Radu-Chapter XXXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

All previous installments are listed at the end of this chapter
Radu-Chapter XXXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
13 pages approximate

Phillip Khoska watched intently the replay of the Senate Select Committee on International Crime-for the third time, as though seeing it for the first time live, with no knowledge of what was about to happen. He knew, of course, that Greg Morrison would soon conclude his testimony. He realized that Morrison had completely absolved him of any wrongdoing perpetrated by employees and associates within his company, conducted supposedly without his knowledge or participation. His own family was unfortunately involved, including his ex-wife, now dead along with his children and grandchildren, all of them murdered along with her second husband-supposedly-in a gruesome Christmas Eve massacre.

Elaine Khoska, Morrison testified, had been a pivotal part of the operation headed by Phillip’s brother-in-law, Varoslav Moloku, along with his wife Dorothy and daughter Marnie-Phillips sister and niece, respectively. It was a conspiracy, said Morrison, that reached into the corridors of power, involving Morrison along with his late father Randall, from the time the disgraced Baltimore Assemblyman had been a mere minor.

The real mastermind, he testified, had been Jason Talbert, the Wall Street financier and international broker, whose sudden and unexpected death set off a power struggle within the cabal that had so surreptitiously infested Khoska’s legitimate company and financial holdings. They corrupted many, from Khoska’s own wife, to powerful politicians and journalists such as Grady Desmond, on down to decorated police officers such as Baltimore Police Department Lieutenant James Berry. Phillip Khoska, he asserted, despondent over the charges leveled against him in the aftermath of the brutal murder of his entire family, made an ultimately unsuccessful attempt on his own life.

At one point, Morrison began looking at his watch, then looking nervously all around him, as though in expectation of something that seemed destined to not come about. He became obviously annoyed and anxious, yet strangely relieved. One of the committee members was at this point in the process of inquiring as to whether Morrison knew of the current whereabouts of Marnie Moloku, or of James Berry, when he took note of Morrison’s strange behavior and inquired as to whether he was well.

Khoska could almost hear Morrison through the television wondering when the damn bombs were going to drop. As unfortunate as it was that this part of the plan failed, Khoska could not help but feel some amusement at his obviously bizarre reaction. Had he been aware, he would likely not have been so willing to follow the script as rehearsed. Morrison pulled himself together somewhat and replied that he was of the understanding that James Berry, whose whereabouts was currently unknown to him, as to everyone else, had murdered Marnie Moloku and disposed of her body. He then went on to murder her mother Doris, in addition to the federal agent assigned to watch over Marnie.

Unfortunately, Phillip came to understand all too well that no one had devised any contingency plan in the event of failure. That was the problem with dealing with religious fanatics. Their faith made failure unthinkable. Now, it would be a simple matter for the Senate Sub-committee members to pick apart Morrison’s testimony. Morrison was a simple-minded stooge unable to think on his feet. He needed coaching and rehearsing. Now, he was on his own. By the time they were finished with him, the whole tapestry of lies would unravel, and Khoska would be back to where he started from, suspected of complicity in all of the criminal activities of which, in fact, he had been a part from the beginning.

Fortunately, Phillip had devised a contingency plan, which his confederates, who were not all together unreasonable, thankfully adopted. Khoska continued watching as one of the other Senate inquisitors asked Morrison about his knowledge pertaining to the recent outbreak of the multi-epidemic, which was yet far from over though somewhat abated, if but temporarily. Of course, Morrison was completely unaware of any of this, which in truth few were. Khoska himself had been unaware of this matter, a secret shared by a very select few-two of who would be soon joining him, this very night.

Tonight would also be the night he would finally come face to face with the one they all reverentially referred to as “The Master”.

The Master, they claimed, very much looked forward to meeting with him, as he had been following and monitoring his progress for some time now. The Master, they assured him, would reward his faith. The bullet from the Derringer, with which Khoska shot himself immediately prior to the expected arrival of the tabloid photographer Phelps, could easily have killed him, and likely leave him disabled for the entirety of his life were he to survive.

The Master insured Khoska would receive the utmost care and treatment by way of the blood-derived compound developed under the auspices of the pharmaceutical laboratories, which were just one part of Phillip Khoska’s extensive holdings. The Master kept his word, as always. The compound proved to be a dramatic cure in his case, repairing all damage to his brain, even restoring the individually damaged cells, leaving no traces whatsoever of the self-inflicted wound.

Not only did he heal completely, he never felt better in his life. Now that he was all but cleared of any charges of wrongdoing, he had his entire life yet ahead of him. The sacrifice of his family was unfortunate, but necessary. Whatever happened next, Khoska’s life, his freedom, even his wealth, all were as secure as they ever were.

He almost pitied Greg Morrison, who noticeably grew increasingly more distraught by the second, as someone inquired, to the overall amusement of those in attendance within the Senate chambers, as to whether he expected company or if he had somewhere that he needed to be at any given time. Morrison obviously did not know how to answer the question. It was supposed to be over by now.

Suddenly he clutched his chest and began heaving, then going into convulsions. The crowded assembly watched in shock as Greg Morrison collapsed at the desk at which he sat beside his team of lawyers, none of whom had any idea of the extent of Morrison’s involvement with the plan that had come so close to forever changing the world.

The screen returned to the evening newscast on ABC Nightline, and to a roundtable interview with people discussing the strangeness of the day’s events. Morrison had died. An autopsy revealed that he had an artificial heart-a heart that had given out on him, and one that had some strange kind of tracking device that was easily misinterpreted as a monitor installed solely for health reasons. There were some, of course, who viewed Morrison’s death as suspicious under the circumstances, but had no clue as to the magnitude of the events of the day.

Khoska watched the television in the quiet solitude of his new though temporary home, the owners of which soon pulled into the driveway. He watched them through the window. They seemed so calm, so assured. It was hard to believe they realized the seriousness of what faced them. They had devoted their lives to their church, and to their faith, toiling in thankless obscurity behind the scenes, out of necessity, knowing that one careless move would lead to their own condemnation by the world, which would denounce them as evil cultists. They would be pariahs, doomed to a life worse than death, possibly executed for their crimes of necessity.

Khoska of course did not share their faith, but he did share their goal of transforming the world. His motivation was basic greed and drive for power, but he felt no shame at this realization, for he knew that he would leave the world a better place for his efforts-at least in the long run.

Yet, he could not help but admire the Krovell’s selfless dedication to their ideals, and to their religion. They possessed, in fact, a child-like faith that Phillip Khoska barely grasped even when a child his own self. His knowledge of their dedication, in combination with their obvious talents and abilities, made them perfect allies. He meant to turn what was at the time he joined it an international criminal cartel, of extensive wealth shielded by vast legitimate holdings, into what would soon become the foundation for a new government ascending from the ashes of the burnt out corpse of the old one, the death of which they would all be obligated to preside over.

They moved slowly up the sidewalk to the door, and then entered, for perhaps the last time, the newly repaired and refurnished former Krovell Funeral Home, now their own private residence.

“Ah, it is good to be home again,” old man Martin said. “After all of these years, of being away for so long, now at last I can feel some semblance of real peace.”

Louise rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“Really, Martin, you are such a complainer,” she said. “What was it you said to me not too long ago? I believe it was something along the lines of ‘wherever a man’s heart is, there is his true home, and if a man’s heart is with God, the entire world is his home.’”

“Oh, that is true, my dear, but at the same time, you must understand, this was after all the home of my childhood. There are so many happy memories here. I still remember the time we buried the old gypsy out in the back yard, with the trunk that contained Radu’s remains. I wanted to open it so badly, but I was told-in no uncertain terms, mind you-that this was not yet meant to be. Our dear Marlowe, God bless him, just doesn’t know how lucky he is to be chosen to be such an important vessel. Our Marlowe, chosen to carry the sins of the world to their ultimate destruction-who would have thought we would actually live to see it all begin to unfold?”

Louise Krovell cleared her throat then at the notice of Phillip Khoska standing in the doorway to the dining room, standing and listening intently to Martin’s reveries.

“Phillip, you are looking well,” Louise said.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ve never felt better, just as you promised. What was this about Marlowe carrying the sins of the world?”

“Oh, you mustn’t mind Martin,” Louise replied as Martin approached their confederate. “He does tend to engage in a great deal of symbolic hyperbole. You should really hear him recite Hamlet’s monologue one of these days. You would think he had composed the stanzas the way he carries on sometimes.”

Martin reached out and shook Phillip’s hand heartily.

“That was how I won her, you know. I tell you, my friend, recite poetry to a woman, and if you can make it seem as though it comes from the heart-if you can make it your own, as they say nowadays-you will win her every time. A little blackberry wine used strategically in conjunction with it doesn’t hurt either, by the way.”

“He was quite original, I must say. Even my gypsy blood and wiles were unprepared for the prospect of being wooed by a recitation from The Tempest. Of course, our marriage was an arranged one, you know, but still, Martin had a way of making it seem like the blossoming of true love. I have no doubt that had we met as strangers, the end result would be much the same as it was.”

“So, when do I get to meet this mysterious Master, as you call him?” Phillip asked expectantly.

“Very soon, my friend, very soon indeed”, Martin answered. “He and his new bride should be here anytime now. He is more than delighted with your contribution to our cause. And now, of course, that your private holdings will soon be once again recognized as legitimate, as they once were, now that your legal status has been cleared up and your innocence proclaimed, we all know we can count on you to keep your word.”

“The orphanage, of course,” Phillip said. “That seems a small price to pay, actually. I will gladly see to their needs, and beyond that. They will want for nothing, I promise you. I likewise assure you that they will be raised in the true faith, as you require. In fact, the paperwork has already been prepared, as you requested.

“I am only sorry our original plans did not come to fruition. They would be among the top elites of the world had we succeeded. At any rate, their lives shall yet be one of privilege, tempered with knowledge, faith, and responsibility.”

“And you will keep the doors open to any other children that might be in need, and likewise raise them in the true faith of our Lord Jesus Christ?” Martin asked.

“Of course,” Khoska assured him. “Of what use is wealth and power if you don’t use it to leave the world a better place, to what extent you are able?”

“Oh, that is such a relief,” Louise declared. “We so much feared that you would renounce your earlier promise seeing as how we failed unfortunately to live up to our end of the bargain. You would certainly have every right to do so.”

“There is always tomorrow,” Khoska replied. Martin and Louise looked to each other with a knowing glance.

“That is very true, Phillip,” Martin replied. “Tomorrow is a promise that never fades. The children are indeed the future of the world. Their needs are of paramount importance. Not only their material needs, as important as these are, but their emotional and spiritual needs as well. Far too many children in this world live lives of deprivation. They know not the joys of art and music, of great literature, and as such, their souls starve every bit as much as the bodies of the materially destitute. The result, I am afraid, is a world famished of spirit and bereft of hope.

“You, Martin, can provide for their sustenance, and set an example for others to hopefully follow.”

“So,” Louise said, “I trust you are finding the guest room to your liking.”

“Of course,” Phillip said. “It used to be Marlowe’s, I think you said? It is actually quite comfortable.”

“If you would be a dear and go up there for just a while longer, we will let you know when the Master arrives. We do need to speak to him in private when he first gets here. It has been a good while since we have seen him and, to be frank, we are a bit selfish when it comes to what little time we get to have with him. I do hope you understand.”

“Of course,” Khoska replied. “If I by some chance fall asleep, please feel free to wake me.”

Martin turned to walk up the steps, but before he got halfway up, he stopped and turned.

“I guess you know all about Morrison,” he said. “It was really too bad in a way. At one time, he had such a brilliant career ahead of him. He might have been useful. It’s too bad they had to die, but I guess it’s like they always say-everybody is expendable.”

“They?” Martin asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Morrison’s father Randall, of course,” Khoska replied. “It’s ironic, in a way. He had hopes at one time of being Governor of Maryland, maybe a Senator. He even entertained dreams of possibly one day being President. He always had these dreams of political accomplishment. He always wanted Greg to follow in his footsteps. He told me once that the American people loved their political dynasties, and that it was a part of their European heritage they could never throw off. It was up to people like him to provide them the leadership they all inwardly craved.

“Instead, he and his youngest son end up killed in a plane crash in the Himalayas, and now Greg dies of heart failure in the middle of a Senate Sub-Committee investigation of his criminal activities. It’s almost sad. That’s saying something coming from me. I never considered myself the sentimental type.”

Martin and Louise looked at each other, as though neither was sure exactly how to respond and looked to the other for the answer. Finally, Louise cleared her throat.

