Previous Installments-
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
Radu-Chapter XXXVI (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
6 pages approximate
Sister Agnes knew these days that there was an evil force surrounding her. Wherever she went, she felt the eyes of an abomination piercing her soul. It wanted her. She knew of no man who ever so badly wanted her. At times, it drained her energy, but she always recovered through prayer and meditation. She would keep the depression at bay for some time, but just when it seemed she won, it returned stronger than ever. Never before had she experienced anything like it.
She knew she had to do something. She now had the children to consider. Why in God’s name, she wondered, did she ever allow herself to be convinced to bring them with her to Baltimore? Now, one of them was gone. The oldest of the girls, Elena, had in fact been missing for over a month.
The oldest boy, Augusto, was the last to see her. The two of them were out for a walk, when they saw a woman who looked to be in the throes of misery. She looked to be suffering the ravages of a serious illness, her skin afflicted with what seemed to be some form of leprosy. She stank of death, and could not speak, could make no intelligible sounds at all, but instead merely garbled in animalistic, guttural tones.
“She scared me,” he said. “She looked and acted almost like a wounded animal. I tried to tell Elena we should leave, but she insisted we should try to help her. I left, thinking Elena would come along, but when she did not, I doubled back. By the time I returned, Elena was gone, and so was the woman. I hurried back here, and as I did a car went by. I could swear I saw the woman sitting in the front passenger’s seat. A man was driving, but I could not make him out. He drove by too fast for me to get a license number, and by the time I thought about that, it was too late.”
Augusto was obviously distraught, and when she reported this story to the police, they questioned not only the boy, but all the other children as well. They took him to the police station, and Agnes accompanied him, sitting at his side as he described the strange woman. Then, they showed him pictures. He looked through more than a thousand of them until he found a photo of the woman he insisted was the one he saw.
To their surprise, and to the dismay of Agnes, he identified a woman who turned out to be dead for more than two years, a woman by the name of Raven Randall. Yet, Augusto was adamant. It was she, he insisted.
The police regarded him with some suspicion, and asked him impertinent questions concerning his feelings towards Elena? Did he think of her as like a sister, or a friend, or possibly as a girlfriend? Was she nice, or was she hateful? They asked him if they ever fought or argued over any matter, no matter how trivia?
Augusto was overweight for fourteen years and considered Elena as a part of his family, so these questions both embarrassed and angered him. As he was a sullen boy anyway, this made them look upon him with even greater suspicion, but in due course, they relented. They stopped by periodically those first couple of weeks, but then stopped, though they assured her they would never cease looking for the girl.
They questioned all of the other children too, but they likewise could tell them nothing. Agnes kept the children close to her at all times.
Then, one night, Elena returned, just suddenly appearing at the doorstep of the big house which Phillip Khoska, her brother, earlier purchased for the use of Agnes and the children as a temporary orphanage. Now, Phillip lay in a coma, an attempted suicide, while her older brother Jonathon was dead, shot down in the office of Michael’s own church. Her older sister Dorothy herself was dead, also murdered, and her niece, Dorothy’s daughter, seemed to have disappeared altogether.
Although Agnes was overjoyed to see Elena, the girl looked spiritually dead. The once gleaming light that shone from her hazel eyes now was but a vacant stare. Agnes knew what that look meant in most cases involving young girls missing for long periods, and she immediately prayed this was not the case with Elena.
Elena knew her, knew all the other children, and yet insisted she did not remember where she had been or what had happened while she was gone. The police questioned her, of course, as did a Social Services agent, but no one could make any sense or jar Elena’s memories. She seemed to have complete amnesia insofar as the events of the last several weeks, from the time of her disappearance. In fact, the last thing she remembered was earlier in the day, when she and Eitan, another of the boys, were sitting in the family room watching television and drinking hot chocolate, well before she and Augusto left the house for a walk.
Naturally, the police questioned both boys, and the other children, but no one had any recollections. Finally, in desperation, the police showed her a picture of Raven Randall, but this as well elicited no response from Elena. Naturally, a doctor examined her, seemingly to no avail-at least not at first.
Agnes soon received word of a strange anomaly in Elena’s blood, an interesting component that seemed to lend itself to a rare though not unknown replication faculty. She found herself in the office of Doctor McCann, her father’s personal physician, who seemed curiously puzzled by the anomaly-not only puzzled, but troubled.
He talked to Elena at some length, but the girl yet remembered nothing.
“Has she ever been to Johns Hopkins at any time, including before her disappearance?”
“Of course not,” Agnes replied. “Why should she?”
“Well, this enzyme in her blood is almost identical to an experimental compound which has been successful in treating various conditions of a serious nature. At the same time, the FDA has not approved it for general use. Its use requires signed consent. Due to its experimental and still unknown nature, Johns Hopkins reserves it for use only in the most extreme circumstances, when no other course of treatment is useful or practical. Yet, here it is, within her blood. I can only consider it a case of cross-contamination. Yet, for this to be the case, she would almost have to have been treated at a Johns Hopkins facility.”
“That is impossible,” Agnes assured him. “There must be some other answer.”
“She suffered no traumatic injuries of which you are aware?” he asked. “I am particularly concerned about an apparent injury to her neck. Although it seems healed, I detected earlier the signs of a previous wound, which on the face of it would ordinarily be fatal in nature. In fact, it appears her jugular vein was at one point ripped open”
“I have known this girl for years,” Agnes assured him. “She has never had so much as a sprained muscle, and has rarely been ill at all. She had the flu once, more than seven years ago, and that is about it. I am curious though, and I do not know how to ask. But, since she was gone for so long and since she seems to have blocked everything out of her conscious memory”-
“She is still a virgin,” he assured her, aware of where she was going. “She was not raped or molested in any way sexually, I assure you. My own private opinion is, she seems to have suffered some kind of emotional breakdown and wandered off on her own. Perhaps she simply wandered the streets, picking up food here and there, possibly even benefiting from the kindness of passing strangers who mistook her simply for a child from a poverty-stricken family, possibly even an orphaned one. Something like this, while unlikely, would seem to be the only explanation that might make any sense.
“Still, this blood anomaly is very troubling. Although I am not at liberty to say, I have seen it before. In fact, it manifested in the blood supply of one of your family members. It was your niece, Lynette Khoska. If not for your relationship, I would not reveal her name. Under the circumstances, however, I would feel remiss in my duties were I not to inform you. Fortunately, it seems to be in the process of fading from her blood compared to its presence during the first rounds of testing.”
“Lynette,” Agnes said quietly, now overwhelmed with worry. “How is it exactly that this blood enzyme, or whatever it is, come to be discovered?”
“I am afraid I am in the dark as to that,” McCann answered. “Doctor David Chou is the physician in charge of the program, and he is quite mysterious about it. All I know is he seems to have discovered it within the blood supply of one of his patients. After some wrangling, he seems to have won a patent, which he sold while retaining the rights to study the enzyme under the auspices of Johns Hopkins experimental testing facilities.
“In fact, I have spoken to him about your little friend. Naturally, he was curious, but expressed his assurance he knew nothing of her, and was positive it had nothing to do with his program. Still, I find the odds astronomical that she and your niece could have contracted such a rare blood anomaly, even though you claim they never met.”
“This patient,” Agnes asked. ‘Who was he?”
McCann smiled.
“I’m afraid you’ll never get that information out of David Chou,” he promised her. “It doesn’t really matter. According to him, he has been dead for over half a year now. I’m certain he is not the answer. I do need to ask you something, however, that might be unpleasant. This young girl-has she by any chance ever had a drug problem?”
Agnes looked at him in a futile attempt to disguise her anger.
“Of course not,” she said. “I have never had the slightest problem with her. I have known her since she was seven. Her parents abandoned her, and”-
“Please don’t take offence,” McCann pleaded. “I did not really think she was a user, at least there are no signs of such a thing. Still, it would offer a possible explanation in the way of cross-contamination, particularly if she ever used a needle. Still, it would have had to occur years ago. Recent drug use of such a drastic nature would be impossible to hide. I do not know. I am simply at a complete loss. The only advice I can give you is to continue her therapy, and be thankful she seems to be on the road to recovery from whatever it was that afflicted her. As it is, she seems perfectly healthy, at least physically.”
Michael as well was at a loss as to what to do. When he tried to talk to the girl, she did not seem evasive, yet would not or could not elaborate on her feelings or on recent events. Her answers were vague, seemed evasive at times, and even mysterious.
“So, how do you feel, Elena?” Michael asked her.
“I feel comfortably numb,” she replied.
“Comfortably numb?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “I feel very numb, but comfortably so.”
He smiled at her, and for the first time since she came back, she smiled in return, though briefly. Then, she turned grimly serious, and then sad.
“They are all going to die, you know.”
“Who is that, Elena?” he asked.
“Your children, and your grandchildren, of course-did you not know?”
Michael was stunned into complete immobility. With a supreme effort of will, he forced himself to look into her eyes, and saw there a vague light that seemed to trail off into eternity. Her eyes seemed vacant, and yet, aware. He almost collapsed. As he felt himself going limp, he reached toward the banister of the stairs by which he stood, as Agnes, who heard only a part of the exchange from the adjoining room, entered and rushed to his side.
“Michael, you can’t listen to her, she is not well,” she advised him.
Yet, Michael betrayed no emotion at her pronouncement, only a steady sense of calm acceptance.
“I will be all right,” he said. “I really should go now. I need to call my wife.”
After he left, Agnes asked her what she meant saying such a thing, but Elena acted as though she was not aware she had said anything amiss or out of the ordinary. In fact, she acted as though she remembered saying nothing at all.
Aleksandre Khoska soon paid a visit to the house, and the strangest thing of all happened. Elena suddenly seemed her normal self. There seemed nothing strange or dispirited about her in the least. Elena seemed no different from any other young teenage girl. She engaged him in conversation, as though she had known him all her life. She smiled, and even joked that his beard made him seem wise and old for a man with such young twinkling eyes. After about twenty minutes of such banter, she excused herself. She then bounded out of the room calling out for another of the girls to go with her for a walk.
“Well, that was strange,” Agnes said. Khoska’s eyes were far from twinkling. Such a description of him seemed out of place by quite a few years.
“Something is very wrong,” he said. “Your mother Marta used to say that to me when she wanted to put me in my place, as she put it. That was not a casual conversation, Agnes. That was a warning-a deceptively cordial one, but a warning nevertheless.”
Later on, after supper, Khoska prayed and blessed all of the children privately, including Elena, who acted no different in response from any of the other children. Yet, she was different.
“I have never known a child who acted so transparently familiar with me,” he then confided to Agnes. “Most children look at me with a sense of awe, or at least a kind of reserve. Some of them betray some sense of guilt, mostly over some little trivial matter that in most cases seem based mainly on private imaginings. This girl seems to take on the persona of a hostess of some private adult club, or perhaps of some high society debutante ball. It is most extraordinary.”
As he stood at the door preparing to leave, to return to the bedside of his son Phillip, who yet lay comatose in a private hospital, Elena once more presented herself.
“It was so very good to see you, Father Khoska,” she said cheerfully. “I do hope you will come again.”
At that exact instant, the girl went limp and collapsed onto the floor. Khoska rushed to her side, to see her twitching frantically and foaming at the mouth. Her eyes were wide open as she soon began thrashing frantically.
“She seems to be having an epileptic seizure,” he said. He placed his hand under the back of her neck and gently turned her on her side. Agnes rushed to the phone. The line, however, was dead.
“Of all the times for the phone to not work,” she shouted, tempted for once to curse aloud, and barely restraining herself from doing so.
“I’ll get my cell-phone,” she said.
“That won’t be necessary,” Khoska told her. “It is over.”
The girl now was still and unconscious.
“What if it happens again?” she asked.
“I doubt it will,” he said. “She is just as well off here anyway, until you can arrange an appointment. McCann will probably have to make a referral to a specialist to run tests. More than likely, this is not a permanent condition, but a symptom of whatever psychological trauma she has undergone. The best thing for her would be to put her to bed. You will want to cleanse her, of course, as I am certain you will find she has urinated on herself.”
That turned out to be the case, and after Khoska took his leave, Agnes helped the girl bathe, and then saw her to bed. The other children all entered her room to inquire after her, and to wish her good night. She expressed the wish that all of them remain there with her, not merely her roommate Rea. Agnes, however, was adamant that all the children should return to their room and to their beds at the usual time.
She then made her way toward her own bed. She was too distraught to sleep well, provided she slept at all. Yet, she was also exhausted, and had to get some rest, or at least try. As she lay in bed, her head began rumbling, and soon, she could hear voices, unintelligible murmurings, accompanied by a hatefully joyous laughter punctuated by some odious declarative that was equally unfathomable. She soon felt overwhelmed by waves of exhaustion that nearly paralyzed her. She could barely move as she felt her joints and muscles ache and stiffen.
Finally, she heard a fierce and loud pounding at her door. Yet, she had not locked it. She could not make herself speak in so much as a whisper, let alone a shout, and as she felt herself giving in to waves of terror, she began to pray silently. Then she heard the door give way to the sudden force of a booted foot that followed the door as it flung inward.
She could not gasp as the strange young man entered her bedroom. He looked at her and leered, with his green eyes and his dark hair. His naked torso revealed a montage of tattoos, and his made up face betrayed a hideous, demonically warped soul, struggling for expression.
“The girl is mine,” he hissed. “You can not have her.”
She is just a child, she tried to plead, but could not open her mouth. To her horror, he knew her thoughts.
“To me, you are all children,” he said. “Yet, in your arrogance, you have taken everything from me I ever cared for. Do not dare to suppose that I have forgotten, or will forgive. I passed that stage of humanity centuries ago, long before I animated the form you see before you now. I have asserted my will, and my will is now her will. She has returned here for one reason and one reason alone. All of the rest of you must die.”
Marlowe Krovell then turned to leave the bedroom of the terrified Orthodox nun, she who had devoted her life to serving her God and his children, his most precious creations. She had to stop him. She found the strength and the will to pull herself from her bed and made her way down the hall. She heard Justin, the youngest of the boys, cry out in fear. She hurried to his room in a weakened, dizzied state, and opened the door, only to see, to her utter horror, the boy floating above his bed, crying pitifully, as suddenly his back arched. She could hear it snap, as whatever invisible force held the boy aloft now dropped him down onto the floor, flinging him as though to insure he would hit, not the bed, but the hardwood flood, upon which he landed with a bone-crunching thud.
