine, hand it over.” The man stopped five feet before Peter. They stared into one another’s eyes.

Peter saw mean-spirited drunkenness in the man’s eyes. He’d seen that same look in his uncle’s eyes, the day he was cast from his family’s property. He brought the rifle down from his shoulder, and then swept it up, all in one continuous move. He aimed quickly and fired. The man’s coonskin cap shredded, with bits flying all about through the air, while the man screamed, clutching his head in both hands.

Peter reloaded faster than he’d ever done before. Spitting the ball down the barrel, tamping the rifle butt once hard upon the earth, then swinging it back up into battery. Men ran all about around him. He held the rifle barrel rock steady, aiming at the recovering man’s chest.

“Gentlemen!” a powerful voice shouted. Quiet again came over the encampment. A tall man in splendid new buckskins walked into the open central area. “What do we have here?” he said, opening his arms wide.

“I’m gonna gut him,” the man who’d lost his hat said, through gritted teeth, his face near black from powder stains. His large ‘Bowie” knife was extended in his swinging right hand.

“Put that away,” the big man intoned. He was instantly obeyed, but not without complaint. “What about my cap? He shot my cap right between the eyes.”

“Tell me,” the big man demanded, looking straight into Peter’s eyes, ignoring the other man. Peter knew that he was standing in front of Jim Bridger himself.

“Jed died. Tree fell on him. I found his body. Took him awhile to die. I got this,” Peter pulled up his Jerkin, and then carefully retrieved the paper he’d found on Jed’s body. “I found this note in his hand.”

Bridger took the scrap of paper. He read, and then began to laugh. “I’ll be damned,” he said, “that son of a bitch had more class than I thought. Actually thought of somebody else but himself in the end.” He handed the note back.

“This here is the White Man who found Jed’s body. Jed left him everything proper and legal. He’s got the paper.” Bridger talked to the men around him, almost all of whom nodded back at him in agreement. When he was done with his speech, he pulled Peter aside. “Walk with me over to the exchange.” They walked for a bit before the big man spoke again.

“You’re the tenderfoot from Ohio who came though here a year ago, aren’t you? The one my men spit on?” he asked. Peter said he was. The man looked Peter up and down as they walked. “That idiot Johnson was lucky you didn’t shoot him right between the running lights, instead of his coon. Shouldn’t have happened, what they did to you. What’d you come back for?”

“Need some advice and supplies,” Peter said, leaving out the friendship part.

“You can get all the supplies you can buy over at the store. What advice you lookin’ for? Bridger stopped. They faced one another.

“I got this rifle, skins, twenty-one double eagles,” Peter pointed at his stomach, “an Indian woman back at the camp, a cache of stuff and some strange mountain cat who’s adopted me, I think.” Peter blurted out everything he could think of.

“Don’t tell another living soul about the double eagles,” Bridger replied, looking around them, but there was no one nearby. “What’s the advice you’re lookin’ for?

“I don’t know what to do? Do I go back to Ohio and claim the land my uncle stole? Do I go back to school? Do I try to sign up with one of the companies here? I have money, and all this stuff, but I don’t know what to do.” Peter finished, feeling exhausted in giving his huge problems over to a man of such known wisdom. They walked for a while without speaking.

“Let’s see if I got this right. You came here last year with nothing. Now you got what you learned during the winter, a fine rifle, skins, an Indian woman, a cache of supplies, some sort of mountain lion, and twenty-one double eagles. I don’t have any advice. But I do have a question. What does God have to do to get your attention?”

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Chameleon, All Alone, Part II

James — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 23:50:29 EST

Chameleon

Part II

All Alone

The sun shown brightly against the wall of supplies just in front of his face, as Peter groaned, working his way out from under the pile of blankets he’d pulled on top of him in the night. The fire was long gone, and it seemed that the biting cold had departed with it. He refolded the blankets, just as he would have done back on the farm, then he attacked the small wooden box of Pemmican. It was impossible to eat it fast. It was just too tough. Made from jerked lean meat, bison fat and local berries, it was considered the indispensible travel food of all mountain men, even though it had originally been created by Indians. With one pocket stuffed full of the rope-like strands, Peter chewed while climbing from the life-saving cache.

The sun was high and everything was melting when he climbed out of the hole. He examined Jed’s body. He realized that he needed the man’s leathers and gear. Travel through winter altitudes with the season just coming on was not possible in his condition. Not in the hopelessly threadbare garments he had. A hand axe lay atop all the boxes stacked in the hole. Peter bent and retrieved it. The tool was so sharp and well made that he was able to chop and worry one of the sprouting branches from the fallen oak in only minutes. Using a nearby rock for a fulcrum, it didn’t take much longer to lever the much larger branch upward, brace it and then pull Jed from under it’s fatal weight.

The man’s rifle was under the brush behind him. Peter retrieved it. His father had owned a flintlock, although he’d never taught Peter to shoot it. Jed’s gun was percussion, a much more advanced weapon. The hammer struck a small brass cartridge instead of a flint and open powder. There was no flash in the face of the shooter, no failure to fire from moisture, and only an occasional misfire, at least according to the men who had gathered for the rendezvous.

Peter hefted the rifle. He decided to examine it in more detail later. The sun was melting the snow. Before long the beaten trail Jed had made would be gone. Peter knew he needed to find out where that trail led. He stripped the body, changing into the dead man’s soft leather jerkin and pants. They fit badly.

Peter was too hefty, but they would do. The heavy leather moccasins were most welcome and nearly a perfect fit. Pulling them on, he noticed a leather band that circled Jed’s body. Loosening a leather tie he pulled the band to him. It was a long pouch. Inside the pouch, between thin folds, were new gold coins. Peter sat on the snow. There were twenty-one coins, each bearing the word twenty over the top of an eagle. They were ‘double eagles,’ Peter knew. He’d heard of them but never seen one.

Strapping the leather band around his own waist he looked down to see a piece of paper in the dead man’s hand. He pulled it free. A pencil fell from Jed’s stiff white fingers. The note said: “If White Man finds me have all. Use well. Body be buried at river, face water.” Peter tucked the note into a fold of the belt under his leather jerkin, and then proceeded to cut more branches with his new hatchet.

At rendezvous, the Indians present, those with horses, had traveled with triangular shaped devices called travois. He loaded the body onto newly cut branches, covered the cache as best he could, slung the rifle over his left shoulder, and then took up the pointed head of the travois. He would act as the horse.

The trip was not a long one. Melting snow lubricated the branches splayed out behind Jed’s bouncing body. The last hill was the hardest, not because of the incline but because of bad footing. Finally Peter came to the top of the rise. He stood, panting, gazing down upon a thin winding river. It was early in winter so the line was of black moving water instead of white covered ice. The tracks he was following also meandered in a dark line, right down to near the edge of the river.

Half sliding, half running, Peter guided the travois toward a thicket where the tracks seemed to end. He wondered what he would find. He fell twice, swore, got up and then went on. The leathers had not been dry when he started. After two plunges into the wet soggy snow they were nearly soaked through.

Smoke came from the far side of the thicket. Peter stopped, dropped the travois and crept slowly forward, peering through the branches of trees for which he didn’t know the names. His new rifle was at the ready. A lean-to came into focus, set forty feet, or so, up from the slowly moving water. He could not see inside it.

“How could a fire have burned that long?” he said, aloud.

A woman in pigtails stepped out of the lean-to. Peter almost sat down in shock. The woman stared at the thicket. She was an Indian, he realized.

“Come,” she said, very softly.

Peter backed up, regained his hold at the point of the travois, and then moved around the thicket. He lowered it next to the lean-to. The woman did not move.

Peter took the rifle from his shoulder. He leaned on it uncomfortably.

“He died when the tree branch fell near his cache,” he said, haltingly.

The woman walked to the side of Jed’s body, took a step back, and then kicked it in the head as hard as she could.

“Made sure,” she stated flatly, before returning to the lean-to.

Peter stood frozen, gazing from the body to the woman, and then back at Jed’s newly crooked neck. When he looked up again he caught movement further up the hillside, above the lean-to. Quickly he shouldered the rifle, pulling back on the hammer.

A large cougar sat not twenty yards from the lean-to, staring down at him hungrily. He took careful shaking aim, centering the top of the long barrel on the animal’s chest. He pulled the trigger. Snap. Nothing happened. He tried it again.

Another loud snap. The animal did not move. The woman walked to his side and stared up at what he was trying to shoot at.

“Cat,” she said, unconcerned, while Peter struggled with the weapon.

The cat took a few steps toward the lean-to, holding its left paw up, limping badly. It sat down once again.

“Cat sick, why shoot?” The woman asked.

“Its dangerous,” Peter said, his voice shaking, his eyes glued to the wild animal. “What’s it doing here?”

The woman sighed. “That one,” she motioned with her foot toward Jed’s broken body, “was feeding it, try to draw closer so he could take fur, but would not come close enough.”

“Oh,” Peter stated, knowingly, as if he understood. “What should I do?”

“Feed cat. Cat sick. Why shoot. Then learn to use rifle.” The woman sat next to the small hot fire when she was done. “Cat never come this close. Must know you cannot shoot.”

“What does it eat?” Peter asked, curious as to what the strange talking woman would answer.

The woman kicked a haunch of meat nearby, half buried in the melting snow.

“Deer. Cut. Throw. Cat comes close in night. No other animals. That,” she motioned toward where Jed lay, “not notice.”

“Not notice,” Peter mouthed. “And why’d he leave such a visible track to the cache?” The question had bothered him while he’d been dragging the travois.

The woman pointed toward the lean-to. Peter went to the pine and mud covered structure. Ceramic bottles, like the mountain men at the rendezvous had ‘pulled’ from lined the back of the lean-to.

Peter took out his new knife. It was a huge wonderful piece of sharpened metal. He severed the half frozen leg at the haunch of the deer, hauled it up behind the hut-like structure and tried to throw it. It thudded to the earth ten feet away.

The cat stared at him, the injured paw raised, as if in a wave of encouragement.

Disgusted, Peter grabbed the haunch again. This time he dragged it up toward the wild beast.

“If she’s not afraid of you then I’m not either,” he gasped out, slipping in the bright white snow. The cat never moved. Ten feet from the beast, Peter balanced it on end then let it fall forward. The cat slowly rose up on to its three feet. It stared into Peter’s eyes until the boy had to look away.

“Alright, alright, you can have it. I’m going now. Please don’t attack me.” He breathed the last words quietly, so the woman would not hear him. Bravely, he held his back square, not looking back as he made his way to the fire. Once there he squatted down, across the embers from the Indian. He fondled the rifle, wondering what was wrong with it, but not wanting the woman to see him trying to figure out the problem.

“Needs cap,” the woman said, in her unemotional way.

“What?” He gasped, understanding that she was trying to explain what was wrong with the weapon.

“Cap. In bag. On stomach. There.” She pointed at his waist. Peter looked down at the small bag hanging from a tied leather fringe secured to his belt. He opened the drawstring on the bag. The inside was filled with small brass caps. Carefully he took one out. He examined it. It was a tiny pointed thing, flat at one end. He brought the rifle up, pulled the hammer back and saw a similar brass surface. It was crushed. He turned the rifle over and pounded lightly against the lock with one hand. The old cap fell out. He put a new one in, and then carefully let the hammer down. He smiled thankfully at the woman.

“Load,” was all she said, looking into the fire. Peter’s face turned red. Of course, the gun had been fired and not reloaded. Jed had probably fired it to try to draw anyone nearby to him. Peter decided to load the weapon later, when the woman was not watching him. He did not know how to load the rifle, even though he’d seen his father load the flintlock many times.

“Who are you?” he asked, to change the subject. Steam came off his buckskins from the warmth of the fire.

“Take off skins. I fix. Skins too small. I take care. You no sell me.”

Peter stared at her. What was he supposed to put on if he gave her the skins? He was naked underneath. He’d left his farm clothes back at the cache. He shivered, and attempted to change the subject again.

“Name?” he asked, trying to talk like the woman.

“Neema. I Shoshone. That thing bought in summer,” she again pointed at Jed’s naked body. “Bad man. No honor. No soul. Bad heart. I with you now. Do not sell me.” Her last statement was not delivered as all she had said before. It was impassioned, and she had extended her hands before her, where they still were. Her face was down between her arms. Peter was deeply affected.

“I won’t sell you. I’m not sure I own you,” he replied uncomfortably. His life had suddenly become complex. He was a rich man. Four hundred and ten dollars would buy almost sixty fine horses, or a hundred head of cows. And now he had this woman. He looked up toward the cat, as it had moved again from where it had been. Somehow it had worked itself down to the side of the lean-to. It lay and munched comfortably, ignoring Peter and the woman.

“Cat has pride. We pride. But cat sick. Make good fur coat.”

Peter was stunned. “No, the cat can stay. Or the cat can go. But we won’t hurt it.” He didn’t know why he said the words, as they seemed to have come out all on their own.

“How is it that Jed,” Peter pointed at the body as the woman had, “said that he lived alone. That he howled at the night alone. That he’d die alone?” He didn’t expect the woman to understand him. She put her hands up, smoothed her raven black hair, and then looked at him intensely with her huge brown eyes.

“Did live alone. Did die alone. Is true,” the woman said.

Peter looked at the body, then all around him, and understood.

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Letter To Tha President

Mr. Diamond — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 21:36:39 EST

Mr. President Obama,

You Can Be More Then Just Tha 1st Black President Of Tha United States Of America. You Can Save Our Nation From Tha Works Of Tha Bush Admin. Have Done To Us In Tha Pass 8 Years And Counting. Here Are Some Keys.

1. Raise Min. Wage By $5 Across Tha Nation. Everyone Will Get A Blessing For Tha New Years. Goverment And Tha People. You Will See Positive Results Within 60 Days. Then Afther 2 Years Raise It To Where It Belongs...

2.Reverse Them INc. Tax Breaks. Our Nation Depends On Them. You Know Tha Ones Tha Bush Admin. Gave Themself In 2000, 2002, & 2004.

3. Give Them Contracts The Bush Admin. Gave Themself To Rebuild What We Are Bombing Do To This War That They Created, Over A Lie. This Way We Will Be Recycle That Money Within Tha United States Of America. We Will Go Over Their And Build. What We Destory. We Could Rotate Citizen Back And Foward. Those At Home Will Train Others At Home To Do Tha Work Necessary To Rebuild Africa. It Will Put Alot Of People, Young People To Work.

4. Put A Cap On Gasoline. Gas Should Never Be More Them $2 A Gallon. From 2000 On Down Gas Has Never Been This High Or Has Raise As High As They Are Doing To Us Right Now. Lets Boycott Tha Gas Pump. Till They Bring Tha Price Of Gas Back To Where It Should Be. Under $2 A Gallon. When Your Gas Note Is Higher Then Your Car Note. Tha Government Has To Bail Tha Auto Companies Out. Cars, Trucks, Get Parked. Gas Should Have Never Gotton This High Anyway. All This Started When The Bush Admin. Kicked In Our Door And Took Over Our Nation. Do Not Forget.

5. Stop The No Child Left Behind Act. It Has Shut Down More Schools Then Anything Within Tha United States History. And It Will Not Stop Till No Child Is Left Behind. Our Education Of Our Citizen Our Nation, Is Worse Now, Then When We Did Not Have The "no Child Left Behind Act".

6. Stop CCA Prision Industries. They Are The Modern Day Live Slave Trade. They Already Do Business With 19 State And Our Capital Washing D.C. They Are Feeding On Our
Nation. INS Is Their New Client. Everyone Is Game Now.

7. Get Me A Meting Wirth Ms. Janet Jackson. So We May Save America. Check Out My Web Pages.

1. http://www.myspace.com/thablacldiamondz

2. http://www.twitter.com/thaBlackDiamond

God Bless America.

Mr. Diamond Mundy

President Obama kept his BlackBerry and created an open communication line directly to his army of change agents:US Oh Victory in Jesus! God put a rainbow turned up like a cup to be filled and running over: an Up side down rainbowB

Lillene Ebanks — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 17:10:25 EST

Thank you GodB We praise you FatherB We lift our hands toward heaven and magnify YournameB The Name above all names! Can you feel it Saints? Yes God is about to move so fast it will be Awsome!Thank You Jesus, Praise You Father! Jehovah Jirah My Provider!With in a few minutes of posting this God sent a rainbow shaped like a smile B God sent a rainbow like He did after the flood to Noah and his family in the arkB This time God did moreB God changed the shape of the rainbow to a smile not a frown! We video taped it and sent it nationally and globally! God is about to move through His army of believers so quickly! The flood was forty days, Moses was in the wilderness forty years, and Civil Rights laws were created and Martin Luther King was assinated about forty years ago! This smile rainbow is from God for this generation! Imobolize believers God is smilining on US

Friends From Richmond Hill To Our Dear President Obama -Note.

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 17:09:06 EST

The World is changing from degradetion to upliftment, thanks to your efforts and caring about healthcare, I like your passion for change dear president Obama. We all hope for a better 2010. Do you know the secret for real change? now changing the world can only happen when it all begins with the people. Self change brings world change. Have a wonderful holiday. From your fellow citizen Sister Ghendia Rhamdan and your humble fellow citizen Mary or Yb-lem Mary and friends.

Have a Happy New Year dear President Obama we love you here in Queen - Richmond Hill and Keep up the good work. Best wishes for you and your family from all of us. Blessed Be.

Chameleon, The Cache, Part I

James — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 23:59:47 EST

Chameleon, The Cache, Part IChameleon
Part I
The Cache

Peter moved as quietly as someone wearing leather street shoes and fabric clothing could move through heavy snow. The trees were spaced fairly closely so he could creep from one to another in turn, wait a few seconds and then move on. That he was lost and cold no longer mattered. He had a trail. A mountain man who went by the name of Jed left his tracks nearby. The mountain man’s trail did not flow from tree to tree, as he did not appear to be tracking anyone, attempting to avoid detection.
Peter had been following the man for five days. He calculated that he was about a day behind. Both men had come from the Green River Rendezvous up above the Utah Territory. His attempt to become a mountain man at that annual celebration had been a complete and utter disaster. Coming out of Ohio, with farm clothes on his back, without a gun or proper travel equipment had been his undoing. That and his childlike wonder and enthusiasm. He could not shoot, wrestle, knife-throw (he had no knife) or tell tall tails. He also had no money. To the bands of mountain men and trappers he had been nothing but a ridiculed source of rolling entertainment. They’d tossed him coins after they’d used him as the target in a spitting competition. When he had simply stood there, not bending to pick up the coins, tears in his eyes, they’d laughed some more and taken them back. Reflexively, he looked down at the brown stains still adorning his torn woolen coat. There had been no chance at all that any of the companies filling the valley would let him join them, much less as a sharing member of their group.
He was going to die in the pine forest. He knew it, but he continued to trudge from one unfeeling foot to the other anyway. There was no place to go back to, and he lacked the energy. He followed Jed, his only hope. The man was a loner. He didn’t hunt or trap as part of a team, as most of the men did. Peter had figured that it would be easy enough to follow the man to wherever he was going. But there had been no snow at the lower altitude of the Rendezvous. There had been no intense cold. He could not go back. He knew he’d come to far. He could only go on, hoping that Jed might be holed-up just ahead. Peter knew that he could not last another night without proper clothing, a fire or a place of warmth.
He was twenty-two, but he looked fifteen. He was tallish, thick of body and whipcord tough. His blue eyes were bright with an educated glint of intensity. He could read. He understood numbers and he knew how to work, long and hard, but the snow was slowly sucking the feeling and life from his body with each swishing step. He thought about the farm, where his sister and parents had perished in the fire. About his uncle who had come and taken ownership of the land. Ohio law, the sheriff had told him, when he’d guided him to the county line.
Jed had won the shooting competition and Peter had been impressed. The beautiful English rifle the man had used had impressed him even more. Jed had proclaimed the rifle itself to be the real winner, as it had shot so straight. The mountain men had loved that. But it was Jed’s other comments that had caused Peter to follow him. After drinking, or‘pulling,’ as they called it, many times from an acrid smelling bottle, in celebration, he’d told everyone why he was a loner.
“I was born of woman who left me to be alone. I’ve lived alone, hunted alone and howled into the night alone…and I’ll die alone.” The mountain men had laughed, but not Peter. He’d understood.
“And I like it that way,” the mountain man had finished, to more 'pulling' from the ceramic container. Peter had watched the man intently after that. He wanted to live alone too, but he needed someone to teach him how to do it. So he’d decided to follow Jed and learn.
The light was beginning to fade when Peter saw a large oak rise above the pine in the distance. Following the tracks, his mind beginning to grow numb as the rest of his body, he made for the tree. A huge branch had fallen from it earlier. The great thing lay atop the snow, with only a light dusting on it’s bark. Peter squinted. The branch had fallen recently, he knew. The wound way up on the oak’s trunk was bright and fresh, although barely visible in the fading light. He crouched with the smell of smoke. Someone had had a fire nearby. He knew the smell of old wet smoke.
Slowly, Peter moved to the main trunk, then eased around. He looked for Jed’s tracks. He found them, but saw immediately that they were too thick and deep.
It was like the tracks had been made by several people walking the same path, or one person going back and forth to some distant destination. His eyes grew round. The deeper tracks began at the far side of the fallen branch. Peter ran to the mess of limbs and old dead leaves. Down through the bracken he saw the outline of a man’s torso.
“Oh no,” he whispered, gently climbing up over. Breaking branches and casting twigs aside Peter uncovered Jeb’s upper torso. A small pile of ashes lay near the man’s head.
“He lit a fire, but there wasn’t enough fuel,” he said to himself, having brushed aside enough to see the man’s pinned and mangled legs. The branch had fallen across Jed’s lower body. The man was frozen hard to the touch. Peter knew he had died during the pervious night, when he himself had almost passed, warmed only by a thick layer of needles beneath a large pine tree. He climbed back atop the main trunk of the branch, to consider how to free Jed’s body. The climbing activity warmed him, but he knew he didn’t have much light left to work in, or much energy either. Fleetingly, he wondered why it was important to move the body at all, but he discarded the thought. He jumped down to the ground at Jed’s side, having come up with an idea, but the ground was not there. Peter plunged right through the earth, wood and dirt cascading around him as he fell.
He hit the bottom hard, knocking the wind from his lungs. In panic, he clutched his chest, and then looked up. As the first breaths sucked through his gaping mouth, he stared at the broken opening above him. He breathed deeply several times. All around him were stores. Hides, blankets, boxes of lead and pemmican were neatly stacked against the walls of the pit.
“The cache,” he sighed, thinking of Jed at the Rendezvous. The men had talked of caches buried around special high mountain hideouts. In such secret store houses the mountain men kept supplies which enabled them to weather through the long cold months of winter.
Peter climbed to his feet, his head just barely rising to the height of the hole he’d created by jumping through the roof of the cache. A stack of split firewood lined one side of the pit. Conveniently, a forged iron bar and a flint striker hung from leather thongs over the wood. Using the kindling from broken door pieces, Peter set to work building a fire at the bottom of the cache. Once lit, he propped ‘Tee-Pee’ stacked chunks of fire-wood over the small fire. He then pulled down several thick blankets from a pile, threw then under, around and over him. He stared at the box with pencil writing on its side that said ‘Pemmican.’ His mouth watered but he could not move to get the box as deep sleep claimed him.