“It is really understandable, Phillip, if you are experiencing regrets as to the fate of your wife and children, and of course your grandchildren. As we explained, it was an unfortunate necessity. All the same, we certainly understand your grief. Matters such as this are never easy.”

Phillip looked at them both, and then looked away briefly, and breathed deeply.

“It had to be done,” he replied at length. “My only regret is that it seems to have been for nothing. I don’t fault you for that, in that you tried your best. Still, sometimes I wonder if they could have been brought into the circle. Are you sure-“

“The Khoska bloodline has to perish from the earth, Phillip. That is true not just of your own children, but all of the Khoskas who are of childbearing age. At some point, they would revive the heresy that has cursed the world. After all, it was they who drove underground we who make up the true elect, the faithful followers of the Lord Jesus Christ. It is they who have been at the forefront of persecuting us throughout the centuries.”

“As for the Morrisons, they had to die due to their own greed for power-a fatal flaw in far too many of us. Yet, in death, there is a resurrection and a renewal. This will prove true of your own bloodline as well, my friend. Remember, we are all one within the universal whole. There is no death-truly, there is not. There are only varied modes of existence.”

“Of course,” Phillip replied as he turned once more to walk up the stairs. “Be sure and wake me when the Master arrives.”

They watched him walk up the steps towards Marlowe’s old room until he disappeared out of sight.

“I think he knows,” Louise said. “What do you think?”

“Perhaps he does, but even so, it shall do him precious little good,” Martin said as he turned off the television. “What do you say we break out the wine? It seems most appropriate for the occasion.”

“I will gladly do the honors,” Louise replied, and was soon off into the kitchen as Martin sat down upon the recliner. “Besides, this is a special occasion, and it would not be appropriate for you to hold back in miserly fashion as you are so often prone to do.”

“I would not dream of such a thing on a night such as tonight,” Martin replied defensively.

“Just the same, I am happy to do the honors,” Louise said as she made her way toward the kitchen. “You just sit back and relax.”

“Yes, it is good to be home,” he muttered once, as much to himself as to Louise, now in the kitchen, from where she asked him what he said.

Before he could respond, however, Martin felt the cold steel of the revolver up against the back of his head, and a steel-toned voice command him to “turn around real slow.”

Martin did as commanded, only to see the cold, determined glare of James Berry, his service revolver pointed at his head.

“Well, I see that you have recovered quite nicely,” he observed. “So, what brings you here James?”

“Can it, you old fart,” Berry replied. “I’ve recovered all right. What you didn’t realize, when I was infested with that spore from Marlowe, is that it tends to increase your susceptibility more towards diseases you are already prone to catch, which in my case happened to be allergies and influenza-things I’ve dealt with all my life. When Chou treated me for them, he drove the allergies back into remission and cured the flu that was kicking my ass.

“Unfortunately for you, when he did that, he also eradicated the damned spores from my system. Once they were gone, Marlowe’s influence went with them.”

“Ah, but you have been a bad, bad boy James,” Martin reminded him as Louise now re-entered the living room, carrying a tray upon which sat a bottle of wine, along with two chilled wineglasses.

“As you can see, Louise, we have an unexpected visitor.”

“So I see,” Louise said as she nonchalantly placed the tray on the coffee table in front of where Martin now took a seat on the sofa, and where Louise now joined him.

"Why, Lieutenant Berry, what is that foul odor emanating from you. If I didn't know better I would swear you must have just bathed in garlic?"

"Why, Louise, I think you are right," Martin concurred. "You will never attract a wife that way, Lieutenant. Well, of course, that might be all for the best after all, as we are all so unfortunately aware."

"Shut the fuck up," Berry hissed. "I'll do the talking here."

“You aren’t going to shoot us, are you, Lieutenant Berry?” Louise asked. “Surely you don’t think such drastic measures are necessary in the case of two old invalids such as me and Martin, do you?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to shoot two old rattlesnakes like you two, but no I hope that won’t be necessary,” Berry said. “I want answers, and I damn well better believe what I hear. Like for example, I want to know who is really behind all this shit. Marlowe obviously ain’t behind it, and you two are too hands-on to be the real ringleaders. Everybody else is either dead or no more than pawns, like Chou and me. So what in the hell is going on here, and why?”

“Very well, Lieutenant Berry, we will tell you, everything you want to know. We will leave nothing out. First, though, will you consider joining us in a bit of wine? This is a fine vintage, from Romania. It comes from the days of the Phenariots. It is really quite exquisite.”

“Do you really think that is wise, Louise?” Martin asked reservedly.

“Oh, gracious, Martin, you are so selfish,” she replied.

“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass,” Berry said with obvious sarcasm as Louise poured first one glass, and then another. Martin took a long, languorous sip and closed his eyes in obvious satisfaction.

“Now this was truly worth the wait,” he said as Louise sipped her glass in turn.

“Before I answer your questions, I really have to wonder if you are sure you really want to know,” Louise said. “The truth can be a harsh companion, Lieutenant, especially for those on whose hands are so much blood as yours.”

“You should be an expert on that,” Berry hissed. “Any blood I shed was while under the influence of”-

“Really now, are you sure?” Martin asked with his eyes now wide with skepticism. “I do wonder what your dear, departed wife might have to say about that. You are going to have to answer for her death one of these days, you know, in addition to so many other things-many of which you did well before we ever came into the picture, I might add.”

Berry bristled at this, and seemed ready to lash out, yet restrained himself.

“My wife’s death was an accident,” he protested.

“Oh, of course,” Louise replied with a cackle. “The two of you fought because she discovered your affair with our dear departed Marnie Moloku, which occurred while she was yet just a young, naive, love-struck teenage girl. Later, of course, you engaged in yet another series of liaisons with her mother Doris. Oh, and let us not forget your corrupt dealings with our good friend Voroslav.”

“Need I also remind you,” Martin added, “of your part in the murder of Jason Talbert, as per the orders of Phillip Khoska? Should it prove necessary, it would certainly be no problem for me to call Mr. Khoska downstairs here in order to refresh your memory.”

“Phillip Khoska-is here?” Berry asked.

“He most certainly is,” the old man replied with a sudden twinkle in his eyes. “He is here to meet the same person you are so interested in, and who shall be here momentarily. He is here to meet the Master. Who knows, James, maybe this is fate’s way of affording you an opportunity to acquire absolution for your many and varied sins-some of which are, as we have noted, of quite a heinous nature.”

“My absolution will come from making restitution for my crimes and doing whatever is necessary to gain forgiveness for my sins. I know full well that I have a hell of a lot to make up for. I intend to start by taking the two of you in and seeing that you are charged and convicted in a court of law. Whoever your master is, I’m sure somehow I can make sure he joins you.”

“Oh, really, James, and just what do you propose to charge us with?” Martin inquired. “Might I suggest you begin with the rather ingenious plan we hatched to resurrect the spirit of an ancient Romanian nobleman, and to insure that this vampire took possession of the body of our heroin-addicted grandson? I’m sure the jury will be on the edge of their seats.”

“Especially once they hear that the spirit in question is that of the brother of Dracula himself,” Louise added with a delighted chuckle.

“As far as any crimes that we might have committed, the only thing on which you have any real evidence, which is entirely circumstantial, is our presence at the Baltimore Sun immediately prior to the murder of Mr. Desmond. As it happens, our presence there was for a very legitimate reason. Mr. Desmond sought to inform us of the truth regarding our heritage. It seems that Father Khoska and I our half-brothers, though thankfully this is not on the Khoska side.”

“We’ll see what Grace has to say about all that,” Berry said. “She was there too. You two are up to your eyeballs in everything that has happened. I am past caring about what happens to me, and unlike David Chou, I know more than enough to put all of you people away for good. I intend to do just that.

“So go ahead and enjoy your wine. It might well be the last little bit of pleasure you ever know. Whatever happens, you sure as hell ain’t going to live out the rest of your lives here as though you are a couple of respectable old retirees living out your last days in comfort and serenity.”

To Berry’s amazement, Martin and Louise looked at each other lovingly, and then entwined their arms as they finished the last of their wine. They then looked with a gaze of contentment toward Berry.

“You misunderstand our intentions, Berry,” Martin said. “We didn’t come back to our home here to live. We came here to die.”

Before Berry could respond, the lights went out as a sudden onrush of wind blew throughout the house, bringing with it a foul, stifling odor that made Berry’s senses reel as the two elderly Krovells merely looked upward, as through addressing an unseen presence.

“Welcome back, old friend,” Martin said. “We have awaited your return. We are of the hopes that you and your beloved wife will find this place to your pleasure.”

“We trust that you will kindly see to our remains as we prepare to take our leave of this mortal veil of woe,” Louise added as the wind blew ever harsher throughout the house. It dislodged from the wall an old still life that had been in the family for three generations, in addition to a vase that sat precariously upon a ledge. Berry looked all around him in mounting terror as the Krovells, smiling, leaned back on the sofa and leaned against each other, Martin’s arm around Louise, who laid her head upon his chest.

Suddenly, Berry heard the sounds of someone knocking from an adjacent room, the one that had previously been the Funeral Home office. The sounds had a desperate tone to them, and as Berry approached it, he saw that it was bolt locked from the outside.

“Hold on just a minute,” Berry commanded, as he surveyed the lock and the doorknob. Bracing himself, he first kicked with as much force as he could muster against the door, then throwing the entirety of his body weight against the solid oak door. After the third such attempt, the door finally gave way. Berry entered cautiously, only to see the form of Phelps, the tabloid photographer, tied to a chair behind the desk of the recently refurbished room. He had somehow managed to free his mouth from the confines of a gag stuffed inside it, while yet tied securely to the chair.

“Please-you have to help me,” Phelps begged desperately.

“How long have you been here?” Berry asked as he hurriedly loosened the rope, then tearing at the knot that bound Phelps securely to the chair.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Phelps asked in terror while ignoring Berry’s question.

“You probably know more than I do,” Berry asked. “You’ve been sending photographs of Marlowe Krovell and other things to the Inquirer, from what I hear. So what happened, did they figure out you was spying on them, or what?”

“That wasn’t me,” Phelps swore. “That thing-that thing that wears the gray robe, he was the one that used my camera. My God, he took his hood off once and”-

Phelps was obviously in a state of shock and found it hard to continue.

“So they’ve been trying to set up Marlowe to take the fall for all this stuff, just like I figured. The only thing I can’t figure out is, why didn’t they just kill you?”

“Grace,” Phelps answered as the wind blew harder, it seemed, with each passing second. “She told them not to hurt me. They’ve been trying to convert me to their fucked up cult, though. Please, we have to get out of here. That thing is coming, and he ain’t human, he’s”-

By this time, though, the fury of the wind all but drowned out his words, and even though he shouted, it was difficult for Berry to hear him. Yet, as Berry looked outside, what struck him was how calm it seemed. The wind was entirely within the house. He motioned for Phelps to follow him. Phelps did so, and as they entered the living room, he looked over toward where Martin and Louise Krovell sat on the sofa, both of them obviously dead, staring out into space, both of them smiling contentedly.

Suddenly, the wind stopped, and everything became engulfed in a deadly silence, all within the space of less than a heartbeat. Then, from upstairs, a terrified scream pierced the atmosphere, followed by desperate pleading. Berry recognized the frantic cries of Phillip Khoska.

“I’m getting the hell out of here,” Phelps said. “If you’re smart you will too.”

With that, Phelps was out the door, but Berry approached the steps, determined he would make things right, even if it cost him his life. He trudged carefully up the stairs, until he approached the room from whence the desperate cries yet emanated-the former bedroom of Marlowe Krovell. He listened for but a few seconds, as he stood by the door. Finally, he swiftly threw open the door, and entered. At first, he saw nothing but the furniture tossed violently about the room. Soon, however, he heard desperate, mournful moaning.

“Khoska, is that you?” a terrified Berry demanded as he aimed his gun.

Suddenly, Berry saw a bloody hand reach for the edge of the far side of the bed. Then, a horror stricken Phillip Khoska pulled himself up over the edge, as he tried desperately and painfully to rise while looking straight at Berry with pleading, yet hopeless eyes.

“Please-help me,” he begged. At that moment, however, an unseen forced pulled him down to the floor and out of Berry’s sight as a different head appeared-a head of dark, raven black hair. Berry watched in horror as Khoska’s desperate screams finally stopped and Berry could hear his body ripped open.

“Who’s there?” he demanded. “Come out now.”

The head raised up above the edge of the bed, to reveal the now lunatic features of Lynnette Khoska, her eyes deranged with the satiated lust filled by the blood of her father, her grinning, cadaverous face caked with his blood and gore as her eyes shone with an intensity that was maddening to behold.

