Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Lauterbach-Did Obsession Lead To Murder?
When Cpl Maria Lauterbach went missing on December 15th, a note she left her roommate turned in two days later gave the Marines sufficient reason to think she left on her own. In the letter, she said she was tired of the Marines. Now that her burnt remains, and those of her unborn child, have been found in a pit in the yard of Cpl Cesar Armando Laurean', it comes to light she had earlier accused Laurean of raping her. Moreover, blood splatter found on Laurean's ceiling suggested the 20 year old Lauterbach was killed by blunt force trauma.
Still, it must be asked, what was she doing in the home of a man she insisted raped her? Why did she tell Marine investigators that she did not feel threatened in any way by Laurean? Why did Lauterbach engage in sexual relations with Laurean on at least one occasion two weeks after the incident of the alleged rape?
Was she bi-polar, as her own mother suggested in a televised news interview?
Finally, where is Laurean? The last account of his whereabouts suggests he was in Texas, and may be on his way to Mexico.
I'll come right out and say it. Is it possible Lauterbach lied about the rape as a means of attaining and keeping her hold over Laurean? If so, did this induce him to snap and murder her in a rage? Looking at everything that is known about the case so far, it sure looks that way to me.
Tom Cruise-Gaydar, Scientology, and the Reincarnation of L. Ron Hubbard
According to the newly published and soon to be released Tom Cruise-An Unauthorized Biography
it would seem that Tom Cruise is not gay after all-in fact, he is quite the ladies man. He's just scared to death people will think he is if he is around gay men-especially the gay men he is around from time to time.
There are other nuggets purported to be in the book. Come to find out, there are several different levels one must aspire to in Scientology, and it's not until you get to the highest level that you discover the religion is based on the proposition that space aliens visited earth's distant past and somehow played a role in mankind's development.
Cruise allegedly struggled with this information upon first learning it, and there was a rift between him and the higher-ups in the sect, but he evidently came to terms with them.
Perhaps the most compelling thing said to be in the book is that Katie was never pregnant by Cruise. In fact, she was impregnated by the frozen sperm of Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard, and that it was seriously believed by cult members that little Surrey Cruise would, in fact, be the reincarnation of Hubbard.
The book will not be on sale in England due to British libel laws, and it is rumored that the Church of Scientology might be preparing a lawsuit against the author and publisher.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Ares
It's not often that you read a balanced view on the Greek war god Ares, but this post is one that offers such a perspective. The author of this Witchvox article suggests that Ares achieves his greatest use when paired with a moderating influence. In her example, she uses the goddess Hestia, goddess of the hearth, as an example of how Ares might well be paired with a deity with whom, at first glance, he would appear to have little in common.
Nor does she marginalize Ares' more sanguine aspects in doing so. Ares indeed is a deity who might be useful in many endeavors that require extraordinary effort, courage, and strength. Attuning with him while making the attempt to stop smoking or some other bad habit-the cessation of which requires considerable willpower, courage, and determination-is only one example.
I have long been of the opinion that the bad rap this god has received over the centuries is due mainly to an ancient cult rivalry between his adherents and the devotees of the goddess Athene.
At the same time, it would be a grave mistake to imagine that Ares should never be utilized as a literal war god the way he is generally conceived. That he was a violent blowhard, bully, and even a bit of a coward, can not be denied-nor should it be. He exulted in violence, combat, and bloodshed. Yet, when the tables were turned, he was wont to go screaming off in pain and terror. Often he was humiliated.
All of us have had days like those, and Ares perfectly represents these aspects of human existence. He is someone you can turn to when you have had one of those days. He has been there.
At the same time, he always manage to recover, to pull himself up by his bootstraps, dust himself off, and go on to fight another day.
There is a great lesson there to be learned as well. Ares represents that force in nature that marks a determination to survive, and to thrive. In the grand scheme of things, death awaits us all, but the strong survive, passing their genes on to the next generation and beyond.
It is not always a violent, bloody endeavor. A good many times, however, violence and bloodshed are not only unavoidable necessities-they are sacred duties.
Psychic Date Rape And The Downward Spiral Of Lindsay Lohan
She is a good actress, and in my opinion a better singer than Britney. Still, for some reason, once the tabloids latched onto her story, they could not get enough, and she could not find enough reasons not to feed their mania. She has hit various rehab facilities, but it never seems to take. Her prison parolee father, who claims to be a born again Christian, seems determined to steer her life back onto a path of disciplined sanity. Assuming he is for real, he has his work cut out for him.
Because of her youth and the fact she is truly talented, there is hope for her, but a reflection over the last year of her life suggests she needs to work hard to put the past behind her and start anew. At the same time, perhaps we can forgive her a swig of champagne at a party over the last New Year’s Eve.
The kind of psychic rape perpetrated by the tabloids and their photographers-and voyeuristically swallowed up by their readers-will take any opening presented at any given moment and look for any sign of weakness in order to impose their will. Nor does it necessarily have to present itself in a violent format. Most rapes, after all, are probably not conducted by violent strangers, but by people the victim knows, and to at least a point, likes and trusts. So it seems to be with the tabloid news industry. They start out as friends, feeding on their would-be victim’s egos and insecurities. Then, once they have them in their clutches and establish a level of trust, and possibly even dependence to some degree, they make their move.
The psychic rape of Lindsay Lohan, therefore, we can see from the vantage point of a history in pictures. It starts out like a date to the prom, and ends in a revelation of the long-range goal, which would be a kind of psychic date rape by way of tabloid news and photography.
Although many people decry the process, and rightly so, still others will willingly pay money to feed an industry that produces what a thoughtful person should legitimately view as crime scene photos produced by the perpetrators, and eagerly devoured by a society of gawkers.
To illustrate the point, the daily viewer stats of this blog have tripled over the last month, based primarily on a photo I earlier published on a post here of Britney Spears flashing her pussy. The vast majority of readers who view this post read no other pages on the blog. This being the case, I felt I should offer some kind of rational explanation as to the psychology behind this cultural phenomenon. I am no Doctor Phil, and this is just my unprofessional opinion. At the same time, I consider it as valid as any Doctor Phil or anyone else might offer, and for what its’ worth, it’s free.
Britney Spears-A Puzzling Case Of Stockholm Syndrome
I’m starting to fall under the Britney curse, finding myself growing more fascinated by this woman every day. Now, she has affected a British accent, though not a good one. When I hear her, I actually feel embarrassed for her, and I am sure I am not alone. It’s almost as though she, having no sense of shame, nor wanting one, has told the world, here, you take this. When Madonna affected her accent, it was bad enough. It was obviously phony. Britney’s is something else again. I can only think of one way to describe it-Valley Girl Cockney. If you heard anyone else but Britney Spears uttering something in this absurdly fake accent, you would know not to take it seriously. If you were British, you might understandably feel belittled.
If he happened to be an Islamic radical-or for that matter an openly practicing Satanist, an old-fashioned Mormon polygamist, a vampire practicing Goth, or a Grand Dragon of the Ku Klux Klan-I have no doubt her life and mannerisms would in some way reflect whatever lifestyle he lives and beliefs he has.
She has, according to some insider gossip, even considered faking her own death and afterwards re-emerging, and then "re-inventing" herself.
At the rate she's going, she might not have to fake anything. She might be doing well to live long enough to see her thirtieth birthday.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Bennie Lee "Ben" Ferguson For President-The Candidate Of Change
I can almost hear you asking, "okay, I get it. But what about his-er, her-er, it's other qualifications for office?"
Well, Bennie Lee should be more than qualified to defend our nation and engage in the war on terror. After all, after spending some time as head of a local Log Cabin Republicans group in Kansas, Bennie Lee worked as a security guard. So, what else could you ask for-more or less?
Now, Bennie Lee is a member of the Libertarian Party, and is a write-in candidate for President of the United States. So, come on, write in Bennie Lee "Ben" Ferguson. After all-
What have you got to lose?