Agnes grasped frantically at the crucifix that yet hung around her neck as she tried to hurry to his side. Before she could reach him, however, she felt a solid force brush past her, knocking her against the dresser of the small room. She saw then the other boys in the room, Augusto and Eitan, who both lay upon the floor, staring out as though they too were as dead as poor little Justin. Then, she heard screams from one of the girls’ rooms next door. She hurried into the room, to see all three girls who shared the room, floating as Justin had in the air, only this time spinning wildly as they screamed in terror. One by one, their backs arched until their spines snapped, and they dropped to the floor.
Overcome by horror, Agnes turned and lowered her head and cried, until she felt a strong, iron grip on her shoulder. She looked into the mirror to see the face of the green eyed, blonde haired man whose face looked hideously mummified, a face of demonic evil that transcended death. She screamed as he laughed and flung her out of the room. She lay upon the floor of the hallway outside as she heard footsteps. She looked around her to see the children.
Justin was there, as well as Eitan and Augusto. All of the girls as well were there, including Elena. Elena smiled at her. There was something very badly wrong. Agnes could not speak. She could not move. She could only lay there and writhe in horror and agony.
The children tried to speak to her, but she could not hear them.
“What is wrong with her?” Augusto asked Ellena.
“I don’t know, but she must be sick,” she replied. “Perhaps we should call a doctor.”
Another of the girls held Sister Agnes as Eitan ran desperately to the phone. They addressed her, and they tried to comfort her, but she seemed not to hear them. She looked at them, and though she tried to turn away from them, she could not do so. All she saw was their hideously grinning faces, their ravenous glaring eyes, and the protruding fangs that seemed to hunger for her as they clutched and grasped her with hatred and malicious glee.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
We're Koo-Koooo For Kosovo! Koo-Koooo For Kosovo!
Congrats are in order, it would seem, to the steadfast and determined people of the breakaway Serbian province of Kosovo. It took many decades, but they are now on the verge of achieving their dreams of an independent Albanian state, and having those dreams recognized by the international community.
Of course, ethnic Serbs both within Kosovo and beyond have always recognized those dreams. They have lived those dreams, every day, for decades. Well, nightmares are dreams too, you know.
Well, it’s their own fault, insisting on the deluded belief that Kosovo is a sacred province to them, pretending that their forefathers fought so long and hard to free it from Ottoman Turk domination. They seemed to think that their families and descendants should not have to yield to the same “oppressive” Muslim regime to which the Albanians back in the day so thoughtfully and, it would seem in retrospect, wisely surrendered.
It took many years, thankless decades, in fact, of oppression-and hey, it worked. They just migrated into Kosovo from Albania, and gradually took over, not merely by out-breeding, but by proving that nothing makes good target practice like a lower-class Serb family out for a casual stroll-or out working in their own yards and gardens.
Yep, cheers, boys and girls of Kosovo. You proved those low-class Serbs would finally break and reveal their true natures and start fighting back and oppressing you, just as you have done to them for the many long decades you have migrated onto their so-called “sacred land”. And-hee, hee, hee, hee-it worked. You tricked them into proving what utter barbarians they were. All it took was a long, extended period of doing exactly to them what you knew deep down they wished they could do to you.
Now, you have your own country. Now, Islam, that glorious religion of peace, can grow and prosper, within the hearts and minds of the remaining five percent of ethnic Serbs that remain in Kosovo-or else.
In closing, I now add my voice to that of our glorious president, King George The Dry Drunk, Bush II who, following in the footsteps of previous American monarch and NATO client king-William Jefferson The Wagging Dog, Clinton The First-has encouraged recognition of the new Islamic Albanian ethnic state of Kosovo. Welcome to the international community. For all you do-this bud’s for you.
One word of advice-now that you have your own independent Islamic Albanian state-don’t forget to kill all the pigs. (hint, hint).
Of course, ethnic Serbs both within Kosovo and beyond have always recognized those dreams. They have lived those dreams, every day, for decades. Well, nightmares are dreams too, you know.
Well, it’s their own fault, insisting on the deluded belief that Kosovo is a sacred province to them, pretending that their forefathers fought so long and hard to free it from Ottoman Turk domination. They seemed to think that their families and descendants should not have to yield to the same “oppressive” Muslim regime to which the Albanians back in the day so thoughtfully and, it would seem in retrospect, wisely surrendered.
It took many years, thankless decades, in fact, of oppression-and hey, it worked. They just migrated into Kosovo from Albania, and gradually took over, not merely by out-breeding, but by proving that nothing makes good target practice like a lower-class Serb family out for a casual stroll-or out working in their own yards and gardens.
Yep, cheers, boys and girls of Kosovo. You proved those low-class Serbs would finally break and reveal their true natures and start fighting back and oppressing you, just as you have done to them for the many long decades you have migrated onto their so-called “sacred land”. And-hee, hee, hee, hee-it worked. You tricked them into proving what utter barbarians they were. All it took was a long, extended period of doing exactly to them what you knew deep down they wished they could do to you.
Now, you have your own country. Now, Islam, that glorious religion of peace, can grow and prosper, within the hearts and minds of the remaining five percent of ethnic Serbs that remain in Kosovo-or else.
In closing, I now add my voice to that of our glorious president, King George The Dry Drunk, Bush II who, following in the footsteps of previous American monarch and NATO client king-William Jefferson The Wagging Dog, Clinton The First-has encouraged recognition of the new Islamic Albanian ethnic state of Kosovo. Welcome to the international community. For all you do-this bud’s for you.
One word of advice-now that you have your own independent Islamic Albanian state-don’t forget to kill all the pigs. (hint, hint).
Friday, February 15, 2008
John McCane And The Rape Of Conservatives
The conservative movement of America, insofar as it's affiliation with the Republican Party, has been compared to a three legged stool, made up of social conservatives, fiscal conservatives, and foreign policy conservatives.
I think comparing it to a three legged witches cauldron is more apt a description-a witches cauldron run by a group of very dark, satanic witches. Unfortunately, the social conservatives have gone from being one of the important and vital three legs, to an unwilling part of the vile broth that has cooked and stewed and simmered into a concoction that is rancid at best.
Who can blame them for wanting to break free and have their well-earned place at the table? Yet, when they try, they find themselves more like a battered wife, one who knows she is being abused, and yet has no place left to go.
Now, just when the conservative movement seemed ready to assert it's rights, along comes John McCain, who tells them to "calm down".
Yeah, I've always heard that rape victims deep down enjoy being raped. I have always heard that in many if not most cases, they "asked for it."
I've also heard that the rapist is himself a person who has problems, perhaps stemming from some kind of abuse he experienced. Well, if that is true, it is easy to see how John "Stockholm Syndrome" McCain seems determined to continue the cycle of abuse by inflicting his condition on members of the Republican Conservative movement.
Some have balked at this treatment and will continue doing so. Some will make their way out of the abusive relationship their party has forced upon them, while refusing to honor their concerns and beliefs. They will walk away, and will not return until those concerns are met satisfactorily. They are tired of the abuse.
Others, however, will remain and continue to put up with the rape and abuse. Not only will they remain, they will convince themselves, in true Stockholm Syndrome fashion, that they enjoy it.
After all, where else can they go? Who else can they turn to? It's a cold, cruel world out there, filled with Democrats, Leftists, hedonists, and secular humanists of all stripes, just ready to pounce and destroy their souls.
How much easier to remain in an abusive relationship? After all, they are getting a little something out of it-ain't they?
Sure, for now, they are getting screwed, in the ass, in the mouth, and in every other orifice they have. Many of them hope McCain will use "protection" in the form of a truly conservative VP candidate. Of course, no form of contraceptive or protection is fool-proof, is it?
Evidently not. The disease is already spreading. Worse, where once it was morning in America, now there is nothing but morning sickness. The future does not look good, and unfortunately, at this late stage, abortion does not seem to be an option, though ironically it might seem strangely tempting.
Maybe in time they will really learn to like it.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Radu-Chapter XXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
Previous Installments-
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
Radu-Chapter XXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
8 pages approximate
While Toby strutted back and forth among his background singers he entertained the same question as usual-which one of these hos is going to set me back a bunch of money tonight, and how much Viagra will it take? He settled on Felicia Rashad-not only because she was, after all, his favorite, but precisely because she was his favorite, he saved her for special occasions. He did not want to wear a good thing out, and that rack had a lot of potential.
He felt much better over the last few months after dropping more than fifty pounds, and this was an inducement to him to lose even more. Still, as he rapped to the background music of My Way, he could feel the potential of what might well lie ahead. He finally had the makings of a big hit-not just a regional but a national, maybe even international chart buster. Things were looking up.
He was glad this night was over. He finished the encore performance and prepared to exit the stage. His posse was ready to leave the club, and Felicia was ready, it seemed, to accompany him. He only hoped he was ready. He made his way back to the dressing room and popped the Viagra. Soon, he and Felicia walked side-by-side toward the limousine that waited to take them to the Hyatt.
He felt so good now he even considered popping the question. The only thing that concerned him was the prospect that since she would no doubt agree it would be impossible to back out later. The hell with it, he decided.
“You and me is gonna have us a serious discussion,” he promised her.
“Oh, what about?” she asked with a winsomely delighted smile.
“That’s as far as you go, Mr. Lecher,” a voice suddenly announced. “You are Dwayne Lecher, aka Toby Da Pimp, correct?”
Felicia backed away in obvious fear. Toby always told her there was a danger that someday he might suffer the fate of his idol, The Notorius Mr. Big, alternately known as “Biggie Small”. Mr. Big supposedly died, by gunfire, in retaliation for the earlier murder of rival gangsta rapper Tupac Shakur.
“That’s life,” Toby said often, a refrain that was now to all intents and purposes his signature line these days owing to the rising in the charts of his latest single, the first to receive national airplay.
“It could be worse,” the late Spooky Gold said once. “You could end up like Vanilla Ice. That wouldn’t be good, because I don’t think anybody could hold your fat ass out a window by your ankles without dropping you.”
As Toby considered how good it was to be out of his old gang leaders shadow, for once, he found himself concerned now as to the strange man and his partners who, having so addressed him, now approached him with what appeared to be an outstretched identification badge.
Until he saw this, Toby was relieved to see most of the men were white. Now, he wished they were all black, and the FBI identification could transform into a handgun. He knew how to deal with the pain of gunshot wounds, having experienced this on three different occasions. Actually, he wanted to go out that way-a hero, like Biggie.
“Who the hell are you, fool?” one of the posse members asked.
“Cool it, James,” Toby said. “What’s up, dog?”
“You’re under arrest,” the man said. “I have a warrant here, to take you in on suspicion of interstate commerce violations and suspicion of terrorist activities, and murder, in connection with the bombing of Johns Hopkins University.”
“Say what?” Toby demanded. He expected this for some time, and now projected what he called his dumbfounded look, one he practiced to great extent. This time, however, the practice turned out to be unnecessary. He was truly dumbfounded.
“Interstate commerce violations?” he demanded. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Before he could further process the implications of what he heard, the agent ordered him to turn around and place his hands on his head. He knew by rote the rights read to him by the FBI agent, a man named Fifer, who then cuffed him and lead him to a waiting sedan. He knew enough by now not to talk, or even to engage in conversation. He would not lower his dignity by sitting back here and professing his innocence. His lawyer would arrive soon and straighten out this mess. All Toby had to do was dummy up.
It was no more than a ten-minute drive to the Federal courthouse where Fifer led him to a large interrogation facility that looked, ironically enough, like a board room with large, swivel chairs surrounding an oblong oak table. For the time being, there were only four of them, until a female agent entered.
The woman, with long blonde hair and somewhat tight grayish blue slacks, entered into what appeared to be a DVD player a copy of his latest recording.
“I wonder what Frank would say about this?” Fifer mused.
“Maybe you can ask him one of these days-soon,” Toby replied. “Now, where the fuck is my lawyer? If I’m being charged with-“
“Just calm down, Mr. Lecher, he’s on his way,” Fifer said. “Believe it or not, he knew about this before you did. See, we try to do things by the book around here. We make sure we have everything all lined out before we take somebody in on a specific charge. You are more than just a person of interest, you know. Ah, you know what-I think we should skip all this and get to the good stuff.”
Fifer paused the DVD, and then fast-forwarded immediately to Strangers In The Night.
“I guess you know this girl’s name, right?” he said.
“Yeah, her name was Susan Chou,” Lecher said. “I know all about her being murdered, and I had nothing to do with that, nor did I have any knowledge of it. So, can I go now?”
The woman now approached Lecher, still handcuffed, and she peered down into his eyes.
“At sixteen years old, what she is doing might well be described as lude and lascivious conduct, which you seem to be encouraging here.”
“She lied about her age and showed my agent a false ID. What can I say-kids these days? What happened to her had nothing whatsoever to do with me and my boys.”
“My, look at how her crotch is glowing.” The woman replied, ignoring Toby’s protests of innocence. “I wonder what would happen if you was to click on it?”
“Right at the time, it would probably gush cum,” Toby said in a cold, steely voice. “Right about now it would probably gush maggots. I don’t really care, then or now. Like I said-it ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.”
Before he finished, however, the female agent managed to click on the area of the girl’s strangely glowing crotch, an act that opened a new screen. Toby’s eyes widened with horror as he saw what happened next.
“You know, this might come as a surprise, but this is the first actual snuff film ever found and verified. You’re quite a guy, Mr. Lecher. When this version hits the internet-and you know that is going to happen any day now-I would be willing to wager it will make sells of the original CD go through the roof. Of course, all you have to do is say you didn’t know anything about this. You’re a real clever guy.”
Fifer listened to this in silence, until he suddenly lurched forward and peered into Toby’s face.
“He would have been a lot cleverer if he had made sure her body wasn’t found,” he added. “Let’s see, what was the cause of death? Oh yeah, I remember, now, in fact, I think we have it right here. What was it again, Bridgett?”
“Loss of blood and shock from internal injuries due to profound physical trauma caused by dog bites, if I remember right,” the female agent replied.
Toby met their gaze in obvious apprehension.
“Those were Spooky’s fighting dogs,” he said to their surprise. “I swear to God, I didn’t know anything about this.”
The two agents shot each other a surprised look, but quickly recovered from this unexpected and seemingly sincere utterance from the reputedly arrogant gang leader, whom they both felt was guilty of more crimes than they would probably ever know about.
“Mr. Lecher-you don’t really expect us to believe that, do you?” the woman, whose name was Bridgett, asked him.
“Hell no, I don’t expect you to believe it, or to admit you believe it if you do, but it’s the truth,” he insisted. “Why the hell would I put something like that on one of my DVD’s? Are you nuts?”