She looked at Berry and growled like a wild animal. Then, she laughed, as Berry backed up out of the room. He turned and fled desperately down the steps. Upon reaching the first landing, he jumped the rest of the way down, but caught his left heel on the second to the bottom step, from which he plunged head first to the floor. He rose painfully as he felt a presence hovering over him.

He looked up in agony and terror at the gray robed and hooded figure that towered over him. He raised his gun to aim at the creature, but he just stood there. Berry aimed, and pulled the trigger, but the gun jammed on him, would not fire. Desperately, Berry flung the gun at the rapidly approaching figure, but the gun seemed merely to bounce harmlessly off the thick, bulky robe. Berry lowered his head and cried. The figure stood over him and watched curiously, as Berry mumbled a frantic prayer as he repeatedly made the sign of the cross.

“What are you going to do to me?” Berry asked in a whining, defeated voice.

“Nothing,” the figure answered. “You have already done it to yourself.”

Berry looked up as the figure then began to remove the hood from his head. Berry found himself staring into the reddened eyes and fire-scarred face of Bradley Marlowe, who looked down upon him with a sneer.

“You are already a dead man,” he said. “You just don’t know it yet. Or, maybe you’ve just forgotten it. Maybe you are just a mere ghost of a man. Maybe everything you’ve done these last few years has been nothing but a dream that you need to wake up from. When you do, maybe you will forget all of that as well.”

Berry cried as Brad Marlowe’s eyes pierced inside him, burning into him with a laser-like intensity, as Berry cowered and attempted to hide. Brad Marlowe stood there over him and, producing Phelps’s camera from inside his robe, he pointed it at Berry, now crouched on the floor in a fetal position. The last thing Berry heard was the lens shutter snap as a light flashed. When he woke up, he felt a strong handclasp onto his shoulder as more camera flashes permeated the room as they assaulted his retinas, obliging him to throw up his hands in a futile defensive posture.

“Get up, James,” he heard someone say. “It’s over now.”

He looked up to see his former partner from the Baltimore Police Department, Lieutenant Frank Anderson, towering over him, as another detective approached. Yet another detective walked around the room, snapping pictures. Berry rose in confusion.

“They’re both dead,” the approaching detective informed Anderson. “It looks to me to be poisoning. I’m suspecting hemlock, probably in their wine. Might even be a case of a suicide pact, if not murder-suicide.”

“Who are you?” Berry asked the unknown detective, who looked at him strangely.

“Come on, James, you’ve known me for seven years now. I’m Frank’s new partner now, for going on four months.”

Berry looked at the man and at Anderson, as though what the man said just did not register in any kind of sensible manner, as another detective, a woman, came down from upstairs.

“I don’t know what went on up there but there’s blood all over the damned place,” the fourth detective said to the one taking the pictures. “You better go up there and get some pictures fast.

“All right James, what’s happened here?” Frank demanded.

Berry looked around as more detectives filed into what was obviously a crime scene. He did not understand any of this.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing here,” Berry said. “How did I get here? What is this place?”

“This is the Krovell Funeral Home,” Frank answered suspiciously. Berry looked at him as though he had never heard of such a place.

Frank helped Berry to his feet, but Berry had to lean on him. He had twisted his ankle, but did not even remember how he had done that. They made it outside the house, where Berry saw Phelps, shivering while wrapped in a blanket, drinking coffee as uniformed officers stood around him, along with yet another detective who seemed to be taking his statement.

“Who is that guy, is he a suspect?” Berry asked. “He looks like he’s in a bad way.”

Frank just looked at his old partner with a mixture of sadness and apprehension.

“James, what were you doing here? You don’t remember anything at all?”

Berry stopped suddenly, as though a veil lifted.

“Oh shit I forgot,” he said. “We were supposed to go to the game tonight weren’t we? Oh hell, Frank, I’m sorry. I’ve been looking forward to this game for two weeks. That new pitcher the Orioles got is something else. We might make the play-offs this year, huh?”

“What new pitcher?” Frank asked, aware that suddenly Berry seemed to have already forgotten the events of the last few minutes.”

“Oh, you know, Gordon Reynolds,” Berry replied. Frank wiped his brow and stifled a gasp. The Orioles traded Reynolds to the Twins after his rookie year, more than twenty years ago. He never worked out to expectations, but at the time, the Orioles had put many of their hopes for future seasons on the young firebrand fastball pitcher from Kansas.

Frank opened the back door to his car and helped Berry crawl inside the back seat area. He was not sure where he was going to take him. He obviously needed medical attention. He hated the prospect of taking his old partner in for questioning, but at the same time hated not to be there. He was obviously not faking. Frank had known Berry for far too long. Just as he had for some time been suspicious of his recent activities, he now knew something profound had happened to his old friend. As he got into the front seat, Berry knocked on the back window. Frank looked back towards him.

“I want to make it up to you,” Berry said. “Maybe we can take the girls out for dinner sometime next week. You know what they say about wives always worrying about their husbands with their partners on the job. It always helps to keep them a part of your life. You know, so they’ll know it ain’t all constant life-threatening danger and gunfire. What do you say?”

Frank looked inside Berry’s eyes. They were empty, devoid of reason. He was really in another era now.

“Yeah, James,” Frank said somberly as he started up the car. “I think I’d like that.”

Links To Previous Chapters
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
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XXXX
Chapter XXXXI
Chapter XXXXII
Chapter XXXXIII
Chapter XXXXIV

The Legacy Of Native Dancer

One of the greatest of all thoroughbred race horses, of all time, was Native Dancer, who won all his career races, with one exception. This, ironically, was the Kentucky Derby in the early nineteen fifties.

The irony to this is that Native Dancer was the ancestor of Eight Belles, the filly so tragically euthanised after her second-place showing in the last Derby resulted in both of her front ankles breaking.

Native Dancer was, in fact, an ancestor of every single horse that run in this year's Kentucky Derby, including winner Big Brown-a horse that, incidentally, was considered a potential problem horse regarding his legs.

Of course, all thoroughbred horses are potential problem horses due precisely to their particular breed, bred as they are for speed, at the expense of strong bone structure.

This is in fact the natural state for horses. Their speed was a natural defense against predators, like the eyes at the side of their heads. This made them perfectly suited for adaptation to some human needs involving speed. Their use as Pony Express horses is one later example of this.

Draft horses came later, and were actually purposely bred to carry heavy loads as "work horses", and "war horses". Thoroughbred breeding is, in effect, a return to the basics.

Of course, with this comes it's own set of problems. Unfortunately, two year old and three year old horses, while they might be faster and have "spirit" more conducive to such competitions as the Triple Crown, their bones, particularly in their legs, are not suited for the stress of long distance running. Add to this the fact that such heavy in-breeding as is plainly seen in the bloodline of Native Dancer-the ancestor in fact of roughly seventy-five percent of all modern thoroughbred race horses-magnifies the problem exponentially.

Leave it to Kentucky to come up with a sport where in-breeding becomes an issue.

That being said, let's not be too quick to dump on the sport. It obviously needs reform in many areas. Raising the age limit would be a big help. At four or five years old, a horses bones are better developed and thus better able to handle the stress of racing.

There should also be some kind of insurance fund to provide for the care of injured horses. Contrary to popular belief, horses don't necessarily always have to be euthanised if they break a leg. In many cases, they simply have to have exptended periods of treatment and therapy that requires them to refrain in some manner from putting weight on the broken leg. Since horses can't lie down for more than very short periods, this requires some kind of halter to keep them hoisted comfortably off the ground to the exend no weight is put on the break, or that extra weight is not shifted to a good leg, as happened to be the case with last year's Kentucky Derby winner Barbaro that led to his eventual euthanization after last year's Preakness.

It can be done, but it can take a year or two of extensive therapy. However, this is expensive, so most owners will opt for the quicker and less expensive euthanization.
An insurance fund is the way to go here.

There should also be some kind of method to strengthen the bloodline by decreasing the rate of inbreeding. Native Dancer was a great horse, but he doesn't need to be the ancestor of every hose on the track. That bloodline needs to be thinned out somehow before it is too late, if it is not already.

As for a lot of the other hue and cry about this issue, a lot of it is overblown. Most thoroughbreds are well cared for, even pampered to an extent. Plus, they do love to run. It is in their natures. There are undoubtedly cases where cruelty is exhibited, and this should be dealt with, but for people to go ballistic over most training methods and the use of riding crops is really inappropriate. Riding crops and whips do not hurt a horse. They are guidance and communication tools. The horse knows this. They would not stand for someone inflicting pain on them. Believe me, you do not want to piss off a horse. They are nervous animals that are easily agitated when unnecessarily or cruelly provoked.

It would probably also be a good idea if fillies were not run in the Derby. It is an unusual filly that can keep pace with a colt, and in fact only three fillies have won the Derby in its entire history. Yet, they will compete when put in that position because it is in their natures. Yes, they know they are in a race, and they want to win it. This puts more stress on their already weak bone structures. A prideful filly like Eight Belles just will not give up, and will keep on running until she drops, pain be damned.

All in all, there are a lot of changes that need to be made. Dirt tracks need to be abolished, for one thing, in addition to some other changes. Horses are by nature social animals, and should be allowed some level of interaction with each other. Often they are confined and isolated from others way too much than is good for them. Most of course do have stable mates, but not all of them do, nor are they often allowed the opportunity to run together openly, for fear of injury. This should be addressed in some way.

In-breeding is perhaps the worse problem though. Native Dancer was, by the way, a quarter horse, yet is the ancestor of horses that are run in races of one to two miles. How this problem might be addressed is of serious concern, and it will take some years to thin out that bloodline. By it's nature, in-breeding tends to magnify genetic deficiencies to an exponential degree. That is why in-bred humans tend to develop serious health problems of a genetic nature which can manifest mentally or in physical deformations, or both. In rare cases, it can result in individuals of inordinately high IQ or in other beneficial properties, but unfortunately, these are exceptions rather than the rule. Small wonder then that a process meant to tap into a positive aspect in thoroughbreds resulted in unforeseen problem areas.

Still, a call for reform in needed areas should not be considered tantamount to calling on a ban, as others have done, such as Peta. Bear in mind that if Peta had their way, animals would probably have voting rights and a monthly government stipend.

All kidding aside, it really hurt me to see that horse fall like she did. When they got around finally to showing her lying there in pain on the track right before they euthanized her, that was really painful to see, but at the same time, I couldn't make myself turn away. If it does cause people to make serious efforts at reform, I guess it will make it worthwhile on some level, but it's still a shame it had to come to that.

Political And Religious Hypocrisy-The Greatest Of All Whores

Thanks goes out to Rufus from Grad Student Madness, who sent me the link to this article in the New York Times by Frank Rich. It points out a great many things I have said all the time. All of this hoopla about the Reverend Wright fails to take into account that Wright is but one of a long line of nutty ministers, many of whom say things that are on a par with him. Yet, strangely enough, most of the people screaming the loudest about Wright seem to ignore a good many of these others. That could be well because, in a great many cases, many of them are sitting right in the pews where and when they spew their own particular brand of venom and don't seem to mind when politicians seek their support, while knowing all about their histories.

Following is a few sample snippets from the Times article dealing with McCain’s endorsement by pastor Ted Hagee, an endorsement McCain sought and received, which is covered in this Washington Post article. Please now, don’t take them out of context, I think there’s been quite enough of that lately-

"Since then, Mr. McCain has been shocked to learn that his clerical ally has made many other outrageous statements. Mr. Hagee, it’s true, did not blame the American government for concocting AIDS. But he did say that God created Hurricane Katrina to punish New Orleans for its sins, particularly a scheduled “homosexual parade there on the Monday that Katrina came.”

Rich goes on to say that-

"None of this is to say that two wacky white preachers make a Wright right. It is entirely fair for any voter to weigh Mr. Obama’s long relationship with his pastor in assessing his fitness for office. It is also fair to weigh Mr. Obama’s judgment in handling this personal and political crisis as it has repeatedly boiled over. But whatever that verdict, it is disingenuous to pretend that there isn’t a double standard operating here. If we’re to judge black candidates on their most controversial associates — and how quickly, sternly and completely they disown them — we must judge white politicians by the same yardstick."

Rich points out to great effect, in my opinion, that not only did John McCain know about the rantings of the late Reverend Falwell, and his latest Christian man-crush, pastor Hagee, but he purposely sought out their endorsements and support despite this-one might even go so far as to infer he sought out their support because of it. Yet, here is a YouTube video in which Hagee denounces the Roman Catholic Church, which he calls the “Great Whore”.