Tato Nano-A Car For India's Growing Middle Class
At a price of roughly the equivalent of $2,500 US dollars, about 200,000,000 new drivers might soon be driving the Tato Nano.
Of course, the global warming crowd is up to their usual brand of histrionics over this, but what else is new? If they had their way, people in the US would be back to the horse and buggy and outside toilet days, while the people of India, where the car was created, would be living like people in-well, India. You can't please these fucktards. The Nano doesn't have air-conditioning, so you'd think that would please them, but they are too busy bitching about the prospect of poor Indian families finally being able to get around on something besides-if they are lucky-motor scooters with sidecars.
They insist that India should develop public transportation. Yessiree, I know for a fact there ain't nothing I enjoy more than shopping via city bus.
This blog post from India will tell you all about the various features of the Tato Nano, which doesn't eat hay and doesn't shit on the streets.
The Shaft
Notice the Mexican Labor Boards excuse to deny higher wages for their workers, even in the face of worldwide increase in copper prices. They want to keep wages low to "attract investors".
What it all amounts to is, that's as good an excuse as any, I guess, but if it wasn't for that, there would damn sure be another one to take it's place.
Things like this are why:
*The Middle Class keeps dwindling, here and everywhere.
*Jobs are sent overseas (after all, no matter how low wages get in the US, corporations can always find someplace where they can hire cheaper labor).
Mexican workers and the common person there can't propser in their own country, and so they come here, illegally if they have to (which actually, for now, is easier than coming here legally).
I fucking hate Mexico and want to overthrow its fucking useless, racist government, which consists of, or at least is controlled by, families who are the wealthy descendants of the Spanish conquistadores who have little use for the Indian, Mestizo, and mixed population at large.
Now they've found a loophole in the law to close down the strike, and so they've moved in with armed thugs to intimidate the workers, while twenty people have been injured, some seriously.
Oh yeah, and five workers are missing.
All because the company that controls their copper mines in Sonoma don't want to improve worker health and safety conditions, and don't want to pay a living wage.
Oh, and by the way, the same fucking company is buying mines in the US.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Radu-Chapter XXXIV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Radu-Chapter XXXIV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
11 pages approximate
Phelps van was making noises again. Time for a tune-up, he thought, as the outline of DC came into view.
“You know, it’s a shame,” he said. “I’ve lived practically within walking distance of this place almost all my life, and I’m a news photographer, yet I’ve been here a total of four times. The last time I was here was 2003. All I have to show for it is a picture of the Lincoln Memorial.”
Grace tried to steady herself, but her nervous anxiety, to say nothing of her dizziness and nausea, made it difficult.
“It really doesn’t do you any good to come to Washington if you can’t bring an authentic press pass,” she replied. “Even then, it’s not easy. This place is murder on a struggling reporter with no connections. Trust me on that.”
She realized she probably sounded more dismissive than she intended, and looked toward him and tried to put on her best smile.
“I really appreciate you driving me here,” she said.
“Well, I couldn’t very well let you come here yourself, even by plane,” he said. “You look like hell, and I know you feel like shit. You really should take some time off.”
“That is not an option,” she said.
“So, who is the father, anyway?” he asked. “By the way, I thought you told me you couldn’t have kids.”
She wondered whether she should tell him. What could it possibly hurt? She decided against it.
“I have no idea whose it is,” she replied. “All that matters to me is that it’s mine.”
Phelps maneuvered in the midst of the oppressive traffic onto the Georgetown exit. The identity of the father of Grace’s child was the least of his concerns.
“So, just what is the reason for all of this secrecy, this hiding from public view?” he asked. “You know everybody in Baltimore has been looking for you, and you say you’re innocent of any involvement in the deaths of Karinsky and Lawson, so why not just come forward and give a statement and clear it all up?”
“One of these days, I just might do that,” she replied. “For now, I’m working under deep cover and I can’t afford to allow my whereabouts to be known by certain parties. It will be clear soon enough, you’ll see.”
“So you’re working on something that important huh?” he asked. “I take it that it must be a really big story for you to go to all these extra pains. Does it have anything to do with what happened at Khoska’s Church at all, or was that just an incidental something that just happened to get in the way? Oh, and by the way, just what was all that about anyway?”
“You got involved in the wrong department of the journalism business, Phelps, you should have been a reporter. I went to the church to confront Sierra, and she attacked me. Then, she started acting crazy. She turned the Church into her own private music studio, without benefit of a band or even a karaoke machine. Karinsky and Khoska tried to make her stop, but she would not.
“I got bored with her making a spectacle of herself, and left. Mainly, though, I got bored with the mosquitoes. They were thick in there that night. I could not take that. Whatever happened afterward, I have no idea. I only know it had nothing to do with me, regardless of what Khoska told you. I heard she stabbed herself to death, right there in the church. I sure didn’t do it, though I would have like to at the time. I can certainly promise you I didn’t hoist Karinsky up on top of the spire of the cross and impale him on it.”
Grace was hiding something, and Phelps knew it. She had no idea of the extent of his conversations with the old Priest, or at least so he hoped. Yet, when she called him to ask him to drive her to Georgetown to see a friend, he remembered Khoska’s entreaties to help her. He did not want to do it, but felt it was incumbent on him to do what he could to get to the bottom of what certainly was the most baffling mystery he ever encountered.
“So who is this friend of yours?” he asked. “Is he a contact, some kind of reliable news source?”
“No, actually, he is nothing but a friend, one I haven’t seen in a good many years. When he learned of my current predicament, he offered to help, and I more than gladly decided to take him up on his offer. There is nothing at all mysterious about it.”
Soon, she was giving him directions to what eventually lead to an old three-story Brownstone on the outskirts of Georgetown. As he pulled up into the driveway, he peered back toward the back of the van.
“By the way, I have something I want to show you,” he said.
After he parked the van, he reached back and grabbed hold of the handle of the item he earlier procured from the old cabin in the woods of West Virginia. When she saw the old aluminum bat, she did not blink an eye, her bland expression more of wonder as to why he would should someone such a thing as this.
“I’ve seen bigger ones,” she said with a shrug.
“You could really bash someone’s brains in with this,” he said. “Would you like to have it? It might come in handy here in DC.”
“That is a point,” she said as she reached for the bat. “Would you like to come in for a few minutes?”
“No, that’s all right,” he said. “I’ll just wait long enough to make sure your friend’s home so you won’t have to wait alone out here too long, then I’ll be on my way.”
“If he’s not here, someone will be, and I am expected,” she replied. “Still, as I said, you are welcome to come in.”
Phelps was busting at the seams to accompany her inside, but something deep inside of him was wary of entering that house. Besides, it was unnecessary. Soon enough, he would find out all he needed to know. Therefore, he declined her invitation.
“So, I take it this aluminum bat can be considered a baby shower gift?” she asked as she opened the door.
“Yeah, pretty much,” he replied. “Just don’t swing it around too much. You can do a lot of damage with that thing.”
She stood there looking at the bat, and Phelps realized she did not seem to have a clue as to what he was getting at. Could Khoska have been wrong, he wondered? He said himself he was not at the cabin during the time Grace allegedly murdered Karl Emil Grozhny. Was it not possible someone else committed the deed? Phelps realized of course he wanted to believe that, but on the other hand, Khoska’s accusations pertaining to Grace and the murders of her entire adopted family were hard to refute.
He sat there and watched her, holding the bat, as though trying to understand the connection she felt with the object-or, possibly, trying to figure out just why he was acting so mysterious about it. Phelps told her goodbye, and that if she needed anything else, to give him a call. She thanked him and said goodbye as he started to drive off.
However, Phelps was not really returning to Baltimore-not right away. As he drove toward the city of Washington, he placed a call to Cruiser Dietrich, the wizened old editor-in-chief of The Baltimore Explorer, who agreed to pay Phelps’s expenses. He gave Cruiser the address of the house in Georgetown at which he had dropped Grace off, as well as the license number of the Lexus parked in the cobblestone driveway of what looked to be a Pre-Civil War era mansion. It took under half an hour for Cruiser to call him back.