“Crazy as a fox, Mr. Letcher,” Fifer answered. “Pretty clever, seeing as how you can make a ton of money off this thing, all the time denying any involvement in it. You should have been a politician. So let’s see now, since you didn’t do it, who did? Oh wait, I bet I know-it’s all a big plot by somebody wanting to set you up, because you’re an enemy of the racist white government. Or maybe some crooked cops just want to get you off the street, because you’re a bad influence. Or maybe it’s just somebody that wants you out of the way so they can have all the power and control over the hood.”
All the time Fifer was going into this routine, however, Bridgett looked with growing concern at Toby, who seemed to her actually taken aback by this latest revelation. In this matter, at least, he might well be telling the truth, which he now continued to insist was the case.
“I would have to know if this was made from one of the masters or not,” he explained. “If it was, then it was probably one of my people. Why they would do something like this, I don’t know. I swear to you though, I don’t know anything about it.”
“One of your people,” Fifer responded, though even he now betrayed signs of doubt as to Lecher’s guilt. “Would one of those people be a man by the name of Darius Carter, aka Ratchet?”
“Ratchet?” Toby repeated with obviously growing suspicion. “Hell, Ratchet don’t know that much about computers.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Fifer observed. “He’s more of a demolitions expert, ain’t he?”
“He was a demolitions man during the first Gulf War, yeah-what about it?”
Before Fifer could respond, however, something unexpected happened. Toby gasped for breath, and then began breathing quickly and deeply, in short, spasmodic jerks, and for a minute seemed as though he might hyperventilate. He looked around oddly, craning his neck backwards as though focusing on some hitherto unknown force within the room. He began to sweat profusely.
“Mr. Lecher, are you all right?” the woman interrogator asked him. “Would you like some water?”
“No-I’m fine,” he said, as though confused at his sudden, inexplicable symptom. He felt far from all right. He was dizzy and nauseous. He was not about to admit this to them, however. Nevertheless, the sweat dripped down his brow and burned his eyes. Soon, he could taste the salty and poisonous excretion on his lips. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, and focused now on the woman.
“I’m just kind of upset, after seeing that damn link on my DVD. I’ll be all right. God knows, there is no way I would do that kind of shit. Believe me, if it is one of my people, I’ll damn well find out why, and I can probably do it a hell of a lot faster than you ever could. People will talk to me. They won’t say jack to you Feds, you can make book on that.”
He knew, of course, his chances of convincing them of anything were slim. Even now, he sat handcuffed to the large rectangular oak table, unable to move more than one or two foot in either direction even if he tried, as the woman suddenly approached closer.
“Detective Fifer, why don’t you go talk to our other special guest,” she said. “Me and Toby will just sit in here and wait-we might even watch.”
“Yeah, might as well,” Fifer replied as he betrayed a barely disguised disdain for the niceties of polite interrogation. He left the room, and the woman walked even closer. Toby could see plainly her curvaceous form, her thin waste and full hips accented seductively by her bluish gray pants suit, the top button of her blouse suddenly opened.
“It is rather hot in here ain’t it?” she asked as she suddenly unbuttoned the second one. Then, she winked at him.
Now Toby really started breathing deeply, and he began to experience an uncontrollable erection, which strained painfully and fiercely against his jeans. Oh shit, he thought. Bridgett just smiled.
Then, Toby could hear the sound of voices-two of them. They were the voices of two men, one of them Fifer, but the other one made Toby temporarily forget his unseemly predicament. It was the voice of Ratchet, from another room, his and Fifer’s voice now piped in through an intercom system.
“Yeah, like I said, we were all in on it. Marshall Crenshaw ordered it, but Spooky went along with it, and so did all the rest of us. That damn white cop was in on it too.”
“White cop?” Fifer asked.
“Yeah, his name is James Berry,” Ratchet explained. “He was on Reverend Harvey’s payroll, and Spooky covered for this by acting as one of his CI’s. Toby was another one. The cops were supposed to have all the Seventeenth Pulse under surveillance, but Berry was in charge of watching us, supposedly, so he provided the cover for us to go out and do our stuff. It was hard after April Sandusky was murdered, but we managed.”
“So what was the reason for all this?” Fifer asked.
“No one ever really knew,” Ratchet answered. “Harvey Caldwell didn’t even know about it, and when he found out, he went through the roof. We were paid well, though. Tariq’s wife supplied his bank account information, and Hacksaw transferred a lot of his money into a bunch of offshore accounts. I made the bomb, and Mercury Morris delivered the damn thing. Toby kept an eye on Tariq’s kids until it all went down. I think him, Berry, and Spooky were the only ones that knew what it was all about, besides Crenshaw. Crenshaw and Spooky are both dead now, of course. Me, I didn’t know jack shit.
“I just assumed it was meant to get the cops attention off us and on to the big bad Arab terrorists everybody’s always going on about. I just know it’s been eating at me ever since. I’m almost glad you caught me in a way. Given enough time I’d probably end up like Caldwell, living his last days in a psych ward, babbling about dead people climbing out of toilets and such. He didn’t even do anything, and here I am, with all this blood on my hands, and I-”
Ratchet was no longer speaking, however. He just cried, sobbing pitifully, as Fifer tried to encourage him to pull himself together.
“I’m sorry,” Ratchet said. “I’ve killed people before, but it was always people that had it coming. This is something else.”
Damn that fool, Toby thought. Of all the times, and of all the people, to find a damn conscience, it had to be him, and it had to be now. Suddenly, Bridgett thrust a paper in his face. It looked to be a police sketch. What was worse, the image on the paper bore a disconcerting resemblance to him.
“This is a sketch of the man whom the two Tariq children alleged took them to the Washington DC mosque on the day of the Johns Hopkins bombing. They both pretty much agreed on this final version. Of course, it kind of helps that they later pointed you out when they saw your latest DVD. I guess at the time you didn’t think you would be the rising star you now are, huh Toby?”
Toby did not know quite what to say, and in fact, could not say it if he did. He was now burning hot, and the steely look in the blonde woman’s eyes bore into him, reached into the depths of his soul, teasing him and taunting him as she drew ever closer. He could smell her perfume, subtly at first, but wafting now ever closer and stronger with the combined scent of jasmine and lilacs, as her hot breath accentuated ever word from her mouth, which Toby could no longer hear. Every word faded into a low-pitched monotone that was indecipherable. He tried to avoid her gaze, but doing so found his eyes focused on her blouse, the top two open buttons now revealing no bra. Her damn nipples, he realized, were hard, thrusting against her tight blouse with as much intensity, it seemed, as his now raging cock pressed savagely against his pants.
He would ordinarily have cum by now, but he knew he would get no such quick relief this night. He knew what she was after, of course, and soon enough, he would willingly admit to anything, if she would only jack him off, or suck his dick-anything. He would admit to sinking the Titanic if that’s what it would take. This was murder. He simply could not take much more of this. She was getting closer to him, and closer.
Then, he suddenly went limp. Everything went dark, and the pounding in his chest gave way to a high-pitched tone that seemed to pierce his eardrums, and his skull. He heard a chorus of indistinguishable voices, but nothing that made any sense. At one point he seemed to be floating, which didn’t seem right. He soon felt like he was so far deep inside himself, that hopefully no one would ever find him. It was no comfort to him, however. He felt no peace in his hiding place. He always thought that when he died he would finally find some kind of peace. Well, if this was death, so much for that bright idea.
When he could finally see through the darkness and haze that seemed to engulf him, he noticed a bight light, at first from a distance, and then closer. He could see Marshall Crenshaw and Lynette Khoska staring down at him angrily, until they merged into one being who was unrecognizable at first, until he took on the appearance of Spooky Gold.
“Be a man, fool,” Spooky told him. “For once in your worthless life, be a real man.”
Gold bent over him, drew closer, so close that Toby could no longer make out his features, until he backed away to reveal, not his former and deceased leader, but the now grinning face of Doctor David Chou, who laughed in a mad delirium, until his features as well faded, only to be replaced by Marlowe Krovell.
“Thank you for letting me be myself again,” Marlowe told him with a dark intensity that made him finally, at long last, open his eyes, to find himself in a room surrounded by flowers. Someone was in here with him. Where was he, though?
“Thank God you’re awake,” the woman’s voice said. He looked up to see Felicia Blanton, looking relieved and desperately happy to see him awake, and seemingly aware.
“Am I in the hospital?” he asked. “I thought I saw David Chou here.”
“He was your doctor,” Felicia affirmed to his dismay, but then she added, “He saved your life.”
“What the hell happened?”
“You had some kind of stroke, caused by an aneurism, and your blood pressure. You lost a lot of blood, but he saved you. He gave you a transfusion. They said that ordinarily a stroke like yours would either kill a person or leave them permanently incapacitated, but he gave you some kind of experimental blood compound, and you are going to make a full recovery. You are going to be fine, baby. It’s a miracle.”
“An experimental blood compound,” he repeated. He did not like the implications of what he was hearing, but he tried to keep it to himself for now. Felicia bent down over him and kissed him wildly.
“They said you were on Viagra at the time and that might have triggered it,” she said. “So, just what were you planning, huh?”
“What happened with those agents?” he asked, well aware that his problems were far from over, to say the least.
“Baby, I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” she replied. “I figured they just wanted to question you about some drug deals or something. Desmond got it all straightened out though, so don’t worry.”
Desmond? What in the hell did he know about anything, Toby wondered. His forte was criminal law, particularly as it involved organized crime, and police misconduct. All of this was out of his league. After Felicia left, telling him she would be waiting for him at home, he sat for an hour before a nurse came in the course of conducting her rounds to tell him of his imminent discharge.
It was incredible. He felt as though he just woke up form a long, restful sleep, the first such in years. He rose from his bed, feeling better than he had in as long a time as he could remember. Shit, he never felt this good as a teenager, he realized. What in the hell was going on here? He all but jumped out of bed and barely gave it a thought.
When Desmond finally arrived, about three hours later, he made it clear to Toby he was to answer no questions asked him by the press pertaining to his hospitalization or his previous arrest. As for the DVD, Desmond was as explicit as the song video in question.
“You didn’t know a damn thing about it, and don’t approve of it. It might be a little tough for a while. After all, you now have the number one CD in America-in the whole fucking world in fact, and it shows no signs of going down anytime soon. You only have like about two thousand interview requests. You are going to be busy. By the way, nobody is buying your earlier prognosis. Nobody believes you or anyone else could recover so quickly and so completely from such a serious condition, so you’ll have to deal with that too. I’ve arranged for you to get away from here in a way the press won’t hassle you when you leave.”
“Well, what about those Feds?” Toby demanded.
“Oh, they’ve been reassigned,” Desmond replied. “The case has been dropped. Ratchet left a note confessing he alone was responsible for the bombing. Come to find out, Johns Hopkins turned his mother away a few years back, and she died later. He never forgave them for that. When Mercury delivered that bomb, he did not even know anything about it, or even that Ratchet sent it. So far as he knew, he was just making a run of the mill delivery. Ratchet hired Mercury and sent it under an assumed name. Come to find out, the Tariq kids are not so sure you are the one that took them to the mosque after all. They think that might have been Ratchet as well. So you’re off-“
“Hold on, wait a minute, Desmond,” Toby said. “You’re making my head spin. You say Ratchet left a note?”
“Yeah, the one he wrote right before someone murdered him in his cell. Still, his story checks out. They found him really fucked up, with his throat slashed and not one ounce of blood in his body, or anywhere in his cell. Naturally, there’s all kinds of conspiracy theories circulating about that too, so you can expect more questions about that. That’s all stuff we can go over in more detail later-before you start doing interviews, which I don’t think I can stress too much.”
Desmond left a little later-he had a matter of a contribution to a Washington DC area mosque, he explained-while Toby waited around for a couple more hours until a hospital administrator finally arrived with the release papers. He signed them, and then waited in a private lounge for Peter, his agent, with whom Desmond arranged a subterfuge to take him from the hospital away from the prying eyes of reporters and paparazzi. He now had a new house, under an assumed name, one not far from the old crib, which was now a continual hangout for those same reporters and paparazzi, whom both Peter and Desmond insisted he should for now avoid. Felicia was waiting for him there, in fact. If he just rode out the storm of the latest controversy, everything would work out fine. Toby had obviously powerful friends, in high places, friends who attached the strings and pulled them, in this case seemingly just for him. That was something else to consider. Such people did not lightly exercise such influence. What would they expect from him in return?
“Toby?”
Toby turned at the sound of the voice, and could not believe his eyes. The young man that stood before him in the patient discharge lounge looked to be a patient, one who seemed in the midst of recovery, presumably soon to be discharged. It was impossible.
“Sean?” he asked in amazement. “I know that ain’t really you there.”
“Hard to believe, huh?” the young man asked. “Yeah, it’s me, walking and talking on my own, with no tubes and no diapers. After what that little skank whore Spanky did to me and the rest of the guys, I figured I’d be laid out in some kind of bed for the rest of my life, not even able to feed myself. Jerome is all right too. He’s already out of here.”
For a few seconds, Dwayne Lecher was at a complete and utter loss for words. Still, he had to say something.
“Who was your doctor? It wasn’t by any chance David Chou, was it?”
“Yeah, who would have thought a chink doctor like that would pull a brother out of the hell I was in?”
Lecher just sat there, too stunned for words.
“I heard about what happened with you and Uncle Spook. Is it true? You and he were working with the man, and he got killed when you turned on him. You know that’s all over the hood, right?”
“It ain’t what you think,” Lecher said. “I tried to get your uncle out from under that, but it backfired. He paid the price, and I almost got killed myself, a bullet right in the gut.”
“Yeah, I heard. Just as well. Uncle Spook could be a dick and all. Still, he be blood. Thanks for looking out for him.”
Yet, Lecher could not help but wonder if Jerome really believed his well-practiced tale of betrayal and attempted redemption. He had rehearsed it enough, and now he hoped it did not sound too rehearsed.
“So, how much longer you in here?” he asked, desperate for a chance to change the subject.
“I’m actually an out-patient, or have been, but I got put back in to run some tests. I heard you got the same experimental treatment. They say the stuff they used on you and me will cure just about everything, except some kinds of viruses. Anyway, it’s really good to see you again, Toby.”
Toby expressed that he too was glad that Jerome, the nephew of his former gang leader, seemed almost as good as new, when Peter, his agent, entered.
“I signed you out already. Are you ready to go?”