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The Present

James — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 11:10:35 EST

The Present

James Strauss

The child who was not a child crouched, his back to the warm window. It was below zero in Wisconsin, but not in the deep window well. A mouse looked up at him, its puzzled stare demonstrating no understanding, but also no willingness to back down. The child smiled. He looked down at his fellow traveler, but did not extend a hand. He knew about wild animals. Wild animals survived. Wild animals fought and died over territory. He was in the mouse’s territory, but he wouldn’t fight. They could not be friends. Wild animals had no friends. He knew that, at eight years of age, for he was a wild animal himself.

His name wasn’t Zack, but that was the name he called himself. His real name didn’t matter. The police couldn’t do anything with Zack, because he’d made it up. A couple of times he’d been printed but his finger-prints were too small to register in their computerized network. He’d been remanded to youth authority custody as Zack Zack each time, a name he’d seen in a cartoon somewhere. The window was warm to his back. He turned his head to study it. The basement light was unaccountably on. If someone was in the basement he would be visible, but he’d seen no one at all in the hours he’d been there. The lock to the window was not fastened. He pushed. Very very gently he applied sideways pressure to the multi-layered glass. He didn’t have gloves. The glass was so cold, even though much warmer than the above-ground temperature. It moved. An inch. Then a few more. Warmth cascaded out, filling the window well. Zack checked back for his companion, but the mouse had disappeared. Zack was not disappointed. Everyone disappeared in his life.

He didn’t try to open the window far enough to enter the basement. He was not stupid. If he went in, and got caught, then the cops would be back real quick. If he stayed out he could jump out of the well and run.

The window was open about four inches when the cat appeared. A gray cat. Big. Sitting there, having come silently form nowhere. Zack felt a pang of fear. The cat was nearly a fourth of his own size. If it had claws it could hurt him, he knew.

The cat stuck its head through the window, its eyes wide open, unblinking, as if in question. Zack stared. He didn’t know what to do. He’d never had a pet. Cats ran when they saw him. Dogs too. But not this one. Unable to stop himself, Zack reached out one dirty hand to pet the cat’s head. The cat did not react. It blinked once. Zack patted its head several times. When he stopped, the cat stepped through the window, and then curled up on the cold detritus of autumn leaves and junk which had fallen into the window well earlier, before the snow had come.

Zack stuck the fingers of his right hand into the cat’s gray fur. The cat looked up at him, but made no move at all. The boy’s hand felt wonderful. The cat’s fur was warm and it seemed to draw his fingers in welcome. He sighed deeply. The coming night was the best he’d had in a week, no matter what. Sleeping in the fields, even under rolled crops or piled hay, had been terrible. But that was before the colder temperatures. When it was as cold as it was there was no sleeping. Zack intrinsically knew that. Sleeping in the fields was the same as dying, and he didn’t want to die, so he’d come to this house. The lights had attracted him. There were other homes about but they were all dark. He knew he would have been safer from discovery there, but the promise of warmth from the lights had drawn him in.

The lights were Christmas tree lights. A single tree, down the hill right in front of the house, glowed. Across the back yard was a row of five more trees, all lit up as well. Only one tree, in the middle of the five had colored lights. The rest were little white ones. Zack wondered why the one tree was colored. Deep snow covered the trees so the lights were a glowing soft white, except for the colored tree.

Zack loved Christmas. Not for the presents. He’d never had a present. His family had not been a family at all, just a collection of people laying around in different states of sleep. Zack loved Christmas because people were nicer during the Christmas season. They gave him money and things. That didn’t happen during the rest of the year. But he wanted a present. One Christmas present would be okay. Zack sighed again. He didn’t know anybody. He’d run from where he had been weeks before. He’d only gotten to the country because a drunken man had picked him up by the side of the road. He’d wanted Zack to drive for him, not understanding that he was only eight years old. Zack hadn’t minded the drive. The car had driven all over the road and it had been kind of fun, like circus rides he’d heard about but never experienced.

A boy appeared in the window. Zack froze in terror. The boy called softly, not looking a the window.

“Harvey, Harvey, where are you?” The boy said the same words over and over, looking up into the basement rafters, then at the many boxes stacked along the concrete walls.

Zack looked down at the cat. The cat had to be named Harvey, but he didn’t move. Zack gave him a gentle shove, but the animal just looked up at him, as if he was smiling in pleasure at the other boy’s inability to find him. The boy, who appeared to be about his own age, turned to the open window, noticing it for the first time. He saw Zack. They stared at one another for a full minute.

“What are you doing with Harvey?” the boy asked, pointing at the curled up cat.

The cat ignored the boy, remaining on the cold ground next to Zack’s foot.

“Nothing,” Zack whispered, truthfully, through the opening.

“Its cold out there. Why are you there? Its warm in here. Come in here, and bring my cat.” The small boy crossed his arms, waiting for his orders to be obeyed.

Zack crawled through the window, after pushing it open. He didn’t touch the cat. The cat seemed to know that he was supposed to follow, so he did. Both of them stood to face the child, once they were in and the window was closed.

“You don’t look happy,” the little boy said, “but Harvey seems to like you. Do you live around here? I didn’t know there were any kids around here. All the rich people go back to Illinois at this time of the year, and they take their kids. Not that those kids like me anyway. I don’t have any friends.”

“I don’t know,” Zack said, hesitantly.

“You don’t know what?” the little boy responded.

Zack’s face grew red. He didn’t know what to say.

“I think I need to go before the police come,” he forced out, turning to look back at the closed window.

“Why would the police come?” the little boy said, “Are you a criminal?”

“I don’t know,” Zack responded truthfully. “I don’t know what a criminal really is, but I may be one.”

“No, I don’t think so,” the little boy replied. I think you’re here because of Christmas tomorrow. I asked God for a different Christmas gift this year. I didn’t want a sled, an electronic game or a scooter. I wanted something interesting, like a real friend. My parents don’t understand me. So God sent you. Do your parents understand you?”

“I don’t really have parents and I don’t know about God. I went to school but only for a year. I’m not sure why. I learned to read, but I don’t have any books.” The little boy reached out one small hand. “I’m Clark, and I live here. You learned to read in one year? I can read now, but it took me three years. Maybe you can’t really read. Maybe you’re just saying that.”

Zack shook the serious little boy’s hand. “That box over there says ‘Maytag, this side must always be up," he intoned, pointing.

Clark followed Zack’s gaze, then nodded.

“Okay, you can read,” Clark said.

“Why are you down in the basement?” Zack asked, tentatively.

“Harvey,” the little boy replied, instantly, picking up the big cat, but not for long. Harvey twisted and jumped down. The boy laughed, delightedly. “Harv is my only friend, but he runs away from me and hides. He likes the basement.”

“What time is it?” Zack asked.

“Almost midnight on Christmas Eve,” Clark responded. “My parents are asleep. They ‘overserved’ themselves a bit. That means they drank booze. That’s why all the lights are on. I kind of like it. I can do whatever I want. What do you want?”

The question caught Zack off guard. He almost said that he didn’t know, but held back. He thought about what he really wanted. “I’d like a present,” he said, smiling for the first time.

“Cool,” Clark said. “I’ve got lots of presents. Let’s go upstairs and check them out. They’re all wrapped but I’ve opened every one without Mom or Dad knowing about it. Maybe you can guess what’s in the boxes.” Without another word Clark walked to the stairs Harvey followed him, then turned to look back. Zack realized that the cat was more like a dog than a cat. He liked that. He moved to follow the boy and the cat up the stairs, brushing the dirt and leaves from his clothes as best he could. The house was warm.

Clark lead him through a hallway at the top the stairs and into a front room library. A decorated Christmas tree stood against the outside window, its lights blazing with reflections of the lights in all the many decorations hung on its branches. In the distance, out the window, Zack could see the softened light of the snow covered tree in the front yard. Clark and Zack moved presents about until they’d handled every one. Zack had not been able to guess even one of the presents correctly, but he had loved trying. There was only one flat box left.

“This is from my crazy grandpa. He’s crazy but I love him. I never can guess what he’s going to give me. My Mom says that’s because he’s crazy. But that’s okay. Old people can be crazy and still love you. My grandpa taught me that."

Zack handled the wrapped box. It was wrapped with some kind of bright gold paper. He shook it. “Gosh its pretty,” he said, delaying his guess.

“Yeah, my grandpa is colorblind so he goes for the wildest colors possible. He has no clue. That’s why the one Christmas Tree outside is colored. Its for grandpa. But he’s crazy, so it doesn’t matter.”

Zack nodded, as if he understood at. He had no grandfather that he knew. The crazy grandpa sounded pretty neat to him.

“You can have it,” Clark said, out of the blue.

“What?” Zack asked, in puzzlement.

“The present. If you can guess what’s in it then you can have it.”

Zack set the box down. It was too much. He knew he could never guess what was in the box. It was like the rest of his life. He was never going to understand any of it. That was just the way it was. A tear almost rolled down his face. He grimaced, then turned away. He would not cry. He could not cry. He was in the best Christmas place he’d ever been in his life. He wanted to crawl under the beautiful tree and sleep. Then wake up and live there.

“You don’t have to guess. Here, its yours. Merry Christmas. Grandpa is so crazy he’ll never know his gift is gone when he comes tomorrow.” Clark pushed the box toward him.

Zack fought his tears back, knowing that Clark knew he had almost cried. He liked the boy for ignoring it. “He’ll know. You’re not telling the truth. I can’t take it if he’ll know.” Zack slid the box back.

Clark sat back on his think knees, staring at Zack. “Okay. You’re right. But grandpa is different. When he comes I’ll take him aside and tell him that there was this boy who came in the night and needed a present. Grandpa is the only person in the world who will understand. I just know it. He’ll just shake his head, and like me even more.”

Clark pushed the present over to Zack again.

This time Zack grabbed it and tore the wrapping off. It was a small model train. Inside there was even a small transformer. He opened the box very carefully. The train was from Switzerland, a place Zack had never heard of but loved the sound of its name name. Both boys worked to set up the tracks into an oval. They connected the transformer and plugged it in. The train ran. Zack could not believe it. The present was a marvel of wonder. A small light illuminated the engineer in the engine compartment. They ran the train around the oval many many times. Finally Clark told Zack that he had to go to sleep. Carefully, they packed the train back into the well formed box. Zack followed Clark upstairs to the bedrooms. Clark showed him his sleeping parents. Both of them snored gently. The boys smiled at one another.

“My Dad is kinda serious when he’s awake, but he’s a great dad. He wears an expensive watch called a Nardin, which I’m not allowed to touch, but I do when he's in the shower. Mom acts silly but she's not, even though she's a blond. She's okay.

Zack made believe he understood. They moved to the last bedroom on the floor. Clark climbed into his bed, then pulled the covers up to his neck. A small blue blanket was on the pillow next to his head. He reached for it, then inserted part of it into his mouth.

“Mom says I have to give up my blanket soon, and Dad says my 'rag' is unhealthy.”

“Its okay,” Zack said, standing next to the bed, with the train box under his arm, wondering what it would be like to have such a blanket.

“Will you be gone when I wake up?” Clark said, his voice beginning to grow sleepy.

“Yes,” Zack said, gazing down upon the boy.

“Are you the friend God sent me?” Clark asked.

“Yes” Zack replied, not knowing why he said it.

“Will you come back again.? You can live in the basement. Nobody will know. And then we can play every night when my parents are asleep. Harvey can come too.”

Zack stared at the boy. Clark’s eyes closed, then his breathing slowed, although the blue blanket never left his mouth. Zack reached for the light switch, and then flicked it off. He stayed for a few more minutes, just watching the sleeping child.

Back before the window in the basement he crouched. His back was to the glass, which now felt icy cold. He would sleep until morning and then be gone. The train set, his first Christmas gift ever, was clutched tightly under his right arm. Harvey lay stretched across his left ankle. Zack thought of Clark, in the bedroom way above him, as he waited for the dawn.

http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com

http://www.themastodons.com

http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com

Sharing My Notebook of What I Learned In Today's Class.

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 20:05:48 EST

Communication Skills

Listening is a very important skill.

There are two kinds of Listening

"Pseudo" listening

and Active listening

Pseudo listening = Half listening and or thinking about something else, just hearing but not listening.

Blocks to listening

Are - Dreaming, Filtering, Rehearsing, comparing, judging, sparring, Identifying, advising, Mind Reading and Placating.

United States Broadband Status 2009

Jon Radoff — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 18:57:06 EST

An analysis of recent OECD data that reveals how much better most other industrialized economies are at providing high-speed Internet access to their citizens. This is an opportunity to create more social equity, increased opportunities and access to important content for large numbers of Americans: http://bit.ly/7YSPRr

The change in ME

SummerLovin77 — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 18:10:05 EST

YOU MUST BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD. - Mahatma Gandhi
It has been a tough year, but I can honestly say, "I SEE CHANGE". When I first became a supporter of President Obama -- I knew NOTHING about politics, seriously. I know more about politics now by watching most of President's Obama's videos and reading just about every proclamation he has signed this year. Amazing!
I have faith in our President and believe he carries divine wisdom and is sincere toward the AMERICAN people, as well as the world. I have attended several OFA events and have signed up to just about every social media site to obtain "THE TRUTH" about President Barack Obama & his awesome administration.
I am happy to be apart of this blessed community of supporters and look forward to meeting more individuals like myself who desire not only change, but PEACE.

God bless. Thanks for reading. ^_^.

President Obama Accepts Noble Peace Prize In Oslo

EsquireUK — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 12:32:21 EST

The Nobel Peace Prize 2009 "for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples"

Barack H. Obama

USA 44th President of the United States of America

b. 1961

http://www.whitehouse.gov/blog/2009/12/10/war-and-peace-oslo

The Nobel Peace Prize 2009"for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples"

"Somewhere today, in the here and now, in the world as it is, a soldier sees he's outgunned, but stands firm to keep the peace. Somewhere today, in this world, a young protestor awaits the brutality of her government, but has the courage to march on. Somewhere today, a mother facing punishing poverty still takes the time to teach her child, scrapes together what few coins she has to send that child to school -- because she believes that a cruel world still has a place for that child's dreams. Let us live by their example." -- President Obama

President Obama traveled to Oslo, Norway, to accept the Nobel Peace Prize this morning. In his speech, he described the Nobel Peace Prize as "an award that speaks to our highest aspirations," proof that, "our actions matter, and can bend history in the direction of justice." But the President also acknowledged that, even as he receives this prize, he is the Commander-in-Chief of the military of a nation in the midst of two wars:

One of these wars is winding down. The other is a conflict that America did not seek; one in which we are joined by 42 other countries -- including Norway -- in an effort to defend ourselves and all nations from further attacks.

Still, we are at war, and I'm responsible for the deployment of thousands of young Americans to battle in a distant land. Some will kill, and some will be killed. And so I come here with an acute sense of the costs of armed conflict -- filled with difficult questions about the relationship between war and peace, and our effort to replace one with the other.

...I do not bring with me today a definitive solution to the problems of war. What I do know is that meeting these challenges will require the same vision, hard work, and persistence of those men and women who acted so boldly decades ago. And it will require us to think in new ways about the notions of just war and the imperatives of a just peace.

We must begin by acknowledging the hard truth: We will not eradicate violent conflict in our lifetimes. There will be times when nations -- acting individually or in concert -- will find the use of force not only necessary but morally justified.

I make this statement mindful of what Martin Luther King Jr. said in this same ceremony years ago: "Violence never brings permanent peace. It solves no social problem: it merely creates new and more complicated ones." As someone who stands here as a direct consequence of Dr. King's life work, I am living testimony to the moral force of non-violence. I know there's nothing weak -- nothing passive -- nothing na-- in the creed and lives of Gandhi and King.

But as a head of state sworn to protect and defend my nation, I cannot be guided by their examples alone. I face the world as it is, and cannot stand idle in the face of threats to the American people. For make no mistake: Evil does exist in the world. A non-violent movement could not have halted Hitler's armies. Negotiations cannot convince al Qaeda's leaders to lay down their arms. To say that force may sometimes be necessary is not a call to cynicism -- it is a recognition of history; the imperfections of man and the limits of reason.

Despite these harsh realities, President Obama concluded with a call to "reach for the world that ought to be."

We can acknowledge that oppression will always be with us, and still strive for justice. We can admit the intractability of depravation, and still strive for dignity. Clear-eyed, we can understand that there will be war, and still strive for peace. We can do that -- for that is the story of human progress; that's the hope of all the world; and at this moment of challenge, that must be our work here on Earth.

Read the full remarks . . .

President Barack Obama has said the US must uphold moral standards when waging wars that are necessary and justified, as he accepted his Nobel Peace Prize.

http://www.whitehouse.gov/blog/2009/12/10/war-and-peace-oslo

President Obama arrived in Oslo Thursday to receive this year's Nobel Peace Prize, becoming the first sitting president in 90 years, and just the third ever, to win the award. As the AP noted of his acceptance speech, "entered the pantheon of Nobel Peace Prize winners Thursday with humble words, acknowledging his own few accomplishments while delivering a robust defense of war and promising to use the prestigious award to "reach for the world that ought to be."

This morning the President spoke at the Nobel Peace Prize Ceremony at the Oslo City Hall. His speech accepting the prize was well worth reading in full.

http://www.whitehouse.gov/blog/2009/12/10/war-and-peace-oslo

The Nobel Peace Prize 2009

English
Norwegian

The Nobel Peace Prize for 2009

The Norwegian Nobel Committee has decided that the Nobel Peace Prize for 2009 is to be awarded to President Barack Obama for his extraordinary efforts to strengthen international diplomacy and cooperation between peoples. The Committee has attached special importance to Obama's vision of and work for a world without nuclear weapons.

Obama has as President created a new climate in international politics. Multilateral diplomacy has regained a central position, with emphasis on the role that the United Nations and other international institutions can play. Dialogue and negotiations are preferred as instruments for resolving even the most difficult international conflicts. The vision of a world free from nuclear arms has powerfully stimulated disarmament and arms control negotiations. Thanks to Obama's initiative, the USA is now playing a more constructive role in meeting the great climatic challenges the world is confronting. Democracy and human rights are to be strengthened.

Only very rarely has a person to the same extent as Obama captured the world's attention and given its people hope for a better future. His diplomacy is founded in the concept that those who are to lead the world must do so on the basis of values and attitudes that are shared by the majority of the world's population.

For 108 years, the Norwegian Nobel Committee has sought to stimulate precisely that international policy and those attitudes for which Obama is now the world's leading spokesman. The Committee endorses Obama's appeal that "Now is the time for all of us to take our share of responsibility for a global response to global challenges."

Oslo, October 9, 2009

http://www.whitehouse.gov/blog/2009/12/10/war-and-peace-oslo

Paradise Lost

Richard Thomas Gerber — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 02:15:18 EST

Mankind was born into a paradise that provided all sustenance needed for life, one of perfect design, maintenance free naturally correcting imbalance. This Paradise was stolen by the creation of an unnatural man made system, not based on any science just the whim and desire of the creators. It was then required that one must participate in the man made system to obtain that which was once naturally freely and abundantly available to sustain life. This gave the controllers of the system an unnatural power and dominion over their fellow men; this was the beginning of the Ego Empire and the indentured servitude and usury putting a price on participation in this thing called life, which was originally free for all.

All the free resources were locked down and ownership granted to a small number of men and the rest put into a public trust making what they could not manage unavailable to the individual citizen creating an artificial scarcity of land and therefore increasing the value of the land privately possessed. The system was not adopted freely by the economic constituency it was forced upon them backed by brute force and threat of imprisonment.

It created a beast that thrives on ignorance, gave rise to a massive gambling casino with fixed tables (Wall Street), permitted the creation of artificial value and needs, corrupted science, resulted in the creation of an institution called government that doesn’t fully represent the people in reality but creates only the illusion of doing so, and forces patronage of select vendors at inflated prices. Furthermore over time the natural resources were polluted and contaminated resulting in the most abundant natural resource, water, having to be purchased at a price from a supplier that cleaned and filtered it, the system became so distorted that at one point a bottle of water cost more then a gallon of gasoline and the copper in a penny was worth more than the value of the coin in the artificial financial system not based on natural systems science but rather greed and the love of power and dominion over others. It is time to restore paradise and eliminate the concentration of power distributing it amongst all men and women equally.