“You need to get back here as soon as you can,” he said.
“What’s up?” Phelps asked, hiding as best he could his concern due to the overtly frantic tone in Dietrich’s voice.
“These are the big leagues, boy,” the old man replied.
“Okay, so who is this guy anyway?” Phelps demanded.
“Edward Akido,” came the reply. “He’s a registered lobbyist for a pharmaceutical firm, as well as several foreign governments, including the Sudan, as well as India, Syria, Pakistan, Iran, Cuba, China, and Turkey. He has also lobbied extensively on behalf of the Palestinian Authority.”
“What about Romania?”
“I’ll have to check on that to be sure,” Cruiser answered. “Why is that important?”
“I’m not sure,” Phelps answered as he just now pulled onto the lane indicated as the route to Ronald Reagan Airport.
“Is there anything else he represents?”
“Some energy companies, for the most part,” came the reply. “Also, some banking and investment firms, insurance, and contract arms suppliers. All of this though is almost incidental. I have not even gotten to the really juicy part yet. This guy just came on the scene eight years ago. He just more or less appeared out of nowhere. Before this, he was an insurance and investment company executive, a mid-level manager of a mid-sized firm. He was an apparent nobody, somebody that would never show up on anybody’s radar screen.”
“You’re right, that’s really strange,” Phelps agreed. “Maybe he’s got some kind of pull with some political family, like maybe with the Morrisons, for example.”
“Or, how about with the CIA?” Dietrich replied. “While we’re at it, what about the DEA and the ATF?”
“Oh, fuck!” Phelps said. “You are fucking kidding me, right?”
“I wish I was, boy,” Cruiser responded. “I really wish I was. I don’t know how this guy ever gets any sleep, because he’s in bed with some really nasty bastards-including, it’s rumored, the Taliban. Do you remember the recent deal between India and Pakistan?”
“Uh-huh, I remember-what about it?”
“He brokered that. He evidently did this by twisting some arms of some people the Taliban has in high positions in the Pakistani military and security services. Phelps, I am telling you, this is not somebody you need to be fucking with. Back off, boy.”
“How in the hell did you find this shit out so fast?” Phelps asked, his head spinning to the point he came close to missing the exit ramp to the airport.
“I just put the address and license number through the computer and his name popped out. Then, I ran him through a list of lobbyists, and his name comes up in connection with Briscoe and Lamont Ltd, which is the insurance and investment company that he worked for. They were a successful firm, but not a major player until a little more than ten years ago. Now, all of a sudden, they have offices all over the place, including all those countries I mentioned. He is not with them anymore, but suddenly he is a registered Washington lobbyist. Put two and two together Phelps.”
“So, you put two and two together and this somehow adds up to an Indian-Pakistani treaty?”
“Phelps, that’s no secret, that’s a selling point. That’s practically on his resume’.”
For a minute, both men were silent, as Phelps tried to digest the information he received, in an attempt to ferret out how much of it was actually the truth.
“All right, why in the hell would the CIA and those other agencies need lobbyists?”
“Partially for funding, but also for legal clauses-exclusions in bills that might regulate some of their more clandestine activities, especially those ones that ain’t necessarily in the public interest, if you know what I mean. Phelps, this guy knows how to get things done precisely because he knows the major players. Of course, there’s no way you can be involved in so much dirt without some mud sticking to you.”
“It still doesn’t make any sense,” Phelps insisted. “If he has that much influence then he can keep his name out of the public spotlight. This smells like some kind of facade.”
“All right, that’s a point,” Dietrich said. “I’ll look some more into it, but in the meantime, you need to get your ass back here quick.”
“Cant do that, Cruiser” he replied. “I’m on my way now to New Jersey. The only thing I am missing is the plane. Oh, that reminds me-check and see if he has any connection to Phillip Khoska and Voroslav Moloku.”
“Yeah, I’ll say there’s a connection,” Dietrich said. “Akito works for the same pharmaceutical company those clowns embezzled funds from. He is a lobbyist for them, too. Look, Phelps-wait a minute, why are you going to New Jersey?”
“I have an appointment with Khoska,” he replied.
“Now wait a minute”-
“I really have to go, Dietrich,” he said. “My plane leaves in an hour.”
“Phelps, wait, listen to this-Akito has been hired at the State Department. That is why all this was made public. Okay, now it all makes sense. Well, it does, but it does not. How would Grace be involved with somebody like this? Are you sure you gave me the right address? Are you sure you even pulled into the right driveway?”
“I’ll talk to you later, Cruiser,” Phelps said, not about to allow Cruiser Dietrich or anyone else to talk him out of a story that could finally be his big ticket out of the tabloids and into the relatively respectable business of actual journalism. He already had his ticket to New Jersey, so all he had to do now was arrange for transportation once he got there. He quickly found the Alamo Car Rental agency and arranged for a vehicle to be waiting for him upon his arrival. He left his van in the lot, making sure he left nothing behind before he locked it up and made his way toward the terminal.
Cruiser called him four times by the time he caught the plane, and another three by the time he touched down in New Jersey. When he finally made it off the plane, he decided he had better call the old fart one more time.
“Phelps, something ain’t right,” Cruiser insisted. “Why would Khoska agree to talk to you?”
“I know his father for one, and for another I know Grace,” he explained as he drove in his Alamo rental toward the home of Phillip Khoska, currently under house arrest pending an appearance before the Grand Jury.
“So in other words, you ain’t so much interviewing him as he is interviewing you,” Dietrich observed. “Boy, you had better watch your ass good.”
“I’m an expert at that, Cruiser,” he replied. “I got to get off of here for now. Hold the presses, boss. If this works out, you’re going to be publishing a story that might well be Pulitzer material.”
“With all the crap that’s been going on around Baltimore for the last few months you would think something would qualify for some kind of award,” Dietrich said. “I ain’t counting on it though. Just be careful.”
It was another twenty minutes before Phelps arrived at Phillip Khoska’s house, which impressed him with its sheer cold ostentation. This man wants the world to know he is rich, an irony in its own right seeing as to how he made an appreciable amount of it-allegedly, of course. That, of course, he wanted no one to know about, which was understandable owing to the fact the government would soon likely auction it off.
When he walked up to the front door, he looked around, almost positive one van and two cars parked down the street contained federal agents. He waved in their direction, shook his head, and rung the doorbell. He waited more than a minute before the door finally opened, and the younger wife of Phillip, whom he recognized from the papers and looking hard and cold, stuck her head out and asked what he wanted.
“I’m Everett Phelps, from the Baltimore Examiner,” he replied. “I have an appointment with your husband.”
“Good,” she replied. “You can keep him company while I finish packing. I am out of here in thirty minutes, maybe less. You can come on in if you want.”
Ordinarily, Phelps would consider a woman like this one cold bitch, but under the circumstances, he could hardly blame her, though he found it hard to have much sympathy for her. Had he not known already her name was Pamela, he might expect her to introduce herself as “Buffy”.
He entered the house, which overwhelmed him with a sense of solitude and despair. There was no furniture outside of a love seat and one recliner with an end table. The wall was devoid of clocks, mirrors, or pictures. There was not even a throw rug on the bare, hard wood floor, which looked previously carpeted, owing to lack of waxing. There was not so much as an ashtray, and so Pamela walked back toward the den flicking her ashes on the floor.
“Oh, Phillip, love of my life, you have company, break out the chips and dip,” she said sarcastically. Yeah, she is a cold bitch at that, he thought.
Then, they both reacted to the sound of a loud crack, the sound of a gunshot, and looked at each other in a unified look of stunned awareness.
“Mr. Khoska, are you all right?” Phelps asked. Pamela tried the door only to find it locked from the inside.