Here is what you will see there, in Rich’s words-

"What you’ll find is a white televangelist, the Rev. John Hagee, lecturing in front of an enormous diorama. Wielding a pointer, he pokes at the image of a woman with Pamela Anderson-sized breasts, her hand raising a golden chalice. The woman is “the Great Whore,” Mr. Hagee explains, and she is drinking “the blood of the Jewish people.” That’s because the Great Whore represents “the Roman Church,” which, in his view, has thirsted for Jewish blood throughout history, from the Crusades to the Holocaust."

Of course, McCain has distanced himself from Hagee’s comments, as well he should, but by the same token, he still sought out his support, despite the fact that Hagee’s beliefs are a matter of record, and in fact was, until recently, much more well known than Wright. In fact, here we see him as a featured personality on the Christian cable channel TBN.

Nor is Hagee the only such minister McCain has sought out. You also have the CNP, a somewhat secretive group whose membership includes or included Falwell, Robertson, Hagee, and Tim LaHaye.

Among their collective greatest hits are-

*God sent Hurricane Katrina to destroy New Orleans as punishment for the city’s collective vices and sins, and possibly out of anger for a scheduled gay pride parade.

*The Catholic Church is the “Great Whore” of Babylon and has the blood of the saints on its hands. The Pope is, in fact, the Antichrist.

*God will damn America because of these and other sins, including but not limited to abortion rights and gays, feminists, pagans, etc.-the reason he allowed 9/11, by the way, according to Falwell.

Here are a few more examples, directly from the Nola site.

– LeHaye once said that Catholicism is a “false religion” and called popes “antichrists.
– Weyrich has claimed that CNP is a group of “radicals working to overturn the present power structure in this country.”
– A speaker received a standing ovation at one CNP meeting when he suggested that AIDS was a sign from God that homosexuality was an “abomination.”
Is it any wonder John McCain has distanced himself from some of the more vociferous attacks on Obama regarding his association with Wright? He knows full well he is opening himself up to the same kind of criticism due to his own associations.

And look, I want to make it plain, people and religious groups have the right to support who they want, within the confines of First Amendment restrictions (something both sides have traditionally played fast and loose with), and they most certainly have the right to believe what they want. They even have a right to be self-serving hypocrites about it if they want. What they do not have the right to do is to expect to spew their bile and not be called on it when they attack others for doing what they themselves have done.

I don’t agree with most of Reverend Wrights crazy ideas. For example, I don’t believe for one minute that the United States government purposely developed the AIDS virus in some secret laboratory for the express purpose of killing gays, or blacks, or both, or whatever, because whatever target group they aimed it at are seditious troublemakers they felt must be eliminated for the social dangers they pose. Because I do not believe that, I will openly criticize Wright for promoting such an idea, regardless of his reasonings regarding and based on the Tuskegee Experiment.

On the other hand, I also do not agree, and will just as roundly denounce, those who promote the idea that God himself purposely created the AIDS virus for the express purpose of killing gays, or blacks, or both, or whatever, because whatever target group he aimed it at are sinners whom he feels he must punish collectively for their transgressions. Because I do not believe that, I will openly criticize them for promoting such an idea.

But, by the same token, I think I should ask what might be seen as an impertinent question to some. That is, if one of those two theories was the truth, just which one is the most likely?

Here is the simple fact. If you are an adherent of any religious group, be it Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, or Pagan, of any sect or denomination, I have some bad news for you. Sooner or later, you are going to hear some stuff you might find objectionable. Sooner or later, you are going to find that you disagree to some extent with the views of your pastor or priest.

Sooner or later, to be blunt, you are going to hear some crazy fucking shit. That’s just the name of that tune. I call it the flip side of Amazing Grace. Most people that notice it at all, however, usually hum this particular tune to themselves. It usually starts out with something like “Do they really believe this fucking crazy crap?”

There is a pretty good chance that at least deep down you do not. Or, it is very possible that, perhaps, you do. Whatever the case, you are probably going to get up at the end of the sermon, shake the pastor’s hands as you file out the door, and go home without giving it much thought. The next Sunday, you will be standing outside the same church, maybe smoking a cigarette while standing out talking to your friends and neighbors about fishing, the next football or basketball game, work, family, etc., until you finally all file in for the latest installment.

You go through this ritual because, social animals that we are, it is a way to connect with our communities in a way that gives human life some kind of deeper meaning-or tries to. If you disavow every person that attends a church service where nuttiness is preached, I hate to tell you, but you are going to be staying home, or at least away from religious services, all the time.

I should know, because that’s generally what I do. Do you want to vote for me for President? Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought. Of course, I’m not exactly the most sociable person in the world. Most politicians, by contrast, tend to be so by both nature and necessity.

On the other hand, just in case you might have some oddball idea I might make a great President, perhaps you might want to rethink your position. After all, even though I have denounced some of the late Reverend Falwell’s more incendiary remarks, I did on balance speak quite fondly of him in this post.

I was obviously being very sincere in these remarks, so just what am I up to now? One might be led to wonder just exactly who I am. Perhaps I have some dangerous, radical secret agenda unfitting for the highest office in the land. Yeah, it’s easy for me to denounce Falwell now that its politically expedient, huh?

Or, it could just be a matter of human beings being much too complicated to lump into one category based solely on a handful of issues and factors. Perhaps this applies to both Falwell and Wright. Maybe you have to look at a variety of factors and weight everything in the balance, and still they might not fit neatly into any one “good” or “bad” category-at least not all of the time.

Maybe things not always appropriately viewed in pure, stark, simple terms of black and white.

Sometimes, unfortunately, maybe they are.

Radu-Chapter XXXXIV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Links to previous installments are at the end of this chapter
Radu-Chapter XXXXIV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
4 pages approximate
For the first time in such a long time that it felt like the very first time in Edward Akito’s life, the unthinkable occurred. His well-laid plans had fallen apart. He could not access the Defense Department website he needed in order to initiate an immediate missile assault on the localities he surreptitiously had installed on the DOD site. Someone somehow had accessed the site and changed the code.

He had failed, precisely because he had followed his plans to the letter. The technician he had paid handsomely for his traitorous and subversive act was now long dead, as per Akito’s instructions-Eddie felt this was necessary in order to protect the operation. Unfortunately, now that he was dead, there was no one to repair the damage to the plan almost certainly perpetrated by a Negro gang lord who was little more than a glorified street thug. Letcher’s home on the outskirt of Baltimore was, as Letcher himself, completely obliterated. Nothing remained of the home and the property on which it once sat was now a large crater. Whatever the late rapper had done was, therefore, irreversible.

Akito chuckled bitterly at the irony as he donned his costume and his Noh mask. To the background of his native Japanese music, he simulated the dance steps of the Japanese theatre from which he began his long career, a career that took him from the inner circles of the Tokyo elite into which he married, to a spoiled princess of the ancient Japanese feudal nobility. From there he ascended to the corridors of power in Washington itself.

Although nominally a Shinto, Eddie was never truly a religious man. Yet, when he inadvertently stumbled upon the existence of the obscure little Romanian sect that traced its origins to the days of Vlad the Impaler, and on back to the earliest days of Christianity itself, he studied them intently and learned all he could of them, until that day they finally accepted him within their inner circle.

Where most might consider them dangerously deluded fanatics, Akito saw them in an entirely different light. He knew they had the wherewithal to accomplish the goals to which they had dedicated their lives-that of bringing about the Kingdom of God as they saw it and as they interpreted the prophecies of their sacred collection of ancient books-the Holy Bible.

Although they were a cloistered sect, long ago driven underground, and yet dwelling secretly on the fringes of the Romanian Orthodox Church, they planned for the day when they would unite the world-or, what would be left of it, that is, after they ascended to power. He joined them and became one of its most important and powerful members over time. What began as an alliance of convenience changed Edward Akito. He was, in truth, one of the more devout among them, and had been for some time. He would do anything to further their cause.

Unfortunately, he had failed them, and felt greatly ashamed for his failure. It was a matter of honor, which was something else into which he had married. He always strived to live up to that ancient code of honor, and his failure was unthinkable. Even in the unlikely event that his part in the conspiracy to bring about the end of modern day civilization remained concealed, his secret shame would be unbearable.

The Order of The Dragon, the so-called One True Christian Church, The Way, would, he realized, continue after his life ended. If they were ultimately successful, this would come about long after they all were gone. It would come about gradually at first, as the generations would arise and fall, until the time was right. Perhaps they had been too eager. It is not appropriate, he realized, to rush God’s prophecy. He would decide when the time was right, and in fact had long ago done so.

Although Edward Akito was nominally a Shinto, he was also a searcher, and experimented with different spiritual paths, but all of them had left him empty and unfulfilled. When he met Grace Rodescu, shortly after his initiation into the sect, he knew he had come face to face with God’s unknowing agent of change. When she survived the attempt on her life, as a young girl barely into her teens, he knew he was right. From that time forward, he oversaw her growth and development from afar. He could not be too heavy handed. He had to allow her to live her life and to grow and develop on her own, at her own pace. It was difficult at times, even excruciating, but he could not allow himself to interfere other than watching and monitoring carefully.

His patience and effort finally paid off. Now, she lay within his specially equipped guest room, ready to give birth at any minute, to the child that would itself herald a new epoch for mankind, a new golden age that would see a return to faith, and yet to reason. Man as a whole would turn back to God, and the old prophesies would find fulfillment in a new heaven and a new earth, joined in an eternal and naturally harmonious marriage. The Church would truly become, at last, the Bride of Christ. It would become the entire world.

He created a Noh drama precisely to celebrate the coming birth and what all that it portends. Unfortunately, the new world would be a limited one for yet some time to come. It would grow and prosper, albeit more slowly than they all originally conceived. Patience was the true companion to faith, Eddie reminded himself.

Edward Akito examined his new, specially created and lovingly crafted Noh mask in his mirror. It looked, appropriately enough, like a dragon vampire, its fangs protruding from a blood red mouth surrounded by a green, scaly face. He smiled in satisfaction and, as the music played, he danced, but the ringing of the doorbell interrupted his reveries. When he looked outside the peephole, he recognized the woman immediately. He opened the door, not even thinking of taking off the demoniac Noh mask.

“I take it that is you, Eddie?”

“You don’t know how good it is to see you again,” he said as he removed the mask. “It has been a long time indeed, but I would certainly know you anywhere. Please come in. Grace will give birth soon.”

“I am sorry I could not make it sooner,” the woman replied. “It is not often I get the chance to be a midwife for a birth of anything nearly as consequential as this. This is truly a great honor. Alas, the airport lost my luggage temporarily. I took it as an omen that the time was not quite right.”

“She is certainly enduring a long, painful pregnancy,” Akito affirmed. “No one but our Grace would possibly have the strength and the fortitude to endure such agony. Will you go to her now?”

“I most certainly will, if you do not mind seeing to my belongings. My bags are just outside the door.”

“Of course,” Akito replied as he ushered his guest toward the guest room. Standing at the door, they could hear the loud breathing and barely restrained groans of Grace. When the midwife entered, she was aghast at the obvious agony Grace Rodescu displayed.

“I was beginning to wonder-if you would-make it here in time.” Grace gasped as she pulled herself out of bed. She approached not the woman who came to guide her through the final stages of her delivery, however, but the mirror that hung upon the wall.

She looked at herself in the mirror dispassionately, as though looking not into a mirror, but through a window at some unknown person. Her face swelled to twice its normal size and puffy sores on her face drained a greenish pus that stank of decay. Her skin cracked, displaying an appearance much like spider webs. She removed her gown only to note that her entire body displayed the same symptoms. She was bloated beyond the normal appearance of a pregnancy. She could not see her legs past her enormously protruding stomach, which extended well past the nipples of her breasts, which drained what seemed more like menstrual fluid than normal mammary secretions.

“Your sweat is like blood,” the midwife said. “You are drenched in it.”

“It’s more like bile of some sort,” Grace said as though she were an attending physician, and not herself the patient. The midwife, silently impressed by her courage and stamina, advised her to lie down.

“I can’t lie down,” Grace protested. “Who could lie down at a time like this?”

“I wonder if I could do anything but that,” the woman replied, but Grace did not hear her. She suddenly groaned in horrible agony and began to shake. She simultaneously urinated and voided her bowels as the stench filled the air. Grace collapsed in agony onto the floor, as her water broke, and she went into the most violent convulsions the midwife had ever seen. She knew at that point that her presence here was of no benefit beyond providing the necessary witness to this divine event-until the moment the child was born. Then, her presence would be vital. Until then, all she could do was wait, while making note of the fact that, as she said, “it is time.”