No longer shall science be perverted by profit; no longer shall there be profit from disease, fear and conflict. No longer shall the sustainment of essential economy be threatened by the artificial economy, no longer shall a few benefit to the detriment of the many. ~Richard Thomas Gerber

The Illusion of Government

Richard Thomas Gerber — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 02:11:47 EST

The Illusion of Government

The Citizens, Shareholders, and Customers Shall Ascend to the Throne as One
~The Infinite Play

The label “Government” does not own or owe anything, it cannot act, it does not decide, only people can act and make decisions; and the citizens own and owe everything.

If one can see though the illusion of the separation between the government and it's people, created by the ego empire, then you will become empowered to create in reality a true democracy with prosperity and abundance for all.

“Government” is just a label for an institution run by individuals with names, who are supposed to represent truth and the interests of the people as a whole. If they fail to do so then we have the illusion of democracy where the people are ruled by a fallible few and not self governed by the perfect many.

It is in the illusion where the people are taught to see themselves as separate from the institution of government. In reality the people united are the government, which is the manifestation of their collective effort. Unfortunately most live in an illusion, minds full of fiction, and thinking plagued by propaganda; it is the results of this that they experience even now.

"Government" which is a label representing the collective effort of a citizenry, does not make decisions, people do. Individual representatives that are not connected to the source (the people) and do not register the voice and input of each individual to know the collective intent, will, wisdom and intelligence of the people, cannot claim to represent the people and fulfill their fiduciary responsibility to the people.

It is the duty of the representative to balance between the needs of the whole and the "needs" of each part, delivering the essential to all, while taking into account and balancing the "wants" of all. It is their duty to invite conformity in support of the whole by illustrating the benefits of doing so. It is vital that no individual is bound or restrained but is allowed free agency, for it is the exception to the status quo that ensures the evolution and growth of the nation.

It should be understood that any representative or agent of government that acts to the benefit of a few to the detriment of the many has committed treason at least within the heart. Any that have chosen to believe a fiction because they desired it as a reality, prejudice against that which might threaten it, failing to question and doing due diligence to discern and garner the truth and facts, while exhausting all resources of insight and creative intelligence, have failed their constituency.

Until the authentic voice of each person is measured and taken into account on each article of concern and permitted to participate in the design of policy and solution, one does not have a democratic government in reality; only the appearance and illusion of one.

Accordingly the people cannot expect the effort called government to represent them if they do not participate as self informed shareholders that both discern the truth and give voice to it, while providing the impetus of their will. To remain silent is to allow the fictions to grow and spread disease. If a few are allowed to divide the people then they can rule the people, a united people cannot be ruled over, they can only be self governed.

If all one can do as a citizen is repeat rhetoric, rather than committing to study, research and understanding so as to be able to speak the intelligence and wisdom from your own mind then you have also failed your nation, your family and friends and there is no government to blame.

We cannot blame government, it is a label that does not think or act, only individuals can think and act. It is we the people that are to blame allowing ourselves to be divided having others to do our thinking for us, failing to question, remaining passive in ignorance. There is no power on earth greater than a people unified in intent and will, acting with intelligence, moving in truth, with wisdom and compassion. If we allow ourselves to be divided with fictions and labels then it is we that are to blame.

You cannot confront or question a label, you must confront and question the people hidden behind the label.

Truth is the highest of all authority and every law must be based on truth or it has no authority, and anyone acting in truth can break no law.

All injustice is born from fiction, and justice is not about revenge but bringing to light the truth that destroys that fiction that gave rise to the injustice. That fiction may be found far from the scene of the crime and often in the company of others.

It is the responsibility of the representative to craft and orchestrate the manifestation of the deliverables defined in concert with the people. It is the task of a lucid citizenry to be the dominant impetus and to become the main cause of the effect.

The people are the power and the glory of the nation, all as one and one as all, one as many and many as one.

~Richard, Thomas, and Gerber

Be sure to read Illusions the red and blue pill

Making Money is a Scam (in a world of fiction)

Richard Thomas Gerber — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 02:04:22 EST

Making Money is a Scam (in a world of fiction)

“The truth is often obscured by a veil of complexity”
~Infinite Play

Making Money is a Scam (in a world of fiction)

In a world of fiction making money is a scam. Over the course of time there has been a transfer of power from the “value” creators and the genuine value they create to the “transaction” managers and the owners of the symbol used to represent value, and the symbol itself. The value creators are then charged for the use of the symbol. The symbol controllers create the symbol out of nothing at zero cost and sell it, it is genius idea from an ego perspective but it is not sustainable. In other words the symbol transaction managers are able to usurp genuine value from the system without contributing any considerable value other than entering accounting transactions into the system. So in this world of fiction importance is placed upon the symbol and not the value it represents and everyone is doing whatever they can to obtain monetary units quite often using deception, gimmick, providing illusionary value or selling at an artificially inflated price rather than genuine value creation.

The transaction and symbol managers yield an unnatural power because they control the supply of monetary units to be used by the producers and consumers at anytime they can reduce money supply creating scarcity and conflict between the producers and consumers. They wield the power to decide which endeavors are funded and who gets loans often favoring those that support their scheme. This gives them the false status of Gods and the bank is the temple of worship as they are the source of all sustenance because one needs the symbol or account number to buy food, and obtain shelter. They become the source of all sustenance.

Making money is not a scam (in a world of truth)

In a truth based world making money is not a scam. The difference is that in the world of truth the producer is the creator of money, not the banks, because they are the creator of genuine value and therefore wealth which in a world of truth is naturally reflected in their value exchange account balance. In the world of truth the consumer is the validator of the creation of value and therefore wealth. The consumer credits the account of the value creator in proportion to the amount of value created. In the world of truth the focus is on the creation of value and not the obtainment of monetary units which naturally flow to the value creators, the producers are the true makers of money.

In reality the banks do provide a small amount of value they: Track transactions, Evaluate Risk, Create Debt (new money), Ensure Debt is repaid (future value is created), and calculate interest (their profit), which represents the proportion of your wealth they get for allowing your participation in the economic system. Of course they only loan the amount of the principal into the economic system so in order to pay the interest back as a whole the “whole” of consumers must borrow more creating a perpetual cycle and eternal servitude with cycles of boom and bust, each bust resulting in the conversion of their intangible symbol created at zero cost into tangible assets like land as some of the consumers will always default by design and lose their collateral.

Truth calls into question the price charged by the bankers in this game of monopoly for the use of their symbol and the tracking of transactions. The mark up or margin on the minimal actual cost of entering transactions into a computer system is substantially far more than it would be in free and natural market. In the seven years leading up to 2008, FDIC-insured commercial banks made an average pretax operating profit of $142 billion, for basically entering transactions into a computer system and tracking them. These are very expensive key strokes. Combine this with the Wall Street Gamblers that create no genuine value but take billions of dollars of value out of the system, food from mouths of the starving children, and you can understand the cause of the major economic imbalance we currently have.

The actual cost to manage the value exchange transactions, for the US financial system would be less than 100 million dollars for approximately 12 data centers with server farms and administrative, technical, managing and auditing staff.

If we really have a free market then the consumer / producer should be able to switch to the more efficient lower cost monetary system.

Many do not realize that when the US went off the Gold Standard in 1971 to a fiat currency the worlds monetary and financial system became nothing more than an accounting system. With the high priests of money having the power to create the transactions they became the source of sustenance. The Federal Reserve controls and owns the master chart of accounts making them the high priests.

The economic constituency needs to create a new choice for themselves, a new value exchange accounting system that is fair, equitable, and sustainable supporting a natural market. Read http://coinage.me for comprehensive understanding of the flaws of the current system and the design for the new and be sure to read The Money Changers. It is time to throw them out of the temple once again, for good. If you care about the starving children in the world send this page to everyone on your mailing list so they begin to see through the illusions surrounding money.

~Richard Thomas Gerber

Power Questions

When does it make sense for the citizens (government) to create a debt instrument to create money and then have it given to the banks to be loaned back to them at interest (profit)? Why must citizens borrow money twice?

If a house still provides the same shelter as it did two years ago how could it have lost half it's value two years later? It still provides the same value in reality. Perhaps the way the value is determined is a fiction.

If $100,000 (unreal intangible) buys twice as much real estate (real tangible) as it did two years ago did not the value of money increase?

Why are bank profits tax deductable? The interest you pay on your mortgage is tax deductable which actually allows the banks to charge you more for interest then you would normally be able to pay. It also reduces public funds, resulting in a need for increased taxes, causing the citizens (government) to need to borrow even more money at interest to pay the public debt. Is this fair to people who rent?

Sharing my notebook

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 22:13:01 EST

"Hospice supports the best possible care to assist patients live as comfortably as possible, for as long as possible. Moreover, Hospice does not promote euthanasia, nor engage in physician assisted suicide. Hospice promotes a patient right to choice about all end of life care decisions."

Sharing my notebook

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 22:09:05 EST

"Misunderstanding - Hospice is Depressing.

Fact - The two most common fears of people facing the ending of life are suffering and abandonment. Hospice primary goal is to evaluate each individual's cause of suffering.

Moreover - Hospice is a community of professional as well as volunteer experts, that are trained to bring the latest medical and most humanistic care to each patient.

Hospice embraces the patient, the family, and the community in an effort to support an individual's quality of life and end of life decision making.

Hospice makes a difference in the quality of life and the quality of death."

Sharing my notebooks with you'll

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 22:01:05 EST

Common misunderstandings about Hospice care.

"Misunderstanding - hospice is a place where people go to die.

Fact - Hospice is both a philosophy of care and a program of service delivery.

Hospice can be implemented wherever a patient is - at home - in a nursing home - in a hospital,

Hospice is also a comprehensive continuum of care involving home care and inpatient care provided through an interdisciplinary team."

Games and Obama

Jon Radoff — Tue, 08 Dec 2009 14:31:13 EST

An article onthe many positives of games (brain development, education, social skills, etc.) which includes references to the recent Obama STEM (Science Technology Engineering and Mathematics) program, which will use games as a way to get kids excited about learning the skills they'll need to be successful in the 21st century: http://radoff.com/blog/2009/12/08/six-wonderful-things-about-games/

You all see Why Health Care and Wellness is So Important.

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 19:33:34 EST

Health care is the most important part of any individual, for we all get sick at times and we all grow older etc... and without health care small illness can become a big problem and can even mean death. So in my opinion Health care is more important then money. You can have all the money in the world but richness will not prevent you from catching sickness specially a lot of rich people catch cancer from over eating at fancy restaurants. Moreover Health care can mean the difference between life and death, between having a long life and not. etc....

So, I think what the President is trying to do about health care for all is very wise. Our President is a smart caring person.

sincerely

Yb-lem

This is the season to Warm our Hearts with Love, Peace, and Good Will to all Of God's People Nationally and Internationally!

Lillene Ebanks — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 15:28:20 EST

We wiash you happy holidays and a prosperous New Year! Congratulations to Sasha and Malia for lighting their first National Christmas Tree which is a tradition we have every year on the White House lawn. This the season to warm our hearts with love, peace and good will to God,s people nationally and interionally. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Save Your Armchair Quarterbacking For Football, Not Afghanistan

Steve Sulkin — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 14:38:12 EST

To me, it's obvious and simple, what else could President Obama do but what he did in Afghanistan and commit more troops? We are in two horrible wars. They were very poorly thought out wars and more abhorrently, we were lied to by the former administration. Bottom line we were put in a veritable no-win situation.

So now what to do? We know that people who wish us harm are in Afghanistan, in Pakistan and many other places. The military says we need to fight them. So President Obama is doing what anyone would do, he's giving the military enough rope to succeed or hang themselves. I don't think he even believes we'll succeed, but he knows there's a chance, albeit a small one.

And more importantly he gave OUR MILITARY a date he wants them to get out. I think that anyone in his position, learning what he must now know (that none of us know) such as the danger of nuclear attacks from terrorists, would have done the same. The difference with this President, is that he made the decision carefully, over time and came to a grim conclusion to proceed. That's not flag waving or hawkish behavior as was common with the last administration. That's intelligent behavior, no rallying cries. For him to be derided for being intelligent, for taking the time to make a careful decision is armchair quarterbacking, but unfortunately not about the triviality of sports, but regarding the importance of our very human existence on Earth which is threatened by terrorists.

We should "back off this man", he's doing his best. Being an armchair quarterback is embarrassing when one is talking about our nation and our world surviving this crisis. Save your armchair quarterbacking for football.

Response to President Obama's speech at West Point

Appolo — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 22:36:08 EST

First i want to thank you Mr President for this very powerfull speech.I can say from the bottom of my heart WELL DONE SIR.To me you touched all the neccesary points.This speech was very powerful comming from a chief of staff and also what i appreciated the most, was the emotional appeal to the World to stop this Violence together and come to PEACE with each other.Mr President,World Peace cannot be achieved by war,but by compasion,understanding and wisdom.keep up the good work.Mr President, the people of America and the World, have to open their hearts,minds,eyes and ears, to start understanding that "Hatred never ceases by hatred, but by Love"Heart of a Buddha.Mr President, as a strong believer in the notion of Democracy, Peace and Love for all nations,i greately appreciate the time, energy, compasion, and wisdom you put in taking these not so easy decisions.For a man of your position, intellect, and wisdom Mr President,it's up to the people of the World to get the message and get themselves together to face this new millineum which without Peace and understanding will be a very difficult one to live.Mr President, this is not your fight, but it's under your watch now.So lets' streghten our forces together and finish this War Succesfully for the good of our children and grand children.

GOD BLESS YOU, GOD BLESS AMERICA, AND GOD BLESS THE WORLD.Amen

Gov. Huckabee freed Seattle police slayer

Michael Barnes — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 11:02:39 EST

Maurice Clemmons is suspected of shooting four Seattle police officers to death in a Tacoma coffee shop.

According to an article by The New York Times:

In 2000, Gov. Mike Huckabee of Arkansas granted clemency to Mr. Clemmons after he had served 11 years of a 95-year sentence for robbery and burglary convictions on charges prosecuted when he was 17.

I wonder how this will affect Gov. Huckabee's chances in 2012?

New Obama Group Forming 'AmericaNOchange'

Al Boek — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 10:42:29 EST

Fellow President Obama Supporters and Former Ones"

AS the founder of the Obama Group named YESWECANSOLVEIT...

I have taken the liberty of forming still another group called

AmericaNOchange. I doubt this one gets approved.

Thought I'd better hurry and write this and send it to all groups that

I am still a member of before I am banned here forever. Why would

that happen? you ask. Because I just formed a new group with a little

kid yelling "Hey You" while flipping off the viewer. Hope the president

and his staff gets the message.

The esculation of the war in Aftganistan is the last straw. Three strikes

your out!

First, he keeps the same people on the payroll that got us into this

financial disaster. He let's Bush and Cheney walk scot-free. He continues

to bail out the banks, "all too big to fail" why they screw us in every way.

And tonight on national tv he will try to convience us all that the way to

end the war in Aftganistan is to exculate it. This did not work in Vietnam,

I know, because I volunteered to go there, and it will not work in Aftganistan.

To add insult to injury. The powers that be, the ones backing McCain in

my city in Northern California, are all meeting to determine what the same

good ole boys get to do with local stimulus funds...So my question is?

WHAT THE HELL HAS CHANGED IN AMERICAN PRESIDENT OBAMA?

I am so damned mad right now, I swear, if I could afford it, I'd trade in

my next presidential ballot for a passport.

Al Boek, Ex-Supporter of a One-Term President

earlallenboek@yahoo.com

530-549-4315

Redding, California

Our Favorite Thanks given Song goes something like this...

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 21:06:20 EST

Maata Putra se' Pyaar

Chorus: Maata putra se' pyaar

Kiya hai jitana

Kown karega itanaa (2X)

1) Now maheenee uddar me raakha

Jab duniya me' aayaa

Sardee Lage'gee chaadar

orhaos-kar

Stan doodh pilaay aa -Chorus

2) Thapak Thapak Kar

Sukh se' sulaayaa

Gaa Kar surla Bhajana

Bee maar pare' jab, Vaidya

Bulaakar (2X)

Aushadh paan karaaya

Kown karega itanaa -Chorus

3)Javaan bhaye' jab shaadee karnaa

Tab tak prem na chhoote'

Maataa ki mamtaa, aisee baree hai

Saagar bara hai Jitana.

Chorus: Kown Karega Itanaa.

Happy Thanksgiven day President Obama and Family from all of us in Richmond Hill.

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 20:40:59 EST

Happy Thanksgiven Holiday my President Barack Obama to you and to the First lady and to your precious little girls from me and my ill health husband John Mike and our family and my daughters Elizabeth and Melbicita and from my son Cesitar and from my hopefuly future son in law Blanco and from my mom Melby B. Montalvo and my dad Rev. Walter Montalvo and from my spiritual didi Taramati Sukhdeo and from all our family and friends - you are doing a great Job Keep up the good work Big Brother Barack, we all love you and your family, may God Bless you and keep up the good work.

God Bless you always.

Your Humble friend and servant always

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Oskowitz aka Mary.

Notes of My DiDi (Spiritual Sister) Taramati and Me Yb-lem Sharing Wisdom for the New Generation and with the purpose of Preserving the Ancient Culture.

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 19:49:09 EST

The Spiritual Children Say Namaste to God the Father of all Souls and God Say Namaste to the spiritual children.

Remember always that - The Gita and all scriptures, they all belong to the path of Devotion.

Eventhough we know the drama Bhagwan (God) will enable us to make efforts and change for the better. So don't become tired of making efforts. The lord protects Dharma, and destroys unrighteousness. Bhagwan is knowledge full and Blissful.

Bhagwan is full of all treasures, but He Himself does not become the Master of the Treasures, but instead He makes us the children of His Wealth.

Diamonds and Rust

James — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 21:28:09 EST

Closer To God

Diamonds and Rust

I carefully removed five more one thousand shilling notes and presented them to Wendy.

“That’s about one fifth the average wage in Kenya. It ought to get us dinner served in this cabin, and, unless my judgment about such things is sadly flawed, your natural allure ought to count for something.”

Wendy took the money. I saw a glint flash from her eye under raised eyebrow. I wondered how much of the five thousand would end up in the hands of the crew. She and Dingo headed out into the aisle.

“Who are you two?” I asked the remaining women.

“I’m Helen and this is Anice,” the blondest of the two blonds said, waving one hand toward her companion.

“Where you from?” I asked, making conversation while I thought about everything that had happened to us since stepping aboard the train.

“Troy,” she said, noting my lack of real attention.

“Helen of Troy…neat,” I responded with a smile.

“Why don’t you two join your friends at finding us all something to eat?” I said. I held the door open. Anice went by me, her short curly hair so thick and tight it resembled Velcro.

When they were out of the room I secured the one-sided deadbolt. I stood before Burt.

“Want to tell me about it?” I asked him, pointedly, my arms crossed. He watched the evening countryside go by for at least a full minute before answering.

“Ah, about what?”

I frowned. I was not accustomed to my team members withholding information pertinent to the mission, nor on acting independently.

“The three bad guys you forced to leap from the train. Take a close look at the window next to you. They’re safety latched, but you’d play hell at getting them open far enough to squeeze a full grown American through without using a lot of time and tools. Then there’s the terminal nature of what would have likely happened to guys. I don’t think you’d send three men to their deaths that way. I know something about you now. You didn’t force them from the window, so where are they?”

I watched Burt consider. I was determined not to be surprised at whatever he came up with. I didn’t know what had happened to our pursuers, but I knew Burt was lying about whatever had happened.

“I’m sorry, “ Burt apologized, But this isn’t a mission you know. Not anymore. I don’t have to report to you or do what you tell me. We’re on our own. I said I threw them off the train to impress the lassies. I haven’t been with a woman for awhile.” His eyes left mine to roam again across the moving Savannah.

In spite of myself, I was surprised. Burt was impressing young women while three guys, apparently still on the train somewhere, were trying to kill us for unknown reasons. I couldn’t think of anything intelligent to respond to that part of what he’d said, so I ignored it.

“Where are they?” I said instead, getting right to the point.

“Back in their cabin. Just like I left ‘em. One has a broken ankle and the other two broken wrists. They don’t have any guns. I threw their cell phones out the window.” Burt offered the last as if it made up for his earlier lie.

I glared at him, getting control of myself before speaking.

“This is a mission and I’m the mission commander, unless you don’t want to survive it. We’re not going to get through this by trying to impress young women. We won’t survive long doing stupid things like throwing their cell phones away either. Those phones had numbers and identities on them. Now you either accept that or you’re on your own. And, if you accept it, I don’t want any more of this crap. I make the decisions, on everything. That’s what I do. You implement those decisions in the manner I tell you to. That’s what you do. And you don’t keep anything from me. Got it?”

My voice had dropped in both tone and volume. Burt and I were in more trouble than I could calculate. I needed him, but I could reasonably survive without him. On his own, he wouldn’t last another day.

Helen of Troy’s voice could be heard through the solid wood door. She had one of those irritating nasal voices, but her looks were so great you tended not to notice when in front of her. I waited, my hand on the deadbolt, staring back at Burt.

“Alright. It’s a mission. I’ll do my part.”

I twisted the small brass knob. Four women filled the cabin, settling onto bunks and floor as if a gaggle of geese looking to forage.

“It’s done,” Wendy stated, proudly. “They’re bringing dinner in about an hour, between the early servings. I couldn’t understand their word for the meat.

I think its called Punda.”

“Punda milia,” I added, instantly sorry I’d spoken up. The words translated into striped ass or Zebra.

“Means beef, I think,” I recovered, looking over at Burt, who was staring at Dingo too intently to pay attention to me.