“Phillip!” she shouted. “Oh shit, mister, we have to do something.”
“Get away from the door,” he ordered. “You’d better call 911.”
She moved, and Phelps, after ramming his shoulder against the door several times, began to kick. After the fourth time, he threw his entire weight against it, and again, and a third time, but the fourth time finally sent the door flying open. Phelps lunged into the room sideways from the force of his lunge, and there was Phillip Khoska lying on the floor with a derringer at his side, a pool of blood at the back of his head.
He heard Pamela rummaging through her bags and assumed she was attempting to retrieve her cell phone, but he saw the phone on a table in what was evidently a private study.
He placed a call to 911, and wondered whether he should call Dietrich. First, he had to take some pictures. He took a series of them, and then noticed something. Khoska moved, and groaned. He breathed in deep, short gasps. Phillip Khoska was still alive.
“Mr. Khoska,” he said. “It’s me, Greg Phelps. Don’t try to talk or move. Someone should be here shortly.”
“The-phone-erase-the tape,” he said urgently and in obvious pain.
“What are you talking about?” he said, but then Khoska opened his eyes and seemed disturbed when he saw for the first time Phelps standing over him. He angled his eyes over toward the phone. Phelps went to the phone, but then Pamela entered, took one look at her husband lying there on the floor, and screamed.
“Mrs. Khoska, you really shouldn’t be in here right now,” Phelps said. “I already called 911, an ambulance and the cops should be here in a few minutes. You should really wait outside.”
“Is-he dead?” she asked but then saw he was in fact still alive, if barely. Then, before Phelps could move or speak another word, she was at his side, begging him to hold on until help arrived.
“You can’t die now,” she insisted. Phelps considered this display based probably not on concern or affection so much as a determination to secure her portion of community property, which would probably be considerable, even if the government took at least ninety percent of it. There was even a better than average chance he had more in offshore accounts she was after.
“You’d better go outside and wait for them,” he advised her. “I think I can keep him going until they get here, but I need space, and I need to keep him calm.”
She looked at him, then rose and stomped out of the room, for which Phelps was grateful. He walked over toward the phone, and noticed Khoska seemed desperately forming words at his lips. Phelps watched him carefully, and could make out the silent, deliberately slow accentuation of his lips.
“Grace-machine.”
Phelps played the answering machine, which yet contained one recent message.
“Hello, Phillip-you know who this is. It is over, after all this time. You lost. Soon, everything will come out-everything that you ever did, not only to me but to others as well. Your life is over. You have lost everything. Your family is gone now, and so is your money. You have nothing left to live for. Watch the DVD, Mr. Khoska. Click on the link. When you are through, do the right thing. For once in your life-just do the right thing.”
Phelps erased the tape. He then walked over to the DVD player under the plasma screen television, and ejected the DVD. He knew he had the right thing when he saw the name of it-Rappin’ With The Chairman by Toby Da Pimp. What would a man like Phillip Khoska be doing with something like this, he wondered. More ominously, what could possibly convince him to kill himself in such a fashion? Then, he saw the box, opened on the end table where Khoska had sat. He looked at it and saw that whoever addressed it to him had included no return address. He was no firearms expert, but the indentation inside the carved oak box told him all he needed to know. Someone had sent Phillip Khoska the Derringer in this box, obviously with the expectation he would do exactly what he had done.
Yet, why a Derringer? They were notoriously inefficient. John Wilkes Booth assassinated Lincoln with a Derringer, true enough-but the sixteenth president lingered for hours before he finally died. Even now, Phelps could hear the distant yet approaching sounds of ambulances. Khoska would more than likely survive, may even conceivable make a full recovery. It made no sense.
As the ambulance even now pulled up in the driveway, Phillip leaned down toward the yet conscious Phillip Khoska, who struggled to keep his eyes open.
“Mr. Khoska, why did Grace want you to shoot yourself?” he demanded. “What is this all about?”
Khoska finally strained to speak, desperately trying to tell Phelps something-but what?
“Warn-my father,” he said with an urgently strained whisper.
Phelps kept his eyes peeled on Khoska, hoping for more information. What should he warn Aleksandre Khoska about that the old Orthodox Priest already did not know about, or at least did not strongly suspect?
“Warn him about what?” Phelps said, as even now he heard the sounds of footsteps through the opening door.
“Daniel,” Khoska said with a voice now already so weakened he seemed barely strong enough to speak above a whisper.
“Berry-is going-to kill him,” he continued, as suddenly a team of EMT personnel entered the room followed by an officer of the New Jersey State Police.
“Mr. Khoska, what are you talking about? Who’s Daniel?”
The EMT’s however quickly took over, before Khoska could respond. They were all over Khoska, in fact, and fromthe looks of him, it was unlikely at this point Khoska could have responded anyway. He seemed to be fading fast. Now, a police officer was questioning Phelps. Luckily for him Buffy was here when the shot was fired, he considered. Otherwise, he might be in for a long night.
The police were suspicious of Phelps, but allowed him to leave after four hours of questioning. They could not seem to comprehend why Phillip Khoska would agree to an interview with a muckraking photographer-a paparazzi, of all things-when he on the advice of legal counsel denied all interview requests from legitimate journalists. The fact that he just happened to be present during a suicide attempt looked all the more suspicious, despite the fact that Phelps made the 911 call.
Before he returned to Baltimore, he went to the hospital where Khoska now lingered on life support, having lapsed into and out of, and finally back into a coma from which he was yet to recover. The hospital called Aleksandre Khoska, but Phelps thought he as well should phone the old Priest. He did so, but Aleksandre seemed coldly uninterested in the fate of his wayward son.
“I am glad he survived, of course,” he said. “Perhaps he will recover sufficiently to see to the welfare of his soul, though I tend to doubt it. There is nothing I can do for him regardless.”
Phelps now found himself in the incredible position of feeling pity for a man credibly accused of running a sex-slave ring, of child prostitution and internet child pornography, of drug smuggling, embezzlement of corporate funds, of money laundering, of murder, and God only knew what else. On the other hand, he tempered his sympathy with the knowledge that Phillip Khoska had, throughout his life, carved out a cold, hard niche for himself.
“He had something he wanted me to tell you,” Phelps said. “Do you know somebody named Daniel or have a relative by that name? If you do, according to him, our good friend Detective Berry is planning to kill him. He was adamant that I tell you about it.”
For a brief moment, Khoska was silent, though Phelps could discern a sudden audible gasp.
“Are you sure about this?” he finally asked.
“Well, that’s what he said anyway,” Phelps replied. To his dismay, Khoska told him he had to hang up, and did so before Phelps could respond.
“Son of a bitch!” he shouted.
By the time he made it back to Washington, where he quickly retrieved his van, he found himself listening to and watching the entirety of the DVD on his van’s player as he drove around Washington. Nothing he saw or heard made any sense to him. Why on earth would Phillip Khoska be interested in this kind of thug garbage?
Then he saw it, on what was supposed to be Da Pimp’s version of Strangers In The Night. It was the usual second rate, in Phelps’s opinion, rap rip-off. At one point, however, it featured a girl-a young, Oriental girl, dressed in nothing but a black leather thong and tank top, strolling down what seemed to be an unusually large alley between large and ramshackle tenement buildings, lined with junkies, winos and whores who regarded her curiously, as she made her way up to Toby. She had one line that she repeated several times as she looked around, and into the video camera.
“Lick-lick-lick-lick-lick-lick-lick-lick this,” she said-over, and over, and over again.
“I know I’ve seen you somewhere before,” he said, and backed up the tape. It then occurred to him that as she recited her one line, she seemed to indicate the area of her vagina, which seemed to have a subtle glow to it.
She would then walk up to Toby, who while reciting his rap, took her in his arms, turned her around, and shoved her into the arms of a waiting wino as he walked off continuing his rap while a background vocalist sung the chorus to the actual song in a falsetto voice.