Toby said that he was, shook hands with Jerome, and made ready to make his departure. He hoped he could leave without having to face David Chou, and as he walked toward the back exit, he found himself unusually anxious at the thought of running into the man. He knew he was inadvertently responsible for the death of Susan Chou, and he knew that the girl’s father was more knowledgeable of his role than he pretended to be, or at least had to be very suspicious.
Peter had arranged for the purchase of his new home under an assumed name, not too far away from the hood, but at the same time, safely away from any who might take exception to the recent rumors pertaining to his cozy relationship with the Baltimore Police Department. Such a thing like that could ruin him, just when his career was beginning to get off the ground to an extent beyond his previous imaginings. He could not allow that to happen.
The driver drove through the hood, but the place looked all but deserted, only a few stragglers out. One man looked to be sick, and throwing up, while yet another lay shivering on the ground. There were no whores, no signs of random drug buying activity. They passed only one automobile, before Toby heard the sounds of an ambulance, which quickly came into view as it pulled up to a tenement where an old woman waved frantically.
“There’s been some kind of virus going around here,” Peter told him.
“That figures,” Toby said. He could not wait to be gone from this hellhole forever.
They finally arrived at his new home. When they entered, Dwayne was amazed at the spacious luxuriousness of his new digs, as from a back room, he could hear the sound of the music of Sly And The Family Stone, a CD which now began the song “Thank You For Letting Me Be Myself Again.”
“Damn, I got killed after all,” he said. “That’s it, I’m in heaven, right?”
He was only half joking, and Peter assured him it was no dream, as Toby suddenly reacted to the sound of the commode flushing.
“Man, I need to use the john myself,” he said as he spied the female figure moving quickly out of the bathroom into the darkened hallway that led to the master bedroom of the suite.
“It’s got five bedrooms and three baths, and of course a bar, as well as a private study. I take it this will be to your liking.”
“Was that Felicia?” Toby asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said. “We let her stay here to look after the place. We brought some of your clothes here, but we decided to keep your jewelry and other valuables in storage. No offense, but I don’t really know her. She claims you and her might get married, but you know how women are”
“And you’re sure that was Felicia?”
“Yeah, who else would it be?”
“I don’t know, she just looked-different, I guess. Hey, Felicia.”
“Well, look, Toby, I have to get out of here. I’ll be over tomorrow, and we can finalize everything if you want. If something else comes up you know where to reach me.”
He left, and Toby made his way to the bathroom. Damn, he felt good. He had no prescription. There seemed to be no need of one. Now, however, he felt like he was about to bust a gut, and made his way to the bathroom from which he earlier saw the shadowy female figure emerge.
As he stood in front of the commode, however, he saw a sight that he found troubling.
“What in the hell?” he asked, and stood and looked at what appeared to be blood, at the top of the water in the commode, swirling around in what seemed a restless frenzy. He pissed, trying to put it out of his mind. Why was there blood in his commode, he wondered. He seemed to stand there for more than five minutes, and thought he would never finish pissing. Damn, it felt good. Finally, he finished. Zipping up his pants, he walked down the hall. There were no lights, and he almost had to feel his way down to the master bedroom. He opened the door, and could see the female figure in the darkness, silhouetted
by the outside streetlights, her shadow seeming to quake against the luxurious purple drapes.
He turned on the lights, and almost had a heart attack at the horrid sight that awaited him. The woman recoiled at the sudden intrusion of light, and shrieked loudly, and angrily.
“Felicia? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Felicia moved her hands from her face, to reveal a massive eruption of boils, as blood caked around her lips.
“I’m dying,” she said, and collapsed in the arms of Dwayne Lecher as she cried in deep and hopeless despair.
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
Radu-Chapter XXXV (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
8 pages approximate
While Toby strutted back and forth among his background singers he entertained the same question as usual-which one of these hos is going to set me back a bunch of money tonight, and how much Viagra will it take? He settled on Felicia Rashad-not only because she was, after all, his favorite, but precisely because she was his favorite, he saved her for special occasions. He did not want to wear a good thing out, and that rack had a lot of potential.
He felt much better over the last few months after dropping more than fifty pounds, and this was an inducement to him to lose even more. Still, as he rapped to the background music of My Way, he could feel the potential of what might well lie ahead. He finally had the makings of a big hit-not just a regional but a national, maybe even international chart buster. Things were looking up.
He was glad this night was over. He finished the encore performance and prepared to exit the stage. His posse was ready to leave the club, and Felicia was ready, it seemed, to accompany him. He only hoped he was ready. He made his way back to the dressing room and popped the Viagra. Soon, he and Felicia walked side-by-side toward the limousine that waited to take them to the Hyatt.
He felt so good now he even considered popping the question. The only thing that concerned him was the prospect that since she would no doubt agree it would be impossible to back out later. The hell with it, he decided.
“You and me is gonna have us a serious discussion,” he promised her.
“Oh, what about?” she asked with a winsomely delighted smile.
“That’s as far as you go, Mr. Lecher,” a voice suddenly announced. “You are Dwayne Lecher, aka Toby Da Pimp, correct?”
Felicia backed away in obvious fear. Toby always told her there was a danger that someday he might suffer the fate of his idol, The Notorius Mr. Big, alternately known as “Biggie Small”. Mr. Big supposedly died, by gunfire, in retaliation for the earlier murder of rival gangsta rapper Tupac Shakur.
“That’s life,” Toby said often, a refrain that was now to all intents and purposes his signature line these days owing to the rising in the charts of his latest single, the first to receive national airplay.
“It could be worse,” the late Spooky Gold said once. “You could end up like Vanilla Ice. That wouldn’t be good, because I don’t think anybody could hold your fat ass out a window by your ankles without dropping you.”
As Toby considered how good it was to be out of his old gang leaders shadow, for once, he found himself concerned now as to the strange man and his partners who, having so addressed him, now approached him with what appeared to be an outstretched identification badge.
Until he saw this, Toby was relieved to see most of the men were white. Now, he wished they were all black, and the FBI identification could transform into a handgun. He knew how to deal with the pain of gunshot wounds, having experienced this on three different occasions. Actually, he wanted to go out that way-a hero, like Biggie.
“Who the hell are you, fool?” one of the posse members asked.
“Cool it, James,” Toby said. “What’s up, dog?”
“You’re under arrest,” the man said. “I have a warrant here, to take you in on suspicion of interstate commerce violations and suspicion of terrorist activities, and murder, in connection with the bombing of Johns Hopkins University.”
“Say what?” Toby demanded. He expected this for some time, and now projected what he called his dumbfounded look, one he practiced to great extent. This time, however, the practice turned out to be unnecessary. He was truly dumbfounded.
“Interstate commerce violations?” he demanded. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Before he could further process the implications of what he heard, the agent ordered him to turn around and place his hands on his head. He knew by rote the rights read to him by the FBI agent, a man named Fifer, who then cuffed him and lead him to a waiting sedan. He knew enough by now not to talk, or even to engage in conversation. He would not lower his dignity by sitting back here and professing his innocence. His lawyer would arrive soon and straighten out this mess. All Toby had to do was dummy up.
It was no more than a ten-minute drive to the Federal courthouse where Fifer led him to a large interrogation facility that looked, ironically enough, like a board room with large, swivel chairs surrounding an oblong oak table. For the time being, there were only four of them, until a female agent entered.
The woman, with long blonde hair and somewhat tight grayish blue slacks, entered into what appeared to be a DVD player a copy of his latest recording.
“I wonder what Frank would say about this?” Fifer mused.
“Maybe you can ask him one of these days-soon,” Toby replied. “Now, where the fuck is my lawyer? If I’m being charged with-“
“Just calm down, Mr. Lecher, he’s on his way,” Fifer said. “Believe it or not, he knew about this before you did. See, we try to do things by the book around here. We make sure we have everything all lined out before we take somebody in on a specific charge. You are more than just a person of interest, you know. Ah, you know what-I think we should skip all this and get to the good stuff.”
Fifer paused the DVD, and then fast-forwarded immediately to Strangers In The Night.
“I guess you know this girl’s name, right?” he said.
“Yeah, her name was Susan Chou,” Lecher said. “I know all about her being murdered, and I had nothing to do with that, nor did I have any knowledge of it. So, can I go now?”
The woman now approached Lecher, still handcuffed, and she peered down into his eyes.
“At sixteen years old, what she is doing might well be described as lude and lascivious conduct, which you seem to be encouraging here.”
“She lied about her age and showed my agent a false ID. What can I say-kids these days? What happened to her had nothing whatsoever to do with me and my boys.”
“My, look at how her crotch is glowing.” The woman replied, ignoring Toby’s protests of innocence. “I wonder what would happen if you was to click on it?”
“Right at the time, it would probably gush cum,” Toby said in a cold, steely voice. “Right about now it would probably gush maggots. I don’t really care, then or now. Like I said-it ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.”
Before he finished, however, the female agent managed to click on the area of the girl’s strangely glowing crotch, an act that opened a new screen. Toby’s eyes widened with horror as he saw what happened next.
“You know, this might come as a surprise, but this is the first actual snuff film ever found and verified. You’re quite a guy, Mr. Lecher. When this version hits the internet-and you know that is going to happen any day now-I would be willing to wager it will make sells of the original CD go through the roof. Of course, all you have to do is say you didn’t know anything about this. You’re a real clever guy.”
Fifer listened to this in silence, until he suddenly lurched forward and peered into Toby’s face.
“He would have been a lot cleverer if he had made sure her body wasn’t found,” he added. “Let’s see, what was the cause of death? Oh yeah, I remember, now, in fact, I think we have it right here. What was it again, Bridgett?”
“Loss of blood and shock from internal injuries due to profound physical trauma caused by dog bites, if I remember right,” the female agent replied.
Toby met their gaze in obvious apprehension.
“Those were Spooky’s fighting dogs,” he said to their surprise. “I swear to God, I didn’t know anything about this.”
The two agents shot each other a surprised look, but quickly recovered from this unexpected and seemingly sincere utterance from the reputedly arrogant gang leader, whom they both felt was guilty of more crimes than they would probably ever know about.
“Mr. Lecher-you don’t really expect us to believe that, do you?” the woman, whose name was Bridgett, asked him.
“Hell no, I don’t expect you to believe it, or to admit you believe it if you do, but it’s the truth,” he insisted. “Why the hell would I put something like that on one of my DVD’s? Are you nuts?”
“Crazy as a fox, Mr. Letcher,” Fifer answered. “Pretty clever, seeing as how you can make a ton of money off this thing, all the time denying any involvement in it. You should have been a politician. So let’s see now, since you didn’t do it, who did? Oh wait, I bet I know-it’s all a big plot by somebody wanting to set you up, because you’re an enemy of the racist white government. Or maybe some crooked cops just want to get you off the street, because you’re a bad influence. Or maybe it’s just somebody that wants you out of the way so they can have all the power and control over the hood.”
All the time Fifer was going into this routine, however, Bridgett looked with growing concern at Toby, who seemed to her actually taken aback by this latest revelation. In this matter, at least, he might well be telling the truth, which he now continued to insist was the case.
“I would have to know if this was made from one of the masters or not,” he explained. “If it was, then it was probably one of my people. Why they would do something like this, I don’t know. I swear to you though, I don’t know anything about it.”
“One of your people,” Fifer responded, though even he now betrayed signs of doubt as to Lecher’s guilt. “Would one of those people be a man by the name of Darius Carter, aka Ratchet?”
“Ratchet?” Toby repeated with obviously growing suspicion. “Hell, Ratchet don’t know that much about computers.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Fifer observed. “He’s more of a demolitions expert, ain’t he?”
“He was a demolitions man during the first Gulf War, yeah-what about it?”
Before Fifer could respond, however, something unexpected happened. Toby gasped for breath, and then began breathing quickly and deeply, in short, spasmodic jerks, and for a minute seemed as though he might hyperventilate. He looked around oddly, craning his neck backwards as though focusing on some hitherto unknown force within the room. He began to sweat profusely.
“Mr. Lecher, are you all right?” the woman interrogator asked him. “Would you like some water?”
“No-I’m fine,” he said, as though confused at his sudden, inexplicable symptom. He felt far from all right. He was dizzy and nauseous. He was not about to admit this to them, however. Nevertheless, the sweat dripped down his brow and burned his eyes. Soon, he could taste the salty and poisonous excretion on his lips. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, and focused now on the woman.
“I’m just kind of upset, after seeing that damn link on my DVD. I’ll be all right. God knows, there is no way I would do that kind of shit. Believe me, if it is one of my people, I’ll damn well find out why, and I can probably do it a hell of a lot faster than you ever could. People will talk to me. They won’t say jack to you Feds, you can make book on that.”
He knew, of course, his chances of convincing them of anything were slim. Even now, he sat handcuffed to the large rectangular oak table, unable to move more than one or two foot in either direction even if he tried, as the woman suddenly approached closer.
“Detective Fifer, why don’t you go talk to our other special guest,” she said. “Me and Toby will just sit in here and wait-we might even watch.”
“Yeah, might as well,” Fifer replied as he betrayed a barely disguised disdain for the niceties of polite interrogation. He left the room, and the woman walked even closer. Toby could see plainly her curvaceous form, her thin waste and full hips accented seductively by her bluish gray pants suit, the top button of her blouse suddenly opened.
“It is rather hot in here ain’t it?” she asked as she suddenly unbuttoned the second one. Then, she winked at him.
Now Toby really started breathing deeply, and he began to experience an uncontrollable erection, which strained painfully and fiercely against his jeans. Oh shit, he thought. Bridgett just smiled.
Then, Toby could hear the sound of voices-two of them. They were the voices of two men, one of them Fifer, but the other one made Toby temporarily forget his unseemly predicament. It was the voice of Ratchet, from another room, his and Fifer’s voice now piped in through an intercom system.
“Yeah, like I said, we were all in on it. Marshall Crenshaw ordered it, but Spooky went along with it, and so did all the rest of us. That damn white cop was in on it too.”
“White cop?” Fifer asked.
“Yeah, his name is James Berry,” Ratchet explained. “He was on Reverend Harvey’s payroll, and Spooky covered for this by acting as one of his CI’s. Toby was another one. The cops were supposed to have all the Seventeenth Pulse under surveillance, but Berry was in charge of watching us, supposedly, so he provided the cover for us to go out and do our stuff. It was hard after April Sandusky was murdered, but we managed.”
“So what was the reason for all this?” Fifer asked.