Grace could feel her skin cracking open and the fluid draining from every opening, from every orifice and skin pore, conscious throughout the entirety of her convulsions, which seemed to drag on forever, and in fact ended up lasting well over two hours, every minute of which seemed like an hour in itself. She had been through some violent heroin withdrawals before, but even they were nothing compared to this. Never had she felt such pain, such helplessness-and yet, such unbridled joy and serenity.

Eddie told her earlier how their plans had failed, but Grace now transcended all thoughts of failure. She had found her own destiny, her true purpose in life, at last. Finally, the convulsions were over, and she rose, from the blood and the vomit she rose, from the feces and urine, she rose, from the stench of the sweat that yet bathed her, she rose, and looked down upon the ground and the death and decay from which she rose. The child was now born, and the child cried with assured triumph, its conquest over the forces of earthly restraint settled.

Grace looked upon the child, and then looked upon the midwife, and she smiled at the midwife, who gasped in shocked horror.

“Oh my God!” she said as she turned quickly toward the door. Grace collapsed into the bed, oblivious now to the blood that soaked the entirety of the small room and its furnishings, including the bed upon which she lay, and onto which her sweating skin and matted, oily hair now seemed pasted. She breathed deeply in relief and thankfulness for the freedom from the pain, now left behind on the bloody mass on the floor beside her. She was for now exhausted, but triumphant. The child was born at last, she realized, as the bedroom door opened.

Yet, no one appeared at the open door toward which Grace looked expectantly, until a gloved hand appeared from the other side, as the strains of Japanese music drifted inside in calming, somber, yet somehow at the same time joyous tones that made her forget her pain and all of her previous cares. She knew somehow that she had given birth to a new life. She was in fact the mother of all creation. Everything else seemed to fade into an unknowable void. Nothing else mattered.

She was however exhausted from her ordeal, and weakly made her way over to her bed. Yet, the child called out to her, though not aloud. The child’s thoughts filled her head, crowding out her own, until they became her own. For a few brief minutes, she no longer had any perspective in so far as direction, or time and space. She just hung suspended in what seemed an eternal void. Yet, the sensation was not an unpleasant one. She felt an infinite peace, the wisdom that dwells hidden within the seeming chaos of creation. There was no sense in offering resistance, nor in fact was there truly any need to do so. Soon, she felt the child’s life and its needs overwhelming her. Never had she been so aware, or in fact so much alive, so much as one with the universe. She was now a goddess-the mother of a new cosmos, a new heaven and a new earth, both become as one.

Grace rose slowly, and as she did so, a figure appeared in the doorway. It seemed to be the figure of a man, though with his face hidden behind a painted mask as he lurched his head forward into the room. He jumped inside and moved in exuberant fashion in a wildly ecstatic dance as he shook a rattle in his right hand. Grace watched him curiously, as he approached her.

“BUGGADY BUGGADY BUGGADY!”

Links To Previous Chapters
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
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XXXX
Chapter XXXXI
Chapter XXXXII
Chapter XXXXIII

Is Wright Appearances Meant To Derail Obama?

No sooner did I post about how reasonable Jeremiah Wright seemed to me on Bill Moyer’s Journal on Friday Night than he comes out and seems determined to make an ass of himself in an appearance at The National Press Club. Admittedly, I did not see the entire appearance, so what I saw might be another example of a few snippets taken out of context. Whether this is or is not the case, something smells here.

What is behind this latest round of appearances? Who invited Wright to appear before the National Press Club? I find if difficult to believe that he extended an offer to appear there on his own initiative. Somebody else was behind the invitation. Who was it? Why was he invited to speak there? What is the reason for Wright’s combative rhetoric at such appearances? There are two possible explanations.

*The Clintons are behind it. I know this sounds like a crazed conspiracy theory, but it should not seem so far-fetched to those familiar with the Clintons. If they are behind it, is the Reverend Wright a willing co-conspirator, or is he a dupe? I tend to think it is the latter. The Clintons have a lot of friends within the ranks of black American leadership, and could be calling in favors from among those acquaintances of theirs who have an influence with Wright. Is that really that hard to believe? There are undoubtedly many within the black community whose lives and public careers intersect with Wright and the Clintons. How difficult would it be for such a person to convince Wright that he should make such appearances in order to defend his good name and his good works within the black community? This could be explained on the grounds that his silence might be misconstrued, and at any rate, he should not sit back and accept Obama’s political enemies using him, the Reverend Wright, as cannon-fodder, as a pawn.

Wright himself might even be a willing participant, as far as that goes. The Clintons and their allies have deep pockets, after all, and the Reverend Wright is no saint, however good a man he might or might not be.

*There are a lot of elements within the press whom I would suggest are desperate to see a Democratic victory in November, and some of these folks, many of whom have promoted Obama in the past, now might be experiencing a kind of buyer’s remorse. Viewed in the context of the last ABC debate, this too might not be as far-fetched as it might seem at first glance.

When you view the way George Stephanopoulos conducted himself in the interview on ABC, and consider the fact that he was a former Clinton staffer, it could be a little bit of both. Remember, at one point it was Clinton the press was accused of being rough on, and being easy on Obama. Now, it seems the press has changed horses in mid-stream.

Oh, and where was it the Reverend Wright appeared? Oh, yeah, it was the NATIONAL PRESS CLUB, wasn’t it? Thank you.

The Reverend Wright and his associates within the black American leadership, by the way, have their own ax to grind that might explain their seeming willingness to derail Obama’s candidacy. After all, ask yourself, do these people really want an improvement in American race relations. Obama obviously would like to see that come about.

Do the Clintons and the Reverend Wright, along with their friends and supporters-including the press and other elites-share his views? Do they really want race relations to improve? For that matter, do they really want to improve the overall lives of black Americans?

Is it possible that Obama is really in the minority when it comes to these issues, that he is perhaps one of the few genuine reformers in the country? Is it possible that he really wants to see blacks-gasp-take responsibility for their own lives, families, and communities, as opposed to languishing as class victims on government life-support?

Come to find out, I am not alone in my suspicions as to the possible agenda behind Wright's recent appearances. This has also been suggested by Politico, in addition to the New York Daily News.

There even seems to be a known culprit in the form of the Reverend Barbara Reynolds, a Clinton supporter and National Press Club member who just happens to be responsible for Wright's appearance. She is pictured at the top, sitting by Wright at the Press Club event.

She earlier has even gone so far as to denounce Obama for distancing himself from Wright on her blog.

What’s going to happen next? Maybe Bill Ayers might decide to go on another bombing rampage for old time’s sake. Maybe there will be a resurgence of the Weather Underground, one that will take up where the old incarnation left off with bombings of the Pentagon and other public buildings.

Maybe they’ll bomb the Clinton Library. You know, just to throw us all off the track.

Miley Cyrus-Whosesome Innocence As A Brand Name

The most obscene thing about Miley Cyrus of Disney's Hannah Montana isn't this article from Vanity Fair, or the photo above of Miley in what has been described as a suggestive pose with her father Billy Ray Cyrus, or any of the other photos from the article-including the one where she is posing in bright red lipstick, topless, her torso covered with a sheet.

No, the most obscene thing about Miley Cyrus is that the very people who are screaming bloody murder about how she has tarnished her image are the very same people who will gladly shell out thousands of dollars for their kids to go to see one of her concerts.

Noe THAT is fucking obscene.

Or how about the fact that Disney-also up in arms at what they ironically complain is the "exploitation" of their undoubtedly biggest star-seems to see no problem with their own brand of exploitation.

While we're on the subject of stupid parents and exploitation, doesn't it take kind of a sick mind to infer some kind of sexual meaning in the photo above? Is this really something people should be so up in arms about that they stage a CD burn, as some are calling for? I mean, what's the point, is she supposed to be having her arm up against his cock or something? Do you think he's looking off in the distance trying to act casual because he's got a great big old hard-on? Do you think you see a wet spot between her legs? What the fuck is wrong with you people?

Is it any fucking wonder that most child stars generally turn out to be basket cases by the time they hit their thirties?

miley cyrus

The Manson Girls-Coming Soon To A Threatre Near You

Just what the world needs-another Manson movie. This one revolves chiefly around the women in Charlie’s life, and it is obviously supposed to draw crowds looking for blood and gore and especially for the sexcapades typically associated with Manson’s orgiastic guru image. Unfortunately, judging by some of the dialogue on a part of the leaked script, realism takes a back seat to trite, wooden, and obvious characterizations. The women in this kind of movie act the way we are supposed to want them to act, and speak in the way we would expect them to speak.

Many four-letter words abound, of course, and you can probably count on many ironically intentioned references as well. Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme is one of the featured real-life characters, and you just know she will make some outrageously obvious statement to the effect that she would love to assassinate a President some day.

Sonny Bono even makes an appearance, getting it on with one of the girls sometime during a party at-you guessed it-the Polanski home. Yes, Charlie is there too, of course, making the rounds with all the celebrities at the side of his good bud Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys, and managing to piss off some of them, such as Frank Zappa.

At any rate, the movie is already being panned, and it hasn’t even been filmed yet. It’s actual production is up in the air, and as of now, there is a question as to the insurance problems of Lindsey Lohan, who is slated to star in the film as one of the girls-a question mark here as to which one. I read once that she might play Linda Kasabian, the one chick that turned state’s evidence against the Manson Family in the Tate-LaBianca murders. However, I later read that she might play one of the lesser-known girls. Talk about irony-the way Lohan’s life and career have spiraled out of control lately, this might be the most ominous case yet of type-casting, whichever one she plays.

Of course, bear in mind that a lot of the negativity about the movie is from the perspective of people who are Manson supporters-they are out there and there are more of them than you might think. They run the gamut from out and out apologists for Manson’s crimes, to those who think the media and prosecutors in the case at least greatly distorted the truth, to those who consider themselves friends of Manson and as such either deny his involvement in any of the more heinous crimes or make excuses for those crimes they cannot deny.

Here is a website that probably contains the most information, as well as pictures and forums, in addition to a gold mine of links.

This blog contains the information about the movie, and the blog owner, Colonel Parker, supplies the e-mail address of one of the principals involved.

Perhaps the most unintentionally humorous, in some respects, is You're Guilty Until Proven Innocent. This guy obviously has a great big old crush on Leslie Van Houten, and he will rake anybody over the coals who advocates that this woman remain in prison for life, regardless of the facts of her guilt in the murders of Leno and Rosemary LaBianca. He is especially incensed that the surviving sister of Sharon Tate (who seems to be universally despised among these Manson bloggers) should dare insinuate herself into Van Houten’s case. His feeling is that since she was not involved in the murders of Sharon Tate and her friends, she and the rest of the Tate family should butt out.

As goofy as all this is, however, this site beats them all. Here we have a person who claims to be a Wiccan Priestess, and who claims to have an on-going friendship with Manson, who she describes as some kind of shaman and, as such, incapable of lying. The possibility that Charlie, being a lifelong habitual criminal, might well be quite the con artist never seems to have crossed her mind. Even before Tate-Labianca he had, after all, spent the majority of his life behind bars.

In an e-mail comment to one of the other blogs, she relates how Charlie called her house once when no one was home but one of her teenage daughters, who he proceeded to advise to dispose of all the cleaning agents in the house, on the grounds that it was bad for the environment. The daughter refused, and the two of them proceeded to yak it up for a few minutes. My guess is Charlie wanted to see how easy it would be to establish a hold over this young girl, but this “Wiccan Priestess” seems clueless.

Instead, she insists that Manson had nothing to do with the murders of Tate-LaBianca, which she blames on, well, what do you know, one of the victims-who she alleges had some to my knowledge unknown and heretofore unrevealed problem with some criminal drug associates. Manson was just a convenient foil, according to this scenario, a hapless victim of a District Attorney desperate for a conviction and an excuse to close the case quickly. I find myself wondering just what deck of Tarot cards she derived this information from.

Yet, when it comes to crimes that Manson did commit, she offers the most banal of excuses. The barbarically brutal murder of Donald “Shorty” Shea she glosses over as understandable and maybe even justified on the part of this world-class shaman. Even the brutality with which Charlie habitually treated the pitiable Dianne “Snake” Lake, whom he beat and abused on a regular basis for the entertainment of the others in the group, is excused by this Wiccan mother, despite the fact that Lake was at the time an under-aged girl. Lake’s worthless hippy father handed her over to Manson, by the way, in a transaction conducted with about as much thought as one might give a stranger a cigarette. Yet, we are supposed to view Charlie’s actions in regards to such matters with discernment. As he was a biker at heart, you see, that provides some context for his actions, according to her.