Screw it, he decided. It probably had nothing to do with Khoska anyway. The DVD might well have belonged to his idiot wife. On the other hand, he had to remind himself to consider the unlikelihood of such a coincidence, especially when there was a connection between the Seventeenth Pulse and Khoska’s own cutthroat gang. There had to be a correlation, he decided.
He went to one of the DC area libraries and got on-line. While he was here, he decided he might as well check out the available information regarding the mysterious Edward Akito. This as well turned out to be a waste of time. Aside from a number of pictures of the Japanese man, including one with his late wife, there was nothing new. He decided he would return to Baltimore. Unfortunately, there was a problem. His van refused to start.
“Phelps, why don’t you just junk that damn thing,” Cruiser demanded when he called. “How the hell old is that thing anyway?”
“Look, it’s no big deal, according to the mechanic it’s probably the computer. Once I get that done, with a tune up it should be as good as new. Well, it should be good enough to get me back to Baltimore at least. In the meantime, I want you to see if you can hook me up with some kind of interview with somebody that knows this Akito.”
“Who do you think I am Phelps, Bob Woodward? I am telling you, this is not somebody that you can just have a casual off-the-record chat with, and he sure as hell ain’t going to tell you anything on the record. What would you ask him anyway? There is no conceivable reason to interview somebody like this to begin with. He is going in as an under-assistant secretary of some little niche agency at the State Department. I don’t think he even has to be confirmed by the Senate. He’s a minor player at best-technically speaking, of course.”
“Well, maybe some people in the government might be interested in his connection with Phillip Khoska, and with the Russian Mafia. I’m sure the President and his staff would find that highly interesting, to be sure, assuming they don’t already know it.”
“Yeah, as if-remember when I told you to watch your ass, Phelps? That is exactly what I was talking about. Come back to Baltimore, boy. Sometimes digging in the dirt will only make you dirty. If you ain’t real careful about six foot of it ends up on top of you-kapish?”
“Alright, damn, I’ll come back as soon as the van is fixed,” he promised.
Of course, Phelps intended to keep that promise, but in the meantime, he decided it couldn’t hurt to make some use of his time. He returned to the library and played the DVD, whereupon he made a discovery. The young Japanese girl seemed to be pointing to her crotch area as she recited her one repetitious line. He noticed something else-her crotch, for a brief instant, seemed to glow. Then, it finally occurred to Phelps.
“She’s saying “click this,” he said. Looking around, he decided to back up the DVD, and he did just that. It had the effect of pausing the DVD at first, but then something else happened. A new window seemed to open, and there was the girl, in the same alley, surrounded by shadowy, unseen figures. She was now naked, apparently in a great deal of pain, bruised and bloody. She had obviously been badly beaten, and probably raped. Her eyes glared with pain, humiliation, desperation, and abject terror. She seemed to force herself to look into the camera. Then, as Phelps thought he could hear an animal growling in the background, she spoke.
“Long live the Seventeenth Pulse. Long live Securitate. Long live The Sacred Order Of The Dragon. Long live The True Church Of The Sacred Blood Of The Crucified And Resurrected Lord Jesus Christ. Death to the heresy of the false church and world governments. Please, forgive me my sins on this night of my death.”
She broke down and cried pitifully as suddenly, the animals came into view. There were dogs, countless numbers of them, ranging from pit bulls, Doberman Pinschers, and other breeds, which all ripped mercilessly into the hapless girl, ripping her to shreds in a matter of under a minute, as she begged to no avail.
As Phelps watched in an aura of helpless confusion and dismay, he found himself unable yet to turn from the computer screen as the window closed and returned to the exact spot at which he clicked on the hidden link. Phelps now once more looked upon the revolting face of Dwayne Lecher.
“You son-of-a-bitch,” he hissed.
He walked back outside the library and phoned Cruiser, who was now adamant that he return to Washington.
“Do you know what has happened?”
“Khoska is dead?”
“No, Khoiska is still in a coma. The FBI is looking for you now. What in the hell is wrong with you? Why did you erase the message on Khoska’s answering machine? Do you think you can get away with stuff like that?”
Phelps muttered under his breath as he tried to block out the sound of Cruiser’s rant.
“Never mind that, Cruiser,” he said. “I’m sending you a copy of a DVD. Check your e-mail. Pay attention to the version of Strangers In The Night. There’s a girl there, a Chinese girl. When she keeps saying “lick this”, move your browser over her crotch and click it. It’s a hyper-link to a snuff film. It’s incredible. I’m not sure, but I think the girl is Susan Chou-in fact I’m positive that’s who she is.”
“My God, Phelps, are you serious?” he asked. “Is that what you took from Khoska’s house? Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, they are after you for that too. You need to get in here right now, boy. We’ll try to work something out for you.”
“Fine, I’ll be there, but first you have to promise me that you’ll look at the DVD, and the link. Please.”
Dietrich promised him he would do so, and Phelps told him he was on his way back to Baltimore. By the time he found a cab and made it to the garage, his van was ready, and so he drove off as he wondered if he could possibly make it to The Examiner’s office building before the feds picked him up. He might be in real trouble, but he could not afford to worry about that now. He had tried to protect Grace while in the process of undertaking his own investigation. He told himself Grace was a witless pawn in over her head. Now he wanted to ring her neck. How could he have been so stupid?
By the time he made it back to Baltimore, it was approaching nightfall, and he decided to make one quick stop at the now almost completely restored Krovell Funeral Home. He knew from searching Grace’s apartment earlier that there was a connection in some way with the people involved in that business. Martin and Louise Krovell especially were under suspicion since the death fo Grady Desmond. He parked far enough away for no one to see him-he hoped-and he waited.
Soon, and luckily from another direction, he saw the car of Lieutenant James Barry pull up to the front of the building. He had someone with him-a female. He zoomed in with his camera lens, and saw, to his horror, there was a third person in the back seat. It was a young girl, who looked as though bound in some manner. Suddenly, he saw someone else standing outside the funeral home.
Marlowe Krovell, he realized, was alive. It was him, standing outside the house, in plain sight, and looking very anxious, as Phelps began shooting roll after roll of pictures. The woman who rode with Barry looked to be in horrible shape, yet she seemed well at the same time, though she walked with a stiff gait. The girl cried. Phelps called Cruiser on the phone.
“Now where in the hell are you?” Dietrich demanded. “Damn you boy, are you determined to be charged with a federal crime? I’m telling you one more time to get your ass in here now-pronto!”
“I’m sending you some pictures, Cruiser, of Marlowe Krovell and James Berry. There’s a couple of other people too, a young girl and some woman that looks like something out of the pits of hell. I don’t know what’s going on here Cruiser, but I think the girl is in danger. You should call the police as soon as you can. Have you seen the DVD yet?”
“Yeah, I saw it,” he said. “You’re right, it’s the Chou girl. Your pictures just came over. Hold on. You need to get away from there though, it might be dangerous there.”
However, Marlowe had disappeared, and so had the girl. Now, Barry and the strange, horrid looking woman got back into Barry’s car and drove off toward the same direction from which they arrived. Phelps hurriedly continued shooting the pictures of the back of the car, being especially careful to capture Barry’s license plate.
“Phelps then left, and made his way toward the Examiner office. He knew it would be a waste of time attempting to return to his own apartment. He considered briefly the idea of going to Grace’s apartment, since he did have a key, but decided that would be risky as well.
As soon as he got to Phelps’s office, he turned over the original DVD. Suddenly, Cruiser seemed delighted.
“That was great work, boy,” he said. “You really had me going for awhile. I think you’re off your rocker about Krovell, though. You do need to get some rest.”
“I know it was Krovell-I saw him with my own two eyes. He’s on the film. You can see for yourself.”
“That’s just the thing, I did see it. Well, you were right about Barry at least,” Cruiser said. “I don’t know who the other people are, but if the other man is supposed to be Marlowe Krovell, he sure has changed a hell of a lot. I guess death will change a person, but this is a little much.”