“About the sleeping arrangements,” I began, but got no further. Obviously, the Earth Mother’s had discussed more than dinner when they had gone to the dining car.

“You’re sleeping in my bunk. I’ll stay on the floor with Helen. Burt can have the padded bench, with Dingo on the floor next to him.” Wendy’s rapid delivery gave away the preparedness of her comments. There was silence in the room. The earlier arrangements discussed had seemed to include a whole lot more than just sleeping, but the amended plan suited me perfectly. The last thing any of us needed was more complexity, although I could not ignore the fact that the small room was going to occupied through the night by four attractive females and two men who had not known many women of late.

“The train is likely to stop soon,” I informed them. “While its stopped would be a good time to have dinner served. I’ll try to time it right,” I said, gesturing toward Burt to accompany me. Wendy frowned, but asked no questions.

“Wine, you have more wine. Might as well trot it out. We’ll be right back.”

I slipped out into the passageway with my last words hanging in the air. We didn’t need company with what we were about, and the Earth Mothers were just a bit too bright and adventurous. Keeping them from participating in anything would not be accomplished with force. Especially not since I’d allowed one of them to become armed. Our current and continuing presence in their lives was a risk to them, however, and I would not overlook it.

Burt led our passage through the dining car. I marveled at the old world charm of the décor. Red leather, deep brown wood and polished glass. It resembled some Hollywood director’s idea of what a dining car should look like, rather than what you would expect to find in a third world country. Eating in the cabin would be much less entertaining, but a whole lot more secure.

We made our way to the last car. We reached the last door, which Burt plunged right through, his weapon out and raised. I noted that the lock had been shot away, just like the one in our door.

Three men were in the room. Two sat on one lower bunk, opposing us, and the remaining man sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall. With the bunks down, there was not much floor space in a Fourth Class cabin. Burt moved deep enough into the space to allow me to sit on the lower bunk, across from the two men.

“Who are you gentlemen?” I asked, no threat in my voice. Burt’s gun was out and ready, but mine still in my pocket. They looked at me. The man on the floor had the broken angle. It was evident from off angle of the bones. The other two had wrapped wrists. One right wrist. One left wrist.

“Left handed?” I asked Burt, pointing at the appropriate man, but his attention was on the three men.

“Who are you people?” I inquired again. None of the three answered, each looking from one to the other.

I noted the very bottom of a tattoo sticking out from under the short sleeve of the one with the broken right wrist. I stepped carefully over the broken ankle of the floor positioned one. I pulled the sleeve gently upward. The tattoo was in blue. It was of the head of a water buffalo. Then I noted the age of the man. He was not young. Older than I, all three of them were, and I was old for the business.

“Thirty-two Battalion?” I asked. The man nodded once.

“Shit,” I mouthed to myself.

“What is it?” Burt asked, gauging the regret in my tone.

“Thirty-two Battalion is the old Boer Commando outfit, disbanded in 1993, I think. It was pretty hot shit. All three of you?” I pointed at the other two. I received no answer.

“Burt here will be glad to take your shirts off, and then break your remaining joints,” I offered. The one who had signaled before did so again.

“Who are you with now?” I inquired, not expecting an answer. I waited, but I knew I was wasting my time. The situation could only play out in one of two possible ways. Either the men were actually going to jump from the train, at high speed with their injuries, or they were going to see reason. I could only play the cards I had been dealt. I couldn’t change them.

“Okay. Have it your way. I don’t expect much. I know you guys. I was a United States Marine. I have a mission to perform. Either Burt here tosses you off the train or you tell me whom you’re working for. I’ll work something out. It’s not much that I’m asking. No names. Not even what this is all about. “ I waited, while once again they looked at each other. They had to be mercenaries. They worked for the money, so their loyalty was not to a cause. But their habit patterns where from the old school, and it would near impossible to break them down. I was not willing to resort to physical torture, and I didn’t really have the equipment for such an operation anyway. Physical torture always works. On everyone. No single human is immune, or tough enough to ‘gut it out,’ as that is the province of movies and television. But it comes with a high price, for the tortured and the torturers. I’d tortured. I knew the price, and I was no longer willing to pay it.

“Aegis,” the man said, his voice low. “Diamonds. It is about diamonds.”

I sat back stunned. Aegis didn’t bother me. It was one of the mercenary companies operating out of London. There were bunches of them. But his volunteering of ‘diamonds’ perplexed me. Tea, textiles, coffee and a few other things were exported from Kenya. There were no diamonds. Not that anybody had ever found or reported on.

“Where,” I asked, not sure what I expected to hear. And what I got I did not expect.

“Freetown.” We cannot tell you more. Our families will never be paid if we tell you.”

I liked the fact that the man was thinking about the money Aegis would pay out to their families following death. I had their full attention. There was no Freetown in Kenya. There was a Freetown in a place that had a ton of diamonds, however. Sierra Leone. A shit-hole of a place. The unadvertised, unclaimed, and nearly unknown, poorest country in Africa, which was saying something.

“We will talk no more. Do your will.” The man bowed his head. Without sharp instruments and a controlled environment I knew that I wasn’t going to get more.

“Lighten up, Francis,” I quoted from the movie Stripes. “You did what you were asked. Here’s the deal. I’m gonna pull the emergency stop.” I stood up and grabbed the single line running corner to corner near the top of the car. “The trains gonna stop. Only you three will be here. They’ll come in hordes once they figure out the cord was pulled in this room. Stopping the train is a First Class Felony in Kenya. You’ll be arrested, guarded, and taken to jail in Mombasa. When you get there one of you needs to confess that he did it. Claim drunkenness. The natives think all White Men are drunks. Or you can claim that you need medical care from the injuries you suffered fighting with one another. Once one of you confesses the others will be set loose. Strange Kenyan Justice. The two released can pay the fine for the felony, and then you can get some splints and treatment for your problems.” I stopped and looked at them carefully.

“If you don’t claim you did it, then there is going to be trouble. Burt here is going to take your going back on your word badly. You won’t survive this mission, I promise you. I want your word as an ‘Os Terriveis’” I stopped again. Portugal had contributed a lot of men to 32 Battalion, and had loaned it the name “Terrible Ones,” not without good cause.

“We agree,” the man said, this time without looking to the others for approval. I was giving them a rare gift, and the man seemed to understand. It would be safer to leave them for dead, strewn along the harsh landscape of the beautiful Savannah, then have them reaching their superiors to tell of their contact with us.

I pulled down hard on the cord. Squealing sounds came from the wheel brakes of our car. It was going to be a slow stop as the emergency cord only worked for the car it was pulled in. The train whistle blew long and loud. The crew had figured out that there was a problem.

I took out another ten thousand shillings and placed them firmly in the man’s good hand. “You’ll need this for the fine. They won’t take your cash when you’re in custody. Trust me, I know about custody in Kenya.” I then took my box of cigarettes out and offered one to each man. They sat there, each with a white tube sticking out of his mouth. Burt brought out a lighter and went slowly from man to man, keeping his suppressed automatic trained on each while he lit their smokes.

“Dankie,” the man said. Dankie is Afrikaans for thank you. He slipped the bills into his shirt pocket. Burt and I stepped out of the room, then made our way quickly back to the dining car, which was full. The non-stop train was slowing to a stop, which caused a lot of discussion from everyone around us as we made our way through.

“What if they try to lay it on us?” Burt asked, just before we reached the room.

“They’re screwed. Strange Kenyan Justice. They’re the ones in the room where the cord got pulled. The exact place is registered down by the side of the car, near the tracks. There’s no Crime Scene Investigation over here.”

“Will it work the way you told them?” Burt inquired, his voice evidencing skepticism.

“I lie when necessary Burt, but I’m not cruel. Those were brothers-in-arms, whatever path they’ve taken since, and, because of your ‘assistance’ they won’t be a problem for us anymore.” I didn’t mention any of the problems that might arise from they’re eventual report to higher ups.

Wendy welcomed us into the room, locking the door behind us. I noted another empty bottle of wine primly set against the far wall, where a partially filled one sat next to it.

“We’ve been wondering where you were. And the train is almost stopped, just like you said would happen. How did you do that? And, when are we going to get to Mombasa?”

I laughed at her tone and obvious gaiety rather than her comments.

“When is dinner served?” I asked. I was terribly hungry and so very tired. I looked up at Wendy’s upper bunk with longing.

“It’s coming. It’s coming, Wendy giggled, but first we want to sing you a song.

Dingo has a ukulele. It’s made from Koa wood carved in Hawaii.

I slunk down the wall between the bunks. I prayed that there were no more players aboard the Iron Snake. Our stopping had risk. Anyone paralleling the train on the Mombasa Road could use the opportunity to get aboard. We could only plan for so much, however. The Earth Mother’s started their song, the words brining an immediate rye smile to my face: “Well, I’ll be damned, here comes your ghost again…” The song was a Joan Baez thing from many years in the past. I knew that the final words were: “…and if your offering me diamonds and rust, I’ve already paid.” I hadn’t understood the words to that song any of the times I’d heard it. I could never figure out what diamonds had to do with rust, since diamonds are a crystal and rust is, well, rust. I listened to the words of the song flow over me, being sung from some of the toughest angels I’d ever come across, and I knew that diamonds and rust did indeed go together and that the amalgam was one of hardship and pain, just like the words of the song.

http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com

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Iron Snake

James — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 23:33:36 EST

Closer To God

Iron Snake

I grabbed the extended hand, going into a double wrist-lock for additional support. Burt’s arm retracted like a hydraulic ram coming up out of a ditch, and I was pulled straight to the top step of the car. I stuck my head out into the increasing wind as the train accelerated out of the sharp curve. I was the last aboard. A well-groomed conductor retracted the stairs, and then stood looking at us as if viewing zoo specimens. We were at the end of the last car. He blocked the aisle without seeming to do so. I produced our tickets, which he examined, clipped twice and pointed forward with, before returning them to my hand.

We’d waited an hour for the train under Ficus trees, called Mugumo locally, that lined the tracks, with an assortment of natives impatient to clamber aboard with us. Apparently, once aboard, the conductors charged a lower, negotiated price, than could be had at the ticket station.

Our First Class sleeping car was located just beyond the dining car. Most of the overnight train configuration was spent on Fourth Class Fare, which meant four bunks to a room. Burt and I had only two, the extra space taken up by a bench seat with a long private window.

We made our way down the aisle, situated along the left windowed wall of the car. The only cars with center aisles were the dining and day-seat cars. The creak of wood and clicking of wheels were comforting sounds of security. The room was a welcome haven from events of the day. At least it was until I looked at the door. I moved past it, raising one hand to stop Burt. We stood on each side of the door looking at the holes around the handle. Small bore bullet holes. The kind slow, sub-sonic silenced rounds make when they enter wood.

I looked at Burt. Neither of us brought out any weaponry, although there was nobody in the corridor with us. There would be no one inside the room, which I confirmed by pushing the now unlockable door open with my foot. It swung wide, allowing us to see every inch of the space. No one waited because they would have been waiting inside an inescapable trap, in the event of problems. We were up against pros, who wouldn’t expose themselves to the whimsy of chance unless they had to.

I went around the inside of the room, poking my finger into holes on the far side wall and then the frames of our bunk beds.

“Why’d they shoot out the lock? The doors don’t have keys. You can only lock them from the inside.” Burt asked, pulling the bottom bunk down from the wall with a thud, and then sitting atop the mattress.

“Not anymore,” I answered. “Kind of gives me the idea that we’re gonna have visitors later, and they don’t even care if we know ahead of time.”

“Cheeky bastards,” Burt sighed. “Why they treating us like citizens?”

Citizens are regular people. People who have no knowledge of intelligence work, guns, pyrotechnics, or real violence. We call ourselves, and others like us, players. Once you are a player you can never be a real citizen again. Most of us think we can, but in truth, it just can’t be done. “Paranoia bites deep….” the song goes.

“Maybe that’s all the intel they have. Maybe we’re just a hit to them. Maybe they don’t have a formal organization behind them,” I mused, taking a place on the bench seat. The scenery going by was the outskirts of Southern Nairobi. Broken blocks, tile and brick, mixed in with metal sheets in a state of angled falling rust everywhere. And dust. Tons of gray dust runneled through with dark rivulets of muddy water. And native peoples everywhere. Three stone fires sending up hundreds of single plum smoke signals wherever I looked.

Our door flew open. My left hand slipped straight into left front pocket, the forty-five bearing on the door open through the cloth of my trousers. A woman stood in the door.

“Evening mates,” she said, loudly and cheerfully, her rough but attractive face broken nearly in half by a huge smile.

“Hi,” Burt mumbled.

My hand relaxed out of my pocket. I was staring at an ‘Earth Mother,’ as we term them. Young women, mostly from England or Australia, some from America, who come over to Africa and then wander about the countries in their comfortable boots. They invariably wear shorts, long sleeve shirts and carry packs that have to weigh more than seventy pounds. Their lack of fear and sense of adventure has always impressed us.

“We got wine if you got an opener,” she stated, with a great laugh.

I was taken aback for a few seconds. An Earth Mother without a Swiss Army knife? I couldn’t picture it. Then I realized we were being invited over for social reasons. The bottle-opener was cover.

“Sure,” I responded, assuming that Burt had more tools behind the padding of his multi-purpose coat.

“Americans?” the woman asked.

We didn’t answer.

“I know from the accent,” she went on, turning to lead us to her room, as both of us had risen to our feet. “’Hi,’ like ‘Hey’ is strictly American. Then there’s the ‘sure’ comment. Another dead giveaway.”

She was Australian, I knew, from her own heavy accent, but I didn’t reply, only following her two berths down the aisle, where another door was open.

“Ever go see the Flamingos,” she inquired, but not waiting for an answer. “At that lake outside of town American tourists like to go to? Down there they always say the same thing when they see the birds: ‘Oh my God, they’re so pink.” She laughed heartily. I had to laugh too. Her impersonation of an American, totally over done, had been vividly descriptive and funny.

We filed into the room. The woman closed the door behind us, engaging the lock with a loud click. There were three other women in the room, all heavily tanned, all smiling broadly. I was humorously glad that I was armed. Burt produced his own Swiss knife, bottle-opener extended. He went to work on a bottle.

“Four of you in a two-bed First Class room?” I inquired.

“Sleeping bags,” the woman named Wendy, who’d invited us in, answered. “First Class room is two hundred shillings less than a four bed Fourth Class.” I marveled, as that amount of local currency was worth about three bucks, and then took a seat on the floor, my back to the outer wall so I could face the locked door. We’d already had a lesson in just how secure those were.

We drank two bottles of red wine. The label read ‘Terpenja Garnacha,” which I knew was Spanish, and surprisingly, not that cheap. Burt and I nursed ours in paper cups, knowing that there were other players aboard who’d have to be dealt with at some point in the night.

“They call this train the Lunatic Express, you know,” Wendy commented, her voice beginning to slur. “There was a lot of opposition to its being built by the British in the eighteen hundreds,” she slurred on.

“Iron snake,” Burt stated, speaking for the first times since we’d entered the cabin. We all looked at him. “Its what the natives call the train,” he followed, his expression showing surprise at our rapt attention. “Kikuyu. The natives are mostly Kikuyu, not Masai,” he finished, almost guiltily, eyeing the remaining wine in his cup.

I couldn’t believe that I had heard correctly. My formal education was in ethnology. Cultural Anthropology they used to call it, before they wanted everyone to think it was all about the study of fish or bugs. I understood the origins and interaction of the cultures in Kenya. I simply could not believe that a Knuckle-dragger, especially a huge dumb-looking one like Burt, would know anything about such things.

“Where the hell did you go to school?” I asked him, without thinking.

“Thornton Fractional,” he replied, proudly. I knew it to be a high school located somewhere in South Chicago. I didn’t know why I expected some center of higher education to come out of his mouth, but I had.

“You two don’t even know each other? Wendy inquired. “We thought you were companions.” The women all laughed, while Burt’s face grew red.

“I’m not gay,” he said, his voice small amid the raucous sounds filling the room around us.

“So, are you married?” Wendy asked me, directly, her first two words coming out as one.

I said I was.

“All the good ones…and all that,” she replied, then went on, “What’s her name?”

“Joan,” I answered, not having a clue as to why I lied, or used that name.

Burt almost laughed out load, held back only by the angry frown I sent across the room at him.

“Gotta use the loo,” Wendy said, unlocking the door. The other women paid full attention to Burt while she was gone, he having indicated that he was single. I presumed that they were merely practicing their skills, as Burt and I were a good fifteen years older than any of them.

Wendy re-entered the room. “Some Bogans down at your place,” she stated, offhandedly, before being surprised by Burt’s instant rise from the floor.

“What’s a Bogan?” he asked, opening the door a fraction, then drawing out his suppressed automatic. I joined him, the AMT Hardballer in my left hand, pointed down. The room went silent and still, the sounds of the train seeming to grow louder with each passing second.

“What have we got?” I whispered.

Burt held up one finger, then pointed aft, toward the dining car. His finger then tapped his own forehead.

“Okay, out you go. I’ll give you ten minutes.” I checked my wrist, but there was no Omega there. I cursed.

His gun disappeared. He was out the door and gone, seemingly more smoothly and quickly than a man his size could move. I slid the forty-five back into my pocket, then turned to face the women. They sat frozen, one with a cup of wine halfway to her lips. I slid down the door, sitting with my back to it.

“I wont stay long, just until Burt gets back. You’ll never see us again, once we hit Mombasa,” I said, my voice soft but flat.

“Mombasa,” Wendy replied, her voice no longer slurring. “It means ‘Battle City’ in Nandi,” she said, matter-of-factly. I didn’t reply, instead waiting for the inevitable question. It came, but not in the form I expected.

“Who are the others?” Wendy inquired.

“We don’t know,” I answered, truthfully. “They came at us in Nairobi because of something that happened in Mombasa. So we’re going there to find out. They don’t have good intentions.”

“That wasn’t a normal kind of gun, the one your friend has,” Wendy stated.

“We’ve seen a lot of guns on our Walkabout. That one’s not normal,” she repeated.

I had nothing to say. I didn’t care about lying to the Aussies, but I could see no reason to add anything I didn’t have to, other than about Joan being my wife, and I couldn’t understand what had made me say that in the first place.

“He’s the killer, so what does that make you?” Wendy asked, the other women opening a third bottle of the wine, as if they commonly spent time in enclosed spaces with gun-toting hitmen.

I again did not answer, setting my cup aside.

“You’ve drunk our wine. We’ve taken you in. You owe us something,” she said, slowly, with quiet expressive meaning.

I looked at all four of them, trying to decide what to say. If there was a code for such encounters, then Wendy was right. Our taking up with them had, at the least, saved a potentially violent confrontation, which might not have worked to our advantage. And she had warned us. I took out the wad of local currency and peeled off two bills.

“Two thousand shillings,” I intoned, putting the money in front of Wendy’s feet, since she made no move to accept it with her hand.

“More,” she said, with no smile on her face or in her voice.

I took another bill from the roll, but she held out her hand.

“Enough money. Tell us more.” She pulled her hand back, then filled her cup to the brim with red wine.

I sighed and put the roll back in my pocket. “We’re agents. It doesn’t matter what kind of agents. One of us got killed in Mombasa. Burt and I came to redress that loss, but nothing when right. When I inquired, these guys, who we don’t know, came at us. Shooting. We can’t go back and we can’t go forward until we know more, which is why were going down to where we lost that agent.” I finished, hoping that my explanation would be enough.

“Can’t exactly go back to your berth, now can you?” one of the other women said.

I had no answer. The woman was correct in her assumption. Unless I could be certain that none of our pursuers were on the train, it would be very risky to stay in the berth we’d booked. But it wouldn’t be any safer elsewhere on the train, unless it was in a berth nobody knew about. Like the one I was in.

“Since Burt isn’t married, he can stay with me, if he doesn’t mind the hard floor,” the woman went on.

“What’s your name,” I asked her.

“Ruthie,” she answered. “Ruthie Jorgensen,” she fluffed her bright blond hair, as if to indicate the obviousness of her Scandinavian heritage, then went on, “but they call me Dingo, because I don’t talk much.”

“Well, that’s more than kind of you Dingo, but Burt’s much older than you. Women don’t take to men like us, and they usually have better judgment than to marry us,” I warned her.

“Except for Joan, that is,” Wendy said, drinking her whole cup of wine down, before going for another.

“I’m not married, since we’re trying to talk truth here. I lied, to fit in better."

"Joan," I said, and then I paused. I could not minimize Joan, “Joan’s a real woman, but with somebody else. And yes, you’ve shared your wine, your room and your friendship with us. That deserves something, which is what I’m trying to give you. Our problems are not your problems, and our problems are very serious.”

“Than you can sleep in my bunk,” Wendy said. “I mean, since your not really married.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Far from rejecting us, the women were welcoming us into their lives, at least while we were all aboard the train.

“Listen to me. We lie for a living. Violence is our stock and trade. We’re not good men. We’re just tools, guided around out here by people who don’t necessarily have the best interests of humanity at heart.”

“Is that part the lying?” Dingo asked, her face serious. I massaged my face with both hands. I had never encountered Earth Mothers, except in passing, and I was finding the experience frustrating and difficult to deal with. I also noted, when I was done talking, that the two thousand shilling notes were no longer on the floor. Wendy smiled, as if in thanks. I wondered, by the time the train hit Mombasa, whether Burt or I would have any currency left between us.

There was a very soft single knock on the door. I felt it rather than heard it.

The bad guys would not be knocking, and there was also no way they could know which cabin we were in. I stood and opened the door. Burt slipped in, and then took his place near Dingo where he’d originally sat.

“What’d you find?” I asked him.