“No one ever really knew,” Ratchet answered. “Harvey Caldwell didn’t even know about it, and when he found out, he went through the roof. We were paid well, though. Tariq’s wife supplied his bank account information, and Hacksaw transferred a lot of his money into a bunch of offshore accounts. I made the bomb, and Mercury Morris delivered the damn thing. Toby kept an eye on Tariq’s kids until it all went down. I think him, Berry, and Spooky were the only ones that knew what it was all about, besides Crenshaw. Crenshaw and Spooky are both dead now, of course. Me, I didn’t know jack shit.
“I just assumed it was meant to get the cops attention off us and on to the big bad Arab terrorists everybody’s always going on about. I just know it’s been eating at me ever since. I’m almost glad you caught me in a way. Given enough time I’d probably end up like Caldwell, living his last days in a psych ward, babbling about dead people climbing out of toilets and such. He didn’t even do anything, and here I am, with all this blood on my hands, and I-”
Ratchet was no longer speaking, however. He just cried, sobbing pitifully, as Fifer tried to encourage him to pull himself together.
“I’m sorry,” Ratchet said. “I’ve killed people before, but it was always people that had it coming. This is something else.”
Damn that fool, Toby thought. Of all the times, and of all the people, to find a damn conscience, it had to be him, and it had to be now. Suddenly, Bridgett thrust a paper in his face. It looked to be a police sketch. What was worse, the image on the paper bore a disconcerting resemblance to him.
“This is a sketch of the man whom the two Tariq children alleged took them to the Washington DC mosque on the day of the Johns Hopkins bombing. They both pretty much agreed on this final version. Of course, it kind of helps that they later pointed you out when they saw your latest DVD. I guess at the time you didn’t think you would be the rising star you now are, huh Toby?”
Toby did not know quite what to say, and in fact, could not say it if he did. He was now burning hot, and the steely look in the blonde woman’s eyes bore into him, reached into the depths of his soul, teasing him and taunting him as she drew ever closer. He could smell her perfume, subtly at first, but wafting now ever closer and stronger with the combined scent of jasmine and lilacs, as her hot breath accentuated ever word from her mouth, which Toby could no longer hear. Every word faded into a low-pitched monotone that was indecipherable. He tried to avoid her gaze, but doing so found his eyes focused on her blouse, the top two open buttons now revealing no bra. Her damn nipples, he realized, were hard, thrusting against her tight blouse with as much intensity, it seemed, as his now raging cock pressed savagely against his pants.
He would ordinarily have cum by now, but he knew he would get no such quick relief this night. He knew what she was after, of course, and soon enough, he would willingly admit to anything, if she would only jack him off, or suck his dick-anything. He would admit to sinking the Titanic if that’s what it would take. This was murder. He simply could not take much more of this. She was getting closer to him, and closer.
Then, he suddenly went limp. Everything went dark, and the pounding in his chest gave way to a high-pitched tone that seemed to pierce his eardrums, and his skull. He heard a chorus of indistinguishable voices, but nothing that made any sense. At one point he seemed to be floating, which didn’t seem right. He soon felt like he was so far deep inside himself, that hopefully no one would ever find him. It was no comfort to him, however. He felt no peace in his hiding place. He always thought that when he died he would finally find some kind of peace. Well, if this was death, so much for that bright idea.
When he could finally see through the darkness and haze that seemed to engulf him, he noticed a bight light, at first from a distance, and then closer. He could see Marshall Crenshaw and Lynette Khoska staring down at him angrily, until they merged into one being who was unrecognizable at first, until he took on the appearance of Spooky Gold.
“Be a man, fool,” Spooky told him. “For once in your worthless life, be a real man.”
Gold bent over him, drew closer, so close that Toby could no longer make out his features, until he backed away to reveal, not his former and deceased leader, but the now grinning face of Doctor David Chou, who laughed in a mad delirium, until his features as well faded, only to be replaced by Marlowe Krovell.
“Thank you for letting me be myself again,” Marlowe told him with a dark intensity that made him finally, at long last, open his eyes, to find himself in a room surrounded by flowers. Someone was in here with him. Where was he, though?
“Thank God you’re awake,” the woman’s voice said. He looked up to see Felicia Blanton, looking relieved and desperately happy to see him awake, and seemingly aware.
“Am I in the hospital?” he asked. “I thought I saw David Chou here.”
“He was your doctor,” Felicia affirmed to his dismay, but then she added, “He saved your life.”
“What the hell happened?”
“You had some kind of stroke, caused by an aneurism, and your blood pressure. You lost a lot of blood, but he saved you. He gave you a transfusion. They said that ordinarily a stroke like yours would either kill a person or leave them permanently incapacitated, but he gave you some kind of experimental blood compound, and you are going to make a full recovery. You are going to be fine, baby. It’s a miracle.”
“An experimental blood compound,” he repeated. He did not like the implications of what he was hearing, but he tried to keep it to himself for now. Felicia bent down over him and kissed him wildly.
“They said you were on Viagra at the time and that might have triggered it,” she said. “So, just what were you planning, huh?”
“What happened with those agents?” he asked, well aware that his problems were far from over, to say the least.
“Baby, I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” she replied. “I figured they just wanted to question you about some drug deals or something. Desmond got it all straightened out though, so don’t worry.”
Desmond? What in the hell did he know about anything, Toby wondered. His forte was criminal law, particularly as it involved organized crime, and police misconduct. All of this was out of his league. After Felicia left, telling him she would be waiting for him at home, he sat for an hour before a nurse came in the course of conducting her rounds to tell him of his imminent discharge.
It was incredible. He felt as though he just woke up form a long, restful sleep, the first such in years. He rose from his bed, feeling better than he had in as long a time as he could remember. Shit, he never felt this good as a teenager, he realized. What in the hell was going on here? He all but jumped out of bed and barely gave it a thought.
When Desmond finally arrived, about three hours later, he made it clear to Toby he was to answer no questions asked him by the press pertaining to his hospitalization or his previous arrest. As for the DVD, Desmond was as explicit as the song video in question.
“You didn’t know a damn thing about it, and don’t approve of it. It might be a little tough for a while. After all, you now have the number one CD in America-in the whole fucking world in fact, and it shows no signs of going down anytime soon. You only have like about two thousand interview requests. You are going to be busy. By the way, nobody is buying your earlier prognosis. Nobody believes you or anyone else could recover so quickly and so completely from such a serious condition, so you’ll have to deal with that too. I’ve arranged for you to get away from here in a way the press won’t hassle you when you leave.”
“Well, what about those Feds?” Toby demanded.
“Oh, they’ve been reassigned,” Desmond replied. “The case has been dropped. Ratchet left a note confessing he alone was responsible for the bombing. Come to find out, Johns Hopkins turned his mother away a few years back, and she died later. He never forgave them for that. When Mercury delivered that bomb, he did not even know anything about it, or even that Ratchet sent it. So far as he knew, he was just making a run of the mill delivery. Ratchet hired Mercury and sent it under an assumed name. Come to find out, the Tariq kids are not so sure you are the one that took them to the mosque after all. They think that might have been Ratchet as well. So you’re off-“
“Hold on, wait a minute, Desmond,” Toby said. “You’re making my head spin. You say Ratchet left a note?”
“Yeah, the one he wrote right before someone murdered him in his cell. Still, his story checks out. They found him really fucked up, with his throat slashed and not one ounce of blood in his body, or anywhere in his cell. Naturally, there’s all kinds of conspiracy theories circulating about that too, so you can expect more questions about that. That’s all stuff we can go over in more detail later-before you start doing interviews, which I don’t think I can stress too much.”
Desmond left a little later-he had a matter of a contribution to a Washington DC area mosque, he explained-while Toby waited around for a couple more hours until a hospital administrator finally arrived with the release papers. He signed them, and then waited in a private lounge for Peter, his agent, with whom Desmond arranged a subterfuge to take him from the hospital away from the prying eyes of reporters and paparazzi. He now had a new house, under an assumed name, one not far from the old crib, which was now a continual hangout for those same reporters and paparazzi, whom both Peter and Desmond insisted he should for now avoid. Felicia was waiting for him there, in fact. If he just rode out the storm of the latest controversy, everything would work out fine. Toby had obviously powerful friends, in high places, friends who attached the strings and pulled them, in this case seemingly just for him. That was something else to consider. Such people did not lightly exercise such influence. What would they expect from him in return?
“Toby?”
Toby turned at the sound of the voice, and could not believe his eyes. The young man that stood before him in the patient discharge lounge looked to be a patient, one who seemed in the midst of recovery, presumably soon to be discharged. It was impossible.
“Sean?” he asked in amazement. “I know that ain’t really you there.”
“Hard to believe, huh?” the young man asked. “Yeah, it’s me, walking and talking on my own, with no tubes and no diapers. After what that little skank whore Spanky did to me and the rest of the guys, I figured I’d be laid out in some kind of bed for the rest of my life, not even able to feed myself. Jerome is all right too. He’s already out of here.”
For a few seconds, Dwayne Lecher was at a complete and utter loss for words. Still, he had to say something.
“Who was your doctor? It wasn’t by any chance David Chou, was it?”
“Yeah, who would have thought a chink doctor like that would pull a brother out of the hell I was in?”
Lecher just sat there, too stunned for words.
“I heard about what happened with you and Uncle Spook. Is it true? You and he were working with the man, and he got killed when you turned on him. You know that’s all over the hood, right?”
“It ain’t what you think,” Lecher said. “I tried to get your uncle out from under that, but it backfired. He paid the price, and I almost got killed myself, a bullet right in the gut.”
“Yeah, I heard. Just as well. Uncle Spook could be a dick and all. Still, he be blood. Thanks for looking out for him.”
Yet, Lecher could not help but wonder if Jerome really believed his well-practiced tale of betrayal and attempted redemption. He had rehearsed it enough, and now he hoped it did not sound too rehearsed.
“So, how much longer you in here?” he asked, desperate for a chance to change the subject.
“I’m actually an out-patient, or have been, but I got put back in to run some tests. I heard you got the same experimental treatment. They say the stuff they used on you and me will cure just about everything, except some kinds of viruses. Anyway, it’s really good to see you again, Toby.”
Toby expressed that he too was glad that Jerome, the nephew of his former gang leader, seemed almost as good as new, when Peter, his agent, entered.
“I signed you out already. Are you ready to go?”
Toby said that he was, shook hands with Jerome, and made ready to make his departure. He hoped he could leave without having to face David Chou, and as he walked toward the back exit, he found himself unusually anxious at the thought of running into the man. He knew he was inadvertently responsible for the death of Susan Chou, and he knew that the girl’s father was more knowledgeable of his role than he pretended to be, or at least had to be very suspicious.
Peter had arranged for the purchase of his new home under an assumed name, not too far away from the hood, but at the same time, safely away from any who might take exception to the recent rumors pertaining to his cozy relationship with the Baltimore Police Department. Such a thing like that could ruin him, just when his career was beginning to get off the ground to an extent beyond his previous imaginings. He could not allow that to happen.
The driver drove through the hood, but the place looked all but deserted, only a few stragglers out. One man looked to be sick, and throwing up, while yet another lay shivering on the ground. There were no whores, no signs of random drug buying activity. They passed only one automobile, before Toby heard the sounds of an ambulance, which quickly came into view as it pulled up to a tenement where an old woman waved frantically.
“There’s been some kind of virus going around here,” Peter told him.
“That figures,” Toby said. He could not wait to be gone from this hellhole forever.
They finally arrived at his new home. When they entered, Dwayne was amazed at the spacious luxuriousness of his new digs, as from a back room, he could hear the sound of the music of Sly And The Family Stone, a CD which now began the song “Thank You For Letting Me Be Myself Again.”
“Damn, I got killed after all,” he said. “That’s it, I’m in heaven, right?”
He was only half joking, and Peter assured him it was no dream, as Toby suddenly reacted to the sound of the commode flushing.
“Man, I need to use the john myself,” he said as he spied the female figure moving quickly out of the bathroom into the darkened hallway that led to the master bedroom of the suite.
“It’s got five bedrooms and three baths, and of course a bar, as well as a private study. I take it this will be to your liking.”
“Was that Felicia?” Toby asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he said. “We let her stay here to look after the place. We brought some of your clothes here, but we decided to keep your jewelry and other valuables in storage. No offense, but I don’t really know her. She claims you and her might get married, but you know how women are”
“And you’re sure that was Felicia?”
“Yeah, who else would it be?”
“I don’t know, she just looked-different, I guess. Hey, Felicia.”
“Well, look, Toby, I have to get out of here. I’ll be over tomorrow, and we can finalize everything if you want. If something else comes up you know where to reach me.”
He left, and Toby made his way to the bathroom. Damn, he felt good. He had no prescription. There seemed to be no need of one. Now, however, he felt like he was about to bust a gut, and made his way to the bathroom from which he earlier saw the shadowy female figure emerge.
As he stood in front of the commode, however, he saw a sight that he found troubling.
“What in the hell?” he asked, and stood and looked at what appeared to be blood, at the top of the water in the commode, swirling around in what seemed a restless frenzy. He pissed, trying to put it out of his mind. Why was there blood in his commode, he wondered. He seemed to stand there for more than five minutes, and thought he would never finish pissing. Damn, it felt good. Finally, he finished. Zipping up his pants, he walked down the hall. There were no lights, and he almost had to feel his way down to the master bedroom. He opened the door, and could see the female figure in the darkness, silhouetted
by the outside streetlights, her shadow seeming to quake against the luxurious purple drapes.
He turned on the lights, and almost had a heart attack at the horrid sight that awaited him. The woman recoiled at the sudden intrusion of light, and shrieked loudly, and angrily.
“Felicia? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Felicia moved her hands from her face, to reveal a massive eruption of boils, as blood caked around her lips.
“I’m dying,” she said, and collapsed in the arms of Dwayne Lecher as she cried in deep and hopeless despair.
Saturday, February 09, 2008
Kansas-Whole Lotta Huckchucking For Huckabee
Kansas Republican voters have followed my advice and, instead of holding their noses and voting for Arizona RINO Senator John McCain, have instead opted to "Huckchuck for Huckabee".
The media of course downplays the importance of this, noting that Kansas is a state with a lot of fundamentalist Bible believing Christians.
Ahhhhh, but what they conveniently forgot to mention is that Kansas is also a state that went blue in the last election cycle by voting out a good many of the rascals who sought to impose fundamentalist "creationist" doctrines on the school system of Kansas. Kansas, a state with a popular Democratic governor, Kathryn Sibelius, who gave the "Democratic response" to President George W. Bush's state of the Union address.
Now, to be sure, the average Kansas citizen will not be likely to join me soon in a drunken revelry in honor of Dionysius, nor are they any time soon going to encourage their wives, girlfriends, and daughters to become temple prostitutes in the service of Aphrodite.