He handed Phelps the newly developed photos, copies Phelps e-mailed him earlier. While Barry, the strange woman, and the apparently kidnapped girl looked the same, the person he took as Marlowe had decidedly changed. Instead of Marlowe Krovell, he now looked upon the form of a man who looked to be in his fifties, yet with dried leathery skin that in death would easily pass as mummified. His hair was long, thick, wavy, and blonde. The only resemblance to Marlowe was the eyes, which showed up now the same bright green. In his own way, he looked even more horrible than the woman, who looked worse in the photo than she did from the distance at which Phelps saw her in person. She looked, in effect, not only to be a walking corpse, but one at a preliminary stage of decomposition.
“I don’t know what in the hell is going on here, Cruiser, but its some bad shit.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” the old editor replied. “I ran some of these pictures through our database of photos. That woman came back as Raven Randall. I would almost have to say that is just as impossible as the man being Marlowe as you insisted. The only thing about that is, it just so happens that, by the way, her body is missing from the morgue. Her corpse was one of those the morgue was checking for signs of post mortem sexual abuse by Brad Marlowe. Well, evidently, if that was true, it gives a completely new meaning to the term “waking the dead.”
“So, this is it,” Phelps said. “I’m here, just like you insisted. I guess I’m toast. Go ahead and call the feds. I’m ready.”
“I wish I didn’t have to do this, Phelps,” he said. “Still, if I don’t go along with them I could face a charge myself. I promise you, I’ll make sure you have access to the best lawyer I can get you. Just don’t lie to them about anything. Tampering with evidence is a serious charge under any jurisdiction. Don’t make it worse by engaging in perjury, by lying to the FBI in the course of a federal investigation. You’re just lucky that the New Jersey Police answered the 911 call you put in-which, by the way, is another thing in your favor. The Feds don’t really have a reason to charge you. Don’t give them a reason, boy, I’m begging you. If you play your cards right, they can get you out of hot water with the New Jersey authorities.”
“I think I need to go out and have a smoke before they get here,” Phelps said.
“Phelps”-
“I promise, I’m not going to run away,” he assured the old editor.
“All right,” Dietrich said. “Go on, I’ll give you ten minutes before I call.”
Phelps reluctantly walked out and lit up a Winston. He breathed in deeply. How could he have let things get so out of control, and all for Grace Rodescu at that? He was under no illusions about her. Grace would hang him or anyone else out to dry without a second thought, if the price was right. Fore that matter, it would not have to be an astronomical sum before it qualified as “right”.
It was now dark, and Phelps felt as though someone watched his every move. It was cold, too, and as he inhaled the cold air along with the thick warm smoke of his cigarette, it hurt his lungs. He coughed harshly. He wanted to go back inside. Surely Cruiser wouldn’t deny him the time and space to have one smoke in comfort. Before he made it to the door, he realized someone moved behind him. He could feel the presence of another person. He turned, and there he was.
It was a man, judging by his size, in a dark gray burlap robe. He could make out no features through the hood, as the streetlight seemed to illuminate only the shadows of the hood that hid his features.
“Who in the hell are you?” he asked.
The man gave no answer, but Phelps could see his eyes, glowing like red-hot embers, burning into him, piercing into his consciousness, making him uncomfortably hot despite the cold night Baltimore air.
“I asked you a question-who the hell are you?”
Phelps was suddenly paralyzed, and found it impossible to turn from the burning gaze of the man. Soon, his features came into focus. Phelps realized then, as he looked upon his terrible, ungodly countenance-he somehow knew this man. He came closer to him, walking slowly and yet steadily towards him. Phelps wanted to run, but could not, as the man, with a speed that belied his seemingly ponderous size, seized him by the neck and, with an iron grip under his chin, hoisted him off the ground with one hand, as Phelps flailed helplessly in the air. At first he made several ineffectual attempts to strike back, to kick, but it was all to no avail. The man kept his eyes focused on Phelps’s own eyes, as Phelps saw his entire life flashing before him. He saw the time he was a kid in the second grade. One of the older kids, a twelve year old, caught him after school and held him up in the same manner and shook him until Phelps, in front of everyone in school, it seemed, pissed all over himself.
He saw the time his own father did the same thing to him when he came home and caught him beating his mother, and remembered how he threatened to beat him to a pulp if he ever told anyone. He saw then how later on his father gave him his first camera for his birthday, and how he used to go all over Baltimore taking pictures of street scenes. Later, he would sell pictures of dating couples at the outdoor cafes. He tried to open his first photography studio, a business venture that ended in failure and debt-until he started work as a freelance news photographer, a job that led to his first and only full time job with the Examiner.
He saw all of these things, in the flash of an instant, his life in pictures, a still-life collage, distilled down to enough snapshots to fill a shoebox, but otherwise, a life of little substance.
Now, he was helpless, and limp as a dishcloth, until he found himself laid out on the sidewalk, barely conscious. He wondered now-who am I? He looked around and saw no one. He vaguely remembered a man in a gray robe and hood. Where did he go? Had he seen him at all? Why could he not remember where he was? Why could he not remember who he was?
“Your name is Phelps, right?”
He looked around to see the large black man reaching toward him with his tattoo-marked wrist, while looking at him earnestly. Of course, he was right. His name was Phelps.
“Yeah,” he replied. “That’s me. Do I know you?”
The man shook his head in the affirmative.
“Come on, man,” he said. “I’ve been sent to take you home. You’ve had a hard night. You’ll be alright after a little rest.”
The man motioned toward the open door of the vehicle. Phelps rose, but he was shaky and weak, so the man helped steady him. He helped him to the Land Rover. Phelps got in and, after the man closed the door, he got behind the wheel and drove away.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
A Probably Crazy Fucking Idea
The Hydra picture above is one I am thinking of using as the header picture for a new blog I am thinking of starting. It's not one I am wanting to do instead of this one, but in addition to it. In fact, I will have little to do with it. The idea behind this blog is one I got while reading the constant sniping that goes on between two readers and commenters of another blog. The idea is to start a blog, and add these two guys, in addition to others, as team members. Let them just go at each other about anything and everything they want, with no holds barred.
If anyone would be interested let me know. Of course the caveat is these two guys would both have to agree to it, but I don't think they will. I don't think either of them took me seriously when I brought the subject up. Well, I was very serious. I think it could be a big hit.
The only rule I can think of right now would be no "mommy blogs", or "what I ate for breakfast" shit. Porn would be fine as long as it's not illegal shit or doesn't turn into a spam center. Oh yeah, that goes for spam of any kind. Otherwise, people can feel free to tear each other new assholes if they want.
I think it would be cool myself. One guy is a Trotskyist, the other a US government official of some sort who bills himself as a social liberal who no longer has a home in the Democratic Party and is a Giuliani supporter. If they would join as team members, and I can get others to join in the fun, it would be worth the effort, I'm sure.
If anybody has any thoughts, let me know. More than likely though, I doubt I'll go through with it unless I can get some kind of commitment from them, and hopefully a few others as well.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
New Hampshire Primary Assessment-Where Do We Go From Here?
Hillary’s show of emotion during a town hall format question and answer period showed what is portrayed as a warmer, more feminine side that she previously seemed unwilling, possible unable, to show. At the same time, she managed to put this across as concern for the country, as opposed to taking her prior defeat by Obama personally.
At the same time, this did not denigrate her renowned steely resolve as much as enhance it. Hilary Clinton is seen by her staunchest supporters, and to an extent justifiably so, as a person much like Margaret Thatcher in her strength of character and determination, if not in her political beliefs.
So, where is all of this going from here? Frankly, there is a good chance now that Obama will lose South Carolina. If he does, he is finished. It would be a mistake to consider him the odds on favorite to win that state based on the majority black Democratic population. There are two things to consider. One is that the Clintons are themselves well liked by the black Democratic population in general. Another that may be just as pertinent to South Carolina, and to southern blacks in general, is the Clintons may have a secret weapon by the name of Harold Ford Jr.