Some of these people are not too far off the mark. Vincent Bugliosi’s Helter Skelter theory has always been problematic at best. It almost reads like something Steven King would have dreamed up over a bad weekend high on mescaline, and then later discarded as just too bizarre to be believable. The real key to understanding the crimes, they say, is the prosecution of Manson associate Bobby Beausoleil for the murder of music teacher and dope pusher Gary Hindman, whom Bobby killed because of a dope deal that went sour, therefore causing Beausoleil a confrontation with the irate Straight Satans biker gang. Bobby claims to this day that killing Hindman was not a part of the plan, which was to extract a refund from Hindman for what the Satans claim was not high grade mescaline, but was in fact laced with strychnine. Hindman refused, and in the resultant argument that turned violent, Hindman was wounded, and then killed. After this all went down, Bobby hurriedly devised a scheme with the other girls then present-Susan Atkins and Mary Bruner- to blame it on some of Hindman’s fellow communist associates by writing on the wall, in Hindman’s blood, the word “Political Pigs”.

Unfortunately for Beausoleil, he stupidly allowed himself to be apprehended driving Hindman’s stolen car, after Hindman’s body was discovered earlier than he expected it would be. According to this theory, Manson, or the girls, with or without the help of Manson-depending on who you want to believe-set about conducting the Tate-LaBianca murders after Bobby’s arrest. They hoped in doing so to provide an alibi for Beausoleil, on the grounds that since he was in jail and awaiting trial for the Hindman murder, he obviously could not have been responsible for Tate-LaBianca, and so was probably innocent of the Hindman murder as well.

Where the Manson apologists lose track of reality is when they fail to take into account the fact that the Tate residence-actually owned at the time by Terry Melcher, the record producer and son of Doris Day-was chosen precisely because it was familiar to Manson and fellow conspirator Charles “Tex” Watson. They had been there as guests of Melcher, and had rode dune buggies all over the property.

That Manson might not have been involved in any of this, while technically possible, is nevertheless highly unlikely, to say the least. The Helter Skelter business, written on the walls of the Tate residence in the blood of one of the victims, certainly pointed the way for Vince Bugliosi to present his conspiracy as evidence based on the words of Susan Atkins and later of Linda Kasabian. Yet, it seems meant more to pave the way for the release of Beausoleil in the hopes all the murders would be blamed on some shadowy radical group, perhaps the Black Panthers. Helter Skelter was probably an afterthought. This seems to be an example of chaos married to pure evil spawning a diabolical offspring from the depths of hell.

So then, what would be the reason to accuse Manson of such a bizarre plot if there was no such fantastic scheme? According to the Mansonites, it was in order to have a provable case, albeit one made up out of whole cloth. Even though the police and Bugliosi apparently believed Manson was responsible for the heinous crimes, they had no proof. This conspiracy provided them with what they needed to bring a case. They evidently could not wrap their heads around the idea the career criminal Manson was not involved. These kids certainly did not do this on their own initiative. Such a scenario was simply too horrible a concept to entertain.

Of course, some Mansonites read even more into it than determination to find a scapegoat. They wanted Manson back in prison because he was dangerous to society due to his environmental beliefs. Yep, here we see Charlie revealed as among the first of the truly authentic modern day pioneer environmentalists. They credit him with the development of the philosophy of ATWA. This stands for Air, Trees, Water, and Animals, those four things Charlie in reality devoted his life to the preservation and protection of, above and beyond all other concerns. Because of such radical teachings, and because of his potential to start a new and widespread movement by utilizing his supposedly immense musical talent as a conduit, the system had to shut Charlie up-despite the fact that, until after his arrest for the Tate-LaBianca murders, nobody even knew who the fuck he was.

In the meantime, Manson is in prison for life, and so is thankfully most of his cohorts, including Bobby Beausoleil, who may have otherwise become a renowned musical artist over time. When he met Charles Manson as a fellow-member of a band called The Milky Way, he eventually diverged onto a road of ruin, but until that time, he had promise and potential. He was in a band called The Grass Roots (not the famous later band of the same name), and later Orkustra, a band with a concept ahead of it’s time, a psychedelic-classical fusion band with some jazz elements. He later went on to record the soundtrack for Kenneth Anger’s film Lucifer Rising and has since devoted himself to various artistic, musical, and writing projects.

Yet, he too will probably never get out of prison. He has changed his story numerous times. According to one account he gave, Manson was nowhere around the scene of the Hindman murder and was in no way involved with it. Later, he said Manson was there, and did in fact inflict the wound to Hindman’s cheek that nearly severed his ear. In his first account, Bobby himself struck this blow. He seems to change his story to suit the desires of the parole board, in an attempt to tell them what he perceives they want to hear in order to grant a parole that will probably never come his way. His association with Manson seems to have doomed him to a life imprisonment for a crime he for which he would ordinarily have been paroled twenty years ago.

This, then, is the true story of The Manson Girls. Like Bobby, it is a story of ruined lives and self-destruction beyond any realistic hope of redemption. Some of these girls, it is true, are the spawn of families the world would be better off without by any means necessary. For the most part, however, they were young, confused, naive young girls who went in the wrong direction and received the guidance they were looking for without knowing they were heading straight for the pits of hell. They came from good families, of working class, and in some cases upper middle class backgrounds, from families who were well liked and respected in their communities. They themselves in many cases had talents and great potential that, instead of molded with care and appropriate guidance, instead were twisted into abominations of humanity.

If the movie focuses on that point, it might well be a success and have something to add, something that is relevant for today and for all times. It can happen to anybody, under the right circumstances. No family, nor any child, regardless of background, is truly immune from the corruption of such manifestations of pure evil. The sex, drugs, and bloody mayhem can still be there, and should, but without this factor to provide some meaning to it all, it becomes just another exercise in exploitation.

Incendiary Distillations

I took the time last night to watch Bill Moyer’s Journal, something I rarely do, but last night the guest star was the Reverend Jeremiah Wright. I saw very little about his appearance or the replay of his now infamous sermons I viewed as objectionable. His angst over the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki I disagreed with, of course, but his views are not that uncommon. Some of his other nuttiness was also unfortunate. By the same token, this man is not, remember, the man who is running for President.

Nor, as I have said repeatedly, are his utterances any less vile than those of, say, the late Reverend Falwell, Pat Robertson, Bob Jones, or James Dobson. One of these days, I might make one of those two column quizzes where you match the statement to the correct minister, under the heading-

GOD WILL DAMN AMERICA BECAUSE

The numbers of given reasons could be significant.

A. Abortion
B. Homosexuality (and increasing tolerance of same)
C. Our sex-obsessed culture in television, movies, etc.
D. Our historical sins (slavery, abuse of the Indians, etc.)
E. Our arrogance and avarice in the world
F. Unjust wars

These are a pretty even mix of conservative and liberal thought, each one as valid as the other in some respects, and in other respects, every bit as invalid-assuming of course there is even a God who cares enough to damn us in the first place.

I saw enough to be left with the impression that this man is not a hater, he just believes what he believes (albeit wrongly in some cases, in my view) and feels compelled to express what he feels is God’s POV. His reasons come not from his own prejudices and preconceptions, but directly from the Bible, by the way-or at least according to his interpretation of the Bible.

He even hinted mildly that God might have allowed slavery to transpire for some greater good. To justify this position, he reminded us of the old story from Genesis about how Jacob’s brothers sold him into Egyptian slavery due to their jealousy over the favored status in which their father held him.

Joseph rose in power in Egypt, and thus found himself in the position of delivering aid to his father and brothers-the same ones who earlier sold him into slavery-by allowing them to enter Egypt when a famine cursed the land of Canaan, where they dwelled at that time as foreign immigrants.

That is quite unusual, I am thinking. Note he was not justifying slavery, merely giving an example of how God might make lemonade out of some very sour lemons. Usually, white preachers are the ones who make the point that God wanted black people brought here. You usually here how they were collectively better off here than there, or at least over time were certainly better off than are their African cousins-especially in this day and time of constant warfare, tribal based violence, and rampant starvation and disease, all of which seems unfortunately consistent occurrences within the dark continent.

According to Jeremiah Wright, he first met Obama when the latter approached him for help getting to know the various movers and shakers in the neighborhood. He was not a Christian-nor, for that matter, was he a Muslim, as is also falsely claimed by many today. He was just a man with no true belief system. Wright converted him to Christianity from what seems to have been the position of a religious skeptic.

Wright is an interesting man. Whatever your take on his beliefs, he is certainly a scholar of the Bible, and is well versed in the history of his people, especially as pertains to their religious journey here in America. One thing he said knocked me over with its simplicity, and yet, its common sense.

The slave owners and slave traders, he said, worshiped a different God than the one worshiped by Africans, in their chains down in the bottom of the ship. Wow! What a profound statement. This had nothing to do with differences in outer religious beliefs. This is just a simple fact. Were all the Africans Christians, of whatever denomination, it would be just as true as if they had just completed a sacrifice of their oldest child to Moloch.

For this reason, Wright did not enter the profession of Christian ministry easily, or without serious reservations. He understood how white people expected blacks to worship, from the earliest times, according to the cultural dictates and norms of white European society. The style of singing, the musical instruments favored, should fit into mainstream Christianity. In America, the transition over time to natural cultural expression was not as difficult as it was perhaps in Europe.

In American white churches, you get gospel music. In American black churches, you get jazz and the blues. White churches sing somberly and piously. Blacks sing raucously and exuberantly. They also dance, by the way, and stamp their feet and clap their hands and pretty much party down. Few white churches act in this manner, though there are some that do to at least a degree. Blacks that act like whites in church, by contrast, are pretty much members in good standing within majority white churches.

There has been a lot of angst over Wright’s appearance in Moyer’s show on PBS, beginning well before the program aired last night at ten o’ clock pm. It was widely assumed that this would further hurt Obama by keeping the controversy in the news. Actually, what damage the sound bites from Wright’s sermons did to Obama’s campaign was at the time and perhaps still are permanent, and could and might yet only get worse as the general election unfolds. Wright’s appearance might not help Obama, but on the other hand, it couldn’t hurt.

If God damns America, for whatever reason, don’t blame Wright. We will have no one to blame but ourselves. Whether Wright is right or wrong, about the particular reasons for God’s wrath, is an all-together different issue, and perhaps just another matter of opinion. There are many valid reasons to vote for Barak Obama, and many valid reasons to vote against him. The words of this minister is not a reason to vote either for or against him.

I think it might be appropriate to end this with the words of Fredrick Douglas, courtesy of Howling Latina-

"What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer; a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sound of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants brass fronted impudence; your shout of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanks-givings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy -- a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of the United States, at this very hour."

Ah, but we have come a long way, haven't we?

The Coming End Of Radu

Well, as of now there are only three chapters left of Radu, plus an epilogue. That is, unless I decide to break the last chapter up in order for the ending to not be so abrupt. More than likely, however, I will stick to plan A, because I want to get this first draft stage over with so I can move on (finally) to the editing stage. It has been a rough, wild and woolly ride.

It started out actually with a very simple plot device. Distilled to its basic essence, it was originally conceived as a novel about the struggle of life in the face of death, and dealt with the issue of what a person is willing to do in order to hold on to life until the bitter end.

From there, it eventually morphed into this bizarre psychodrama involving an international sex slave ring, which turned into an underground heretical Christian cult based out of Romania. Minor characters originally conceived as plot devices-in many cases they were little more than sounding boards for the major characters-took on a more important prominence. The most obvious example here would be Lieutenant James Berry. Originally a throwaway character of little importance, he became one of my favorites.

Others, originally conceived as major characters, ended up killed off relatively early on. Joseph Karinsky and his cult of Gothic vampire practitioners are the most obvious of these. Another such example would be Jason Talbert, who I ended up killing off without ever introducing him, aside from his shadowy, unnamed appearance in Chapter 7.

When I do the rewrite (which I am going to publish privately on another blog as a conduit to potential publishers), I do intend to play up the original theme a great deal more. As for the conspiracy, while I am not going to drop that, I am going to edit it down to where it is more feasible and much less intrusive.

The three main characters, of course, are Marlowe (Radu) Krovell, Grace Rodescu, and Father Aleksandre Khoska. I intend in the rewrite to put more emphasis on their lives aside from the conspiracy and its impact on their lives.

About these three, and the coming conclusion of the first draft of Radu, I will say only this. By the final chapter, two of these three characters will be dead, while one will undergo a transformation that will be staggering (to say the least) in its implications, as the unspeakable truth about Radu will be revealed, and Mircea finally makes his stand in what will (hopefully) be the most shocking revelation of all.