Burt looked at me, then at the women, then back at me, without speaking.

“They’re in,” I told him. “We’re staying with them. Don’t ask how or why. Talk to me.”

With an expression of reservation written across his face, Burt talked. “They had a Fourth Class room let. There were three of them, all Caucasian. They decided that it was in their best interest,” Burt stopped, looking around the silent room carefully, “to leave the train before we got to Mombasa.”

“This is a non-stop,” Wendy stated, analytically.

“Any blood? Clean-up? Disturbance?” I asked, ignoring her.

“No. They were in the last car. I popped the emergency latches on their window, and out they went. Had some duct tape, so the window won’t flap, or anything like that.”

“You made them jump from the train?” Wendy asked, obviously stunned. “But the train is going a hundred kilometers an hour.”

“Would have been nice to talk to them. You didn’t question them, did you?” I interrupted.

Burt looked at me, his expression showing guilt.

“No, but I did get these,” he said, laying two RAP automatics on the seat between he and Dingo. She immediately caressed the surface of both pieces.

“Parabellum?” I inquired of him. He said nothing, confirming my analysis. The guns were nine millimeter’s produced by a small company in South Africa. That company supplied the local police forces. The weapons were not normally available on the private market outside of that country.

“Boers. Shit. What the hell do the Boers have to do with this?” I said the words to myself, thinking. “You find the suppressor?”

A gray, powder-coated cylinder joined the two automatics. I stared at it for a moment. “SAI,” I asked. Again, Burt did not answer. “Shit,” I said. At every turn with these unknown assailants we were being confronted with an abundance of capability and quality material. SAI was a company out of Denmark. They produced a ‘carbon’ silencer superior even to an oil-filled device, but they were usually more expensive than the weapon they were fitted to.

“Get rid of them,” I said, concluding there was nothing more to be learned from the weapons.

“Can I have one?” Dingo asked.

“Me too,” Wendy followed, instantly.

“Alright, take them, but not the suppressor. That goes out the window.” I was unable to keep the exasperated tone from my voice. I was traveling from Nairobi to Mombasa in the middle of the night aboard the infamous Iron Snake, trapped in a room with people equally as crazy as I, if not more so. The thought did not give me comfort.

“Way cool,” the supposedly silent Dingo intoned, using her caricature of an American accent. “What about dinner. You can’t go to the dining car can you, I mean with those others having gotten off the train early?” She stroked here new acquisition while she talked. Burt smiled at her, and then produced a magazine filled with cartridges. I looked from one of them to the other, wondering which one of them was in more trouble.

I took out my wad of shillings. “These seem to work wonders here. I think we can manage dinner in the cabin.”

http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com

http://www.themastodons.com

http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com

Within a brief moment of time

i am rasa — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 13:22:15 EST

Within a brief moment of time

I have been focusing on the greatest journey of my life.

That most amazing miraculous dream of one tiny little sperm carrying the worlds most heaviest load, the genetic information of generations and generations and generations....in order to enter into the dream world of a small egg awaiting for that wondrous moment to arrive. The greatest journey of my life. The greatest journey of my life, happening throughout the ages.

Here i am, the dream of a tiny minuscule sperm who has touched, entered and combined into the amazing dream of an egg. Generations of dreams combining in ONE brief moment of time. Two different distinctive dreams combining everything together to co-create a dream dreaming.

Within that brief small moment of synchronization of time and space. The combined wholeness of my dream was unified. Then began the second most amazing adventure of my life. From one miraculous cell to 100 trillion cells playing and dancing in a unified field of utopian nature.

Then from being focused inside the womb to looking outward to this.

We are all energy. Within a brief moment of time. The possibility of combining and integrating our individual unique miraculous creative genius energy TOGETHER to realize a totally new dream coming from the heart of reality seems so simple so easy.

The Mass Group. E=MC2. Peace, love, freedom...pelodom.

Within a brief moment of time is our ability to integrate our consciousness to form an amazing new creative dream unfolding. Within the empty space is the ability to integrate ALL our dreams simultaneously. By coming to the O table, by giving freely of our geniusness, our dreams shared, our consciousness expands. Our reality expands. Abundance is the dance.

Within a brief moment of time, creation of a new life.. a new dream is owakened.

Dream Big Dreams

OFA ===> History in the Making.

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 01:39:36 EST

Statement of President Barack Obama on House Passage of the Affordable Health Care for America Act By Christopher Hass - Nov 8th, 2009 at 12:19 am EST Also listed in: Organizing for Health Care Blog Shortly after the House of Representatives concluded tonight's vote on health insurance reform, President Obama released the following statement:

Tonight, in an historic vote, the House of Representatives passed a bill that would finally make real the promise of quality, affordable health care for the American people.

The Affordable Health Care for America Act is a piece of legislation that will provide stability and security for Americans who have insurance; quality affordable options for those who don’t; and bring down the cost of health care for families, businesses, and the government while strengthening the financial health of Medicare. And it is legislation that is fully paid for and will reduce our long-term federal deficit.

Thanks to the hard work of the House, we are just two steps away from achieving health insurance reform in America. Now the United States Senate must follow suit and pass its version of the legislation. I am absolutely confident it will, and I look forward to signing comprehensive health insurance reform into law by the end of the year.
http://my.barackobama.com/page/community/post/obamaforamerica/gGMmWn

"Were Going To Mombasa"

James — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 15:55:48 EST

Closer To God

“We’re Going To Mombasa”

We didn’t make it to the Railway Station, instead stopping the small van down around City Central near Kenyatta Avenue. The driver, conductor and two other teen passengers had remained silent during our trip, not that it would have made much difference with rock blasting from all the speakers. The conductor had rotated once to look at us, with attitude, but something about us had kept him from commenting, or doing anything else.

Burt and I were broke. We had to have cash, which meant we needed an ATM. A few businesses would take credit cards, but not many, even in a large developed city like Nairobi. Africa was third world, outside of a very few places. Our Teeny Matata plunged back into the ‘fishball’ of traffic as soon as we were out. I watched my Omega disappear with a glum expression.

“Got a cell phone?” I inquired of Burt, hoping that I had not been wrong about his over-supplied pack rat nature. I was not disappointed. He handed a small phone over to me.

“Will it work here?” I said, opening the Star Trek flip cover. I wasn’t sure why I’d asked the question, as I already knew the answer. Burt didn’t bother to reply.

I examined the phone. It gave the time of day in big numbers on the screen. I knew that young people did not even wear watches anymore. They got their time from cell phones. I wasn’t that young.

“Agency?” I went on.

“Safaricom chip,” Burt said back. That meant the phone was on a local system instead of any international. It was a relatively untraceable way to communicate, but I wasn’t thinking of calling anyone until we knew more of what we were involved with. Phone calls would give more information out than I was comfortable with. I wondered what other toys Burt had. The mission had been cadged together at the last minute. There had been no clearance meetings, or even initial planning sessions. Things like ingress, egress, communications, armament,

and even financing, had been thrust upon us instead of being homogeneously put together with forethought and design. I put the phone in my pocket. Now I had a bulge on each side, but high fashion was not something common to Eastern Africa.

“Braclays is over in Queensway House on Kuanda,” I pointed out.

I walked in that direction, looking around to see if any of our pursuers had picked us up. If they were Agency personnel we would not have much time on our own. The Agency was terrific at surveillance, and two white guys in downtown Nairobi would not be too hard to find no matter who was looking.

We walked into the lobby of the bank. There were private security guards stationed everywhere, including one on each side of a bank of ATMs. I inserted one of my Visa debit cards, punched in the four-digit code and hoped. Local shillings were all we were going to get from any ATM in the country, which was okay, except for the fact that the largest shilling note issued was for a thousand. With the exchange rate running at about seventy shillings to the dollar, that meant a

Thousand-shilling note was only worth about thirteen dollars.

I used four cards to get a total of sixty thousand shillings out of the machine. The stack of bills was over an inch thick. I shoved the folded wad into my back pocket and we headed for the door. Nine hundred bucks, or so, would have to do.

There was nobody noticeable on Kaunda Street, so we crossed to the Catholic Basilica. We went straight in through a huge gothic entrance. The place was straight out of the dark ages, with tourists gathered together in small guided clumps.

I took Burt all the way to the front of the huge old church and sat him in the front pew. Unconsciously, I genuflected before taking a seat next to him. The lighting was dim to the point of darkness. The place was perfect.

“Stay here. I’ve got to berth us aboard the train going east tonight.

I’m less noticeable alone. Whatever we ran into started down there, where Smith died, so we’re going back to the scene of the crime, if we live that long.”

I looked over at the big man, wondering what the hell he was doing. I was known for my rather unconventional behavior, which had gotten us into the mess we were in, but it was uncommon for wet workers like Burt to be anything but sticklers for following Agency directives and rules.

“What about the woman? You told her to meet us. You don’t think she’ll come?” Burt asked. I rubbed my forehead, thinking for a moment.

“I do think she’ll come, but I don’t want to take her to Mombasa on this, not that she would go. I wanted her to meet us so I could talk to her about what she knows. We can’t drive all night down to Mombasa. We’d be sitting ducks on that rough road. The Agency has drones. We have to hope that whoever is after us will calculate that we’ll run to Jomo and fly out as quickly as we can.”

“We’re going to Mombasa?” Burt asked.

“Yes, we’ve got to get out of Nairobi.

“We’re going to Mombasa,” Burt repeated, this time with a strange tone of enthusiasm. I had more questions about his involvement but they could wait until we were on the train.

I left him there, heading of across the downtown common area for the station. I realized that I should have asked to see if he had a second phone, when the cell phone in my pocket rang. It was Burt.

“I have another phone. The number’s on the dialer, titled King Kong.”

I thought about his self-derived nickname he had given himself. I tucked away a thought to examine his phone to see what he’d chosen for me.

“Thanks,” I responded, not knowing what to say. The man was proving to be an enigma, like maybe a bear with human intelligence would be. Burt hung up. I waited until I was tucked into a corner alcove of the Kenya Bank, right across Haile Selassie Avenue from the station, and then flipped the phone open again. I called Staff Sergeant Stevens, hoping he was still around. I was compromising the cell phone by calling the Embassy, but I had little choice. I had to have more data. I did not believe that the Agency had sent men to kill me. It was just not done. There was no need. They could just recall me and lock me up any time they wanted. They didn’t need to kill field agents. They had worse punishments. Imprisonment and loss of retirement were much more feared punishments, and very commonly applied. In the final analysis, when Burt had been instructed to shoot me, he had refused. Field agents did not kill field agents. There was no career left to an agent who participated in such action, and we all knew it. It was not even entirely believable that he had been ordered to do such a thing.

“I can’t tell you anything at this point,” Stevens said, without preamble. I held the phone out and stared at it for a second. Whether Burt’s phone was already target material, or whether Stevens had been waiting for an unknown call, I did not know, but there was no point asking. Stevens was a Marine, first and foremost, above wife, country and even God. It resonated through him.

“Is she coming?” I asked.

“Tower, in twenty,” he said, and then hung up. I turned to my right and looked up at the tallest building in East Africa. The Times Tower. That was the tower. Twenty, in Marine parlance meant twenty minutes. She was coming. I was relieved, and intrigued, by her conduct. I hadn’t been absolutely sure that she would come. Not nearly as certain as I’d led Burt to believe.

Seeing no one of any consequence over at the long cinder block construct of a railway station, I crossed the street and entered the facility. I was always surprised that it was clean. Even the bathrooms were clean. And the rain earlier in the day had helped, giving the place a fresh, although local, scent. I went to the line of booths under a sign that said “Kenya Railroad Berthing Allotment.’ I could not help looking around suspiciously as I approached the attendant behind his bars.

“Two, first class cabin for Mombasa.” The man looked at me, the black visor of his blue cap shined to a high luster. As a former Marine myself, I could tell that it was polished leather and not the fake Corfam junk. There was one train to Mombasa every night. It arrived there, from Nairobi, early in the morning. Tickets were booked in advance, and for cash.

“Papers,” the man said, primly, holding out one hand toward the slot

under the bars.

I took out my wad of shillings, peeled off four of them, then slid them through the slot. The 1st class fare to Mombasa was posted on the chalk board behind the man. It said nine hundred shillings. I waited. He stared down.

“For two,” he said. “Private room with clean bedding and first service in the dining car.” The money was gone when I looked down. I had not seen the man’s hands move. He took two tickets from a drawer, shoved them toward the slot, then looked behind him and made believe he was concentrating on something else. I let him, taking the tickets and walking back toward the platform, until I saw the woman.

A white woman stood out form the building, peering up and down the platform, as if looking for a train. But there was no train, nor would there be until the evening run was ready to be made at around seven. The events at the Safari Park had occurred so quickly and intently that I could not recall if the woman was the same as the one with the camera crew. But she was looking for something. And I knew I was being looked for. I went into the restroom without going out onto the platform. From a stall I called King Kong and filled him in, about the woman and about Joan’s pending arrival, now only fifteen minutes away. Burt’s analysis was better than mine. If the woman was there, then the others would be in the area. We decided that I would try for the Railroad Museum just north of the station.

Before leaving the bathroom stall I removed a full roll of toilet paper. I carried it with me in my right hand.

The station was not crowded, which was unfortunate for my purposes, although no one gave me the slightest glance as I went out to the street side, gained the far edge of the building, and then darted across a twenty yard concrete expanse. The Railroad Museum was right there, with an old engine and cars lined up next to it. I hid behind the cars, kneeling to look up from under them. I did not observe any extraordinary interest or pursuit. After a five-minute wait, I did see the woman. She stood at the outside lip of the wooden platform. She gestured with one hand toward someone who seemed to be in the direction of my position, but I couldn’t see who she might be waving at. Finally, I went through the door into the museum.

The object of the woman’s attention was obvious once I was through the door. A large white male stood in front of me, his arms extending up and outward, as if to engulf me. Without thinking of the potential of terrible repercussions, my left hand went down. I brought the small forty-five up out of my pocket, flicked off the double-sided safety and walked right into the arms of the huge man. His attempt to grasp me never reached conclusion. I jammed the AMT into the side of the toilet paper roll, pressed the arrangement hard into his belly and squeezed the trigger.

The sound was not nearly as loud as I thought it would be.

The toilet paper roll shredded, but the man, amazingly, did not go down. Instead he held both hands to his stomach, an awful expression of pain on his face and a mewling grown coming form his open mouth. I marveled. The man appeared to be made of something tougher than hide, gristle and hair.

I ran, using a casual lope, which covered ground quickly but made me look more like a jogger than someone running from something. The gun stayed clutched in my left hand, so small it was invisible to anyone who might have been looking my way. I could not have run with a two-pound chunk of metal in one front pocket.

One thick hand waved from around the far side of the bank building, as I approached.

“What happened?” Burt asked, when I pulled up next to him, reseating the gun out of view.

“What in God’s name are you using for ammo?” I shot back. I had never known a forty-five round, at close range, fired into a man’s torso, to leave him standing and complaining0.

“Shot-shell,” Burt said, rather ruefully. I waited, looking back around the corner for some sign of pursuit, but there was none. When my head swung back I spotted the Pajero across the side street, just pulling up to the steps of the Times Tower. Burt saw it to. We started out together while he talked.

“I load a cartridge of birdshot as the first round. In all my guns. I’ve had a few occasions where I shot the wrong guy. A few years back I decided that I’d rather apologize for causing pain and misery than live with the other result.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The man was demonstrating an application of intellect and good judgment that I had never seen from any gun or pyrotechnics expert I had ever met. His forethought had saved the day. There would be no unexplainable dead body at the museum. No Caucasian ‘tourist’ slain by terrorists or robbers. The man I had hit would be marginally injured and very likely ambulatory. No cordons. No investigations. Our train trip was still possible.

“What’s the second round, some sort of nuclear device?” I asked, not entirely kidding. Burt didn’t answer. We were upon the car, which was not driven by Joan.

A young blond male with short hair sat behind the wheel. I got in behind him, while Burt went around. The DCM was in the front passenger seat.

“Drive into the traffic,” I told the kid, assuming he was one of Steven’s Marines. Without a word he wedged us in among the Matatas, trucks, and other conveyances trying to get from Kenyatta onto Mombasa Road. I looked behind us, but could not make out anything, but realized we had been either followed to the Railway Station without our realizing it or our behavior had been predicted.

“Thanks for coming,” I said to Joan, “and who are you?” I followed, rapping the youngster on his right shoulder .

“Corporal Sam Hill, Sir,” he answered. “I got the week off for leave but nowhere to go. Sergeant said I might come with you guys, if that’s okay.”

He looked to be a teenager to me, but most Marines do, as I get older.

“A guy just got shot back at the museum, and we’re being hunted by people we don’t know. Are you sure you want a piece of this?” I retorted. I didn’t mention that I’d done the shooting.

“Yes, sir,” the boy-child replied, filled with enthusiasm.

“Why’d you come?” I asked Joan, noting that her medium cut brown hair was perfectly combed. It seemed to float around her head. When she turned to face me, it bounced on its own a few times. I felt a warm glow. She’d carefully prepared to see me again.

“I wasn’t doing anything else,” she said, then smiled for the first time since I’d encountered her. I had a million questions I wanted to ask her but none of them had anything to do with our current situation.

“Thank you,” I repeated, getting control of myself, enough to find out what we needed to know. “How did your husband get involved in a CIA operation?” I asked her, directly.

“He’s not my husband, and I don’t know, but I know he did. What was it all about?” she asked me, in return. I noted that the nails of her left hand, draped over the side of the seat, were manicured, and painted to a high gloss. I could not tell the color, as blue was the only color I really saw well at all. Her eyes were intensely blue, with thick brows over them. I could see those. She had a stunning presence.

“What happened to Smith, down in Mombasa?” I countered, ignoring her question.

“It didn’t’ start in Mombasa,” she replied. “It ended there, down in that prison outside of town.”

“Shimo la Tiwa?” I asked? I knew the prisons of Kenya. Not hellholes like the prison typified in the movie Midnight Express, put out in the seventies, but dirty bad places to try to survive in, especially for a Caucasian.

“G.K,” she said, shaking her head, “I think it was called, from what I heard.”

G.K. were the two letters mounted above the iron grate entrance to Shimo prison. I’d never found out what they stood for, but I said nothing to Joan. We had a location to work back from. It was also instructive that Smith had been in prison, not in jail. It spoke of an unlikely permanence.

“Where did it start?” I asked her.

“What?” Joan replied, not focused on the data I was trying to get from her.

“Smith. You said all of it started somewhere. Where?” I asked, patiently.

“Oh,” she answered, taking her time. I wondered if it was because of perplexity or evasion. “At the Embassy. Smith came to see Paul at the Embassy.

Neither of them were happy about the meeting, but I don’t know what they talked about.”

“Was your Communications Director present for the meeting?” I inquired, wanting to know if the local CIA ‘cowboy’ stationed at the Embassy was involved.

“That guy?” she came back. “Tyrell? No, why would he be there?”

I couldn’t believe that the DCM of a major embassy could remain unaware of the facility’s only CIA operative, however ceremonial his role was, but I let it pass.

I would deal with Tyrell later.

“We’re going down there, to Mombasa,” I told her, not really understanding why I was giving her any information whatsoever. I just felt that I had to trust somebody and, for some reason I could not fathom, I found the DCM to be imminently trustable.

“The train. You’re taking the train tonight, aren’t you?” she correctly assumed. “You’re going after Rafiq, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer. Rafiq Salim was the name of our Lebanese target from the mission. I tried to think of why Joan would think we would pursue him down in Mombasa. The Agency had informed me that he lived in Nairobi where he ran a jewelry business. Without prompting, she gave me the answer.

“He lives down there. His family runs one of the ferries.”

I almost groaned aloud. Whatever we were involved in just kept getting more and more complex. I couldn’t seem to find any truth in anything.

“What do you want me to do, sir?” the corporal asked.

“Well for one, Sam Hill, I want you to stop calling me sir. My name is Jack.” I didn’t make the obligatory joke about ‘Sam Hell’ as I presumed he had been living with that all of his life. “Then, when we’re done here, I want you to drive this vehicle down to Mombasa. You have a cell phone?” The boy handed me a white card, like the generic Marine Corps card Staff Sergeant Stevens had given me. There was a Kenyan number on it in pencil. A ton of numbers really, but they seemed to work.

I noted that he was attired in a worn canvas outfit, with lots of pockets. He looked like an assistant to a tour director for one of the tourist ‘safari’ adventures, or maybe one of the redemption-seeking workers for an aid agency. In Kenya to seek redemption from living a life of spoiled ease and meaninglessness.

Joan’s information, if it was valid, changed everything. Mombasa was revealing itself as the key to our mystery, or at least the place where the key might be found.

“When you get down there, and you should arrive hours before us, go to the Inter-Continental and hang out. I’ll call you. We need a car down there, and it might as well be this one.” I could not rent a car for cash in Kenya. Renting another car, no matter what the bribe, would take a host of paper and plastic backup I was not willing to give out. I no longer believed that the Agency was after us. But somebody with assets and motivation was. I was not going to give them anymore than I absolutely had to.

“The embassy is locked down,” Joan said.

“How’d you get out?” I asked, but then didn’t wait for an answer, already knowing that Stevens was at work. The Ambassador would be howling mad when he discovered his ex-wife, his DCM, was not there. “When you going back?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll catch a Matata home. I don’t understand any of this and I need to think, and maybe drink half a bottle of Grey Goose while I do it. Can we go somewhere and talk? Do you have time? Is there some place?”

I was surprised by her request. I was also surprised, however, that she had gotten out from under an embassy lockdown. The woman was starting to amaze me even more than Burt. We had several hours to kill before getting aboard the train, and we needed to be someplace where we could be off the streets. The bottle of Grey Goose sounded wonderful, but it was not to be.