Since his defeat in the Tennessee Senate race in 2006, Ford has gone on to become the chairman of the Democratic Leadership Committee, the moderate Democratic group co-founded by Bill Clinton, who still exerts a great influence on the group. Look for Ford-in the background of course-to call in favors amongst the leadership of southern black Democrats, among whom he is very influential.
Of course, Obama might yet still pull out a victory, which he definitely needs before Super Tuesday rolls around. When that day comes, the only sure safe state for Obama is Illinois-where he has the fabled Chicago Democratic machine at his disposal-and arguably California and Michigan. Those last two states, however, are by no means certain, especially Michigan if John Edwards is still on the ballot.
There is actually a good chance that, if Obama fails to win South Carolina and preferably one or two more states, he might well withdraw and throw his support behind Edwards, especially if he wins no states at all between now and then. Even if he does, ti might well be too late by then to stop what might be a Hillary steamroller. His name will still be on the ballot, after all, and his more faithful supporters will vote for him or no on else, regardless of his stated wishes.
There is also a chance he could throw his weight behind Hillary if he perceives the inevitability of a Clinton nomination.
In all likelihood, however, by the time Super Tuesday comes along, Hillary will have the nomination sewed up.
At any rate there were two other factors in her victory in New Hampshire. A good lot of the Democratic voters were undecided until practically the last minute, and sometime during that brief snapshot in time, decided on Hillary.
Finally, the independent voters of the state, who could vote in one or the other party primaries, opted to vote for John McCain in the Republican race instead of Obama in the Democratic one.
That brings us to the Republican results. So far, out of three state contests, we have three separate winners. Huckabee won Iowa, Romney won Wyoming, and McCain won New Hampshire on the strength of the independent voters of the state. It is still, technically, anybody’s race, but it would seem as though the race for the Republican nomination is shaping up as between Mitt Romney and Rudy Giuliani, with Mike Huckabee playing the role of spoiler. Due to his influence, I give a slight edge to Giuliani. Huckabee’s supporters would be unlikely to vote for Giuliani, at least in the primary, and as long as he is in the race, Huckabee will siphon votes from Romney.
However, Romney absolutely has to win Michigan, or you can stick a fork in him. Most people, even most conservative Republicans, see Romney as a smooth, practiced, polished politico who might be a bit of a phony, and every bit the flip-flopper as John Kerry. His support thus far is a distillation of the idea that he is the only true conservative who, at this point, stands a chance of winning. Yet, even his conservative views seem questionable, and self-serving, given his former record as governor of Massachusetts. Moreover, most voters view him as outright attempting to buy the nomination. Voters to a large degree automatically resent this. Because of all these factors, as well as some dismay amongst some circles as to his Mormon faith, his support is shallow at best.
By the same token nobody outside the evangelical, socially conservative Christians likes or trusts Mike Huckabee. The depth of his support outside that faction is almost non-existent. He might well win in South Carolina, and a handful of other states with a large evangelical movement, but if he does, as I say, it will be at Romney’s expense. He might even conceivably throw one or two of these states over into Giuliani’s column, as unlikely as that seems for now.
I do not want to count Fred Thompson out of the race yet. If he can pull off a win in South Carolina, and do well in others, he might well do considerably above expectations on Super Tuesday. In order for this to occur, however, two things have to happen as I see it. One, he has to win South Carolina, and preferably one or two others. The second thing is Mitt Romney has to lose Michigan, and afterwards drop out of the race.
I simply cannot see McCain being a factor in any place besides possibly Michigan, unless it would be Arizona. That is by no means a sure thing for him, despite the fact it is his home state.
It is actually very conceivable that the nomination will be undecided by the time the Republican primary rolls around. If so, whoever has the third most delegates-more than likely this will be Huckabee, possibly McCain-will be in the role of king maker. A Huckabee or even a McCain Vice-Presidential slot is not out of the question, and is actually likely, under a Giuliani or Thompson ticket-not so much under a Romney, who would doubtless opt for Thompson, at least the way things stand now.
As for the Democrats, is there any possibility of a Clinton-Obama ticket? It would seem unlikely, but stranger things have happened. Politics after all is partly the art of the practical. There are few if any dream teams in reality. When it comes to the promise of power, politicians of all stripe have one quality that distinguishes them above the common folk-the have an inner resolve that translates to all outward appearances into very thick skin
Monday, January 07, 2008
Not That I'm Bragging Or Anything, But-
What can I say? When I get it right, I really get it right. On the other hand, I avoided making my usual prediction of a terrorist attack purposely timed to coincide with a Mars retrograde opposition to the Sun, and of course, the shit hits the fan in Pakistan. Benazir Bhutto was assassinated there, apparently by Al-Queda terrorists, just two days after Christmas, and four days or so after the opposition.
In the meantime, there has been a volcanic eruption in Chile, and I think another is expected in Nicaragua.
Anyway, if you are or have been in one of the areas affected by the winter blizzards and extreme cold, stay warm, and good luck. Remember, I'm only the messenger. Well, okay, it was a lucky guess. Maybe.
Tim Russert-Fucktard With An Agenda
Who does this fucking guy think he is? Look, if no one wants to believe me that he is trying his damndest to promote John McCain, that's fine. All I ask is that you watch this fuckhead. Bear in mind, it wouldn't bother me so much if he would just come out and say "I'm for John McCain, and here's why." Or even if he just said, "I'm for John McCain, and fuck you if you don't like it." But no, this greasy fatass has got to play coy and act like he's an objective journalist and reporter just giving the facts. Yeah, bullshit.
Fuck the Bills, too.
Britney Loves Michael-A Perfect Match
The above photo is from an appearance in 1999, in which Michael Jackson apeared with Britney Spears in a duet of Jackson's hit single The Way You Make Me Feel.
It has given me an idea that this could well be the next up-and-coming couple of the year-Britney Spears and Michael Jackson. This might have actually been the starting point. It was not too long after this joint appearance that Michael Jackson's troubles soon began in earnest, while Britney's fortunes were just beginning to rise.
Soon, it seemed as though his life was a constant runaway train, running out of control, while she could do no wrong. Soon, Jackson was done. Then, when it seemed as though no one could ever top his shenanigans, Britney quickly began her own downward spiral, until it has gotten to the point where she is what and where she is today.
What would be more natural than for the two of them to begin together, to put their lives back together-well, together.
It would be a match made in paparazzi heaven. Britney would get to meet wealthy Arab princes and sheiks from Dubai. She would get a quick infusion of cash investments toward a real comeback. She would probably get quite a few infusions of other things as well-like multiple semen samples, for example.
They could also do albums together, and videos. They could do a concert tour. It might just be the shot in the arm both Britney and Michael need, both for their careers and their personal lives. Can you imagine that marriage? That would be the biggest wedding since Charles and Diana.
Moreover, when Britney wanted to go out and party, she could do so, secure in the knowledge that that great lover of children, Michael Jackson, would gladly baby sit her two precious little boys. Ex-husband Kevin Federline would probably be willing to work out a renewal of joint custody. Why would he not? Hell, just offer him a guest vocalist gig on the new albums first single.
Please, Michael and Britney-do this. Get married-please. A new world awaits you both. For that matter, so does the old one. Don't let all your adoring fans down.
Controller-In-Chief
What kind of experience does Hillary Clinton possess that make her supporters think she is qualified to be President of the
Sure, she has met foreign leaders and knows all the major players of the
Many people assume that a Hillary presidency would be a resumption and continuation of the Presidency of Bill Clinton. I honestly believe nothing could be further from the truth. Well, I should qualify that. It might well be a continuation of certain aspects of the first
I will just come right out and say it-Hillary’s major experience, throughout almost the entirety of her public career, can be summed up thusly-she spent her time controlling Bill Clinton. She spent her time controlling mainly his personal life, and doing what amounted to a very heavy-handed and yet behind-the-scenes damage control during those times when she failed to control him. Those times, evidently, appear to be numerous.