Be that as it may, though Kansas is definitely a Christian state, it would be more than simplistic to overlook the primary there, where Huckabee won an astounding, at last count, 60% of the Republican vote.
Republicans now have a clear choice between two viable candidates, and though Huckabee is far behind McCain in delegate count, and though he is certainly not a favorite alternative among the majority of conservatives, the fact that he did so well in Kansas, in the face of what seems to be on the surface the certainty of an eventual McCain nomination, indicates they are making their greater displeasure at McCain known, loud and clear.
Do not count the Arkansas governor out just yet. He addressed the CPAC conference today, and declared he would remain in the race to provide an alternative. He also pointed out that, despite the odds that seemed stacked against him in regards to McCain's far greater delegate count, that he did not major in math, he majored in miracles. Huckabee still, he asserted, believes in miracles.
Well, I can't honestly say I believe in miracles. I do, however, believe in justice. You should believe in it too, and when it comes time to vote in your own Republican primary, those of you whose primaries are yet to come, you should deliver justice in the form of a vote for Mike Huckabee.
After all, a failure to vote for a lesser of two evils is a denial of the problem. Holding your nose with a vote for McCain is just a temporary band-aid solution to the problem, maybe even a willful surrender to it.
A Huckchuck for Huckabee, on the other hand, might well be cathartic. Just think of how much better you feel, when you are nauseous, after you finally vomit and get it out of your system. See there now?
Teach them a lesson-
HUCKCHUCK FOR HUCKABEE!
Thursday, February 07, 2008
HUCKCHUCK-My Plan To Derail John McCain
Since Mitt Romney dropped out of the remaining Republican presidential primaries, it would seem that Senator John McCain is on an unstoppable path toward the nomination. But-does it really have to be that way? I say no.
We are all familiar with that old term voting for the lesser of two evils, as well as that one of similarly long duration, which states that when so voting, one will be obliged to “hold my nose.”
Well, since the race is now down to between McCain and former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee, I propose the Republican Party faithful do something similar though a bit more explicit. I suggest that you all-get ready for it-
HUCKCHUCK IN THE VOTING BOOTH
In other words, vote for Mike Huckabee.
This would be the stellar opposite of should you decide instead to “Chuck Huck”. It would also be a lot more fun. Just think of how cool it would be to watch crazy John McCain’s reaction, to get so close to the nomination, only to have it jerked right out of his grasp in favor of Huckabee.
Granted, there are many and valid reasons to “Chuck Huck” instead of “HuckChuck”. By the same token, though there are problems with a Huckabee candidacy, the governor does not have nearly as long a history of backstabbing the Republican Party and it’s conservative base. True, he has done some things-okay, he has done a lot of things-the Party faithful might take serious exception to. Compared to McCain, however, his contribution in this regard as minimal.
I would also like to point out to those who insist it would be better to vote in a Democrat than a treacherous Republican the following fact-with Huckabee, your chances of losing are appreciably better than with McCain, who will no doubt draw a significant portion of Independent voters, and not an insignificant amount of Democratic voters as well. Huckabee is unlikely to match McCain’s strength with these voters.
By the same token, if Huckabee were to win the general election, there is the prospect that in at least some regards, he would be a better president than McCain. He might in fact be every bit as conservative in his policies as Romney asserted he would be-despite the fact, remember, that as governor of Massachusetts, Romney campaigned and to an extent governed as a centrist, maybe in some respects even as a liberal.
Well, if you can take Romney’s word that he would have governed as a conservative president, why not give Huckabee the same benefit of the doubt?
Speaking of Romney, there is a good chance he withdrew when he did with precisely this in mind. Although he certainly has no love for Huckabee, his dislike of McCain must be that much greater. He claims of course that he withdrew in order to keep from splitting the party apart. Still, I have a feeling he could easily be prevailed upon to pledge his delegates to Huckabee. He would have good and valid reason to do so. For that matter, there is no hard rule of which I am aware which states that Romney’s delegates are absolutely bound to whomever Romney pledges them. If he pledges them to McCain, or to no one at all, they are certainly free to go to whomever they wish.
I urge both them and Romney to support Huckabee, and I encourage conservative Republicans to do the same thing.
To those of us who steadfastly maintain that awarding the nomination to John McCain would be akin to rewarding bad behavior, I think this is the proper course of action.
Whatever the case, it is certainly not over, by any means. There are now two candidates in the race for the Republican nomination. Conservatives might not have the choice they wish, but they can certainly derail the one candidate they find the most distasteful. This would be all accounts seem to be John McCain.
And, need I remind you, Duncan Hunter some time back endorsed Huckabee?
We are all familiar with that old term voting for the lesser of two evils, as well as that one of similarly long duration, which states that when so voting, one will be obliged to “hold my nose.”
Well, since the race is now down to between McCain and former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee, I propose the Republican Party faithful do something similar though a bit more explicit. I suggest that you all-get ready for it-
HUCKCHUCK IN THE VOTING BOOTH
In other words, vote for Mike Huckabee.
This would be the stellar opposite of should you decide instead to “Chuck Huck”. It would also be a lot more fun. Just think of how cool it would be to watch crazy John McCain’s reaction, to get so close to the nomination, only to have it jerked right out of his grasp in favor of Huckabee.
Granted, there are many and valid reasons to “Chuck Huck” instead of “HuckChuck”. By the same token, though there are problems with a Huckabee candidacy, the governor does not have nearly as long a history of backstabbing the Republican Party and it’s conservative base. True, he has done some things-okay, he has done a lot of things-the Party faithful might take serious exception to. Compared to McCain, however, his contribution in this regard as minimal.
I would also like to point out to those who insist it would be better to vote in a Democrat than a treacherous Republican the following fact-with Huckabee, your chances of losing are appreciably better than with McCain, who will no doubt draw a significant portion of Independent voters, and not an insignificant amount of Democratic voters as well. Huckabee is unlikely to match McCain’s strength with these voters.
By the same token, if Huckabee were to win the general election, there is the prospect that in at least some regards, he would be a better president than McCain. He might in fact be every bit as conservative in his policies as Romney asserted he would be-despite the fact, remember, that as governor of Massachusetts, Romney campaigned and to an extent governed as a centrist, maybe in some respects even as a liberal.
Well, if you can take Romney’s word that he would have governed as a conservative president, why not give Huckabee the same benefit of the doubt?
Speaking of Romney, there is a good chance he withdrew when he did with precisely this in mind. Although he certainly has no love for Huckabee, his dislike of McCain must be that much greater. He claims of course that he withdrew in order to keep from splitting the party apart. Still, I have a feeling he could easily be prevailed upon to pledge his delegates to Huckabee. He would have good and valid reason to do so. For that matter, there is no hard rule of which I am aware which states that Romney’s delegates are absolutely bound to whomever Romney pledges them. If he pledges them to McCain, or to no one at all, they are certainly free to go to whomever they wish.
I urge both them and Romney to support Huckabee, and I encourage conservative Republicans to do the same thing.
To those of us who steadfastly maintain that awarding the nomination to John McCain would be akin to rewarding bad behavior, I think this is the proper course of action.
Whatever the case, it is certainly not over, by any means. There are now two candidates in the race for the Republican nomination. Conservatives might not have the choice they wish, but they can certainly derail the one candidate they find the most distasteful. This would be all accounts seem to be John McCain.
And, need I remind you, Duncan Hunter some time back endorsed Huckabee?
Friday, February 01, 2008
Blacksnake Moans And Groans
Don't assume most white women will vote for Hillary Clinton over Barak Obama. Obama might do better among white woman than you think he will. There could be a number of reasons for that. They might have it in their heads that Barak would bring about real change, that he would usher in a new era of civil discourse in our political culture that could filter down into all areas of public life. They might be inspired by his inspirational message of the "Audacity of Hope".
There might be a lot of different reasons white women might vote for Barak Obama, reasons just constantly going around inside their heads. Reasons they might not ever mention, in fact.
I can't help but wonder who Spring Thomas, the woman on this site would vote for.
I wonder who her mom and dad would vote for? Not that I'm trying to get something started. On the other hand, why not have a web-site for
"White Women Who Are Married To White Men But Fuck Black Men With Great Big Long Hard Dicks Behind Their Husbands Backs And Put Unflattering Pictures Of Their Little Dick White Husbands Next To Pictures Of Them Fucking Their Monster Size Dick Black Lovers On A Web-Site For Barak Obama".
Of course the only drawback I can see is a lot of younger white girls on a web-site like that might not be old enough to vote. They could sure have an impact though, in their own little way.
There might be a lot of different reasons white women might vote for Barak Obama, reasons just constantly going around inside their heads. Reasons they might not ever mention, in fact.
I can't help but wonder who Spring Thomas, the woman on this site would vote for.
I wonder who her mom and dad would vote for? Not that I'm trying to get something started. On the other hand, why not have a web-site for
"White Women Who Are Married To White Men But Fuck Black Men With Great Big Long Hard Dicks Behind Their Husbands Backs And Put Unflattering Pictures Of Their Little Dick White Husbands Next To Pictures Of Them Fucking Their Monster Size Dick Black Lovers On A Web-Site For Barak Obama".
Of course the only drawback I can see is a lot of younger white girls on a web-site like that might not be old enough to vote. They could sure have an impact though, in their own little way.
Dump McCain Blogroll
After giving it some thought, I decided I'm going to go ahead and join the new Dump McCain Blogroll started by Lemuel Calhoun of Hillbilly White Trash
Well, until after the Republican convention that is. If he gets the nomination, whether I stay on it or not depends on who the Democrats nominate. If they nominate Hillary, I might stay on it. If they nominate Obama, maybe not. This is based on the mounting disgust I feel at the recent endorsement of Obama by Senator Ted Kennedy, a personage I have come to despise over the last few years.
The fact that Kennedy has endorsed Obama speaks volumes as to what kind of person Kennedy assumes Obama to be, and more importantly, suggests-hell, shouts-that Kennedy assumes Obama would be much easier to control than Hillary Clinton.
Not that I am happy at the prospect of a Hillary presidency either. I am seriously thinking of writing in Lou Dobbs.
Anyway, the Dump McCain Blogroll should be on the sidebar here in a day or two. I just have to acquire the code from Lem, after which I am going to put it under a heading that will make it consistent with the overall theme of this blog's sidebar. So, look for a heading something along the lines of "Demonic Entities".
That would pretty much describe not only McCain, but the entire slate of this years candidates, as far as I'm concerned.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
The Kennedy Curse
American and Washington politics is somewhat comparable to a tidal pond. One must exercise all appropriate caution when attempting to navigate over the dark, murky, treacherous-though shallow-waters that rage below. It is a necessity more often than not to build bridges in order to carry oneself over the danger that lurks below. In building those bridges, however, one must seek diligently for those with the proper expertise in driving one across to the other side in safety and security.
If one is unfamiliar, or moves too swiftly, or makes the wrong move, or exercises the wrong judgment, it does not have to be what would appear at first glance an obviously dangerous misstep. The slightest miscalculation can lead to unmitigated disaster.
Such was the case over the last few days, when Hillary Clinton, hoping for an endorsement from Democratic Senator Ted Kennedy of Massachusetts-or at least hoping the Senator would stay neutral-found herself dumped unceremoniously off the side of the bridge that marks the political divide.
It has most assuredly been a most traumatic experience for Senator Clinton, and one is left to ponder the obvious question-will she, in fact can she survive?
What was Senator Kennedy's reasoning behind his action? After all, Senator Clinton would seem to have been a devoted advocate of most of those things the Massachusetts senior Senator cares deeply about. One might even make the case that she has been a faithful and tireless worker deserving of the Senator's appreciation, as well as that of his family.
Indeed, one would assume the two of them should be good friends-though certainly nothing more than that, regardless of what the jackals of the press and the Republican Party might be tempted to insinuate.
Is it possible that Senator Kennedy wanted more from Senator Clinton, and that she disappointed him in some regard? Moreover, is it appropriate to ask, is the Massachusetts Senator, that liberal lion, suffering from some intoxication from the presence of Senator Barak Obama, whom he has so enthusiastically endorsed? If so, what is the basis of this intoxication?
Is the Senator drunk with the promise of an extra power and influence that he feels he can acquire through Obama to a much greater extent than he ever could with the seemingly faithfully partisan Clintons, whom he might possibly feel are too independent, too undependable in some regards?
Is it possible that it is such a misjudgement on Kenedy's part, it could even be construed as an accident of some sort, one that has led him to react in a foolhardy and inappropriate manner?
Senator Kennedy spoke quite eloquently in giving his endorsement of Illinois Senator Obama. Yet, a good lot of what he said doesn't seem to coincide with reality. Perhaps his speechwriter might explain the disparity, but somehow I doubt he could.
Whatever the case, I wonder if this tragedy that has befallen Senator Hillary Clinton might, in fact, doom her political career. Someone should move fast to save her if she is to survive. After all, she languishes for now below the surface of those murky, dark, treacherous-and yet shallow-waters that that make up the tidal pond of Washington politics.
True, she has an air pocket, so to speak, that will serve to keep her going for some time. However, this air won't last forever. It's obvious Senator Kennedy is not going to reverse his actions in time to pull her out to safety.
Even if he does, by the time he gets around to it, it will probably be too late.
If one is unfamiliar, or moves too swiftly, or makes the wrong move, or exercises the wrong judgment, it does not have to be what would appear at first glance an obviously dangerous misstep. The slightest miscalculation can lead to unmitigated disaster.
Such was the case over the last few days, when Hillary Clinton, hoping for an endorsement from Democratic Senator Ted Kennedy of Massachusetts-or at least hoping the Senator would stay neutral-found herself dumped unceremoniously off the side of the bridge that marks the political divide.
It has most assuredly been a most traumatic experience for Senator Clinton, and one is left to ponder the obvious question-will she, in fact can she survive?
What was Senator Kennedy's reasoning behind his action? After all, Senator Clinton would seem to have been a devoted advocate of most of those things the Massachusetts senior Senator cares deeply about. One might even make the case that she has been a faithful and tireless worker deserving of the Senator's appreciation, as well as that of his family.
Indeed, one would assume the two of them should be good friends-though certainly nothing more than that, regardless of what the jackals of the press and the Republican Party might be tempted to insinuate.
Is it possible that Senator Kennedy wanted more from Senator Clinton, and that she disappointed him in some regard? Moreover, is it appropriate to ask, is the Massachusetts Senator, that liberal lion, suffering from some intoxication from the presence of Senator Barak Obama, whom he has so enthusiastically endorsed? If so, what is the basis of this intoxication?