“The Java House, on Argwings, just off Kenyatta, you know it?” I said to the corporal.

“Kinda,” he answered, biting the sir off before it came out of his mouth. He made me feel old and slow, totally unlike what I got from Joan.

“Make it so,” I said, emulating Jon Luke Piccard from Star Trek.

“Engage,” he laughed back, diving out of the traffic, across two medians and reversing our course of travel. I noted that another vehicle tried the same maneuver but only managed to create a massive traffic tie-up behind us. Whoever they were, they were persistent and good. Just not as good as a crazy teen-aged Marine driving a Pajero in downtown Nairobi.

“What changed?” I said to Joan, as the Pajero rocked back and forth, avoiding all manner of obstacles I tried not to pay attention to, only too happy to be taking the train instead of riding with Sam.

“What changed about what?” she retorted, holding fast to the sissy bar mounted above her window.

Communicating with the woman was maddening.

“We’re going to Mombasa,” Burt said, unaccountably.

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http://from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com

The Way I See It.

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 20:53:37 EST

It is true that this are hard economical times, but I believe that the country is doing a bit better than last year. There is so much that still needs to be done but 2008 was much worst than now, for instance, there was more unemployment and layoff and or companies going bankrupt and out of bussiness, now at least things are a little better, true not much better like everyone would like it to be but there is much hope, and with hard work and continues effort everyone goals can be reach, and yes there is much hope.

Thank You President Obama for Caring

and for all your words of encoragement and wisdom.

Sincerely,

Your Humble friend

Yb-lem

Yea!!! My Mayor Bloomber Won - There is Hope!

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 21:18:42 EST

I thank God that Mayor Bloomber Won, I believe in Mayor Bloomber, and I have Hope that I will get a 9-5 Job with decent pay as a Social Worker or Teacher which is what my heart desires. So, that I can afford to pay back the over 20000 dollars I owed higher education. All I want is a decent job for a college graduate like my self with decent pay, thats all.

God Bless

Yb-lem aka Mary.

"Dream BIG Dreams" ...Take ONE...scene one, act one

i am rasa — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 18:38:47 EST

WE...We the people, in order to form a more perfect union ....decided to make a movie.

So, "Dream Big Dreams" was conceived as a process of WE creating community for the ultimate well being of the i within the we and the we within the i .

So, here i sit within the echoing silence of Kelly's Room of the First Street Community Center Mount Vernon Iowa.....LISTENING.....Listening to the deep subtle depths of the heart of reality. Within THE SPACE where the Masters gather, a small flame of a winter green flame coats the twenty foot square empty space ....a warm rich glow of peaceful solitude.

Our community seeks a strong sound foundation in which to reach out in play of our game of forming a more perfect union. A warm, secure, peaceful, creative, healthy, engaging, blissful playing field suitable for meeting each and every individual unique relationship in pure possibilities of play.

THE SPACE of the room, of infinite and eternal playing field of Kelly's Room is suitably framed by the words, "Beautiful Pure Perfect Love" for the integral informative conceptual magical Utopian ways of growing and sustaining communities through the ages.

"Dream BIG Dreams" is a movie about a process WE all co-create and co-design. A simple easy blueprint of economic development taken seed within the heart of oneself and being connected and networked, shared and danced into the heart of family, community, state and nation and the heart of reality.

A time to remember, Black Hawk, and all our ancestors that brought US to this point in time, this magical miraculous perspective with the heart of the sweat lodge within the heart of Kelly's Room.

WE all bring our "Dream Big Dreams" of our individual unique miraculous creative genius to the O table of Michelle's Tea House.

From the magic of Craig Wilson's "Chalk the Walk" appearing on Main Street Mount Vernon, George Washington appears through a worm hole of time, heading homeward, he appeared in Mount Vernon where he befriended Makiah Miller and all his friends of the small Iowa town of Mount Vernon. Here during the process unfolding, George shares his 33 insightful ways of forming a more perfect union....in sharing his magical utopian vision of manifesting everyone's "Dream Big Dreams"

So, the process of WE...We the people making a movie to co-create a more perfect union is born. ...OUR vision OUR goal of playing the game whole heatedly together...to act as a blueprint integrating the nation, integrating the systems of dancing the ultimate health of oneself into the heart of reality.

The process of making the movie is beginning. Til Thanksgiving Day the process of you..."Dreaming Big Dreams" is unfolding....is being shared with all the friends manifesting for one another each and every dream coming home to the heart of reality.

Which character do you play?

CUT..........

Sharing Wisdom and My Volunteer Sermon Notes with you all.

Rev. Dr. Yb-lem Cueva Oskowitz — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 17:46:33 EST

(Adapted From My Yoga Free Teachings and Notes)

(Adapted Journal From The Sacred Morning Murli By Madhuban)

Essence - "Sweet Children said Father God=BaBa, While walking and moving around, let knowledge bubble in your intellect and you will have an abundance of happiness."

Whose company do you children have to be very cautious about?

-You have to remain cautious of the company of those who do not have remembrance of God the father of all souls, within their intellects, and whose intellects continue to wander here and there."

"You should not sit next to them, not even touch them, because those who do not stay in remembrance of God spoil the atmosphere."

Hakuna Matata

James — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 21:32:52 EDT

What the hell, I'll put it on her anyway. What are they going to do, kick me off?

Closer to God

Hakuna Matata

III

The reinforced double-steel door of the underground parking lot slowly retracted sideways across our view. It was too impossibly heavy to rise vertically. We sat waiting in the Pajero, DCM next to me in the passenger seat and Burt just behind her. Staff Sergeant Stevens pushed another button and rock barriers at the top of the drive began to sink into pre-formed slots. He held up one hand, watching the stones, until they were gone, replaced by metal grates that snapped loudly into place. His hand moved and became a salute. The kind only a Marine is capable of making. I nodded at the man, putting the Nissan into gear. Mrs. Haggerty waved to him, as well, but I knew the salute was intended for me. I smiled my appreciation. His arm came down. He pointed at the windshield as I drove by. I looked at the small white card under the wiper, then reached my hand around through the open window and claimed it.

Bright afternoon sun had replaced the rain, and a cooling wind blew through the Pajero’s open windows, as we waited to take a left onto Limuru Road. Traffic was heavy, and Kenyan’s gave no quarter when it came to driving. We plunged into the melee but didn’t have far to go. Muthaig’s crowning feature was the Safari Park, Kenya’s only real five star hotel with any local flavor.

We waited to take the turn into the hotel.

“May I call you Joyce?” I asked.

“No, you may not,” the DCM shot back, not looking at me, instead examining the wedding band still located on the appropriate finger of her left hand. “You can call me Joan,” she relented. “I hate the name Joyce.”

“You look terrific, Joan,” I said, quite truthfully.

“Fuck off,” Joan stated, her voice evidencing disgust, “don’t try your smooth, urbane, man-of-the-world crap on me.”

I checked the rear view mirror, to see Burt trying to cover his smile with one hand. He avoided my eyes.

“Thank you,” she followed up, unaccountably. The woman was confounding me. I was afraid to speak, but felt somehow, that she wanted me to say something.

I was in a verbal minefield.

“How long have you been divorced?” I tried, figuring that almost every divorced person I had ever met loved to talk about the divorce, and how rotten the other person was.

“None of your God damned business,” she hissed, massaging her wedding band hand, but looking out the side window. I waited for more, but nothing came.

“Two years?” I offered.

“Two years?” she turned on me, speaking the words loud enough to make me raise my right shoulder and wince. “Two years? What kind of idiot are you? Oh, I almost forgot, you’re a spook. One of those Southern-Fried-Chicken-University types who populate Langley. What’d you major in, Bo Weevil Mating? If I’d been divorced for two years, do you think I’d still be the DCM for that idiot?” Spittle hit my cheek.

I heard a barely audible giggle from behind me, but I didn’t look in the mirror. I finally hustled the Pajero through the broken ‘tiger-teeth’ jam of the opposing traffic.

“Ah, no,” I blurted out to her series of questions, driving as fast as I could manage to get to the hotel as quickly as possible.

“No, what?” she yelled. “No, you have a degree is something else, like maybe Burro Husbandry, or ‘Poor-White-Trash’ farming?” I shook my head, in agony.

The huge pyramidal structure of the Safari Park main building appeared and I headed the car for it like it was a laser-guided smart bomb. Supposedly the willow reed thatched buildings had been designed with clues taken from native Kenyan hovels, but in truth, there was nothing in the country that looked like the place.

Without meaning to, I skidded the Pajero to a halt directly in front of the lobby, and jumped out. I moved around the vehicle to get Joan’s door, but one of the bellmen had already attended to that. She stood waiting. Burt was out and leaning against the back fender, as if ready to enjoy more of the show. The show being my complete humiliation.

Joan headed straight for the lobby. I followed closely behind her, noting how powerfully she strode, her black pumps clicking loudly across the tiled floor of the entrance. Burt ran into me, because I had run into Joan. She had stopped too suddenly for me to avoid her. The three of us grabbed one another and swayed.

“Oh great, slimed by a Halloween spook,” she exclaimed, pushing herself from my fumbling grasp.

“Would you stop that?” I said, as quietly as I could to her retreating back.

“Look what happened to the last guy who got outed on your watch?” I followed up. She flinched, but kept walking.

“Good one,” Burt whispered behind me, which made me frown.

We trailed behind the fast moving woman through the lobby and out the back, around a great blue pool surrounded with palm trees of all sizes, and on past the cascading series of wonderful waterfalls that gave all the interior rooms of the establishment a special serenity. The Hilton, and the Sarova hotels have better rooms than the Safari, but none can come close to matching its ambiance. I knew where we were headed. The Nyama Choma Ranch Restaurant was the only thing left between us and the Muthaiga jungle forest. It was simply the finest African food restaurant in Kenya. Nothing else was close. I yearned for an Ostrich steak covered in Monkey-brain gravy. No monkeys involved, of course. Its only a name.

Under one side branch of the falls I caught a flash of movement. Then it was gone. It had been part of a head, sticking out of the bushes, viewing our arrival. I slowed. Burt stumbled into me. I was a little shaken, as I came to a stop, while Joan disappeared into the opening of the restaurant.

“What?” Burt inquired, backing up a step.

“I wouldn’t take an oath on it, but I think the Lebanese just checked us out from beyond the falls.” The water pouring down upon the rocks made talking difficult, but Burt got my message. He turned automatically, putting a palm trunk between himself and the falls.

“You still got that hand cannon under your coat?” I asked, remaining in the open. If we had walked into an ambush no thin palm tree was going to save us.

Burt nodded, but did not make any moves to access it.

“Got anything else?” I asked, feeling a bit naked.

Burt showed me three fingers, held down at his side. Special Forces hand chatter. I always liked the one where the leader takes two fingers of one hand and aims them at his own eyes, so everyone will look at him. In practice, however, I’d found that the gesture, like so many, was all for show. Anybody who could see the gesture was already looking.

“Three?” I said, in amazement. “The Mau Mau’s were put down in 1960, for Christ’s sake. Give me anything small.”

Burt leaned down by genuflecting on right knee, hand sweeping back to flick the bottom of his pant leg upward. Quickly and smoothly, like an unfolding python, the thick muscular man rose up and delicately inserted a .45 Caliber AMT automatic into my open left hand. I stuck it immediately into my front trouser pocket. The five shot auto was small, yet as thick as a full blown Colt. The bulge was noticeable, but I had little choice. Klingon’s preferred to die fighting in combat, or so they said on Star Trek, and I was not going down unarmed.

“What does it mean?” Burt whispered, his eyes never leaving the area of the falls.

“I don’t know. Not good. What would he come here for? If Haggerty decided on Executive Action, then why would the man come where the man is? He’s a U.S. Ambassador, for God’s sake. And how would he know where he was? I haven’t been able to make sense out of anything since we were out there on the Serengeti.” Joan came back out of the restaurant, looking even more impatient then when she’d walked in.

“What the hell are you doing?” she hissed, clicking up to us.

“Admiring the falls,” I covered.

“Oh great, a gay spook and his cultured Troglodyte,” she complained, in exasperation. “Paul’s in there having lunch with one of his mysterious companions.

Should I announce you or do you want to make a grand entrance?”

“We’re coming. Please show us the way,” was all I could say. The woman did not elicit lengthy response, not without dealing out considerable pain.

“What’s a Troglodyte?” Burt asked, from behind. I was about to answer when I had another thought. I stopped again, this time with the four-top table, where the Ambassador sat with some unidentified white male, in sight. “Back out Burt, this could be a hit on Haggerty.” Why else would the Lebanese not take a taxi home, but instead head straight for his antagonist. Who was the Lebanese? He’d acted as prey, very convincingly, but he wasn’t acting that way anymore. Burt backed up to the restaurant entrance, and then disappeared into a hidden alcove. I moved to Joan’s side at the table.

“What’s this?” Paul said, slowly getting to his feet. He stared at me in surprise, and recognition. I stood stunned. The man could only have recognized me if he had a file photo. I relaxed a little as I realized that someone might have called him from the embassy. Cell phones worked amazingly well in Nairobi. I didn’t carry one but I was willing to bet that Burt had three or four under his “Q” designed safari rig.

“Sit,” I commanded the DCM, pulling out a chair for her. She hesitated.

“There’s danger here, sit and act like everyone else,” I continued. She took the chair. I sat at the one next to her, across from the two men. The Ambassador joined us.

“What,” he began, but I held up my right hand. I slid my left hand into the .45 pocket at the same time. The automatic was double action, I knew. In the silence over the table a distinct metallic click sounded. The automatic was off safety. All four of us sat frozen.

“You can worry about me later Paul,” I said, conversationally. “The same Lebanese, the subject of our attention a few hours ago, was out by the falls a few minutes ago. I let him off near the airport, where he was supposedly going to go into hiding. I might have erred and cost you your life, but I don’t want Joan here, or your friend, to go out with you. What do you think?” The waiter came over and placed water, without ice, in front of both Joan and I. We sat in silence.

“Ah, how sure are you,” Paul began to ask, but I cut him off.

“This is the Choma, and the waiter just brought us glasses of water, not bottled water like you have.” I smiled, wondering if the man would get it, as I prepared to go to the floor and attempt to crawl behind some nearby decorative rocks. If anybody opened up I could count on Burt to provide intense covering fire, but his ammo wouldn’t last long. The only safety might be found in staying less than a foot off the ground. An assassination at such a notable hotel and restaurant would have to be over in seconds. Surviving the first few seconds would be everything.

“The waiter’s not a waiter?” Joan said in a low tone, her voice shaking. “What have you done Paul? What are we in?”

“Alright,” the Ambassador said, ignoring his ex-wife and speaking directly to me. “Maybe I was wrong about you. I apologize. What do we do?”

I was amazed. The man was apologizing for attempting to kill me. I sighed.

Being an operational agent for the Agency could not be taught in schools or learned in books. It was too bizarre for that.

“We leave. Slowly, without fanfare, you move toward the kitchen over there Paul, while your friend heads for the washroom in back. Joan, you’re going out all the way to the street, where you’ll wait in the Pajero. You drive. I’m going to knock my silverware onto the floor, then lean down to pick it up. If there’s fire, then you all drop and stay where you are, without moving at all. If there’s fire, it‘ll probably be at me, here at the table, where they intended to shoot. The silverware hitting the floor is your cue. Got it?” Nobody said anything. “Tell me you got it?” I instructed.

Joan murmured something, while Paul and his companion said yes at the same time. I pushed my fork onto the floor. It hit with the sound of a ringing bell.

Everyone moved. I went to one knee, then leaned under the table and fell to my stomach, turning to bring the .45 out and up. I had no more time than that. The phony ‘waiter’ stepped out of the bushes holding an old-fashioned double barrel shotgun. The ends of the barrels looked huge, as he stood only two feet over me.

My AMT was only inches from his stomach. I laid there, looking up into his eyes while taking all the slack, and a little more, out of the .45’s trigger. Slowly, he moved the shotgun aside, cocking his head, as if in question. I gave him back the thinnest of smiles, wondering what Burt was thinking, since he wasn’t doing anything. The man stepped back into the bushes and was gone. I breathed for the first time since I’d hit the floor. I then crawled to the front of the restaurant, right past the host at the front desk. He looked down at me in amazement, until he saw the automatic in my hand. Then he dropped down and disappeared.

I got up and began loping back through the areas of the falls and pool. I saw nothing of anyone, save a few tourists laying near the water or taking pictures of everything around. At the main entrance I paused to observe some kind of film crew who were set up down near where cars circled to let people off. The Pajero idled near their large, tri-pod mounted, camera. Several large Caucasian men milled nearby, and one long-haired young woman. The passenger door snapped open. I saw Joan at the wheel and Burt’s hand sticking out from releasing the door. I jumped in.

“I think we’re gonna be famous,” I said, but nobody laughed.

Joan jerked the Pajero into gear and tore off back around the circle, headed for the traffic mess on Limuru Road. “What happened back there?” she asked.

I was about to answer her when Burt made a comment.

“The woman. I saw her. At the airport in Joburg. I think she was on my flight.”

I twisted around to face him, letting go of my seat belt.

“You flew direct from Johannesburg, and she was on the flight?”

Where where you flying to? You came down from Lake Victoria.”

I watched the big man closely. I had come to trust him, but I didn’t know just how far yet.

“Zurich. Then Zurich to down here. I met Walt up at the falls, to check it out. We had a couple days.”

“Shit,” I said, out loud, turning back to face Joan. “Pull down into the traffic, and then stop. Burt and I are getting out. You take the car to the embassy. You should be alright. I pulled Staff Sergeant Steven’s card from my shirt pocket.

Give me your cell phone number.” I took out my pen to write.

“Are you crazy? You’ll get killed out there. All this because somebody was on the same plane? And that whole restaurant thing? You’re looney and paranoid, and maybe dumb as a post.”

“The number,” I repeated, patiently. “There was a guy with a shotgun at the restaurant. I think he was there for your husband.”

“Double gun.” Burt added, from the back seat. I looked back to him in question.

“Looked like one of those Holland and Holland things. Big bore.

Elephant gun.”

I whistled. A gun like that would sell for a cool twenty-five thousand dollars, if not more. Whoever was involved in the mess we’d stepped into was very well heeled. And that was bad news indeed.

“He’s telling the truth?” Joan asked of Burt, her voice going up.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied. “Donner is the best there is. Not well liked, but the best there is.”

I would have commented but the back window of the Pajero blew out, along with the rear driver’s side glass. There had been no sound, except the whoosh and tinkle of breaking glass. Joan screamed, then drove recklessly right out into the middle of Limuru Road. Cars, vans and trucks careened and honked, but no contact was made. The SUV stalled out. I looked out the back, through the gaping hole, over the seat where Burt crouched down. The camera crew had scattered to cars and vans, now fighting one another to get out of the narrow driveway.

“The Railroad Station. We’ll wait there. When I call you, come get us.”

I flew between the seats and shot out the driver-side passenger door, Burt behind me.

“Like hell I will,” Joan yelled, “and you don’t have my number.”

I stood and put my hand up against the flow of traffic, which flowed around us like a thick school, of metallic fish. I liked the woman. She was tough as iron and she wouldn’t abandon us after we’d stood up for her. She’d figure it out.

A red mini-van, with a strange hand-painted poster of The Lion King splashed across its front, screeched to a halt, almost touching my hand. A gold stripe ran around the van’s body. I’d stopped a Matata, one of the thousands that constantly prowled the streets of Nairobi. They came in three kinds, regular, gospel and teeny. The regular one’s were for regular people, like most tourists. The gospel one’s blared reborn gospel music at impossibly volumes. The teeny ones were even worse, pumping out acid rock and rap. The latter two were mostly for locals.

Joan got the Pajero started. She joined the traffic flow. The side door of the Matata opened and a young hand waved. Burt and I crawled inside. There were already three teens inside, plus the driver and his ‘conductor,’ who collected the fare. Matatas had gotten their name from their original fare of three shillings. Now, the prices were variable, going all the way up to fifty shillings or more. Fifty shillings being about seventy-five cents American. The Matata didn’t move. Teeny conveyances were weird. They would carry people they liked, or thought were cool for free, or not let you in at all if they didn’t like your look. I could tell that the conductor didn’t like our look.

“You got any money?” I asked Burt. He shook his head. I stared at the evil looking teenager in front of me, trying to ignore the blast of horrid rap coming out of the Matata’s speakers. We had to get the hell out of there. I took off the Omega and held it up.

“Omega, Speedmaster, Astronauts took to the moon, four thousand U.S.” I said. The kid looked at the watch.

“Sare,” he said, then grabbed the watch. Sare, I knew, meant ‘free’ in the local street slang called Sheng. The kids spoke it, like pigeon in Hawaii.

“Sare, my ass,” I responded, angrily. “Railroad Station, right now.”

I tried to see out the windows of the mini van, to see if our new band of followers were there. They had to be. But I also knew they’d never be able to stay on us unless, somehow, they’d been able to attach a GPS unit to our specific Matata. Not likely. Not likely at all.

Matatas were the locusts of Nairobi streets, and they were nearly indistinguishable in outer appearance. We drove Limuru toward Mombasa Road in a veritable sea of them, our vast overpayment of fare overwhelming the driver’s natural tendency to stop for anyone else. Our teenage riders stayed with us to the station, without complaint or comment.

“Who were those guys, anyway?” Burt asked.

“Don’t know,” I answered. “They’re Caucasian, all of ‘em, and I don’t think they’re with the Lebanese. They look like Agency. And they fired on us.”

Ironically, a piece from the Lion King soundtrack blared out from the radio. Hakuna Matata played. I looked around at my fellow passengers. They didn’t seem to get the irony at all. Then the words of the song hit me. “Hakuna Matata! It’s a wonderful phrase. It means no worries for the rest of our days.”