Imagine the situation in a different context-suppose Bill Clinton were a movie or rock star. Think of him as the kind of guy who would have innumerable groupies, orgies, drug parties. Imagine all the trouble he could potentially get into. Think of the hotel rooms vandalized or set on fire, or with holes kicked in walls and windows broken. Look at the potential for lawsuits over various questionable activities. Then, along comes Hillary, with her pay-offs, her bribes, threats, and media spin-the ultimate manager. She would be the one to reel him in, to bring him back in line-cold, hard, and practical.
It is one thing to have somebody like that in the capacity as First Lady, doing damage control, but with no legitimate power of her own over affairs of state. It is something else quite again to give somebody like that actual power and control. To put it bluntly, that is exactly the kind of president she would be-the ultimate control freak.
She would run the nation and affairs of state-and by extension would attempt to run the citizenry of the nation-in the exact same manner she tried to run the day-to-day life of William Jefferson Clinton, with varying degrees of success. Her heavy hand and thick ankles would come crashing down on every aspect of American life, from what we (and especially our children) read, write, watch, listen to, eat, drink, smoke, all the way down to what and how much we drive, and how much exercise we get on a daily basis.
It would not be pretty-and no matter how much he tried, Bill Clinton would never be able to put a human face on it. Well, there is nothing human about it, so how could he? Sure, certain things might be good, or better, on a policy level in certain respects. The economy and foreign affairs might see some probably minor improvement in general and there might well be needed policy initiatives and accomplishments that might ease the pain.
On the other hand, at what price would these come, assuming they did (which is actually a big assumption)? Personally, I do not think it would be worth the price, and I am unwilling to pay it. I urge anyone who would even consider voting for Hilary Clinton for President of the
During Bill Clinton’s second term of office, Hillary already started the long torturous process of trying to change her image to the American people. She began a public relations campaign geared toward the protection and preservation of early American artifacts, such as the Liberty Bell, the Constitution, the Declaration of Independence, etc. It was an effort to make her appear to respect those institutions that define us as a nation.
Well, I would love to own an original Benjamin Franklin stove. I doubt, though, that I would ever use it. I am very much afraid that will be Hillary Clinton’s attitude toward the Constitution. Do not ever leave it out where it can get in the way. Put it up somewhere where it is out of sight-you know, where it is safe. You can always bring it out when it is convenient to do so-you know, when you want to make a good impression.
What Makes Fred Run-And Why He's Wasting His Time
1. The media-who have been downplaying his candidacy from day one, and have even attempted to sabotage his campaign by the release of unsubstantiated rumors meant to suppress the vote for him. Example-Tim Russert has recently all but become the spokesman for the McCain campaign, suggesting that Thompson might soon withdraw and throw his support behind McCain. He did this during a broadcast of NBC Nightly News, on the night of the Iowa caucus. Three days later, on Meet The Press, he conducted a favorable "interview" segment with McCain, just two days before the New Hampshire primary, in which he trumpeted McCain's lead in the polls.
2. The power players in the Republican Party itself. I'm telling you for a fact-they don't want him. They know that Thompson is not interested in the politics as usual, pay-the-piper king making that goes along with traditional party politics. Thompson wants to do what he honestly feels is right for the country-whether or not that happens to coincide with the interests of the Washington elites.
3. Fred Thompson himself-he's just not made for the dirt ball politics that make or break a candidate. He wants to make his case, he wants you to listen thoughtfully to what he has to say, and make your decision. Then, providing he wins your support, he wants to go about the business of doing what's right for the country, with no nonsense and no strings attached. Because of the way he is, Fred Thompson is not going to kiss your babies-or your ass.
4. Fred Thompson is a Federalist-He doesn't just talk the talk, he walks the walk. Unfortunately, most of the people in power don't view the philosophy as anything more than than a curious anachronism, at best. They don't want it-or him.
As such, my advice to Thompson supporters is as follows-write, e-mail, and phone your Republican Party officials on all levels and express your support for the Thompson campaign. That is the only chance that his campaign will ever get off the ground. If the Party apparatchiks are willing to support him and stand by him-or at the very least accept him-then he has a chance. If they do not, then he has no chance. It is just that simple.
Then, let Thompson himself know that you expect him to run his campaign as though he wants to win it. If he does that, he might just pull it off. Stranger things have happened. Just take a look at his wife.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
The Romneylan Empire And Its Wounded Bird Of Pray
Of course, the Romney campaign is not exactly dead yet, but it's damn sure on life support. His opponents for the Republican nomination smell blood and, in the last Republican debate, moved in for the kill.
When Romney chided Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee, telling him to not mischaracterize a certain one of his positions, Huckabee asked "which one?"
John McCain added that, although he disagreed with Romney on many things, one thing he would have to agree on is that "you sure are the candidate of change."
Romney is obviously beleaguered by these assaults, and he had better pull it together. If he can't stand up to these kinds of attacks, he is doomed. Don't think for one minute that questions, reservations, and suspicions about his membership in the Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints is settled-far from it. Among many things he will be questioned about, like it or not, will be his beliefs that-
*A man named Hinckley, the present day President of the Church, is a modern day prophet who speaks infallibly for God (and who incidentally does not believe in separation of church and state).
*God was once a man, and now lives on a distant planet.
*Mormons are so big on genealogy because they believe they are called to baptize all those people now dead who ever lived-including all non-Mormons-and they do this by way of surrogates.
*The Garden of Eden was once in Missouri, which will soon be the center of a coming world capital (though the spiritual capitol will be Jerusalem).
That is just a small sample. There is more, much more, and if Romney goes much further, he will eventually be faced with serious questions from those who have reservations about electing a man who holds such inordinate beliefs. That he believes them in and of itself might be a miniscule factor were it not for the fact that his family is high up in the leadership of the church.
His father, George Romney, was the first cousin of a man who once held the position of President of the most august body within the leadership of the LDS, known as The Twelve Apostles. Among their responsibilities is electing the President of the Church from within their own membership, and funding proselytization efforts.
His reaction to his loss in Iowa the other night was obviously one of barely disguised disappointment, which is understandable. His reaction to attacks on him during the debate was one of obvious frustration.
I don't know whether or not he has been wearing his magic underwear the last few nights. If so, judging from his reactions at the debate, I think they probably need a good ritual cleansing.
John McCain-A Crazy Candidate For A Crazy Party
The McCain candidacy is suddenly resurgent after months on life support. It is accurate and yet simplistic to assess this revival as due to his previous stands on The Surge, which to many now seems prescient. Though there is a great amount of truth to this, there are other reasons that might be even more vital. In fact there are three reasons why I think John McCain stands a very good chance of being the next nominee for President on the Republican Party.
1. The media loves him. Tim Russert in particular seems to go out of his way to promote him.
2. The voters want a man of experience in all areas of government. John McCain meets this qualification.
3. The voters want, even more importantly, a candidate who seems to be honest and promises change.
When you add all these factors in, you can see that all it would take for McCain to be well on his way to winning the GOP nomination would be a decisive win in New Hampshire this Tuesday. Then, the money will start pouring in to his campaign. That is for now his weakest area. His campaign is almost destitute when it comes to cash on hand. A convincing win might well change his fortunes in that regard as well.
Of course, he would still have to reassure a good many of the Republican faithful who see him as a "RINO" (Republican in name only). This is true not only of the conservative base of the party, but the power brokers as well.
There is another reason, however, that McCain stands a good chance. He might well be a perfect reflection of the Republican Party as a whole. Like the Party, John McCain might be a person with a fractured, fragmented personality. Of all the candidates, he might be the one who can glue together all those fractured pieces into a illusory semblance of a sane entity.
On the other hand-well, maybe not.