Well, that’s it for now, gotta go. It’s Cynthia’s feeding time.

American Idol's Carly Smithson-Superstar Rejected

Carly Smithson got booted off American Idol last night, though not to my surprise. She went down in a blaze of glory, obviously among the most gifted of an extraordinarily talented (for American Idol) group of finalists. Her song choice, I think, did her in. Unwisely taking the advice of composer Andrew Lloyd Weber, this weeks mentor, she decided to sing his Jesus Christ Superstar, from the “rock opera” of the same name.

This last night’s affair revealed more about the pretentiousness of Weber, who is obviously, and rightly, proud of what was his first successful major Broadway musical, than it did about either Smithson or the viewers. Bear in mind, by the way, they did not so much as “vote her off” as vote in greater numbers in favor of the five remaining contestants. The judges of the show were shocked at her elimination, which shows they are as clueless as Weber.

No, I am not saying Smithson was rejected by an angry coalition of conservative Bible-thumpers, as these folks would be unlikely, to say the least, to even watch American Idol, let alone call in votes after the show. By the same token, try this little mental experiment:

Pretend you are at Karaoke night over a weekend at your favorite nightclub. Imagine you live somewhere in the Midwest. This weekend’s Karaoke contest has as its theme songs from the seventies. This puts you in a quandary. You would really love to win the two hundred dollar prize, but you only know four songs from the seventies, so you know you should pick one of these songs, and should choose one that not only do you like and know enough to do well, but one the crowd will like as well. So, you decide between-

*Highway To Hell by AC/DC
*Imagine by John Lennon
*Jamie’s Crying, by Van Halen
*Jesus Christ Superstar, by Murray Head

Yeah, it actually was a hit song back in the early seventies, but you see, there is one factor that was current at the time that is irrelevant to today. Most people that listened to the song back then were more than vaguely aware of the Broadway musical, and later album and movie of the same name.

Therefore-and this is important-most people understood the context of the song. Outside of that context, that of one song within a Broadway musical, it loses that meaning. As a stand-alone song, it just doesn’t cut it for a variety of reasons. The fact that it is not that good a song to begin with is not the least of it. Added to this is the fact that-again, as a single song on its own-it can come across as pretentious, condescending, and yes, disrespectful.

To put it bluntly, it really makes no sense outside its original context. An average television Idol watcher of today is at a loss to understand the point of it. It goes without saying, of course, or it should, that the vast majority of Idol fans were not even born when “Jesus Christ Superstar” was a current hit.

It’s hard to fault Weber, who probably meant well, and probably honestly thought Carly Smithson well-suited to this type of number. It is kind of easy, however, to fault him for wanting to relive the feeling of this, his first great triumph, without giving any thought to the potential negative impact on Smithson. In fact, she did a superb job, and was among the favorites of the judges. Although she was not my favorite, she certainly was nowhere close to being among the worse. Another performer, Brooke White, who performed You Must Love Me, from Evita, lost her train of thought and had to start over.

The best performers of the night, in my opinion, were Syesha Mercado-who brought the house down with One Rock And Roll Too Many, from Starlight Express-and Jason Castro, who performed a very touching rendition of Memory, from the musical Cats. Both Syesha and Castro were, by the way, better than either usually is in my opinion, although the judges panned Castro (who in all honesty is usually among the worse of the performers).

By far the best though was David Cook, who is my own personal favorite among the group. He did a stirring rendition of Music of the Night, from Phantom of the Opera.

Cook is one of those performers who have been rare on Idol, a truly talented rocker and performer, and I expect him to at least finish in the top three, more than likely in the top two, and very possibly to win the finale. Frankly, he is the only reason I got interested in the show this season. Usually, I can’t stand to sit through it, and so, usually, I don’t. Cook, however, has the potential to be a great performer and recording artist. He will almost certainly have a brilliant future, regardless of whether or not he wins American Idol. Nevertheless, to win would obviously be a big and much welcome boost to a promising career.

Luckily, Weber didn’t talk him into performing King Herod’s Song.

Radu-Chapter XXXXIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Links to previous installments are at the end of this chapter
Radu-Chapter XXXXIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
10 pages approximate
Toby looked sullenly at the headline of the latest issue of the Baltimore Inquirer. His fists clenched as he read, inadvertently wadding the edges of the tabloid.

RAPPER RAPS TO THE FEDS

Those motherfuckers have murdered me, he hissed to himself, while his lawyer, Desmond Marcellus, paced the floor behind him, looking warily at the seemingly countless numbers of gallon jugs of gasoline that all but filled the confines of Toby’s house. He didn’t even want to know about it.

“I’m planning a long trip,” Toby had explained. “I’m stocking up before I have to sell another platinum album just to be able to afford to drive out of state.”

Desmond shook his head as showed Toby the Inquirer article.

“Do you know what this means?” he demanded.

“Yeah, it means I’m a dead motherfucker. They got me after all. They couldn’t charge me with anything, so they just put the screws to me in the worse possible way. I’m sunk.”

“Starting with sales of your CDs and DVDs,” Desmond added. “I guess I might as well tell you now. There’s going to be a massive burning at the city park this Saturday night. WBMW is telling everybody to bring all their Toby Da Pimp recordings. They’re going to bulldoze them, crush them all up, then douse them with kerosene and stage a big old bonfire. There’s even talk of burning you in effigy. They actually got city permission for all this.”

What could he say? Everything in the article, supposedly leaked from an official source, was the truth. It laid out the evidence for Letcher’s involvement in various criminal activities, and at the same time explained concisely why he never faced charges, nor ever would.

“That article even accuses you of complicity in the murder of Spooky Gold, claims you were the main beneficiary after the fact. Which, hey, that happens to be the truth. So how did that go down?”

Desmond was beside himself. His major client was finished, and he saw potentially millions of dollars fly out the window, and his own reputation ruined by reason of association.

“James Berry shot him dead, like a dog, in the basement of the Crypt,” Letcher explained. “Spooky gave up, laid down his gun. Berry just calmly, coldly put a bullet right through his heart. Spooky never knew what hit him. Berry said after Spooky admitted to killing Reverend Chris George, he had to go. Spooky was just out of control. Which, he was. What the hell could I say about it? The fool popped me right in the gut, just to make it look good. Damn well almost killed me in the bargain. It’s not like I had a say in things. Ever since that fucking Milo set me up-you know what, fuck all this. I’ve got enough money saved up, I don’t need this shit. I’m going off somewhere. I just got one more thing I got to do, and then I’m out of here. Fuck Berry, fuck Marlowe Krovell, fuck everybody.”

Desmond flinched at the mention of Marlowe. He wasn’t about to just take all this calmly.

“What about this Krovell guy anyway? Is he really still alive? Did you guys really bomb the hospital just to help him escape? What the hell was you thinking?”

“That was Marshall Crenshaw’s doing. Spooky went along with it. We all did what Spooky said. I had no idea it was going to turn out like that. I thought Marshall was out of his fucking mind when I found out.

“Yeah, Krovell is still alive-if you want to call that living. Look, Desmond, I really need to be alone for a while. Did you get that thing I told you to get from Hacksaw?”

“Yeah, I got it, but I really wish you would tell me just what the fuck it is. I can’t make any sense out of it.”

Desmond handed the sheet of lined notebook paper with the code in the handwriting of his partner Hacksaw, the computer expert and hacker currently in custody, pending charges on conspiracy. The charges would never come about. He and the other lone survivor of the Seventeenth Pulse, Mercury Morris, were both detained by the Baltimore PD. They would release them in time, but by then it would be too late. Letcher only hoped he was capable of understanding the instructions written by his partner, and that Hacksaw destroyed any other copies, as he promised he would.

Desmond decided to depart the company of his now infamous client. He was at least grateful that, for the time being, he had what he trusted was an adequate security detail to protect him from the wrath of the various street thugs eager to get their hands on anyone seen on the premises of the man who was now arguably the most hated man in America.

Dwayne Letcher was finished. Most people now considered him a terrorist, with a share in the responsibility for the deaths of numerous innocents. As if that were not enough, his own people saw him as a police and federal informant, which ruined his previously impressive street creds. To put the icing on the cake, even those who had previously heralded his music for its originality of interpretation now denigrated it as “derivative”.

He knew the end was coming, and the true irony was, he would go down as a hero, but would never hear the accolades. He had no doubt Marlowe Krovell had told him the truth. He did doubt it at first, but then he remembered the last trips he made through the inner city where he was born and raised. It was always a hard life, and one had to fight to survive with just a shred of dignity. Now, the last few times he ventured into the old neighborhood, the despair was palpable. The last time he played Spooky’s Joint, the place was barely half-full. Usually, on a Saturday night, it was standing room only. Now, people were dying like flies. There were few survivors among the many victims of the epidemic, and though it showed promising signs of abating somewhat, there was clearly a good chance that it could come roaring back to life with a vengeance at any given time.

Most of the neighborhood concluded it was a manufactured epidemic meant to clear out the inner city in order to pave the way for development. If only they knew.

He remembered the last days of Felicia’s life, of how the doctor’s desperately tried to save her, all the while keeping her quarantined, as Toby desperately turned to Doctor David Chou, the man who miraculously saved his own life. Chou, however, was coldly unsympathetic.

“It is always hard to lose someone you love,” he said dispassionately, almost dryly.

“Ain’t there something you can do?” he persisted. “Hell, you made me good as new, and no one ever thought Sean and Marcus would ever come out of the vegetative state they were in. It’s almost like there was never anything wrong with them.”

“There is a big difference,” Chou replied. “Exposure to the compound can prevent infestation with viruses, but it can not cure them once they have taken hold. Your affliction, as well as those of the two young men of whom you speak, were of causes against which the compound has no such limitations in its application. I am afraid your girlfriend is beyond my help. You might try praying. That would be the limit of my advice.”

Dwayne Letcher became desperate in those final days, and was to the point of begging. He apologized profusely for the murder of Chou’s daughter, assuring him that he had no knowledge of it, nor was in any way involved. Chou just looked at him coldly.

“Like I told you,” he said. “There is nothing I can do.”

Felicia died three days later, of bubonic plaque, an illness supposedly wiped out centuries ago, or so Toby thought. She died in horrible agony. She died alone. Chou himself was incarcerated, accused of complicity in purposely spreading the epidemic, in what authorities described as a terrorist plot of epic proportions. He professed his innocence, explaining that someone must have sabotaged his formula without his knowledge. He was, he claimed, a mere general practitioner-a dupe. Chou’s wife as well died from the effects of the formula, once heralded as a potential wonder cure. His surviving children were in hiding.

When the remainder of the blood-derived compound went missing, this seemed to vindicate Chou, and so the authorities released him on his own recognizance while obviously watching his every move. There was never any real proof of any involvement on his part with any criminal conspiracy. The real culprit seemed to be a certain Doctor William Sherman, an apparent minor associate to Chou, who was conveniently missing since the apparent abduction of the compound itself. No one had any ideas as to his whereabouts, and since some of the formula had in fact disappeared from the confines of the CDC, the indication was that the alleged conspiracy moved far beyond the confines of a few isolated individuals. There was real cause for concern, but the government naturally appealed for calm.

Calm was the last thing towards which Toby was inclined. He had seen too many people die from the effects of everything from the plaque, to polio, on down to what seemed to be an incurable case of the common cold. His aunt died from the suddenly debilitating effects of the lupus from which she suffered for years. He watched an uncle succumb to hepatitis. Various friends and former neighbors begged for help, as if his sudden fame and wealth instilled in him a godlike power to at least heal the sick, if not raise the dead.

The churches went from full on a nightly basis to all but empty pews on Sundays, while relatively restrained demonstrations gradually gave way to riots. Now, with this latest edition of the Baltimore Inquirer, he soon would find himself the focus, not of appeals for aid, but of wrath, a conduit for the expression of rage and demands for vengeance. His people would gladly sacrifice him on the altar of justice. They would make an example out of him. He truly felt sorry for Hacksaw and Mercury. They had enough money stashed yet in offshore accounts, they might well be able to live relatively peaceful lives, if they could get away in time.

He could as well, but he would do so in the knowledge that the crime that was about to occur would make the recent epidemic look like child’s play, and would in fact pave the way for it’s resurgence to an unfathomable, in fact an unstoppable degree.