Making Love Out of Nothing at All...

James — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 20:08:16 EDT

I put my latest chapter of the espionage novel called "Closer to God," on the other blogsite I maintain: http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com, simply because some people have complained when I have put fiction on this site. Not that anybody seems to be reading much on the Obama site anymore. I never get comments at all. You could say that maybe my writing is just not good enough to elicit commentary, but I don't think that is it. The grassroots wonder of what was established by the initiation and continuation of this site before and right after the last election was quite something, and great fun to be a part of. But our population loses direction easily. Our culture bores even more easily. And being fickle today, at home and abroad, defines most Americans and most American policy.

We are making believe our money is worth something, and it is still working...marginally. We are making believe that there are actually jobs to perform in this country, instead of in China, India and Indonesia...where we sent them. Friedman stated, last week in the NY Times, that the fault for that is simply that Americans did not properly prepare and educate ourselves for the future, when they had the chance. The man is a liar and low-life cur, making millions while he laughs about why American's should quite justifiably be paid the same as Chinese peasants. And he golfs with the president, when he should more properly be water-tortured in Gitmo. But there is no real justice in the universe. There is only the eternal movement of information packets. Quantum mechanics. And there is no mercy, consideration, or even intellect at work in quantum activity. We are the merciful, the considerate and the intelligent part of this universe...when we choose to be. Right now, in this period of time, we are choosing to be dumb as hell, and reaping the benefits of that stupidity.

We are so busy admiring, and holding up to high exaltation, the phony 'stars' of our world, that our world is falling apart around us. In the Chicago Tribune, yesterday, the headline was all about people (including families, women and children) living in storage lockers, garden sheds and abandoned cars. The tragedy of it. Above that headline was a four inch column across the page, with a photo of a fifteen million dollar a year baseball player smiling out at us. The Sports section took that photo and made it the size of the whole page. How many people got the subtle distinction of the idiocy illustrated by that presentation? I wonder. Bret Favre is actually given tons of sympathy as he awaits the big Packers/Viking game on Sunday. Sympathy? How many million is he getting to play for two hours? I love his interviews, however. The man is a drooling idiot when it comes to discussing anything other than his 'game.' Its pretty funny, at least.

We are still in Afghanistan. We are fighting the Taliban. We are at war with the Taliban. What the hell happened to declarations of war and Congressional approval? Gone. We now go to war at a whim, or the opinion of a president. We actually are dumb enough to say that we are depending on our generals in the war theater to tell us whether we should increase or decrease our presence in the war! Now that is as dumb as asking Bret Favre! What general in his right mind is going to say "Oh, cut my troops in half please!!" What do generals do? They make war. How do they get advancement and more power? They make war. And they do it like Bret Favre, by being exposed to about as much danger as a taxi driver or deliveryman. Others are fighting and dying, or coming home with PTSD so bad they will never have any bliss in their lives. We are torturing the wrong people. We have a whole line of bankers, generals and even sports stars whole could profit us all mightily with just a few turns of the screw.

Maybe, one day, prior to the coming disaster in 2012 (Oh please God, bring it on), the common man can celebrate the common man again. They guy or gal working to actually make cars, the people building our roads, the nurses, baristas, waiters and cooks. And those people living in storage lockers (until they are outed and thrown in the streets, because you can't be allowed to live in a storage locker!) who are somehow trying to held life together instead of becoming insurgents.

And that is what is next if we do not make some changes. We will have insurgency here in this country, and we will be no more able to stop it here than we were able to in Vietnam, Iraq or Afghanistan. We have a fiction of stopping it in Iraq, and we are going to try applying that same fiction to Afghanistan. We fortify the main population centers, then construct armored conduits to connect them, travelled by heavily armored vehicles. Then we claim that our 'surge' has worked. The natives laugh at us, as they properly should. We are not at war with Iraq or the Taliban. We are at war with our own self-imposed ignorance, and our willingness to glorify the ephemeral stupidity of stardom.

http://www.jamesstraussauthor.com

http://www.themastodons.com

http://www.from-the-chateau-dif.blogspot.com

Congratulation President Obama: You have launched us into the FUTURE of solar electricity, electric car factoriies, and we wait on railways, the return of our troops as we no longer depend on foreign oil!

Lillene Ebanks — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 03:47:31 EDT

Congratulation on the Florida solar electric plant and the electric car factory!@resident Obama in your first few months in the office! -magine how much you willaccomplish in the next seven years!

"Sea of Heartbreak"

James — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 18:01:00 EDT

CLOSER TO GOD

Sea of Heartbreak

The water has always meant a lot to me. Off the beaches of Oahu I made my mark, surfing Queens and body-surfing Sandy. Victoria Falls called me from the far Northern canyons of Upper Kenya. Its thunder only evident form reports spoken by people who’d been there. I was not one of them, but I was going to be. I just knew it. But I couldn’t go before I finished what I was about.

Jomo Kenatta Airport in Nairobi is a mess. But so is the whole country. I drove the Pajero there, following my drop of the Lebanese. I had dumped him on the edge of town, to be taken back to where ever the hell he was going to hide out, by local taxi. Burt, Tom and Walt were my concern. I needed them gone in order to consider and act upon what I had learned from the nearly dead Lebanese. I threaded my way through traffic in front of the airport, easily and fluidly, like a man piloting a vehicle in which he really did not care who he violated or struck. I was all of that.

I pulled over at the SAS sign. I waited for the three men, who had been my mission companions, to depart. They too could take cabs to wherever they were going, as they would not be getting rid of their armament in the airport proper. Tom and Walt got out without comment. Burt stayed in the font passenger seat, however. I motioned for him to go, but he simply shook his head. I shrugged. What could I do? The mission was over. The team dispersed independently following a mission. There was no precedent for the way the man was acting.

When the Pajero’s doors were closed I sat in silence, the car’s tiny six cylinder engine humming quietly.

"Well, what the hell is this? Where do you want me to deliver you?" My questions had merit and made sense. Burt chose not to interpret things that way.

"Take me wherever you're going," he said, nonsensically.

I massaged my forehead with my left hand. Some local in uniform pounded on the car’s curbside fender. I put the shift lever in first and pulled away into the sea of chaotic traffic I so much enjoyed swimming in. I did not drive with a purpose. Instead I eased along with the other ill-mannered drivers avoiding contact.

“I’m headed toward the embassy,” I said, not comprehending why Burt was still in my car.

“Figured…” he replied, “but that’s probably a bad idea.”

I was stunned by his response. I pulled the Pajero to the side of the road, running two wheels up over a cracked and broken curb. We sat there. Women walked by with stuff piled four feet high atop their heads. Passing cars beeped in anger at the slight blockage our vehicle left by the side of Outer Ring Road. They were not without complaint. Only Mombasa Road was busier.

“Is Burt your real name?” I asked, not looking at the man.

“Is Jack Donner yours?” he replied. I nodded.

“Bertram Lauren, like the clothing guy, Burt said. I gave him my hand and he took it.

“You want to tell me about it?” I began, hoping for anything, but not expecting the response I got.

“You have a reputation, with that big brain of yours,” he began, telling me without saying it that he had known my real name all along. Burt was removing himself from the realm of normal Knuckle-dragger stock very quickly. “Back there, out on the Serengeti, you missed something. I thought you’d catch it, but you didn’t.” He didn’t go on, although I waited.

I thought back to our operation.

“The suppressor,” I said, tentatively. I had caught it subliminally. We had been given an assignment out on the Veld of Africa. There was no need for a suppressor. Silencers were large, uncomfortable to carry and difficult to properly conceal. They also identified anybody who had one as a potential professional killer. Why had Burt carried one, then installed it with me by his side? I turned my head to look at the bigger man, for the first time since leaving the airport. I felt a slight taste of fear. I didn’t like where our conversation was going. At all. But I said nothing. There was nothing for me to do but wait. I was unarmed and trapped inside a vehicle with someone who was not only well armed but a coldly-capable professional killer.

“I don’t work for State. Whatever that guy said once about a warm bucket of spit, well he should have been talking about State.” Burt spoke the words in obvious frustration, not looking over at me. “And you’re an agent for Christ’s sake. We don’t do agents. Not ever.”

“John Garner, Vice-President under Roosevelt,” I replied, still uncertain of what might happen. “He was talking about the Vice-Presidency as a job, but I understand what you mean.” Burt’s comment about me being an agent, therefore not target material, had jarred me. I had responded from the analytical quadrant.

“Why’d you talk to the guy? The mission brief said that we were, under no circumstances, to question or listen to the man.” Burt made his comments as if under great duress. I hoped that he was not still making up his mind about what he would or would not do.

“I found our instructions to be questionable,” I replied, honestly. “The mission is mine once the operation begins. You know the rules. The dead agent was named Smith. Ex-Marine. Decorated. Class act. He had a wife and three kids. You?”

Burt looked over and met my eyes.

“No, I got nobody,” he stated, his voice flat.

“Me either,” I replied, my voice pitched to the same tone.

“For them, then,” I finished. Burt shook his head.

“Brain damage would be too light a phrase to use for this kind of thing. More like brain death. We don’t know anything. We have nothing. What the hell can we do?”

I breathed easier. It didn’t seem, for the moment, like I was going to die on the front seat of a rental Pajero in downtown Nairobi. The car’s air-conditioned interior was, again, cool enough.

“Haggerty. He’s who we have,” I said.

“Just what do you know?” Burt asked.

“The Lebanese was dead on Haggerty’s orders. He was the one sent in to out Smith. That’s what he said, and I believe him. But what the hell was Smith doing in that prison? And why did he get taken out for the revelation? By who? No, all we have is Haggerty. What were your instructions, and from who?” I waited for Burt to consider. The kind of thing we had become involved in was off the books. There was no Agency support or approval for what we were discussing.

“My Control Officer told me that there was a possibility that you might go rogue,” Burt said, his mouth twisted into a strange smile. “Its not unheard of you know, especially with…well… your track record.”

Somehow, Haggerty, probably with the support of one of the many Assistant Secretaries of State, had reached deep into Agency Operations. The violation was monumental. I reflected for a moment. Such things happened in movies, like ‘Three Days of the Condor,’ but not in real life. Not in my experience, or the experience of any of the senior agents I had ever known.

“I’m going to the embassy. You in or out?” I put my right hand on the knob of the center shift lever.

“I don’t know,” Burt answered, but his own hand did not grab for the door handle. I put the Pajero in gear and headed North on Outer Ring. I drove the car carefully, trying to think of every detail of what had happened.

“Why was the Lebanese out there in the game park? What was he doing with the Masai? They aren’t normally violent, but they had him pretty painfully tied,and in bad shape.”

I talked to myself, as Burt made no comments at all. The roads to the embassy took us through Muthaiga where the Safari Park Hotel was located. Once a retreat for British Army Officers it had grown to be my favorite hotel in all of Africa, when I could cheat the Agency out of enough money to stay there.

The embassy loomed up from one side of the road we took winding around the Kenya Teachers facility. The place was built like the concrete and steel blockhouse it had been intended to be. The previous embassy, taken out by terrorist bombs years before, had been downtown by the Railroad Station. The embassy was totally obvious in its American ugliness, even without the huge U.S. flag waving out front.

I drove around the side of the structure where a big driveway led to the underground garage. It was blocked near its entrance by huge movable chunks of stone. I stopped to wait. We didn’t wait long. A Marine Staff Sergeant walked up the ramp to our car. I sighed in relief. It was Stevens, the contingent commander. I’d known him in Hong Kong when he’d been a Buck Sergent. I wondered if he’d recognize me.

“You packing, sir?” he asked, making no motion to salute, instead moving up and down the side of the Pajero to see what he could of the vehicle. I said that we were.

“Get out and go down the driveway. They’ll see you on the camera and let you in. Leave the keys.” We did as instructed, my faith in the United States Marine Corps once more confirmed. Once inside we waited for the Staff Sergeant to return, while a PFC and a Corporal stood silently by, checking us out but not being invasive about it, or patting us down. The Staff Sergeant was buzzed through the steel door. He tossed the car keys to me, then walked past us through an open door.

“Better see the DCM about what to do. The Communications Director is out of embassy,” he threw over his shoulder. I moved to follow him, waving Burt to accompany me. The Deputy Chief of Mission was second only to Ambassador Haggerty himself. I understood the Staff Sergeant’s predicament. The Communications Director was code for Embassy CIA contact. Every embassy and consulate in the world had one. Without him to front for us, someone of upper management power would have to make decisions, which fit into my plans exactly.

Three flights of stairs up at a run brought us to a hallway inlaid with exotic woods, common to Eastern Africa. Burt and I stood catching our breath. Stevens saluted crisply, pointed at an open office doorway a few yards away, then departed back down the stairway. I walked into the office, its floor covered with a beautiful baby-blue rug so thick that my entrance was made in complete silence.

A middle-aged woman sat at a large desk facing the door, flanked by two smaller desks nearby, where two younger women sat. None of them paid immediate attention to our presence. I noted that atop the larger desk was a small nameplate with the word “Haggerty” carved across it, and presumed we were in the Ambassador’s outer office.

“Is Haggerty in?” I asked, deliberately failing to use the man’s title. I wasn’t in a formal mood. The woman looked up. A Bose Sound Machine behind here played some country tune as she appraised us. “How did I lose you, oh where did I fail…” came out of the expensive little device.

“Who’s asking?” she asked, “And what are you doing up here unannounced?”

“I’m Jack Donner and this is Burt,” I waved one hand back, as I spoke, my tone mildly respectful. I ignored her second question. I also noticed her color and expression change.

“Who let you in?” she asked, as if inquiring about pet animals, her voice becoming more demanding. The other two women stopped working and looked at us, reacting to her tone.

“Is Haggerty here or not?” I overrode her, raising my voice slightly.

“I’m Haggerty,” she shot back, standing. I noted that she was a beautiful well-formed woman.

“You’re Paul Haggerty?” I was shocked.

“No, I’m his ex-wife, Joyce. I’m the DCM.”

“They allow that?” I squeaked out.

“Who?” she said, leaning aggressively toward me, putting her hands down on the surface of the desk. I just shook my head, nonplussed, then decided to regroup. State was a weird place I hated and would never understand.

“I’m here about Smith, who died a few days back. You probably heard something about that.” I moved a step closer to her.

“Leave us,” she stood, sweeping her arm toward the two other women, who instantly filed out, closing the thick wooden door behind them. “I presume, for whatever misplaced reason, that you’re here to report the accomplishment of your mission?”

I stared at Joyce Haggerty in wonder. I had never been a part of any direct mission discussions with embassy staff before. It was unheard of in my experience.

“It would seem that just about everyone knows about that mission,” I countered, indicating my surprise, as I thought more deeply about it.

“Did you perform it successfully?” She said, crossing her arms, and looking back at me with a severe expression.

“Maybe you misunderstood something, either before, or right this minute,” I said. “I don’t report to you. I don’t take orders or mission assignments from you, and I sure as hell don’t discuss the results of such matters with you, or your husband, for that matter.”

“Ex-husband,” she said, raising her own voice. “So what are you doing here then?”

Her comment stopped me. What was I doing there? I was coming right back at a man who had somehow co-opted operations people at CIA to risk taking me out if I failed to perform to specification on a mission. But I wasn’t going to say that.

“The Lebanese told me Paul sent him in, to give the information about Smith.”

Slowly, Joyce returned to her seat, looking pensive.

“What are you going to do?” She asked, after a minute. I was surprised again. She was giving me nothing by her responses. Did she know? What did she know? How deep was she in? It was almost like being debriefed by an Agency Control Officer. You gave, you did not get. I liked her. She was bright, good-looking, enough miles on her to give her wisdom, and she didn’t take any shit.

“Paul and I are going to have a little talk,” I told her, truthfully.

“About what?” she came back.

“About what Smith was doing in that prison. About what the Lebanese was doing in that park. About why an experienced agent was killed in an allied country that couldn’t give a damn about his affiliations. And some other personal stuff.”

I didn’t tell her that I was going to have a possibly terminal discussion about someone who had ordered me dead.

“Don’t,” she stated. I saw honesty in her expression. “Go your way and leave it alone. It isn’t your job or your fight. Get on an airplane. You don’t want to be anywhere near this. You’re not that good, no matter what your reputation, otherwise you’d have just done your job.”

She knew I had not allowed the Lebanese to be killed. The longer I was in front of the woman the more she was getting out of me.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“He’s not here,” she responded, shaking her head.

“That’s not what I asked, I pushed her. Burt moved to my side.

“I’m not telling you. I need him undamaged, for the moment, and I don’t like the look of your pet gorilla.” I marveled at the woman’s courage, even if she was in her own office inside a U.S. Embassy. She knew she wasn’t in front of regular diplomatic personnel. She also had let me know that she either knew, or had guessed, that I might have good reason to be violently disposed toward her ex-husband.

“You know this is going to resolution in some fashion. I can’t let it go, not and survive out here. Look at us. We have nowhere else to take this, and I think you know it.” I looked at the man standing next to me, to make sure Joyce had not reached him emotionally, but I need not have bothered. Burt had reverted to his Knuckle-dragger role. He stood impassive, as if there had been no insult intended by the woman’s harsh words. I looked back at her, and we waited.

The CD repeated its play, the same song coming up again; “…the lights in the harbor don’t shine for me…” played quietly through the room.

“What is that song?” I asked.

“Its called ‘Sea of Heartbreak,’ she answered.

“How very appropriate,” I said. She sniffed, but I saw a fracture in her visage when she did. Quickly, she turned her head, then leaned forward to take a call. Somewhere inside the hardened career woman was a heart.

Burt and I waited some more. Finally, she was done.

“I’ll take you to him,” Joyce relented. She stood, then walked around the desk. She wore a knee length blue dress. Classy. I liked the effect, but I gave no indication. I didn’t have to, as she read me anyway.

“I don’t like people who do what you do, or in your line of work, so don’t bother with the phony charm. You have no morals left, if you had any to start with.” I could not help smiling at that. Not that she was wrong, I hadn’t resolved such issues for myself yet, but that she would say it to my face made her more attractive still.

“Just tell us where he is and you can avoid being seen in our company,” I said, not being able to avoid smiling at her last insult.

“He’s at the Safari Park Hotel, not far from here, but you’ll never find him without me, and besides, I don’t trust you…and Brutus here,” she pointed at Burt. “Nobody else out there will know what you are. None of you people look like you should.”

I wondered how I should look. We followed her, as she opened the door and headed for the stairs. It was fun to follow her. For some unaccountable reason her company made me feel human for the first time since the mission had begun.

Blood might flow across the wooden floors of the Safari Park but I would endeavor to see that it wasn’t hers. She moved fast down the stairs, getting ahead of us.

“How did I lose you, oh where did I fail…” I sang, almost inaudibly.

“On the sea of heartbreak,” Burt whispered, coming down the stairs right behind me.

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Call Congress Today...Health Care Reform and Public Option Now

David Halberstadt — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 09:19:33 EDT

http://advocacy.barackobama.com/healthcare/campaigns/13/call_scripts/33/call_sessions/new?source=20091020_vic

Take five minutes to keep people pressure on our elected officials...call today

Give Me Strength

James — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 17:01:37 EDT

CLOSER TO GOD

Give Me Strength

God is out there somewhere. I don’t know where. Once, when I was in an African prison I yelled back at some would-be reborn Christian preacher: “God has never come to my bunk.” He had been, as is the custom of reborn preachers, ministers or flock-leaders, indicating that God had spoken to him in the night, and instructed him regarding something I ought to do. For some reason God never instructs His acolytes in what they ought to do on their own, other than raise money and make members of the flock serve them.

It does not say, anywhere in the Bible, that God will not give you a burden too heavy to carry. That common saying is just pure bullshit. Think about the death camps in Germany, just for a second, and consider such idiotic God-driven nonsense. I do not believe you can ‘Trust in God,’ or even ‘Let go and let God.’ I think those are buzz-phrases created by reborn idiots. I do believe that if you pray to Him for strength, however, that He will definitely send you more problems so you can grow stronger in attempting to deal with them. My own life is proof of that little homily.

Nobody knows I smoke. Not one soul living on this planet. A couple of people used to know, but they died shortly after they discovered my secret. I don’t like to execute people without some ceremony. Instead of offering the intended victim a cigarette, however, I have one myself. They get the extra time while I finish the process of smoking it. That’s only fair. I smoke Marlboro cigarettes. The long ones with filters. Like the guy on the horse in those old ads. He died of lung cancer, I heard sometime back. I don’t think I’m going to die of lung cancer. I picked a career, or rather it picked me, that will likely preclude that.

It was raining just beyond my tucked-in corner of the railroad station. I smoked there because the station was filled only with members of the native population.

They knew I was nearby, back pressed firmly into the peeling wooden boards, but they made believe I didn’t exist. To me that was the same as not knowing anything.

About my smoking secret, I mean. The natives were like Knuckle-draggers, they didn’t count as living souls. They were just there, like the rocks, the trees or even the rain. I’m not prejudiced on the basis of color. I’m just prejudiced on the basis of the business I’m in.

When it rains in Nairobi, it rains for quite some time. The water coming down is clean, however, unlike the rest of the dusty dirty city. I love Nairobi, don’t get me wrong. And I love the rain in Nairobi because it drives everyone inside, then cleans the streets and universally broken sidewalks. I walk in the rain. I breathe it in. Plus its cool. Nairobi is pretty hot most of the time. I like it cool, but I don’t get many assignments up on the Bering Sea, or down in Tierra del Fuego. Africa is kind of my beat. And I’m not a Knuckle-dragger either. I don’t do the wet stuff at all. I’m one of the rather more rare guys who have guys who do that sort of thing. Maybe there are a few women who do what I do, I don’t know. I’ve never met one, or even heard of one, but these are changing times. Some of those guys, the Knuckle-draggers, were who I was standing near the rain waiting for. The train was overdue out of Lake Victoria, stopping in Nairobi, before making its way down to Mombasa.