Is the Senator drunk with the promise of an extra power and influence that he feels he can acquire through Obama to a much greater extent than he ever could with the seemingly faithfully partisan Clintons, whom he might possibly feel are too independent, too undependable in some regards?
Is it possible that it is such a misjudgement on Kenedy's part, it could even be construed as an accident of some sort, one that has led him to react in a foolhardy and inappropriate manner?
Senator Kennedy spoke quite eloquently in giving his endorsement of Illinois Senator Obama. Yet, a good lot of what he said doesn't seem to coincide with reality. Perhaps his speechwriter might explain the disparity, but somehow I doubt he could.
Whatever the case, I wonder if this tragedy that has befallen Senator Hillary Clinton might, in fact, doom her political career. Someone should move fast to save her if she is to survive. After all, she languishes for now below the surface of those murky, dark, treacherous-and yet shallow-waters that that make up the tidal pond of Washington politics.
True, she has an air pocket, so to speak, that will serve to keep her going for some time. However, this air won't last forever. It's obvious Senator Kennedy is not going to reverse his actions in time to pull her out to safety.
Even if he does, by the time he gets around to it, it will probably be too late.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Heath Ledger-A Method To The Madness
The death of Heath Ledger occurred for about the most bizarre reason, apparently, from which anyone could ever die. If you wrote his obituary in the most concise manner possible, it might well read-
Cause Of Death-Overacting
That is pretty much the truth of the matter. It would be too easy to make an ironic statement to the effect that he was a real life victim of DC Comics villain The Joker. Yet, there is some merit to this as well.
When Ledger worked on the role of the Joker for the soon-to-be-released film The Dark Knight, he threw himself into his role, as he always did. To those who are more than vaguely aware of Hollywood, acting, and movie terminology, this is a well-known theatrical device known as “method acting.”
Ledger was an acclaimed master of the art. In one recent movie, he researched his role of a drug addict by getting to know a real life heroin addict, whom he befriended and who gave him much pertinent information of a technical and real-life nature.
No, I will not make any off-color jokes about how he might have researched for his role in Brokeback Mountain. Let’s just assume he researched cowboys and leave it at that.
As for the Joker, Ledger’s version is reportedly one of the darkest, probably the overall darkest version of them all. There was none of the camp of Caesar Romero’s television Batman version, and for all of the menace of Jack Nicholson’s Batman movie role, Ledger reportedly approached this role with an extra intensity even Nicholson’s version did not attain.
In most versions of the Joker, the villain’s power and menace derives from the prospect that no one would take such a ridiculous looking or acting character seriously, until it is too late. This Heath Ledger version of the Joker, however, is far from ridiculous. This is the archetypical “evil clown” writ large.
In method acting, you are required to “become” your character. You reach deep down into the furthest depths in order to find that identity, and you make it your own. It literally becomes a huge part of who you are. In this case, the Joker was, to Heath Ledger, a psychotically deranged mass murderer, a paranoid schizophrenic maniac and criminal genius.
How far down into the depths of his subconscious did Heath Ledger reach-and what exactly did he dredge up to the surface in reaching down to those depths? Whatever it was, it had a disturbing effect on his psyche, so much to the point he barely managed to sleep two hours a night at the most, even with the aid of prescription medication-overuse of which was evidently the ultimate if at the same time merely the technical cause of his death.
We may and more than likely will never know what dark demons Ledger dredged up from his subconscious, but if anything, this should serve as a caution to anybody that engages in this style of acting. It seems that many if not most actors that engage in this technique tend to be brooding loners. Maybe there is a reason for that. Unfortunately, the brooding loner type might be the very ones who, though most naturally adept at such an intense endeavor, are at the same time the most vulnerable to its ravages.
It is, in a very real sense, a kind of magic. As we have seen here, it can be a very dark and destructive magic.
John McCain-A Glimpse Of Hell Within A Tortured Mind
John McCain is perhaps one of the unique figures in American politics, and there is a very real chance that he might be our next President. What kind of President he would make is open to a great deal of debate. Many independents, and even an appreciable number of Democrats, assume he would be a consensus builder, a man able to “reach across the aisle”, a man of honesty and integrity, in addition to a man of deep courage and conviction.
Many of his most vociferous detractors are those in the Republican Party itself, who view McCain as a backstabber and “RINO”. His qualifications for this are many and varied, and I will not go into them here. I will say this though. McCain might well be the most dangerously deluded individual ever to run a serious candidacy for the office of President, while having a real chance of winning. The problems with McCain as I see them-
He suffers from an advanced and barely disguised case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. On top of this, he might as well suffer from the ravages of Stockholm Syndrome. Some might question this hypothesis due to McCain’s success in public life. I would remind them that there are many drug addicts and alcoholics who are functional in their daily lives, in their careers as well as their personal lives. At the same time, they suffer from a private, personal hell that is killing them every day. An addict can never be truly free, and in my opinion, they can never be truly happy. Their careers are a necessary means to an end. Their families constantly play the roles of enablers, in one way or another.
The fact that John McCain finds so much common cause with Democratic leaders is a sure sign of the influence of Stockholm Syndrome. They have replaced his Vietnamese captors with whom he identified at one point in order to find validation and retain his sanity. They give him a sense of acceptance, while the Republican Party faithful have replaced the American military elites he subconsciously loathes for sending him to a years long ordeal of torture and deprivation, and deep in his mind allowed him to languish throughout that period. He also identifies them in his psyche with his father, the Navy Admiral whose level he could never hope to attain on his own merits.
McCain felt obliged to follow in the military footsteps of his father and grandfather, and yet was toward the bottom of his graduating class. Only in captivity and the experience of brutality could he ever hope to measure up to their standards. He rode the hero welcome home and from there to the halls of Congress, but he never really got over his ordeal. He has been reaching out to those Democrats who are technically supposed to be his enemies, and attacking those who should be his friends, ever since his arrival there. He has done this to some degree of acclimation by targeting pork barrel projects and other kinds of runaway spending. This however is an obvious and easy thing to attack, and he has used this as a vehicle with which to attack the very fiber of conservative politics.
It will be interesting to see the result regardless of whether or not he wins. He has a long hard road ahead of him, but soldiers on against his own party, the leaders of whom have no desire for John McCain to represent them. Most Democrats would prefer him, not only for the reasons I said, but in some cases, because they assume he can be easily defeated. If John McCain wins the nomination, you can expect an October Surprise meant to destroy his candidacy. You can be assured the matter of his involvement as one the so-called ‘Keating Five” will provide much fodder.
Yet, the media promotes him to a great extent. Over the next several months, if you want to know if there is a Republican Presidential primary contest due on any given Tuesday, just tune in to Meet The Press on the preceding Sunday. If you see John McCain being “interviewed” by Tim Russert, you can bet there is at least one Republican primary somewhere the following Tuesday.
Like I said in an earlier post, John McCain might well in a sense be the Republican candidate who is most representative of the Republican party as a whole, in that they are both fragmented entities with a divided personality that has lost it’s way. If McCain wins the nomination, count on this becoming evident in quick fashion. Most of the same media pimps pushing him now will waste no time tearing him apart. In that case, remember this-you read the words Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Stockholm Syndrome, in connection with John McCain, from me before you heard it from them. Just for good measure, I’ll add Alzheimer’s Disease. I won’t go so far as to suggest advanced syphilis of the brain traceable to his time in a North Vietnamese prison, during which time it turns out to be a fact after all that he aided the enemy under duress of torture. At the same time, I will not be surprised if they do-nor for that matter would I be surprised were it the truth.
As for the Republicans, as a party they might provide the first instance of a fragmented party healing and coming together-not in support of one of their own candidates, but in opposition to him. If John McCain wins the Republican Party nomination, the Republican Party will lose-regardless of whether John McCain wins or loses in the general election.
On the other hand, it could help them in the long run.
John McCain might in fact follow in the footsteps of President John Tyler, in becoming only the second President kicked out of his own party while holding office. Imagine if you will the prospect of a spate of off year congressional elections, the Republican candidates of whom run on an overall conservative platform in opposition to their president and standard-bearer. There is a great likelihood that they would do so successfully.
Imagine a future impeachment proceeding in which just enough Democrats cross over to support the ultimately successful impeachment of a Republican president, yet one that is initiated by Republican officeholders. Do you think that it is unlikely, that such a scenario is all but impossible? Well, if John McCain wins the Republican Party nomination, it is not only possible, but also probable. It is just a matter of time. It would almost have to happen during his first term, however, as I seriously doubt he would have a second one.
Many of his most vociferous detractors are those in the Republican Party itself, who view McCain as a backstabber and “RINO”. His qualifications for this are many and varied, and I will not go into them here. I will say this though. McCain might well be the most dangerously deluded individual ever to run a serious candidacy for the office of President, while having a real chance of winning. The problems with McCain as I see them-
He suffers from an advanced and barely disguised case of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. On top of this, he might as well suffer from the ravages of Stockholm Syndrome. Some might question this hypothesis due to McCain’s success in public life. I would remind them that there are many drug addicts and alcoholics who are functional in their daily lives, in their careers as well as their personal lives. At the same time, they suffer from a private, personal hell that is killing them every day. An addict can never be truly free, and in my opinion, they can never be truly happy. Their careers are a necessary means to an end. Their families constantly play the roles of enablers, in one way or another.
The fact that John McCain finds so much common cause with Democratic leaders is a sure sign of the influence of Stockholm Syndrome. They have replaced his Vietnamese captors with whom he identified at one point in order to find validation and retain his sanity. They give him a sense of acceptance, while the Republican Party faithful have replaced the American military elites he subconsciously loathes for sending him to a years long ordeal of torture and deprivation, and deep in his mind allowed him to languish throughout that period. He also identifies them in his psyche with his father, the Navy Admiral whose level he could never hope to attain on his own merits.
McCain felt obliged to follow in the military footsteps of his father and grandfather, and yet was toward the bottom of his graduating class. Only in captivity and the experience of brutality could he ever hope to measure up to their standards. He rode the hero welcome home and from there to the halls of Congress, but he never really got over his ordeal. He has been reaching out to those Democrats who are technically supposed to be his enemies, and attacking those who should be his friends, ever since his arrival there. He has done this to some degree of acclimation by targeting pork barrel projects and other kinds of runaway spending. This however is an obvious and easy thing to attack, and he has used this as a vehicle with which to attack the very fiber of conservative politics.
It will be interesting to see the result regardless of whether or not he wins. He has a long hard road ahead of him, but soldiers on against his own party, the leaders of whom have no desire for John McCain to represent them. Most Democrats would prefer him, not only for the reasons I said, but in some cases, because they assume he can be easily defeated. If John McCain wins the nomination, you can expect an October Surprise meant to destroy his candidacy. You can be assured the matter of his involvement as one the so-called ‘Keating Five” will provide much fodder.
Yet, the media promotes him to a great extent. Over the next several months, if you want to know if there is a Republican Presidential primary contest due on any given Tuesday, just tune in to Meet The Press on the preceding Sunday. If you see John McCain being “interviewed” by Tim Russert, you can bet there is at least one Republican primary somewhere the following Tuesday.
Like I said in an earlier post, John McCain might well in a sense be the Republican candidate who is most representative of the Republican party as a whole, in that they are both fragmented entities with a divided personality that has lost it’s way. If McCain wins the nomination, count on this becoming evident in quick fashion. Most of the same media pimps pushing him now will waste no time tearing him apart. In that case, remember this-you read the words Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Stockholm Syndrome, in connection with John McCain, from me before you heard it from them. Just for good measure, I’ll add Alzheimer’s Disease. I won’t go so far as to suggest advanced syphilis of the brain traceable to his time in a North Vietnamese prison, during which time it turns out to be a fact after all that he aided the enemy under duress of torture. At the same time, I will not be surprised if they do-nor for that matter would I be surprised were it the truth.
As for the Republicans, as a party they might provide the first instance of a fragmented party healing and coming together-not in support of one of their own candidates, but in opposition to him. If John McCain wins the Republican Party nomination, the Republican Party will lose-regardless of whether John McCain wins or loses in the general election.
On the other hand, it could help them in the long run.
John McCain might in fact follow in the footsteps of President John Tyler, in becoming only the second President kicked out of his own party while holding office. Imagine if you will the prospect of a spate of off year congressional elections, the Republican candidates of whom run on an overall conservative platform in opposition to their president and standard-bearer. There is a great likelihood that they would do so successfully.
Imagine a future impeachment proceeding in which just enough Democrats cross over to support the ultimately successful impeachment of a Republican president, yet one that is initiated by Republican officeholders. Do you think that it is unlikely, that such a scenario is all but impossible? Well, if John McCain wins the Republican Party nomination, it is not only possible, but also probable. It is just a matter of time. It would almost have to happen during his first term, however, as I seriously doubt he would have a second one.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Westboro Baptist Church To Picket Heath Ledger Funeral
I don't know who this pisses off more, God or the Kansas City Royals, but it's a moot point. It pisses off a lot of people, and the people of Westboro Baptist Church seem to be fine with that. They are now planning to violate the funeral of recently deceased actor Heath Ledger by protesting it. The reason-Ledger's role in the recent "gay cowboy" film "Brokeback Mountain", a scene from which is pictured below.
Of course, Ledger was not really gay, he was merely an actor portraying a gay character, but that is all lost on this Christian cult that fancies itself a "primitive" Baptist Church. According to them, "God hates fags", and since America has become increasingly tolerant of the gay lifestyle, then it naturally follows that "God Hates America".
They therefore insist that all soldiers killed or injured in the Iraq War is due to God's wrath, hence the picketing at military funerals. They have even gone so far as to picket the funerals of a family that died in a house fire in Kentucky, which contained many innocent children, as young as two years old, but so far as I am aware, no homosexuals.
I guess it stands to reason they would protest Ledger's funeral. Here is the release of their announcement to do so in pdf format. I strongly encourage that you read this.
As if that were not enough, they also have, on their blog section, a blog post that goes into extraordinary detail as to what they perceive to be the final, ultimate, eternal fate of Heath Ledger-complete with random little smiley faces tossed in here and there, just for good measure.
All of this reads almost like a parody. Sometimes I wonder if Westboro receives financing from some far leftist group that wants to make all socially conservative Christians look like schmucks.
You might also want to read this web site, which contains a lot of background information on Fred Phelps and his family, who comprise the vast majority of the Westboro Baptist Church members. As of now, I can't vouch for it's accuracy, but it's interesting nonetheless.