He started the computer, quickly putting in the password written down on the paper Desmond smuggled from the jail in his visit to Hacksaw. The machine came on and opened up. Toby feverishly punched in the numbers, and letters, until an account opened that demanded a specific set of passwords in order to gain access. He typed in the twenty-seven character code, only to watch as the top secret, classified site denied him access. He felt his heart stop when he saw that, and looked once more at the code. Hacksaw must have copied the code down wrong, which would be understandable, given the amount of characters it contained. Now what in the hell was he going to do? He didn’t have that much time, and it was conceivable that his efforts to infiltrate the government intra-departmental secured web-site would not go by unnoticed. Still, he had to keep trying. What else could he do? He looked desperately at the code for some kind of clue. He perused each character slowly.

12q374444monnn*(wsitrf883UI

He reasoned that Hacksaw must have copied down the code correctly from one he carried with him. That meant, if true, he was missing something. He wondered whether Hacksaw had inadvertently used the wrong parenthesis character, and tried using the opposite one on the keyboard-to no avail. He considered the possibility that the “q” character should instead be a “g”. To his despair, this too proved futile. He decided it would be impossible to mistake any other key for the asterisk symbol, and so dropped that idea without pursuing it.

Then, Desmond returned. He seemed even more disturbed than when last he left.

“Those Feds,” he began, “that woman and the guy Fifer that interrogated you-they’re right outside the house. What do you think they want?”

Before Toby could answer, Desmond looked toward the computer screen. His eyes bulged suddenly and fiercely.

“What in the hell are you doing on a government web-site?”

“Desmond, never mind that, I need you to tell me something. Look at this. It’s important that I access this site, but I think I got something wrong here.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me. This looks like a classified Defense Department site. What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m trying to delete a code, one that will give the wrong people access to the wrong information,” he said. “Look, Desmond, I ain’t got time to explain this. I’m already on the site, and there’s a good chance those Feds will be in here any minute now. If I don’t take that code off, somebody will”-

“How did it get on there?” Desmond asked as he snatched the code from Toby’s hand. Toby reluctantly relinquished it, fearing that Desmond, in his determination to prevent Toby from digging a deeper hole for himself, might unknowingly pave the way for hell on earth.

“Hacksaw put it on there,” he explained desperately. “It was embedded on the DVD, in the song where Chou’s daughter was murdered.”

“What?” Desmond was incredulous.

“I know it sounds crazy, but that was the reason for the power outage a couple of weeks ago. During the repairs, somebody retrieved the code and put it on this site. Now I got to get it off here, or else.”

Desmond just looked blankly at Letcher.

“Or else what?” he asked.

“Or else a bunch of people are going to catch pure hell, to put it bluntly. If you don’t want to see the whole country, including Baltimore, up in flames, you’d better help me out here and stop bugging me with these stupid questions.”

Desmond looked at the code on the paper, unsure of what to believe. He did know one thing for sure-on rare occasions, he had seen fear emanate from the person of Dwayne Letcher, but never had he seen anything remotely like the naked terror and desperation from him or anybody that he now saw. Yet, accompanying it was a steely determination the likes of which he could barely conceive. Toby was telling him the truth-at least the truth as he saw it and believed it to be.

Desmond looked at the code on the paper, and then at the screen, which pulsated expectantly with the demand for the proper code.

“It’s case sensitive,” he noted. “Look what you’ve done. “You typed all the letters in lower case. The “M”, and the “W”, “R”, and “F” after the parenthesis are all supposed to be upper case.”

Toby looked at him blankly.

“You’re supposed to put those letters in capitals.”

“Now why in the fuck didn’t Hacksaw tell me that?” Toby said as he exhaled in relief, though obviously agitated at the same time. “Damn, I’m just used to that stupid fucking MySpace bullshit.”

“Toby, those letters in the code is plainly marked in capitals. The rest are in lower case.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever the fuck,” he replied as he punched in the code. He held his breath, until finally the screen changed, announcing his access.

“If Hacksaw was here, he would have done had this shit over with-damn!”

He scrolled down, noting the various passwords and codes listed in the encrypted web site, and continued for ten minutes with no luck.

“Damn, look at this shit,” he said. “The damn scroll bar is just barely away from the top. This could take hours.”

“Toby, are you sure you’re doing the right thing?”

“We all damn well better hope I am,” Letcher replied. “That’s assuming I’m going to be able to find the code in all this fucking mess.”

“This is just a suggestion, but why don’t you just delete the whole damn thing. It wouldn’t take nearly as long.”

Toby’s eyes widened at the thought.

“You might have a point there. What if the same guy just gets on to repair it and ends up putting the thing back in there?”

Desmond didn’t answer as he perused he screen. He suddenly realized something.

These are locations-latitudes and longitudes. Toby, every damn one of these things is code indicating a place on the globe. Scroll down fast to the bottom.”

Toby did as Desmond suggested, and discovered that the page ended with an icon. Toby clicked on the link, which took him to what put him in mind of a profile page.

“Desmond, I think we’re home clear,” he said. Toby realized that on this page, he could change his password.

“I can block this sucker’s access to this page for good,” he said. “I better come up with a good one though. What do you think?”

“I think you’d better know damn well what you’re doing,” Desmond replied. He was sweating, obviously anxious, and breathing heavily. He began chewing his nails, a habit he had not engaged in since his first year as a struggling law student. Toby just looked at him.

“Man, I’m nervous enough, would you stop that shit? It says here the password needs to be twenty-seven characters exactly. What in the hell should I do? I don’t want to make it something whoever it is might be able to figure out.”

Desmond walked toward the window, worried that at any minute the Federal agents waiting somewhere outside might get the word of Toby’s intrusion on a governmental website and come barging through the doors. Worse-what if Fifer and his buxom partner were themselves part of the conspiracy? They might not need a pretext to break in. In any event, if Toby didn’t move quickly enough, he might be up to his neck in trouble. He might lose his law license, at the very least.

“Alright, I know what I’m going to do,” Toby said, as Desmond thought he heard the sound of footsteps coming up to the door.

“Toby, somebody’s coming,” Desmond warned him. “They’re coming this way.”

Desmond could hear the sounds of Fifer seemingly communicating with someone by way of cell phone. They seemed to be halfway down the sidewalk between the house and the street, but Desmond was even afraid to look out the window to see. Luckily, they did not seem to be in a hurry. Toby extracted a book of matches from his shirt pocket. Lighting one, he set the paper with the code ablaze.

“Let’s just hope I don’t need this anymore.”

He then began typing quickly, as he punched in twenty-seven characters at random, as haphazardly and quickly as possible. Seeing that he had to repeat the process, he copied the code he typed and then pasted it once, then two more times, into the spaces at the bottom of the page. He then clicked on the link, whereby the site displayed the new password for his verification. Toby confirmed it, without even looking at it, and then proceeded to delete the entire set of coordinates on the previous page, as quickly as he could, while the old code now emitted smoke, a crumpled pile of dark ashes.

He had only one thing left to do. He reached down inside the box that sat under his desk. He found what he was looking for, the one machine he could depend on that would completely erase any records of his actions on this computer. He turned on the switch, and then turned to Desmond, who waited anxiously at the door.

“Thank God it’s over,” he said. “Desmond, you’d really better get out of here.”

“Are you sure?” the attorney asked.

“If I need you I’ll call you,” he said. “I think it’s pretty much over with though.”

Letcher’s demeanor now seemed the polar opposite of what it had been just ten minutes before. Where earlier he seemed in a state of complete nervous anxiety and near collapse, he now acted as though he was at peace with himself. He seemed transcendent-even spiritually calm, as he lit up a cigarette as though it would be his last act of any significance.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Toby smiled.

“I’ve never been better,” he replied.

Desmond opened the door and carefully peered outside, now seeing no sign of the two Federal agents.

“You call me if you need me,” he said.

Toby flashed him a Seventeenth Pulse gang sign that indicated all was well. Desmond nodded his head and left. Toby finished his cigarette. He sat there for another ten minutes as his life flashed before his eyes. He remembered singing in his church’s youth choir, as a little boy. Even at the age of eight, he could bring crowds of people to their feet. That was so long ago, it seemed, before the day he was gang raped by four neighborhood girls-after which he was later in the day badly beaten-all a requirement of his initiation into his first gang at the age of fourteen. The robberies came later, and then the executions.

All the time, he just kept on singing and rapping. He reached up for the CD player and turned it on. He sat and listened to his version of Frank Sinatra’s That’s Life as he lit up another cigarette. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, followed by the voice of Fifer demanding entrance.

He wondered if they would just go away if he ignored him. A part of him though wanted them to enter. A part of him did not want to be alone. He decided it just wouldn’t be right, but they persisted.

“Get the fuck out of here, Fifer!” he shouted. “I ain’t got nothing more to say to you. The same goes for your bimbo partner.”

As he said this, he picked up one of the gallon cans of gasoline that sat piled up in the apartment and poured its contents on top of the still running computer. He was half-finished when Fifer kicked the door in and entered, his partner Bridgett right behind him. Fifer’s eyes widened with shock as the computer hissed and sputtered in protest, and then finally went blank.

“What in the name of God are you doing here? What’s all this gasoline?”

“Is it against Federal law to store gasoline in your house?”

“It is if you’re trying to destroy evidence pertaining to a federal investigation,” the agent responded. “We have orders to confiscate your computer. Luckily, it doesn’t have immunity. We’re still working on rescinding yours. Don’t worry, Toby- it might take a while, so you have at least a few more days yet to record an appropriate swan song.”

Bridgett overcame her initial revulsion to the stench of the gasoline that doused the now disabled computer, and looked around at the numerous presumably full jugs in amazement.

“Maybe you’d better check out some of the other rooms,” she suggested. “While you’re doing that, maybe me and ol’ Toby here might get better acquainted. I think I’d enjoy spending some time with him.”

“You might be spending more time with me than you bargained for,” Toby replied as Fizer suddenly approached the rapper.

“Let’s have your cigarette lighter,” he said. Toby handed it over without objection.

“I think I just had my last smoke anyway.

“You keep an eye on him,” Fizer said. “As for you, you mind your manners.”

“Just who is it that barged into whose house anyway?” Toby asked with a shrug as Fizer made his way to the back room.

“Holy crap, every room in this place is piled with full gallon jugs of gas,” he shouted from the adjoining bedroom.

“So, what have you been up to, Toby?” Bridgett asked. “Funny, you don’t seem quite as happy to see me as you did the last time we talked.”

“That could be because I’m not hyped up on Viagra now, you reckon?” Toby said.

“Or maybe you’ve just been relieving yourself with the help of some porn sites?” she responded. “You might as well tell us now. As soon as the other agents get here, we’ll confiscate that computer, and we will find out, you know. Of course, as long as its not kiddie porn, or another snuff film, that’s not a problem. Something tells me you’ve been doing a lot more than trolling porn sites, though.”

“Well, you could say what I’ve been logging onto is obscene,” Toby replied. “I doubt you’d find it much of a turn on though. On the other hand, I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.”

“So what’s with the gasoline, Toby?” Bridgett continued. “Whatever evidence you’re trying to destroy on that computer, I hate to break it to you, but it’s too late now.”

“It might be too late for you and your partner,” Toby said with a smile, “if the two of you don’t get the hell out of here within the next twenty seconds.”

“Hey, Fifer, I think Toby just threatened us,” the female agent called out to her partner, who suddenly reappeared from his quick inspection of the rooms.

“He’s got enough gas in here to fill the Strategic Petroleum Reserves,” Fifer said in amazement. Toby peered down inside the backpack at his feet.

“Yeah, I guess I might as well tell you-I got stacks of boxes full of dynamite in that closet over there,” Toby said calmly, almost quietly, as he looked down into the box under his desk.

He looked up at Bridgett with a smile as Fifer warily walked to the side of his female partner, his eyes alternating between the closet door and the box under the desk..

“What the hell is in there?” Fifer asked as he bent down toward the box, as Toby obligingly rolled backward in his chair out of Fifer’s way, while Bridgett cautiously opened the closet door. Sure enough, there were boxes, one stacked on top of another too high for her to look into the top one, though they were all palinly marked “Dangerous-High Explosives”.

Fifer peered inside the box under the desk, and then raised his head toward Toby, as a suddenly terrified Bridgett joined her partner, urgently tugging at his sleeve, while Fifer stared wide-eyed at Toby, who looked past both agents with a smug grin. He seemed absorbed in the music of the CD that played from the CD player on the desk beside the disabled computer.

“What’s wrong, Bridgett asked?” but the unintelligible whisper of the agent belied the look of horror that exuded from his bulging eyes.

Within the next instant, one blinding flash accompanied one deafening blast, as everything went black.

Links To Previous Chapters
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
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XXXX
Chapter XXXXI
Chapter XXXXII