Across the tracks I could see old rusting steam engines sitting on bare ground. Steam had given way to diesel ten years back. I remember riding the steam- powered train down to Mombasa, so long ago. The night had been filled with burning cinders, falling down and away past the dining car windows. It had not seemed romantic at the time, but in retrospect it was all of that, and more. I wistfully drew in the last of the Marlboro smoke, then pinched out the stub and replaced it in my red and white cardboard pack. I would leave no evidence of my secret behind, not that anyone around me cared. Kenyan natives are great. They pretty much respect and appreciate white folk, like me. They give deference and they don’t get in your face, as in some other cultures.

The train came in. Just like that. No whistle of warning. I was not in Europe or America. The rules were different. The old cars rocked slowly to a stop, compressed air hissing out from the brakes, resembling steam, up and down the line. I waited.

The natives crammed aboard the train as the passengers tried to get off. It was a mess of water-soaked bedlam, but it wasn’t noisy. The people of Kenya are a quiet lot. Another feature I like.

My guys climbed down just as the whistle of the engine finally sounded, indicating that the train was pulling out. Conductors in blue sweaters and black caps pushed and pulled stragglers aboard. The train creaked as it eased from the station. I turned and headed for the gray Nissan Pajero parked illegally in front. It was an old rental thing with a five speed, unlocked because there were no locks, only holes in all the doors. But I had left nothing inside. I carried nothing except my cigarettes, money and a passport. The rental papers for the car were not even there, as I wouldn’t return the vehicle, just call and tell the agency where to pick it up. My guys would have stuff. It was what they did. If they got caught with any of it, then they’d have to count on some other operatives to get them out of trouble. Or not.

I drove. Two of them in the back and one up front with me. We didn’t talk. They knew the mission. We were not, and were not going to be, friends. If there was to be violence I didn’t want to be grieving over the loss of any of them, or they of me.

Fucking New Guy Syndrome we’d called it, after the Nam. And it had its proper place in our work.

I drove fast. As fast as a three liter Pajero would go, which was not that fast at all.

One hundred and forty kilometers per hour was about max, which was about seventy miles an hour, or so. The roads out of Nairobi were built for about half that, however, so it was a rough scary ride. The guys gave no indication of discomfort or fear, however. It was that kind of business.

We were headed for a village just South of the big National Wildlife Park outside of Nairobi. I never could remember the park’s name. The village is a Masai place. The Masai are tall lanky natives who wear weird throw-back attire and carry long ugly spears. The men, anyway. And they stink to high heaven, as they never ever wash. Ever. I like them, but then, my former wife had once told me that I had no sense of smell. I guess didn’t have much taste in women either. I’d never found any who trusted me. And I couldn’t be around people who didn’t trust me. If they were ‘inside the wire’ kind of women, part of my tribe, then my trustworthiness should have been beyond question. I trusted them. But women don’t trust so easy, I discovered. So I was alone. I worked in a field that did not lend itself well to either trust or believability. Alone was not okay, but it simply had to do.

The village appeared next to the road about twenty clicks on the other side of the park. The inside of the Pajero was filled with dust, even though the rain had done a lot to cut it back. The park had been nothing but dirt roads and dust. Rain only sealed the top inch of the dust, and the dust went down a good four inches deeper than that. The village was a ram-shackle affair of branch constructed hovels, mud huts and half-thatched roofs behind flimsy fences. The fences were to keep animals in, not out. No self-respecting lion would ever allow itself the indignity of being speared full of holes on the interior open plaza of a Masai village.

I drove through a likely hole in the fence. Chickens and a few dogs scattered. I knocked down a few small pieces of stacked junk, and maybe a three-stone fireplace or two. I parked in the center of the village and shut off the engine. We sat. Nobody appeared. The Knuckle-dragger next to me spoke for the first time.

“I’m Burt, and these are Tom and Walt,” he said, as he pointed toward the back seat.

I didn't laugh when a cloud of dust formed near the end of his extended finger.

“Hey,” I responded, looking carefully at each of them. We would not be friends, but our mutual survival was now dependent upon the performance of each of us. Missions involving violence seldom ever went smoothly. Aberrantly strange things were always cropping up.

“The target is being held somewhere nearby. I don’t know where. Our contact is supposed to meet us here." I said the words with finality. We were not going to go social at this tense point of the mission.

I looked at my Omega. It was the same watch the astronauts had worn to the moon. Or so the salesman had told me when I’d purchased it. It was pretty damned accurate, I had to admit. Our source had twenty minutes to make contact or I’d scrub the mission. While we waited, we were targets ourselves. It was a risk that came with the territory. We waited in the vehicle. It wasn’t likely that any force was going to take out four white guys, armed to the teeth, sitting inside a rental four-wheel-drive in the middle of a pacified Masai village. Getting out could lead to booby-traps or other hidden hazards. We waited inside.

A tall Masai warrior appeared between two of the hovels to our front. He motioned with his characteristic spear. The four of us got out of the vehicle. I looked at my guys to assure myself that nobody was coming out locked and loaded. Violence escalates from the things you do before violence happens, I knew. We needed to be just four white guys walking, escorted, across the Serengeti. Everyone was cool.

We followed the nearly seven foot tall native through the saw grass just East of the village. It was a well-beaten path so we had no trouble. We could have followed the tribesman with blinders on, as his aroma was that overpowering, even twenty feet back. I do have a sense of smell I thought, sending a mental message to my ex-wife.

We came upon a clearing at the base of one of those huge Baobab trees, its trunk at least twenty feet thick. A man lay on his side next to the tree, his hands tied behind him with what appeared to be vines. The man was white, wearing the phony safari gear so common to visiting tourists. Even his canvas hat was there, on the ground next to him. I was surprised by that, as the Masai are known for stealing anything not tied, glued or welded down. The warrior stood next to the laying man, planting the base of his spear down on the man’s torso. He looked at me, but said nothing.

I pulled a two inch stack of Kenyan Shillings from my back pocket. I’d exchanged two hundred dollars worth of U.S. currency at the rail station. I handed the warrior the cash. He grabbed it, then walked away immediately, back toward the village. I waited until the five of us were the only humans evident out on the Savannah. Then I crouched.

“You alive?” I asked the downed man. His eyes opened. He nodded vigorously. I stepped back. Automatically, Tom and Walt grabbed the man by his shoulders and roughly seated him, back to the Baobab trunk. They backed away.

“Burt,” I whispered. Carefully, Burt took a medium sized automatic out from under his rain coat and handed it to me. Then he reached inside the coat a second time and came out with a polished black cylinder. I handed the automatic back. Burt finished assembling the silenced killing machine.

“We’re not supposed to talk to you, but what the hell, I never do exactly what they tell me to do anyway,” I offered to the man against the tree, by way of passing time, as I moved to get my pack of Marlboros out.

“I did it,” the man whispered out. “I know you’re his people. I did it. I went to that prison and told them about him. I admit it. But I had to do it. If I didn’t do it he’d have ruined my family. Our business would have been gone. We have nowhere to go. We’re Lebanese. We’re not welcome anywhere. We don’t even have passports.

I even dressed like a tourist, just like he told me.”

I sat on my haunches, no longer reaching for my box of cigarettes. The mission was to take out the man who had deliberately informed on one of our agents, getting that agent very dead, indeed. Payback was uncommon to the intelligence business, I knew, at least payback in violence, but there were certain circumstances. This had appeared to be one of them, as the dead agent had also been a highly decorated former Marine Officer and well connected politically. Unlike myself, he’d also been rumored to be well-liked. The fact that I’d been instructed not to talk to the target had not gone down well with me, although I had not remarked at the time. If I have to be involved in someone’s passing, I like to make certain that some sort of justice in the universe is being balanced.

“What have you got for me?” I asked. The Lebanese just looked back at me.

“If we are not to end this all right here, then you have to give me some reason why your passing should not take place.” I stared into the man’s black eyes, seeing nothing but truth. Everything thing he’d said so far had reeked of truth, and that made me very uncomfortable.

“I don’t have anything,” the man said, his chin sagging to his chest.

“Who was going to destroy your family?” I prompted him. He looked up. Then he looked from Burt to the other two Knuckle-draggers, then back at me. I stood, both knees and the small of my back in pain at the same time. I grunted.

“Take a hike out on the Serengeti for a bit,” I said to Burt. He grimaced, then handed the suppressed weapon to me. I took it. I knew the three of them probably had six more weapons among them, or more. Knuckledraggers were big on toys and equipment, cramming diplomatic sacks with all manner of pyrotechnics.

I waited for the guys to get a good thirty yards down the path, before I squatted back down.

“Paul Haggerty,” the Lebanese expelled with one soft breath. I said nothing back.

I didn’t have another question. I was too shocked. Paul Haggerty was the American

Ambassador to Kenya. Ambassadors never ever get involved in operational agency business, at least I had never heard of it happening before. For an Ambassador to be involved with the killing of a field agent was almost too impossible to consider.

“I understand that you have to kill me. But my family. They won’t be hurt, will they?

I have a wife and four children.” He tried to go on but I held up one hand in front of his face.

“Do you have any idea why Paul would want the agent dead?” The Lebanese shook his head violently. “Do you have any idea who killed our man?” I followed up, beginning to wonder exactly what had taken place in that prison outside of Nairobi.

Kenya was not exactly an enemy of the United States. The Soviets were long gone.

Terrorism was mostly a geographically limiting situation, excepting 9/11, of course.

Why the revelation that a man was an agent of the CIA would get him killed in a place like Kenya had no comforting answer that I could come up with.

The man shook his head again. I believed everything he’d told me. But I didn’t know what to do with it.

I rose to my feet once again with same groan. I stepped away from the Baobad and saw Burt pacing in the distance, nervously. If I got myself killed it would not look good in the after-action report, for him, or the other guys. They had to do what I said, but they also had to protect me. I waved him back.

“Cut him loose,” I said, when the three had shambled back. I handed the silenced weapon to Burt. “We won’t be needing that.”

Tom and Walt got the Lebanese to his feet and cut through the vines. The man glanced around him like he was some sort of hunted bird, looking for the next direction of attack.

“What do I do?” he asked, finally. I took the eighteen remaining hundred dollar bills of mission cash from my front pocket. I put the small stack into his hand.

“We’re taking you back to your family. Then you’re going to disappear for a few weeks while I get this all sorted out. And I mean disappear. Do you understand?”

“You did not know?” the Lebanese asked me, looking at my three guys, without going on. I shook my head.

“There will be trouble, I think,” he said, with an air of finality.

The village was as dead when we returned, as it had been when we’d arrived. It was obvious that no one had touched the Pajero. The villagers wanted nothing to do with us. As I drove madly toward Nairobi, the Lebanese wedged in between Tom and Walt in the back seat, I supposed that nobody in the U.S. Embassy was going to want anything to do with us either.

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President Barack Obama deserves the Nobel Prize

Carolyn Carrier — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 21:54:09 EDT

President Obama may not think that he is deserving of this award but the committee that selects the recipients had their reasons for selecting him. Furthermore, I resent the fact that everyone acts as if Barack Obama's career began on January 20th 2009. This is the same argument we fought so hard against during the campaign, ie, he is not experienced enough, what has he done, etc. Go back and check your notes on how you refuted these arguments and you will see that the Nobel Committee had ample reason to nominate our President and to ultimately select him as the winner. He has been a champion for peace during his entire public life. The fact that he was nominated less than two weeks into his presidency shows that the committee was not considering his accomplishments after January 20th when nominating him. Clearly, the Nobel Committee was looking at Barack Obama's accomplishments before he became president.

Republicans: Hurry Up and Grow Up Please!

Caryl S. Foster — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 22:14:45 EDT

""The real question Americans are asking is, 'What has President Obama actually accomplished?' " RNC Chairman Michael Steele said."

No Michael, the real question most Americans are asking is "When will you and the Republican Party grow up?"

"Childish Antics" is appropriately descriptive of the Repudiated Republican Party of No reactions to anything involving President Obama including his winning the Nobel Peace Prize. But one must also add that such childish behavior at every turn and on every front sadly impacts and impedes our country from moving forward in effectively dealing with the critical issues and challenges facing all of us in common.

Rather than participate in developing and reaching adult solutions, they are juvenile content to turn everything into an issue or problem. Much like the contrary Indian in Little Big Man who insisted on riding backwards on his horse, the Repudiated Republican Party of No childishly insist on being backwards contrary at every opportunity.

And no adult should anticipate them growing up anytime soon.

Republicans: Hurry Up and Grow Up Please!

On Behalf of The international Civil Rights Movement We Thank The Nobile Peace Prize Committee For Recognizing The Significance Of President Obama Victory to Our Movement! Congratulation President Obama!

Lillene Ebanks — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 17:44:34 EDT

On behalf of the Civil Rights Movement we take great hope in accepting this honor bestowed on our beloved leader, President Obama for successfully elevating the perception of seventy eight percent of the population of the world! The wisdom and the validity of the Nobil Peace Prize has reached the greatest peak to the most people! Thank you and congratulation to us and to President Obama!

President Obama Won Nobel Peace Prize Because he ATTEMPTED What Others Would Not

Steve Sulkin — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 10:46:49 EDT

I sometimes believe that if President Obama wiped out all disease, brought peace to our planet, created unlimited energy sources and solved world hunger, I'd see an iReport question asking, "Does Obama Really Care or is he Just Showing Off?"

No matter how much good this man does, no matter how many accolades, he gets slammed by one half of the United States, the half that doesn't just want him to not be President but seems to despise his very existence.

Images accompanying articles about President Obama's Nobel Peace Prize, such as the one of a black peace dove with an olive branch in his mouth (an actual graphic in a Spanish newspaper) are shocking, but also revealing. Loaded questions from "iReport" on CNN asked, "Does Obama Deserve it?" and articles like "Now Obama Needs to Earn It" (and that was written by a supporter) shows just how deeply divided our world is about this man, for reasons of envy and racism.

Doesn't the world understand, President Obama was awarded this prize for to setting the tone for world peace, for TRYING to bring the world together to ultimately then accomplish levels of peace heretofore not known. It is in the act of TRYING that we are measured, not accomplishing. What have you done, lately, ask yourself, to TRY to bring peace to this world?

If the Nobel Peace Prize was only awarded for when people actually brought peace to this planet (as was seriously suggested by one person who said Obama should give the prize back until he's accomplished world peace), no one would ever win such a prize.

We need to encourage every individual who has the tenacity and the vision to stand up and say we won't take it anymore, we won't accept the status quo of hatred and war. President Obama is just such a person and that's why he was awarded this prize. This award is not based on what he might do in the future, it's based on what he has done, set the stage for our world to respect one another, the first prelude to peace. He's tried to bring our world together. And the resistance to that only proves how noble the trying is.

Let's give him a chance now to make the dream of a more peaceful world a reality and let us for a moment, put aside our hate, because by doing so, it is our only chance at peace.

Time to Speak Up and Be About It President Obama!

Caryl S. Foster — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 02:14:11 EDT

"Because health insurance is so expensive*,....." Duh!

Are Americans supposed to be just now realizing the obvious? Although it is apparent that there are some well-off U.S. Senators who remain unaware of or are unwilling to acknowledge that they have always been aware, for sure the average healthcare insured American family has long known that rising insurance premiums are not only "so expensive" but are ridiculously high and, combined with increasing co-payments, has and are inflicting great economic pain to many.

It Has Always Been About Price! ..... And Price Relief Is Required!

Real Relief as in a Public Option and Public Choice that will drive down or at least competitively keep the current price of private health insurance where it is. What is not needed is Faux Relief as in offering tax subsidies that will not even keep pace with non-competed against and thus predictable rising healthcare insurance premiums.

The phrase "I oppose a public option and public choice but will require all Americans to purchase private health insurance" should be considered an oxymoron and those minority few who think, say, and do such a thing, should just be considered moronic at best or egregiously calculating at worst.

Some people say they do not want to see a "government takeover" of the private healthcare insurance industry. Reality says we have already seen this industry take over our national economy ---- currently eating it up as in 19% of GDP worth.

Those in touch with this real reality realize that healthcare reform without a public option and public choice is a subsidized permissive opportunity for the private healthcare insurance industry to maximize their profit margins at the continuing unaffordable expense of the American public and the growing detriment of our national economy.

Those out of touch with this actual reality are hopefully just uninformed of it rather than being intentionally misinformed by those "paid" to dis-inform about it.

Simply stated, President Obama's future vision of creating, developing, and sustaining a new job growth viable green economy is dead from the start given that the increasing price of private health insurance remains out of check.

Politically unrealistic, he could put it in check by government mandating lower prices or freezing existing prices. Realistically, he can only checkmate rising healthcare insurance prices by publicly demanding congressional inclusion and support of a competitive public option and public choice in the final healthcare insurance reform bill passed for his signature. And by accepting nothing less.

If he wants the real opportunity to give Americans and our national economy economic relief and get started realizing his future vision of our economy, the vision of change the greater majority of Americans share and voted for, then it is.........

Time To Speak Up and Be About It President Obama!

* As excerpt from: "Health Insurance Bills Could Be Hardship For Many" by Ricardo Alonso-Zaldivar, Associated Press Writer

http://www.newsvine.com/_news/2009/1...dship-for-many

Americans or Prosperity.....or Disparity?

Vision — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 06:22:11 EDT

I am watching a replay of a group called the Americans For Prosperity, but their rhetoric is so hypocritical it is shameful. This organization seems to be very dangerous. They call themselves a group for prosperity and claim not to be politically affiliated, but yet every guest speaker who's appeared has spoken against the Obama Health Care proposal, and the Cap and Trade proposal. Don't they understand that fixing the rising cost of Health Care WILL help Americans to become more independent and save money why are these people against it?Despite the President's National Address last month, Guest Speaker after Guest Speaker, and now audience members (as I type this blog) are all still regurgitating old, rumors and misinformation about the Health Care Reform Proposal. Have these people been under a rock or what?One speaker even had the balls to refer to themselves as the "Elite". From what I know about the "Elites" of time past, many of elites where against the great National Park Movement of the early 1900's. Including Ralph Cameron who almost single handedly blocked the Grand Canyon from becoming a National Monument. Cameron was a stout Republican who's idea of prosperity was to charge people gross amounts of money to get a drink of water, or to use the restroom when visiting the trails of the Grand Canyon Canyon. This group seems to have this same mentality and it is scary to me. I think someone at one of the news networks like MSNBC or CNN should check these folks out before they grow too large. From my vantage point, it appears AFP, along with other "grass Roots" organizations are doing nothing more than creating a haze of fear amongst independent voters in an effort to prepare for a voting shift in 2010.

Culture of Corruption in New Jersey!

Omar Dyer — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 11:17:38 EDT

Can you imagine donating two years of your life to a candidate -- then that candidate sends Aid to the place you live in for your program. As you live in that structure of life saying hey -- I was told this Help was here, but as the train left Washington DC to New Jersey. You had leaders stopping the train and taking what they need in a ring of corruption. That's what's going on in New Jersey with these leaders--the democratic party endorsed. They are going back and telling Obama's adminstration; We never heard of this guy, or this program. Yet, the benefited from the guidelines of the program. This is the reason why we have a corruption probe in New Jersey.View the AD and Documentary!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQcgLT9oBq0

Republicans Waterloo Low Credibility

Caryl S. Foster — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 10:49:38 EDT

Notwithstanding the fact that John Boehner took a two week trip around the world while not spending anytime holding a single health care town hall meeting during the entire month of August, the House Minority Leader took the time to publicly speak out against President Barack Obama for his one day European trip to pitch the Chicago Olympics bid, criticizing the president for "going to go off to Copenhagen when we've got serious issues here at home that need to be debated."

And despite the evident hypocrisy above, one can be rest assured that Congressman John Boehner would be just as publicly critical if our President did not go to Copenhagen in an attempt to bring the 2016 Olympics to the United States.

As symbolized by Republican John Boehner, the Repudiated Republican Party of No political strategy is simple and straightforward...whatever position President Obama takes on any issue, we will prepare and take the contrary position.

Republicans are so focused on creating Waterloos at every turn for President Obama to cross, they do not realize they are Waterlooing their own credibility ( and in particular John Boehner's) to a point so low they and he will soon have none left for the rest of us to cross off.

Republicans Waterloo Low Credibility

The First Woman President og the United States: We Helped You and We Are Depending On You To Help Us! Congratulations to Germany for Leading the World in Democracy By Reelecting A Woman Leader, We We Up!

Lillene Ebanks — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 16:09:35 EDT

Thank you Germany for leading the way for women to rise to the highest leadership position. We have not forgotten Margaret Thatcher, the Prime former Prime Minister of England. I support President Obama in leading the world in transperancy and freedom of speech by being the only leader in the history of the world who has a website where people around the nation can freely communicate with the world about issues or to offer solutions to problems. Thank you President Obama for the internet access and I am praying you pick Secretary Hillary Clinton as your running mate in 2012. We need more women in top leadership positions internationally. I am believing and calling things that be not as though they were. On the Ozark Mountain side there will be a statue of President Hillary Clinton in 2016 and there will be many more women presidents added, like Vice President Michelle Obama, who will become the second woman president in 2024. It is all about teamwork and helping a women get her foot into the door so we can shine too, President Obama. Yes We Can carve that Ozark Mountain side on Highway 16 with the faces of two women presidents by 2024! Then we will xall it President Hillary Clinton's Highway after the first woman president who gave her votes to pave the way for the first African American president. Recroprosity is the name of this game! I am so excited! We are on our way! We We Up!