Hat Tip to Fenix Mage
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Roe v Wade-25th Anniversary Reflections
This year is the twenty fifth-year anniversary of Roe v Wade. In the twenty-five years since the decision came down, there have been a series of laws before the courts challenging some aspect of state abortion laws, which you can view here. You might also want to read the original decision along with the majority and dissenting opinions.
In the meantime, I have a few words to say to Republicans, and especially to social conservatives. My advice to you is-don’t do as I do, do as I say.
Now, what do I mean by that. Well, it’s simple. I have thoughtfully concluded that, all things on balance, women have a constitutional right to an abortion, based on the prospect that it is a privacy issue. Most importantly, I hold that no one has the right to force a rape victim to carry a baby. Yes, I know this is a rare occurrence. I am also aware that, in reality, there are few teenage girls who become pregnant because of incest. Well, at least there are few who become pregnant due to incest that comes about against their wills. Bear in mind, not all incest occurs between a sweet innocent young girl and an adult male. Sometimes, your little girl might be doing things with “Cousin Johnny” out in the woods besides picking wildflowers and berries, ya know.
That being said, I agree that most abortions are the result of situations where an unwed woman, for the most part adults, just decide for whatever reason they just aren’t ready to have a child. In some cases, they are married, or engaged, and fear the financial obligations. Perhaps there are legitimate health reasons, some which connote serious consequences, others that might not be so serious. In some cases, the child might not belong to the husband or boyfriend.
How can you sit back and allow our culture to sink down to this level? Yet, that’s what many of you are doing. I have heard rumors to the effect that you might sit this election out, or even worse, vote Democratic, if the Republican Party nominates a man you personally, for whatever reason, feel is not worthy to lead your party into the next presidential election cycle.
Think about what you are going to cause. Think of all the young girls who will be encouraged to have abortions without notifying their parents-those same parents they would be obliged to inform were they decide to get a tattoo or piercing.
Think of the late term abortions. Think of those poor babies, near birth and half born, their skulls pierced with forceps, their brains suctioned out of their skulls. Think of all those fetuses past the four-month stage, and the pain and terror they feel while mercilessly butchered in the womb with their mother’s consent.
Think of how the abortion industry is as we speak making plans to fight against those laws requiring informed consent. They don’t even want a woman to be informed of the facts, or to view an ultrasound of her living, breathing fetus, it’s little heart visibly and audibly beating as it kicks, sucks it’s thumb, in some cases makes tentative attempts to explore it’s surroundings-a sure sign of consciousness.
Yet, you would vote for a woman, or a man, whom you know will appoint judges guaranteed to uphold these laws, or at the very least you would stay home and not vote against them. How are you going to feel when the Supreme Court, due to your obstinance, upholds Roe v Wade for possibly decades to come?
How many babies are you helping to abort? Might it be in the millions? Any baby aborted is not just a single death, you know. You have also aided and abetted the destruction of the many generations of their potential descendants that now-thanks to you-will never come about.
You had better think about what you are doing. What are you going to say to God when you stand before the throne of judgment? Yes, I know, I’m a pagan, and don’t believe in that, but on the other hand-what if you are right? If you are, maybe I’ll be seeing you after the last judgment. I think you are going to have a hard time explaining to God how you refused to vote for Giuliani or McCain, even though they have promised to appoint strict constructionist judges. What will your excuse be?
“Well, God, I thought I should ‘make a statement’”.
I’m just guessing here, but I have an idea his reply might well be somewhere along the lines of-
“Well, you made your statement, and now I will make mine-depart from me, ye workers of iniquity, into the eternal fires of hell and damnation reserved for the devil and his angels.”
Don’t take all this the wrong way. This is not an attempt at humor. I might well be there when you arrive, but as you get there, that laughter you hear will not be mine.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Eli's Coming
Throughout the entire football season, almost everybody assumed the AFC Championship game, in all likelihood, would be a contest between Tom Brady’s New England Patriots and Peyton Manning’s Indianapolis Colts. For most of the season, it looked almost as certain that the NFC Championship would be a match-up between the Dallas Cowboys, headed by Tony Romo, and seventeen-year veteran Bret Favre and his Green Bay Packers. Some sports analysts were so convinced of this alignment, they had all but written the various scenarios while writing all others out. In both cases, they were only half-right
Both the Cowboys and the Colts won their respective conference divisions, and the Cowboys were at the top of their conference, and thus drew home field advantage. Nevertheless, both the Cowboys and the Colts lost their first post-season games. Peyton Manning and his Colts went down to a shocking defeat at the hands of AFC West champions the San Diego Chargers.
Perhaps the biggest shocker, however, was the domination of the NFC playoffs by the New York Giants, who started their post-season playoff schedule as a wild card team. First, they beat AFC South champions the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. They went on from there to defeat Dallas, their fellow NFC East rivals, who actually led that division with a record of thirteen wins and just three losses, as opposed to the Giants relatively lackluster record of 9-7.
Then came last nights NFC Championship game, which the Giants won against NFC North division champs the Packers, in overtime, by a score of 23-20, in a brutally cold temperature and wind-chill that, at Lambeau Field, would seem to favor Favre and crew- but, it was not to be.
Had anyone said halfway through the season that a Manning would play in the Super Bowl, only not the Manning everyone assumed, most would have laughed at such a prediction. Eli has spent his professional career, if not his life, in older brother Peyton’s shadow. It had to be a little embarrassing last year, on some level, when Peyton guest hosted Saturday Night Live and, at the beginning of the show, introduced little brother Eli sitting in the audience-the New York City audience, mind you. Many of them had probably joined in the chorus over the last two years that the younger Manning was highly overpaid for his production and effort as the Giants starting quarterback. No one believed for one second he would be around were he not the son of famed former New Orleans Saints quarterback Archie Manning.
Yet, there he was that night, not long following Peyton’s spectacular performance in last year’s Super Bowl as leader of the Colts as they trounced NFC champions the Chicago Bears. He stood and waved at Peyton’s introduction, this shy young man-comparatively awkward, and unassuming, maybe just a little out of his league-pretty much the way he strikes you during a typical Giants game.
Something happened though during the last third of the season, something that culminated in their last defeat, during their last regular season game of the year against the Patriots. No one expected them to win, of course. The last ones that expected them to win were probably the Giants themselves. Where most teams would have folded, however, barely going through the prerequisite movements, the Giants-and Eli Manning-came alive. It was almost as though some kind of team spirit permeated the crew, and whispered in a still, small voice-well, no need in worrying about it, let’s just go out and do our best.
Yes, they still lost-but what a game. It may have been the best regular season game of the year, one of the few times this season that the Patriots came close to losing. The Patriots also played, and defeated, Peyton and the Colts, last years Super Bowl champions. That game was obviously a heart breaker for Peyton, and a reaffirmation of Tom Brady’s claim to, once more, acclamation as the league’s greatest quarterback.
Without a doubt, the two of them are yet rival claimants to the title. Manning is a virtual offensive driving machine. The same is true with Brady, who combines his skill and ability with a kind of inner resolve and courage that is almost rebellious towards any kind of accepted conventions. This inner confidence led him to support the re-election of George W. Bush against Massachusetts Senator John Kerry. This of course contradicted the conventional wisdom that would suggest he either support the seemingly obvious choice of most New England fans, or stay out of it.
The football world looked with relish toward the prospect of the clash of these two titans of the AFC, and one of them going on to face off against, hopefully, the legendary Favre. Again, the conventional wisdom held this more than likely would be Brady’s Patriots. The quarterback of the future would then write finis to the career of Favre, the legendary Packer desperate to retire with one final Super Bowl ring to cap a final winning season. It would have been like an ancient Celtic tribal ritual, where the young chieftain ends the life of the fading elder in a bloody rite of succession.
It was not supposed to be this way. The old chief was to fall at the hands of a worthy successor, not a mediocre at best upstart like Eli Manning. Maybe the Giant’s management knows more than we realized. They have resisted the calls to bench Manning over the last couple of years, ignored the insistence of most fans that Eli just is not the quarterback Peyton is.
Nevertheless, the team has stayed by Eli and showed faith in him, and worked with him through thick and thin. It looks as though their faith and patience has paid off. Make no mistake about it. Eli managed his team through this post-season playoff run. It was not just luck accentuated by a great defense and some fortuitous interceptions and fumble recoveries. To be sure, the defense played a role, as did the offensive line, and the team as a whole. Well, that is what makes a great team, of course, overall depth. The greatest quarterback in the world can only do so much with a mediocre team-and that so much is not a lot.
Instead of seeing a rite of tribal succession in this years’ Super Bowl, we may instead be privy to a David and Goliath scenario. Unfortunately, I feel pretty safe in betting Goliath will win this round. I look for a score of somewhere in the neighborhood of 24-13, the Patriots wining their fourth Super Bowl, thus ending this season with a perfect record.
However, I would not bet the farm on it. The biggest rap against Eli has been his lack of consistency. Well, so far he has been pretty damn consistent through this play-off season at making us all look premature in our judgments and assessments. I would not be very shocked if he does it again.
Patriot's Head Coach Bill Bellachik-"Just get out there and do your job".
Tom Brady-Conceivably the greatest quarterback of all time.
Tynes kicked the winning field goal for the Giants, in overtime. About time-he missed two before this one, though he got two others earlier in the game.
Bret Favre-The end of a long and distinguished career?
Eli Manning and fans-Hey, yeah-Whut do ya think of me now?
Pictures from Reuters
Both the Cowboys and the Colts won their respective conference divisions, and the Cowboys were at the top of their conference, and thus drew home field advantage. Nevertheless, both the Cowboys and the Colts lost their first post-season games. Peyton Manning and his Colts went down to a shocking defeat at the hands of AFC West champions the San Diego Chargers.
Perhaps the biggest shocker, however, was the domination of the NFC playoffs by the New York Giants, who started their post-season playoff schedule as a wild card team. First, they beat AFC South champions the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. They went on from there to defeat Dallas, their fellow NFC East rivals, who actually led that division with a record of thirteen wins and just three losses, as opposed to the Giants relatively lackluster record of 9-7.
Then came last nights NFC Championship game, which the Giants won against NFC North division champs the Packers, in overtime, by a score of 23-20, in a brutally cold temperature and wind-chill that, at Lambeau Field, would seem to favor Favre and crew- but, it was not to be.
Had anyone said halfway through the season that a Manning would play in the Super Bowl, only not the Manning everyone assumed, most would have laughed at such a prediction. Eli has spent his professional career, if not his life, in older brother Peyton’s shadow. It had to be a little embarrassing last year, on some level, when Peyton guest hosted Saturday Night Live and, at the beginning of the show, introduced little brother Eli sitting in the audience-the New York City audience, mind you. Many of them had probably joined in the chorus over the last two years that the younger Manning was highly overpaid for his production and effort as the Giants starting quarterback. No one believed for one second he would be around were he not the son of famed former New Orleans Saints quarterback Archie Manning.
Yet, there he was that night, not long following Peyton’s spectacular performance in last year’s Super Bowl as leader of the Colts as they trounced NFC champions the Chicago Bears. He stood and waved at Peyton’s introduction, this shy young man-comparatively awkward, and unassuming, maybe just a little out of his league-pretty much the way he strikes you during a typical Giants game.
Something happened though during the last third of the season, something that culminated in their last defeat, during their last regular season game of the year against the Patriots. No one expected them to win, of course. The last ones that expected them to win were probably the Giants themselves. Where most teams would have folded, however, barely going through the prerequisite movements, the Giants-and Eli Manning-came alive. It was almost as though some kind of team spirit permeated the crew, and whispered in a still, small voice-well, no need in worrying about it, let’s just go out and do our best.
Yes, they still lost-but what a game. It may have been the best regular season game of the year, one of the few times this season that the Patriots came close to losing. The Patriots also played, and defeated, Peyton and the Colts, last years Super Bowl champions. That game was obviously a heart breaker for Peyton, and a reaffirmation of Tom Brady’s claim to, once more, acclamation as the league’s greatest quarterback.
Without a doubt, the two of them are yet rival claimants to the title. Manning is a virtual offensive driving machine. The same is true with Brady, who combines his skill and ability with a kind of inner resolve and courage that is almost rebellious towards any kind of accepted conventions. This inner confidence led him to support the re-election of George W. Bush against Massachusetts Senator John Kerry. This of course contradicted the conventional wisdom that would suggest he either support the seemingly obvious choice of most New England fans, or stay out of it.
The football world looked with relish toward the prospect of the clash of these two titans of the AFC, and one of them going on to face off against, hopefully, the legendary Favre. Again, the conventional wisdom held this more than likely would be Brady’s Patriots. The quarterback of the future would then write finis to the career of Favre, the legendary Packer desperate to retire with one final Super Bowl ring to cap a final winning season. It would have been like an ancient Celtic tribal ritual, where the young chieftain ends the life of the fading elder in a bloody rite of succession.
It was not supposed to be this way. The old chief was to fall at the hands of a worthy successor, not a mediocre at best upstart like Eli Manning. Maybe the Giant’s management knows more than we realized. They have resisted the calls to bench Manning over the last couple of years, ignored the insistence of most fans that Eli just is not the quarterback Peyton is.
Nevertheless, the team has stayed by Eli and showed faith in him, and worked with him through thick and thin. It looks as though their faith and patience has paid off. Make no mistake about it. Eli managed his team through this post-season playoff run. It was not just luck accentuated by a great defense and some fortuitous interceptions and fumble recoveries. To be sure, the defense played a role, as did the offensive line, and the team as a whole. Well, that is what makes a great team, of course, overall depth. The greatest quarterback in the world can only do so much with a mediocre team-and that so much is not a lot.
Instead of seeing a rite of tribal succession in this years’ Super Bowl, we may instead be privy to a David and Goliath scenario. Unfortunately, I feel pretty safe in betting Goliath will win this round. I look for a score of somewhere in the neighborhood of 24-13, the Patriots wining their fourth Super Bowl, thus ending this season with a perfect record.
However, I would not bet the farm on it. The biggest rap against Eli has been his lack of consistency. Well, so far he has been pretty damn consistent through this play-off season at making us all look premature in our judgments and assessments. I would not be very shocked if he does it again.
Patriot's Head Coach Bill Bellachik-"Just get out there and do your job".
Tom Brady-Conceivably the greatest quarterback of all time.
Tynes kicked the winning field goal for the Giants, in overtime. About time-he missed two before this one, though he got two others earlier in the game.
Bret Favre-The end of a long and distinguished career?
Eli Manning and fans-Hey, yeah-Whut do ya think of me now?
Pictures from Reuters
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